The Route

Born of a bored December day and a natural extension of Brussels to Paris. STOCKHOLM to GIBRALTAR has been born.

Across seven countries and over 3,000 kilometers. Bit by bit and within a decade, I plan to wheel myself across a continent. Pointless? Not to me. Escapism? Certainly. An adventure? I hope so.

Next stage Dortmund to Hamburg in the spring, I think..... Better work off the beer belly.

The Route I: Rue de Paris (part trois)

As Stephen's lady was soon to be waiting for him in Paris, we woke up far too early and pushed on towards our ultimate goal, Paris.

Still 90 odd kilometers to go on another sun-blessed morning, this was the part of the trip which we really needed a plan for. By bike, it is one thing dawdling through the peaceful empty roads of the countryside, quite another to approach a large metropolis surrounded by motorways and stuffed with traffic.

We left Compiegne along the river that runs through it and enjoyed ourselves with a brisk peleton (well at least it felt brisk in our tight lycra) along the narrow tree lined path. This far too pleasant part of our journey slowed as the path disintegrated. We cut across the river, but it only worsened. Cutting our losses we headed towards a main road, thought twice about it and doubled back across the river again. Just when we were feeling a bit directionless a small brightly coloured arrow indicated a change of luck.

We followed it... and the next one... and the next one... before flying past a couple of rather British looking cyclists who informed us that they were on an organised London to Paris ride. By pure chance we had run onto the perfectly marked path. All we had to do was follow these little orange arrows and we would, in theory, end up at the Eiffel Tower via a cycle-friendly journey.

It was a fabulous route. Avoiding major, clogged up roads, through picturesque villages, sweeping fields, a forest and, to my particular joy (I had been looking for one since we left Brussels), a proper, veritable French chateau.

Petit machismo
One of the reasons for choosing Brussels to Paris for our tour was the distinct lack of hills on route. For two and a bit days the countryside had flitted between flat and lightly undulating. A while into this third day this changed. We encountered a number of hills, but one stood out. By some distance the most thigh-drainingly high and steep. Being sensible we took to the slope slowly, no pushing it, wheeling in the top in an efficient manner. This was until we came across the main pack of London to Paris riders. As you do, we upped a little to pass without too much issue. Ahead, but still climbing we caught up behind the leading group. Think your average late thirties, early forties banker who has something to prove to whoever will look about some dwindling alpha'ish male status. Add Tour de France team racing lycra, a £5,000 bike, no luggage (being escorted of course) and a pissed off expression as three amateurs on a mixture of hybrid, racer and mountain bike loaded with baggage breeze past.

A bit of an idiot thing to do – I paid for it later in knees – but there is something a cheap and satisfying about bit of ego pricking when you encounter such people. We nearly pissed ourselves with laughter when one of them felt the need to make a snide remark when he passed us later in the day as we dawdled along. I'm just glad he was able to reassure his self-certainty. I can't wait to leave the City...

The final stretch

We passed through tall forest and then through the open fields. The longest enduring memory will be gliding down this long, sharply inclined hill. The air forcing back cheeks pierced by a Cheshire Cat grin. Unbridled joy. Freedom on two gravity powered wheels. We pedalled our way through old villages, past centuries old farm houses and fields high with crops. It was early afternoon when we climbed onto a broad rise and were greeted with, well, one of those sights. Just discernable across a broad shallow valley, almost a plain to the eye, the unmistakable outline of the Eiffel Tower. Whether you view it as a glorified bit of scaffolding or timeless design, it is burned onto the collective memory. I took in a few satisfied breaths of surprisingly crisp air as I stretched my eyes to make out our aim. The sprawl of Paris 20 kilometers distant.

With extra impetus we pushed on and raced towards the French capital, reaching the outskirts in double time. For those not enlightened with Paris's layout, the postcard centre is surrounded by the Banlieue. A ring of often decrepid new build towns which house those who can not afford to live elsewhere. We had crossed well over 300km of relaxed country and never encountered anything but wide berths and friendly toots from passing drivers. Literally 500 meters into the outskirts proper an obnoxious driver nearly ran me into a concrete siding. It did not quickly improve. The Banlieue lived up to their name. Stuck in shitty traffic through neighbourhoods of post-war concrete design. A genuinely unpleasant experience that went on and on.

My memories of Paris were mixed and faint due to lack of time since my last visit and I was starting to wonder what all the fuss is about. Then, with sore knees pumping we hit the Seine, took a right and breezed into the famed tree-lined boulevards. Spectacular. Charming. Refined. Immediately in love.
Reconfiguring, we chucked a u'ee, left the little brightly coloured arrows for dead and, with Sacre de Cour gracing our frontal view, glided towards the Gare du Nord. 350 kilometers and three days since we set off from Brussels Midi, we saw the grand building ahead, zipped between the taxis, turned the final corner and..... in my case.... promptly fell over. All that time without even a wobble and I fall on my arse 50 meters from out final destination. Hilarous.
Picking myself up, I wheel into the station. We handover our bikes to the Eurostar, walk out to Gare du Nord's grand facade, plomp our sore posteriors on the hard street-side chairs of a Parisian cafe and salute the journey with an ice-cold Kronenberg.

