Something to stretch the legs and warm up the buttocks.
The Western Front seems only eight months ago - it was only eight months ago - when were duelling with summer's death rattle. Well, now we are ready, bedside in the maternity ward, waiting for the first cries of summer instead and what better than the highly original idea of cycling to Paris - I say 'original' as we are not doing it for charity - just for our own selfish gain. I expect that we will be buffeted and bullied along the way by the worthy on their pilgrimages, suffering the French countryside, and struggling with the pain of the sights of Paris, intolerable coffee and croissants and their B&B accommodations.
As with any trip of any sort in June - even one to the outer reaches of the Solar System - one must assume it will rain. Having booked the tickets and stopped the milk and papers, the fun and games really start with the weather forecast. Firstly, the long term prediction from the BBC is good for a good laugh. The Beeb used to employ the Met Office (the weather arm of the police) to provide its fancy maps and squiggles but austerity measures and the failure of the Met to spot a hurricane heading this way forced to the BBC to look elsewhere for its weather predictions. The BBC asked Blue Peter viewers to send in what they think the weather is going to be instead - and draw pictures of mist, for example. So, ignore the BBC - they are only any good at telling you what yesterday's weather was. MSN weather, Accuweather and Weather Underground are reliable, but hedge their bets up to a couple of days before. MSN seem to nail it in the short term: shower at 12.47.
For the 12th - 15th of Glorious June we were heading into a couple of wet days and dry nights and a sunny finale.
For the 12th - 15th of Glorious June we were heading into a couple of wet days and dry nights and a sunny finale.
The trip sounds straight forward - no detours, beaches or cols to tempt us from what is a well worn route. Or is it? Surely there must be some leeway for moi to bungle it all: misjudge our capabilities, head for extinct campsites, pick the hilliest route or the busiest roads. They are all there, the ingredients for a perfect storm: dodgy June weather, a totally inconvenient ferry crossing, little chance of sleep and the infinite opportunities to get lost.
Due to time constraints we will conveniently avoid cycling from London to Paris. Instead, we'll embark Victoria at 18.06 on 12th June, alight at Brighton, cycle over to Newhaven and board the ferry for the 22.30 crossing, arriving at 03.30 local heure est il. We will proceed to Paris and return for the 18.00 crossing on the 15th. Simple.
We have a new member of the crew - N. He is a buddy from football and experienced in the use of drop handlebars. Cycocamping, however, will be new to him.
New Kit
What's in the bag?
How can we possibly enhance our already splendid cutting edge gear? What tent could possibly be surpass the high end £25 Jamet Shelter or Coleman 'Coffin'? or what mat could beat the self-inflating non self-deflating sleeping mat?
First up is that fancy mat I've been umming and aahing over for a few years - concerned about its punctureability while desiring its most bearable lightness of being: the Thermarest Neo
And what's this? What has N got between his legs? A racer or a a tourer? N, used to the flat at speed with his block engineering for blurred pace, can't get away with a napsac on this jaunt. No lugs for mudguards or Everyready lights on his carbon fibre cheetah of a velo. But check out:
The ToPeak MTX V-type beam Rack with matching panniers.
Transport
Again, Southern Railway buck the the trend and offer bargain basement tickets.We got seats on their fancy trains, which all look like artist's impressions, for just £3.65 for a single to Brighton - the price of an over-priced pint of lager or a pound of mature cheese or Angling Monthly or some cheap caulking product. Likewise we have secured tickets for £3.70 all the way back from Newhaven. The next time I go to Scotland, instead of getting overcharged by Virgin, I'm gonna get the train to Brighton then walk. Remember to reserve your bikes. There is no worse sight than tightly lyrca-clad bodies fighting on a platform over bike spaces.
LD Ferries, also cleverly named as TransManche Ferries, are well priced at £35 return for the luxury of the floor. Add another £50 or so for a four-berth cabin. The only drag is that their sailings are not at great times from the UK. We have opted for the night crossing of 4 hours that arrives 03.30 hundred O'clock hours am local time.
