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.
du pain, du rain, du vin.
le Cheat
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.
Le dash to le channel
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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