The Route I: Un Petit Tour de France (part deux)

We had stayed the night before in a small French town hotel with a very traditional feel. To my narrow British mind rather Allo Allo'esque. All wrought iron furniture, minor chandeliers and doilies. It even came with a slightly pot bellied hotelier and spouse. Despite minor language difficulties they treated us with touching warmth and sent us off with a big breakfast and a wave. Cyclists are treated well in France.

The legs were a little wobbly and the posterior on the achy side (I was quickly learning to appreciate the extra padding on cycling shorts), but overall it felt good to park myself back on the bike and set off under the morning August sun.

Remembrance

Down a winding hill out of the town and into a countryside of gentle hills and wide arable landscapes. At the edge of the corn fields were strips of weeds frequented by blood red poppies. Ever since I was a small boy, the horror of the First World War battlefields have had a strong hold on my conscience and the sight of these flowers which, for those who have little connection to the conflict, are the lingering symbol of its pointless loss, made me quite emotional.
We were cycling along the Western Front not too far from the river Somme. Twice I have visited these sights before and nothing can prepare me for the feeling of sorrow and helplessness that pervades. As one would, those who live in these scarred lands no doubt push from everyday thought the events of less than a century ago. A century sounds like a long time, but my grandfather fought in this conflict and his brother died in a field, I would think, similar to this one. It casts a long shadow.
We stopped at the small graveyard of Quietiste. Like all Commonwealth war graves I have seen, it is kept beautifully. This small corner of a foreign field pays as a good a tribute as could be hoped for for the sacrifice of those who lie there. A low wall surrounds a few dozen white stone gravestones. At the center a solitary stone cross. Many names of those who are fallen and others simply marked “Known unto God”. Words that bring a quiver to the stomach.
One corner of the graveyard holds fallen German soldiers. Part of the idiocy of the conflict is summed up by how natural it feels that soldiers from both sides should share the same small patch of soil. To be there with Jan, a new German friend, shows how far we have come from a war in which Europe ripped out its own heart, gave up its sons and, incidentally, laid ruin to its world dominance.

As we rode on, I thought of Wilfred Owen's poem “The Parable of the Young Man and the Old”:

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned, both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake, and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

Fields, water and forest

We kept up a brisk pace through the morning on the slowly arching roads which followed the low ridges of the land. During a brief break we spotted a solitary deer which bounced away through the high crops and watched him until he bounded out of sight.

The roads then broke into windy tributaries through the odd hamlet, before we hit a canal. Broad and mostly empty, we followed the scrabbly but straight tow-path for many a kilometer, only stopping for a brief lunch stop in the park of a small French town.
We then broke out to the South and, via some interesting navigation (a small map, uncertain compass and no fixed plan has its benefits), headed into the forest. At first on minor roads and then onto mere paths, we rode our way in our general South-Westerly direction. Jan's chest wound (see previous article) was holding up OK and we were making good time through the tall trees and green light of the glen.
Having clicked over 120 kilometers we decided to not push it too far and stay the night in the first significant town we had seen since Brussels, Compiegne, just a few more kilometers the other side of the trees.

More steak-frites

We parked our bikes, checked into a slightly dodgy looking hotel and spent the remains of the day in the idyllic central square sipping beer and glugging expensive water. Perfect.
We then wandered through town admiring the sizeable Napoleonic barracks and savoured a proper, mouth-watering steak-frites, washed down with strong, cold beer. Joy filled the tired muscles as the protein kicked in. We just about made it on to “the” (read “only”) club in town, but ran away soon afterwards, the clientele being limited to a group of large, loud women and a couple of middle-aged men propping up the bar.

Back to the room and out like a light. The final leg of the journey awaited...

The Route I: Tour de Wallonia avec Lycra (part un)

Each year I try and do something new to differentiate it from the last. Life flits by at far too quick a pace and this seems to at least break things up while throwing some new angles into the mix. After many an hour exploring different options and enjoying some procrastination, I knew it had to be cycling. Like every other kid, I used to pedal around my neighbourhood, but an accident which showed me the white of my elbow had curtailed such activities somewhere in the late nineties. Now was the time to correct that and all I needed was a way to nail it down.

