The following day I was determined to ease the strain on my ass caused by the backpack. I rigged it up so that the pack was now standing upright on the saddle bags and attached around my waist. It worked much better. My route took a north-west direction heading along the Belgian border to the coast. Everyone thinks that this area of France is flat. However because I was crossing small valleys, it seemed to me to be an endless array of hills. My routine, cycle down 1 minute, cycle up several minutes. You don’t really know a place until you’ve tasted the rain and smelt the Earth. Cycling is a hard way of doing just that.
At about 7:00pm I had made a pathetic 60 miles. The hills had killed me with all the luggage. I needed somewhere to sleep. Realising that I had to save money I looked for somewhere to camp. Needless to say just as it started to get dark, it also started to rain. Dropping down a long hill I noticed a large object in the undergrowth. It was a king size mattress still in the plastic. The mattress was moldy but that plastic cover was useful. I cut it off with my knife and now had a double-king size plastic sheet. After dragging my bike down a steep hill into the forest, I spread this over a couple of large bushes for shelter and used my foam mat and sleeping bag to get a good night’s sleep.
Up early the next morning I was determined to put some miles on the clock. The cashflow was running out and I was aware of a certain amount of miles that I must achieve everyday to make the coast. As afternoon ended and I had fought my way up and down scenic, but exhausting hills I looked for a place to camp. I passed a place which looked like a logging camp. This place had many trails and large stacks of logs everywhere. There was no cover, but with the clear sky and the visual cover the logs gave me from the trail, I decided this would do. I got out my bread and cheese and tried to relax and look at my situation.
The distance I had covered was sad. My cash was dwindling and the cycling was tough. I briefly considered dumping some of my gear, sweaters, books, CD player. Then I thought “to hell with it, I bought them, I’m keeping them.”
At 7:30am I got up, stretched, had a wash with a waterbottle and took off. For the next three or four days my routine went like that, always ending up at a mystery camping location. A couple of times I camped in farmer’s barns. One time the guy caught me the next morning and was about to get mad when he saw the bike. Then it was all “ah le tour de France, ah le velo, beaucoup kilometers.” That’s right mate, very bloody beaucoup!
One of the things that I really enjoyed about this trip was that by taking the back roads I got to see a face of France that is lost to the Parisians. I would sometimes go to a cafe for 30 minutes in a small village. As I would enter, all the heads turn and say “bonjour monsieur”. When I left everyone would say “au revoir monsieur”. Also the faces were classic. The old guys in berets with big noses drinking their coffee and the rosy faced barmaids giggling at their lack of English.
Everyone who I asked directions from tried to help, including a group of locals with whom I had a virtual Monty Python skit with near Lillers.(‘Ou est le route de Lillers? Lille? No Lillers. Lileer? No Lillers. LEElair? I get out the map. OH! LILLERS!) Many farmers and shopkeepers kindly refilled my water bottles and wished me ‘bon route.’ This is a report you don’t hear too often.
Let me clarify my plan to get home. I had taken a bus-boat-bus from London to Amsterdam 2 months earlier. I had an open ticket to return and was hoping to rendezvous with the bus on the way back. I stopped at the town of Cambrai to make the phone call to the bus company. Though I could hardly hear the person in Amsterdam I understood one thing – there was a problem. They weren’t going to let me on the bus with my bike. Doesn’t matter, I thought, I’ll ditch the bike. Second problem, I can only board the boat if I’m on the bus, and I can only board the bus at one of its registered stops. Hey, I’ll just meet the bus at the port! “No can do amigo,” was the reply. “We have no bus stops near the port.” Where is the nearest bus stop? I enquired. IN BELGIUM!!!!!! was the response.