LD Ferries, also cleverly named as TransManche Ferries, are well priced at £35 return for the luxury of the floor. Add another £50 or so for a four-berth cabin. The only drag is that their sailings are not at great times from the UK. We have opted for the night crossing of 4 hours that arrives 03.30 hundred O'clock hours am local time.
I had harboured a desire to cycle to Newhaven, er, Harbour from London but had bought cheap rail tickets as an insurance in the face of the British Summer inclement weather. Come the day and I was soaked just getting from the brillo pad to Victoria .
We got off the train at Brighton, took one look at the October weather in June and hopped on to another - the Newhaven train.
Newhaven looks as if it had just been evacuated in preparation for its destruction from any number of sources and the ferry is to be the last transport out. The BBC should return to its low budgets and film Doctor Who at Newhaven Harbour Station - or another spin off of Life On Mars. The station is boarded up, rusty and derelict save for a spanking new Help Point contraption. Well, it was only £2.50 from Brighton.
Having arrived an hour earlier we enjoyed the grease on the spoon of the greasy spoon cafe inside the terminal building. Newhaven was once a disembarkation point for thousands of soldiers off to fight in various wars but, with the wars over and the battle of Eurotunnel lost, Newhaven hangs on with just two ferries a day. We wanted to take our bikes into the terminal as it was still tipping down but were told by a jobsworth employee that there would be no space as they were expecting 43 foot passengers. Space would certainly be an issue with 43 foot long passengers.
We got off the train at Brighton, took one look at the October weather in June and hopped on to another - the Newhaven train.
Newhaven looks as if it had just been evacuated in preparation for its destruction from any number of sources and the ferry is to be the last transport out. The BBC should return to its low budgets and film Doctor Who at Newhaven Harbour Station - or another spin off of Life On Mars. The station is boarded up, rusty and derelict save for a spanking new Help Point contraption. Well, it was only £2.50 from Brighton.
Having arrived an hour earlier we enjoyed the grease on the spoon of the greasy spoon cafe inside the terminal building. Newhaven was once a disembarkation point for thousands of soldiers off to fight in various wars but, with the wars over and the battle of Eurotunnel lost, Newhaven hangs on with just two ferries a day. We wanted to take our bikes into the terminal as it was still tipping down but were told by a jobsworth employee that there would be no space as they were expecting 43 foot passengers. Space would certainly be an issue with 43 foot long passengers.
The Ferry
You can't get on the ferry much earlier than 9.30, which leaves even less time for a kip. Once we'd had a couple of beers, it was 11.30. We attempted to sleep on the floor beneath the seats during the bumpy ride but between us we probably managed an hour - 20 minutes per person on average. The boat docked on time. We slapped cream on our chamoises and headed off up a steep hill in the heavy drizzle. The hill, of course was not the correct way and so, for all my pomposity, natural leadership skills, expensive maps, intricate planning I had gone the wrong way after only 30 seconds. N would kindly say, 'Yes, that must be Dieppe...over there.' to assure me that we were not completely lost. We were just going up a completely unnecessary hill. (The D1 is the immediate and first sharp right off the roundabout - follow that around and keep on it until the signs for Argues-la-Bataille.) I was unable to make any excuses such as 'the bypass we are on is avoiding all the traffic' as there was no traffic at 04.00 hundred O'clock hours am. After the up there was the down - along a fast dual carriageway. A few lefts and rights later, we were on D64 for the few miles to Argues-la-Bataille, the sky sagging ominously above us.
Avenue Verte
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.
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.
Roads
Anyone with any kind of experience of French roads knows that just because a road is classified as D doesn't mean that road is a quaint country byway. That is because there are also red D roads and yellow D roads. Anyway, your safest bet is to get on the white roads. As it was a bank holiday, however, we used the absence of trucks to hotfoot the 12 miles to Gournay en Bray along the D915. By 10am we had just about reached half way. We stopped for cwaffee and watched the locals, with great panache, knock back the booze at 10 in the morning. Unlike the British, the French make drinking look like an intellectual exercise - even just after breakfast.