The plan. Buy a half-decent bike to guilt me into a two-wheel commute and find a willing conspirator and a couple of tickets for us and our bikes to one place and back from another. Quite dauntingly, the more than able conspirator was Steve (daunting as he has in the past cycled from the top to the bottom of France, is, and I imagine always has been, fitter than me and has a faster bike to boot). London to Cornwall was ruled out on the grounds that English motorists hate cyclists, London to Paris on the grounds Steve had done it before, so…. Brussels to Paris was born. Nothing could be easier than jumping on the Eurostar at St Pancras, easing the journey to Brussels Midi with a couple of beers and rolling back onto the train at the Gare to Nord for the return journey. Except that is for the 350 odd km straight line distance between the two.

Brussels, Wallonia (French Belgium)

We were buzzing as we jumped onto the saddle and meandered our way through the old streets of Europe's bureaucratic capital. It always surprises me just how pretty parts of this city are. Many may ridicule it less if they wandered through the central square and surroundings alleys on such a barmy summer evening. We were even greeted by a local fair complete with flicking lights and roaring sound. I had to keep repeating “drive on the right, drive on the right...” Certain continental habits are important to remember!

This pleasantness was interrupted by a bucketing storm which forced us into hiding with a beer and a big helping of pasta. A bit of sleep, some more carbs, a squeeze into the lycra (first time for me - I am sure you will agree it shows of my curves) and we were off. An old canal runs from the centre of Brussels out roughly in our intended direction – South-East-South. Just two turns out the front door of the hostel we bumped into this waterway and, by fortunate chance, a German who was to brighten up the next few days. The first cyclist we passed was a relaxed looking lanky individual complete with mountain bike and large panniers (bike bags). Well of course I said “hello” and was greeted back with a jovial “hallo, where are you going?” I of course answered “Paris”, he replied “me too” and quite a coincidence it was. Jan had set off from Berlin a few weeks back and gave us a run down of his travels to date as we followed the canal out of the Belgian capital.

The streets fell away leaving flat countryside interrupted by crumbling industry. Despite the huge effort which went into digging these canals, much of their use fell by the wayside with the propagation of the railways and later highways. This, and no doubt other factors, has left a peaceful setting of greenery and wildlife. Gulls, ducks, swans, basking cormorants and a rodenty thing which ran across our path.

At one point, national stereotypes sprung true as wafts of chocolate filled the air. A smell of dark, beautiful stuff protruded from one of the remaining canal-side factories. On and on we cycled until we reached a marvel of engineering. As I am sure you know, canals have to run very near to flat. In much of the world this is solved by systems of locks, but here a particularly large change in altitude is fixed on a grander scale. The canal runs into a slope raising what looked like 100 meters over half a kilometer or so. Boats float right up to the slope, at which point the part of the canal which holds the boat is literally shifted out of the main body of water and dragged up the slope on a railroad. What a feat, and time for us to part ways with the canal.

Belgian beer and a tumble

As we banked off to the East, I realised we had cycled further than I had ever cycled before. It was very much time for lunch. After a few more kilometers coasting down windy country roads banked with corn, we found ourselves in the small town of Le Roeulx. Our day cycling through Wallonia would not be complete without a Belgian beer or two, so we parked up the bikes on a lamp-post and our bums in a bar. We had been fortunate. Not only did the place sell St-Feuillien Blonde (World Beer Awards 2010 – best Abbey/Trappist Pale Ale), one of the oldest beers in Belgium (c. 1125) and, more importantly, delectable, but the barman was charming. He even let us make our own sandwiches in the bar as we chatted about this and that and were generally glowing with the joy of a morning's physical exertions being washed down with premium beer. As it turned out, the beer was perhaps a little too premium...

Rearing to go, we jumped back on the bikes and cycled out of town past the St-Feuillien brewery (http://www.st-feuillien.com/). Next thing we were hurtling down a hill at 50 odd kmph in the lightly spitting rain. A real rush. At that speed you can feel the air pummelling into you as the landscape shoots past in a blur on each side. Then from behind...skid...crash...yelp. I slam on the brakes and almost lose control as I swerve to a halt. After no incidents in however many days since Berlin, a couple of strong beers and our company had led to Jan losing control and skidding down the hill with a clatter. A nasty fall. Scrapes to the hands, elbows, knees and forearms were largely superficial, but a deep scrape to the abdomen was a bigger concern. By huge fortune we were within sight of a pharmacy, so I ran off and, after surprising myself with some semblance of the French I had neglected since school, returned with some proper bandages. Jan was in a bit of shock, but was able to soldier on after a lie down and a first aid session.

I was somewhat concerned about him, as the scrape to his chest was a deep, seeping round wound 10cm across. We took it slower, but decided to push on to the French border as rain closed in. From there we made it to our intended turn off and followed a long straight road as the day faded. The serial rise and fall of this old Roman road had taken it out of us and the steeples of Bavay, our final destination for the day, was a sight for sore eyes.

Except for Jan's injury, we had had a great day. We had churned up 126 km of road and I already knew this cycling thing was for me. Our “no real plan” plan had led us to this random town somewhere in a random part of France. We piled into some steak-frites and vin rouge and looked forward to the next leg of our journey.