I realise it’s been remiss of me not to mention the distances and terrain more clearly. Over the first five days the numbers stack up neatly: forty, forty, fifty, forty-eight and thirty-seven miles — that last one quite long enough for me. The climbs tell their own story too, measured in metres they were 560, 660, 780, 860 and 750. On paper it doesn’t look too fierce, but I do try to pack in as much cycling as I can while keeping it enjoyable. The balance feels about right, as it usually does.
Yet the road has its own tricks. From day two onwards, once I’d left the coast behind, the terrain began to roll in endless waves — sharp little climbs that punch at the legs before easing off, only to begin again. The rhythm is broken constantly, my gears clacking up and down, calves burning as I push through the steepest parts. It’s a fatigue that creeps in unnoticed, a slow dulling of both strength and stamina. In the Ardennes earlier this year the hills were long and unrelenting, but at least you could fall into a rhythm, albeit with lungs heaving steadily. Here the stop-start effort is more punishing, more wearing.
This morning the valley is wrapped in a cool mist, damp on the skin and beading on the sleeves of my jersey. The air smells faintly of wet grass and woodsmoke, the world hushed except for the occasional drip of water from the trees. I’m in no rush to set off; my legs feel heavy, the muscles taut, as if reminding me of every mile ridden. Instead, I crouch beside the bike for a quieter ritual: wiping the chain clean, fingers catching the faint grit of the road, listening for the source of a small, perhaps imaginary, complaint in the drivetrain. For now, it’s just me, the mist, and the slow rhythm of cloth against chain metal as I rotate the pedals backwards — a calm beginning before the wheels start to turn again.
I try and stay clear of the politics of cycling. I have been overtaken by a van on an otherwise empty country road with an eighth of an inch separating up and the van swerving away just as it passed. I have also witnessed the mayhem of some central London cyclists who ignore all traffic controls such as red lights. This from BBC News reminded me of the ongoing conflict between cyclists and the rest of the world. "Cyclists in the City of London could face tougher penalties for repeat offences such as running red lights under proposals being explored by police and the Corporation." What frustrates me is the universal assumption that the cyclist is wrong. So much for a calm start to the day.
Today I hit the jackpot in selecting a fantastic route in a picturesque region and the destination is Bagnoles-de-l'Orne which is a spa town and has eateries with more flexible opening hours. I have fish and chips as the place I selected was the first with sensible bike parking. The menu is English and reasonably popular with the visiting French tourists. It is thirty kilometers to Bagnoles-de-l'Orne and as I tuck into a lunch I hadn't planned I feel like I may return soon. I am reminded of camping as a group of cyclists have laid out their tents and periodically turn them in the sun to dry; with last night's rain and early mist they would be especially wet.
The return trip from Bagnoles-de-l'Orne takes in Domfront where I manage to photograph some of the classic Normandy houses with their brown beams and supports.
Back in Lonlay-l’Abbaye I take a snap of the Abbey's church and buy bread from a self-service kiosk so I would have something for Monday's breakfast when everything is closed. These self-service kiosks are widespread in France along with their counterpart the self-service pizza kiosk.