We took the N31 for a few miles before a sharp right to St Germer de Fly and the D129 to take us over to the D3. Very quaint, old villages of red brick and coarse mortar straddled the quiet road. We encountered our first hill of the trip and my 42 lbs extra of lard immediately exerted some g-force type force while the other two sped off. The three of us had between 9-11kg on our racks. But I was also carrying another 19kg in comfort fat. So, they disappeared up the hill while I went down to granny +2. A few hills later and after a couple of food stops we arrived at the D3 at about 2pm. This is the worse time of day - the graveyard shift. The lack of sleep begins to enjoy its mischief. Lack of sleep plays tricks on the mind. I thought, for moment, that I was Georgie Best lying on that infamous bed with Miss World, champagne and a suitcase full of money wondering where it all went wrong.
The weather had held up but for one shower and there were occasional splashes of pastel blue amongst the opaque grey white clouds. We caught up with or were caught up by various small groups of UK cyclists some of which were probably on a charity run. These groups did not have tents and were therefore spending a good proportion of everyone's hard earned sponsorship money on B and Bs. There must be room for sponsored camping runs. None of the groups followed as we continued on our route to Triel sur Seine. A sudden spectacular descent heralded the Seine. We crossed the dark green river on the town bridge before taking a right for the campsite. Not in an auspicious location, the campsite lay beside the river next to TGV line and an trading estate. There seemed to be a farm full the noisiest farm animals, so if it wasn't a chorus of roosters, dogs and bleating sheep, it was the thunder of the 19.45 to Rouen storming past at 700 miles an hour or however fast the French brag thse darned trains go at.
We took the N31 for a few miles before a sharp right to St Germer de Fly and the D129 to take us over to the D3. Very quaint, old villages of red brick and coarse mortar straddled the quiet road. We encountered our first hill of the trip and my 42 lbs extra of lard immediately exerted some g-force type force while the other two sped off. The three of us had between 9-11kg on our racks. But I was also carrying another 19kg in comfort fat. So, they disappeared up the hill while I went down to granny +2. A few hills later and after a couple of food stops we arrived at the D3 at about 2pm. This is the worse time of day - the graveyard shift. The lack of sleep begins to enjoy its mischief. Lack of sleep plays tricks on the mind. I thought, for moment, that I was Georgie Best lying on that infamous bed with Miss World, champagne and a suitcase full of money wondering where it all went wrong.
The weather had held up but for one shower and there were occasional splashes of pastel blue amongst the opaque grey white clouds. We caught up with or were caught up by various small groups of UK cyclists some of which were probably on a charity run. These groups did not have tents and were therefore spending a good proportion of everyone's hard earned sponsorship money on B and Bs. There must be room for sponsored camping runs. None of the groups followed as we continued on our route to Triel sur Seine. A sudden spectacular descent heralded the Seine. We crossed the dark green river on the town bridge before taking a right for the campsite. Not in an auspicious location, the campsite lay beside the river next to TGV line and an trading estate. There seemed to be a farm full the noisiest farm animals, so if it wasn't a chorus of roosters, dogs and bleating sheep, it was the thunder of the 19.45 to Rouen storming past at 700 miles an hour or however fast the French brag thse darned trains go at.
The Camping
There are two campsites here the second one down, Ile Roi with its naff video on the intrawebnet, looks, in reality, tastier than the crustier Quatre Arpents which seemed to specialise in dark, dank, creepy corners. Mouldy caravans, sagging awnings and upturned patio furniture gave the game away that this was a barely used, last resort campsite for the desperate or those who didn't know any better. The woman owner of seventy with her dyed hair and virulent lipstick was very hospitable as she walked us over a narrow culvert, through a patch of stinging nettles to a small field. But, being near Paris, it was a hefty 28 euros for the albeit generous pitch. The showers were normally a whopping 2 euros each but they let us use them for free. It had an air of the Bates Motel and if Hitchcock had had a lower budget for Psycho he could have well done with a flustered Janet Leigh pulling into the spooky Bates 'Belle View' campsite instead and Master Bates helping her pitch her two man lightweight festival tent.
