We turned off the D64 and into a car park where a green sign announced the start of the fabled Avenue Verte. Though the rain had stopped the brilliance of the brilliant idea no longer shone. The reality of the day began to set in. A simple easy route that just happened to be 95 miles and it was 4.30am and we'd had no sleep. You could reach up and touch the clouds - they teased us with an occasional drop. Add to that there was nothing open for that cwaffee and cwoissant. N and D mumbled indistinct mumblings.
It was still dark so the fancy scenery was a collection of featureless dark shapes set against a slightly less dark sky. Cock's cockle doodled their doos as we began the 30-mile, 1 in 200, to Forges Des Aux. In the gloom, at that hour, with no sleep, it was just a fairly forgettable journey. After passing lakes or gravel pits, the well-tarmac-ed path takes a fairly straight route up a valley. Rabbits hopped, cattle lowed, hawks hovered along its way as dawn squeezed through the mulchy clouds. The path passes through disused stations and between platforms being devoured by weeds, and many roads cross the path - which you'd have to be diligent when crossing. By 8am we'd got 35 miles under our belts and just a regular 60 miles to go during normal working hours.
Forge les Aux was just waking up as Avenue Verte came to an abrupt end - no fancy signposts for anyone coming the other way. Being a Monday, France was quiet but we were also told that is was a holiday of some sort. Whilst the UK regards its public holidays as opportunities to sell more garbage, the French actually have a holiday and just take it easy and start by eating monstrous pain au raisin and chocolate - or maybe that was just us.
du pain, du rain, du vin.
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