There's a chill in the air this morning. I shrug my old fleece on and pull a woolly hat down over my ears. This morning I add a generous squirt of condensed milk to my tea. Hot and sweet - just what I need. I rush around packing the tent, trying to warm myself up with the activity.
Back on the bike and out on the road, I pass a sign saying 'Ardennes National Park.' I head into the shade of a deep forest. Tall trees rise to either side leaving just a strip of blue sky above me.
Now I'm back out into the rich French farmland. There's a cold wind from ahead; the hot sun is on my back.
I ride down a short hill and around a sharp corner and there in front of me is a blue sign with the European stars - I ride into Belgium. I've been looking forward to riding this road since before I left Fishguard nearly two months ago. It's a dead-straight, roughly tarmacced road that runs from the Abbey of St. Michel to the distillery.
It runs through farms and farmland, passing beautiful old buildings, little stands of woodland. In each there is the pungent smell of pine and leaf mould. For a while, in the open country it feels as if I'm not moving. The straight road remains stretching ahead to the horizon, unchanging.
Kilometre after kilometre, little changes with the bike purring along in this perfect straight line. A brightly painted petrol station-come-shop appears in the distance and grows as it slowly approaches me on the bike (or so it seems on this surreal road).
I stop and fill up. It's quite a task to pull off all the bungies, lift off the tent bag, the panniers, the fuel can and then flip the seat and deliver three litres into the tank, while holding the seat up with my head. It's become a routine - automatic almost. I head into the shop to pay and take the chance to buy shampoo, bread and, because I'm feeling a little tired and hungry, milk chocolate. I eat the whole bar before riding off the forecourt.
Another sign. I'm back into France. Another drawn out French town. I become aware of the sound of a distant chainsaw. Unusual in a town I think. It gets louder - closer. I look around. Behind me and slightly to my left is a young lad on a two-stroke moped. His head is tucked down, elbows out as he tries to overtake, getting the last ounce of speed out of his little bike. I smile to myself and slow down just a little, just enough to let him inch past me, but hopefully, not so noticeably that it looks like I let him past. Give him the glory. Another race won on his awesome chainsaw-moped. He just edges past then turn sharply to the right, across the front of me and into a yard. Bravo.
I arrive at the municipal campsite in Cambrai. It is tucked away in a back street in Cambrai but once through the gate I find it is really good. Low hedges, good facilities and best of all... it has a grill joint opposite. I head there as soon as it opens. I've built up an appetite today. I start with an aperitif of Ricard (I'm in France after all), followed by a grilled steak and salad. Perfect.
While I eat, I listen to another British couple - struggling with the language. The waitress only has a few words of English. Their south eastern accents seem as unfamiliar to me as, no doubt, a south west or Welsh accent would be to them.
English voices and GB number plates. I'm getting close to home.
No comments:
Post a Comment