Once the tents were up and we'd eaten the basics - pasta et tuna - the beguiling sun vanished to be replaced by torrential rain that continued through the night, though the highly unpleasant toilet runs were somehow spared. Men over 40 and their nightly trips to the toilet: this subject is never covered in movies. The vulnerable wife never suddenly wakens in the middle of the night, bolt upright with fear as hubby has mysteriously disappeared. Her grimace turns to a look of curiosity as she hears a torrent of water, followed by a flush. Her husband returns to the bedroom with a sheepish look about him and the wife hugs him.
Once the tents were up and we'd eaten the basics - pasta et tuna - the beguiling sun vanished to be replaced by torrential rain that continued through the night, though the highly unpleasant toilet runs were somehow spared. Men over 40 and their nightly trips to the toilet: this subject is never covered in movies. The vulnerable wife never suddenly wakens in the middle of the night, bolt upright with fear as hubby has mysteriously disappeared. Her grimace turns to a look of curiosity as she hears a torrent of water, followed by a flush. Her husband returns to the bedroom with a sheepish look about him and the wife hugs him.
The Paris
There is only one thing worse than striking the tent in the rain and that it is pitching it again. You cannot hang about waiting for a tent to dry unless you have hairdryer weather. It certainly ain't gonna get dry if it is raining. So the inner tent was dry and went in a separate bag to the wet fly and off we go.
We were over an hour late, leaving at 10.30. We returned over the smaller bridge and took a right onto the D190 and then took a fairly immediate left under a rail bridge on to Rue de Chanteloop. After a brief hill the road headed straight east through a couple of towns until it met the north bank of the Seine just beyond Andrésy. After crossing the Oise we followed the river via cycle path and quiet road all the way around until we were heading south west. The road left the river and finished at a T-junction north of the D308. We took a left up to a one way system and took the second right, the Rue de Bezons, going south east. This was a quiet suburban road but eventually we had to bite the bullet and take the D392 onto the bridge and into Paris.
I'd read a few accounts of routes into Paris. I also imagined cycling into London for the first time from any direction. The roads aren't fast but are congested. They can often change from single to dual lane and you might have go most of the way around a roundabout vulnerable and exposed. That is just the way it is. Some of the accounts advised to avoid certain routes due to the roads. If I was on a charity run and did most of my usual cycle around a small town then any road in Paris would be a fright. Any way, the roads were dual-laned but the traffic was reasonably light until La Defense loomed up ahead. There were major roadworks going on and trying concentrate on that meant I missed the D992 splitting and the left fork on the D908. We had to take a left and head north away from La Defense to get back onto the D908/Rue de Verdun. From the bridge into Paris town centre was quick and all that was needed was the appropriate right fork to take us up to the Arc De Triomphe. From turning off the Seine until the centre - may be 6 miles - there were no reliable and continual cycle lanes as they were under construction and so that route will be good perhaps in six months (maybe late 2011). Most of the bridges carry busy roads of the Vauxhall Bridge ilk so at some point you will face traffic.
We were over an hour late, leaving at 10.30. We returned over the smaller bridge and took a right onto the D190 and then took a fairly immediate left under a rail bridge on to Rue de Chanteloop. After a brief hill the road headed straight east through a couple of towns until it met the north bank of the Seine just beyond Andrésy. After crossing the Oise we followed the river via cycle path and quiet road all the way around until we were heading south west. The road left the river and finished at a T-junction north of the D308. We took a left up to a one way system and took the second right, the Rue de Bezons, going south east. This was a quiet suburban road but eventually we had to bite the bullet and take the D392 onto the bridge and into Paris.
I'd read a few accounts of routes into Paris. I also imagined cycling into London for the first time from any direction. The roads aren't fast but are congested. They can often change from single to dual lane and you might have go most of the way around a roundabout vulnerable and exposed. That is just the way it is. Some of the accounts advised to avoid certain routes due to the roads. If I was on a charity run and did most of my usual cycle around a small town then any road in Paris would be a fright. Any way, the roads were dual-laned but the traffic was reasonably light until La Defense loomed up ahead. There were major roadworks going on and trying concentrate on that meant I missed the D992 splitting and the left fork on the D908. We had to take a left and head north away from La Defense to get back onto the D908/Rue de Verdun. From the bridge into Paris town centre was quick and all that was needed was the appropriate right fork to take us up to the Arc De Triomphe. From turning off the Seine until the centre - may be 6 miles - there were no reliable and continual cycle lanes as they were under construction and so that route will be good perhaps in six months (maybe late 2011). Most of the bridges carry busy roads of the Vauxhall Bridge ilk so at some point you will face traffic.
The rain had delayed us at the Triel Sur Seine campsite and so we spent just five minutes at the Arc before heading straight along Rue de Friedland to Gare St. Lazare. We got a 15.27 train to Gisors, avoiding the rush hour, for 11.90 euros each. The train had two compartments that each had two vertical bike slots.
From Gisors we went north on the D14 - a white road parallel with the D915. This was a beautiful country ride - the afternoon sun was out to stay and apart from the school bus dropping off sprogs there was little traffic. I'd called ahead to the campsite at Le Coudray Sr Germerjust to make sure it was still there - a necessity these days. We stocked up on the vitals in Serifontaine and rode over the plateau passing fields of green wheat, peas, triffids and so on. More tiny villages and expansive views until we reached the village and it campsite behind the supermarche. This site, is next to a living farm where the cows are brought in each evening and spend the night ramming the steel walls of their confinement. But, the pitches were beautiful - soft earth beneath mowed lush grass. The plot was huge and sheltered by trees and a hedge. The man said 12 euros and we expected that meant each but that was it. The showers were 1 euro and included a free frog that squatted in the corner of the shower tray telling jokes.
It was the perfect evening. None of us put our tents up inside out. All showered up, the food bubbled and steamed, beer swilled over dry buds, the olives collapsed under greedy molars. Crap foreign lager only tastes crap when it is brewed in the UK. The beer companies know we only drink lager to get pissed so any semblance of flavour or purity is unnecessary waste so they just brew shit here. Honeykin tastes completely different in Europe - though any crap would taste wonderful after an assfull of saddle all day.
And after the haute cousin, the fine 1.85 a bottle wine and the blazing sky.
Oh, yes - the train ride was a little cheat but time was short, honest.
From Gisors we went north on the D14 - a white road parallel with the D915. This was a beautiful country ride - the afternoon sun was out to stay and apart from the school bus dropping off sprogs there was little traffic. I'd called ahead to the campsite at Le Coudray Sr Germerjust to make sure it was still there - a necessity these days. We stocked up on the vitals in Serifontaine and rode over the plateau passing fields of green wheat, peas, triffids and so on. More tiny villages and expansive views until we reached the village and it campsite behind the supermarche. This site, is next to a living farm where the cows are brought in each evening and spend the night ramming the steel walls of their confinement. But, the pitches were beautiful - soft earth beneath mowed lush grass. The plot was huge and sheltered by trees and a hedge. The man said 12 euros and we expected that meant each but that was it. The showers were 1 euro and included a free frog that squatted in the corner of the shower tray telling jokes.
It was the perfect evening. None of us put our tents up inside out. All showered up, the food bubbled and steamed, beer swilled over dry buds, the olives collapsed under greedy molars. Crap foreign lager only tastes crap when it is brewed in the UK. The beer companies know we only drink lager to get pissed so any semblance of flavour or purity is unnecessary waste so they just brew shit here. Honeykin tastes completely different in Europe - though any crap would taste wonderful after an assfull of saddle all day.
And after the haute cousin, the fine 1.85 a bottle wine and the blazing sky.
Oh, yes - the train ride was a little cheat but time was short, honest.
The new air bed, the Thermarest Neoair (small) in pus yellow and dead flesh grey, certainly packs up light and small but, once up and inflated, it becomes a bucking bronco with wanderlust. On the numerous occasions I woke up because the darn thing wouldn't stop bouncing me about, the mat and I had ended up in yet another cosy corner of the palatial Vango Banhsee 300. Yes, that tent is so big you really need staff. There's even an echo.
We were up and about and discussing bowel evacuations and vegetarians at 7.30. The sky was cloudless and the warm breeze swept the heavy dew off our tents. We stuffed our faces with the porridge and honey provided by N while discussing bowel evacuations and conspiracy theories. We left the campsite spotless on the dot of 10.32 and within a few minutes we were hurtling - no - flying down the lengthy hill that had brought us up onto the plateau on Monday. Having done 95 miles on the first day, the 60 miles return to Dieppe rolled off the tyres. Within three hours we were beyond Forges des Eaux taking luncheon in Neufchàtel en Bray at a lovely restaurant just a few twists and turns from the Avenue Verte in a beautiful retail park. A delightful children's play area adjacent to the al fresco dining feature provided great entertainment: boisterous jumping about on rubber mats accompanied the wonderful sound of gay abandon and carefree shrieking that we all cherish in our pride and joys. D gorged himself on the fish while N and I both opted for meat sandwiches. We hotfooted it from McDonald's and we were sipping a lager outside a bar by Dieppe's historic and prosperous harbour by 4pm. Once the boat had slid out of the harbour on a silky sea, we got a view of Dieppe's expansive sea front and realised we should have hung out there. Maybe it was the sunny day versus the pissing rain that gave Dieppe a substantial edge over Newhaven.
There only remained for me to crack open a bottle of mock champagne to toast our trouble-free trip. There were just two further possibles - being late for the cheap train, and, the final episode of D's out of date passport with which he had managed to get through three sets of officials with out any of them noticing.
Both eventualities weren't eventual. We sat on the train and couldn't quite believe we'd done the trip.
The roads in France were easy and, for the most part, reasonably 'safe' although there is no such state of being on a bike. We'd would have been safe had we been driving a tank - they are well up there in the league of vehicles to feel safe in but there is no way I can keep a tank in my flat - although one could fit in my tent.
We were up and about and discussing bowel evacuations and vegetarians at 7.30. The sky was cloudless and the warm breeze swept the heavy dew off our tents. We stuffed our faces with the porridge and honey provided by N while discussing bowel evacuations and conspiracy theories. We left the campsite spotless on the dot of 10.32 and within a few minutes we were hurtling - no - flying down the lengthy hill that had brought us up onto the plateau on Monday. Having done 95 miles on the first day, the 60 miles return to Dieppe rolled off the tyres. Within three hours we were beyond Forges des Eaux taking luncheon in Neufchàtel en Bray at a lovely restaurant just a few twists and turns from the Avenue Verte in a beautiful retail park. A delightful children's play area adjacent to the al fresco dining feature provided great entertainment: boisterous jumping about on rubber mats accompanied the wonderful sound of gay abandon and carefree shrieking that we all cherish in our pride and joys. D gorged himself on the fish while N and I both opted for meat sandwiches. We hotfooted it from McDonald's and we were sipping a lager outside a bar by Dieppe's historic and prosperous harbour by 4pm. Once the boat had slid out of the harbour on a silky sea, we got a view of Dieppe's expansive sea front and realised we should have hung out there. Maybe it was the sunny day versus the pissing rain that gave Dieppe a substantial edge over Newhaven.
There only remained for me to crack open a bottle of mock champagne to toast our trouble-free trip. There were just two further possibles - being late for the cheap train, and, the final episode of D's out of date passport with which he had managed to get through three sets of officials with out any of them noticing.
Both eventualities weren't eventual. We sat on the train and couldn't quite believe we'd done the trip.
The roads in France were easy and, for the most part, reasonably 'safe' although there is no such state of being on a bike. We'd would have been safe had we been driving a tank - they are well up there in the league of vehicles to feel safe in but there is no way I can keep a tank in my flat - although one could fit in my tent.
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