Tour 2016 J summat

Sans Velo

Not only have I lost track of time, but we have had a day off the bike. Not that I was going to let S get away scott free with a sedentary day - no fear. Instead, we went kayaking on Lac de Guarledan. Well actually, we were invited by our hosts, so needless to say, I rustled up some kettle drums and a whip to make sure that S kept up a steady paddling pace . . .

. . . the only problem was that she kept paddling in circles, citing a left shoulder injury sustained while falling off her bike. Clearly this is a justifiable excuse so, patient and thoughtful spouse that I am, I applied the lash predominantly to the left arm, thus correcting the imbalance in her stroke.

Roman Retour

Next day we returned to the ancient Roman quarry, the subject of a 2015 blog post so I will not repeat my description of the sacrifiicial pit . . .

However, this usefully provides an example of what you can miss when not paying attention. To explain, a certain amount of back-story is necessary - unless of course you are a regular reader, in which case you will know that last year we happended across a series of installations at the spooky Chateau at Coat Caravel; and by installations, I mean the type of stuff that you find in the Tate Modern. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, on our previous visit to the quarry there were quite a few bits and pieces of no apparent utility scattered around in the trees, but we did miss this one . . .

. . . a gigantic rock suspended in the branches of a tree? At first I thought it might be an enormous puffball which had manifested that morning, so knowing that, en France, such forest fungus goes down a storm, I was stropping the Opinel to cut some large slices. But while I was counting the Euros S informed me, after closer inspection, that it was a bit of modern art made out of chicken wire and cotton wool . . . bollocks!

Moules et Pain

You may have wondered what has happened to the traditional moules et frites? No fear, we have broken our duck and embarked on a 'marathon moule munch' at the restaurant in Caurel, as evidenced by this before and after snap of S . . .

While there, I revisited the baguette vending machine. Feeling like I needed to don a scruffy raincoat and take my own brown paper bag, I surreptitiously inserted the €1.10, expecting to hear reciprocating and whirring sounds from within and, in a sort of prosthetic forming process, to see my baton extruded through the little hatch . . .

. . . the reality was that it just dropped out immediately.

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Tour 2016 J 9

Pontivy Sud

Yesterday we ventured into new territory. After perusing the sales at Pontivy, and lunch at our favourite Moroccan restaurant, we headed further down the River Blavet on the bike path, ostensibly towards a scenic spot at Castennac. It was en route that S's latest accessory came in useful . . .

. . . she gleefully presented this to me some months ago, running all the way home from the shops and announcing that she had spent all of her pocket money on it; the princessly sum of £1 . . . I will be getting her some streamers for her handlebars and coloured staws for the spokes to go with it.

Nevertheless, it did come in handy for alerting the slow-pedalling folk that we were steaming up behind. However, it was during this leg of our journey that the Brittany Ferries boarding card finally gave out and my earlier blowout re-presented itself . . .

. . . but, with the foresight of the well preared cyclotouriste that I am, the replacement tire which I ordered had arrived the previous day and was now stowed in the depths of the Carradice. So, a quick change over, and we were once more on our way . . . not before S triumphantly pointing out that I had aquired a chainring mark . . . Clearly this is not in the same category as hers, because I was gainfully engaged in a complex maintenence operation, during which it is common to smear oil over parts of ones' body, curse, throw things, and generally be bad tempered and impatient - especially when you have upended the bike in some particulalry potent stingy nettles and the slow-pedalling folk come smirking past . . .

On we went until we arrived at the designated scenic spot, which was . . . erm, scenic. Another time, and we would have loitered for lunch or a bier, but I was conscious of the fact that we had cycled 45 km almost completely downhill. Now, as any cyclist will tell you, if you go down a hill then you will certainly have to go back up again if you wish to return to your starting point, hence the prospect of a 45 km uphill was not to be to be waved away as a mere trifle. So, off we set, on the return leg.

Now, as regular readers will know, I always maintain that one of the joys of being a cyclotouriste is that you come across unexpected delights by taking the path less travelled. However, knowing the propensity of S to suffer the dreaded bonk at a moments notice, I thought it best to enquire whether she wished to take the scenic or direct route, thereby insulating myself against any subsequent marital hot water, so to speak. Well, give her credit when it's due, we happened upon a cycle race in the village of Melrand - the village had been closed off for the purpose and there was no way through. What else could we do then but stop for a cold biere and watch the fun race which was still going on after the main event. . . .

Apparently, this is called a Voiture a Pedalier, and there is even a European Federation dedicated to the sport, as evidenced by the card proffered to me as we loitered - www.fevp.fr. Obviously, there is a clear remit to vie for the most outlandish regalia . . .

After all this excitement we still had to slog our way back up the remaining very long hill, stopping for the usual photo-op at the bottom of the last climb . . .

It was at this point that S, for some unaccountable reason, decided to start racing me back to the gîte. Perhaps it was the bag of Haribo Star Mix which she had scoffed earlier, now coursing through her veins like the equivalent of EPO for an ADHD afflicted child. Luckily, I have the Garmin, so I sat on her wheel until the very last steep nip, then dropped her like a hot casserole dish to the finish . . .

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Tour 2016 J 8

Al Fresco with Friends

Regular readers will know that S and I being creatures of habit, we tend to return to the same places if they are any good. Of course, this ignores the numerous duff places we have stayed. I tend not to mention these latter accomodations to S after the event because of the attendent trauma, but as I say to her 'you have to sort through the silt to find the gems', to which she retorts 'if you opened your wallet you could buy the bloody gems . . .'

Moving on from these inexact financial allegories, the place we do keep coming back to is the Ancien Presbytère at Lescouet-Gouarec, an old granite vicarage, lovingly restored and operated as a chambre d'hôte with attached gîte, by Pete and Keith. And let's face it, who wouldn't want to stay here . . .

Now this year, as you already know if you've been paying attention, the SBCC were staying nearby at Huelgoat, surviving solely on spaghetti bolognese and omelette from Le Brittany Pub. So, taking pity, we invited them around for lunch - and if there's one thing guaranteed to tempt the average cyclist on a round trip of 70 odd miles it's the offer of a slap up meal and cidre.

"So what areyou cooking them?"

"Eh . . ." - H, looking up from Discworld novel No. 7

"What are you cooking?" S says, "'I'll do dessert" . . .

Not one to be daunted by the magnitude of this catering challenge there was only one answer, the Casa Hevanos signature dish of chorizo stew. So, borrowing a slow cooker of which Desperate Dan would be proud (readers under 30 please refer to the Comics Collection in the British Library), I set to the task of constructing a meal of gargantuan proportions . . .

. . . meanwhile, S popped down to the shops and bought a tarte au pommes.

So, leaving the stew to marinate, we set off the next morning to meet our lunch guests at Rostrenen and pilot them in, so to speak, plus pick up a few extra bits and pieces from the local boulangerie - not, I hasten to add, the automated baguetterie described yesterday . . .

On the stroke of twelve, as we reclined at a pavement café enjoying the inevitable café au lait, our guests arrived to be led back up the hill to lunch - myself weighted down by bread it must be said, though perhaps the two bottles of red wine in the depths of the Carradice did not help.

What else is there to say . . . we were kindly lent the use of the terrase and household crockery, and a darned good nosh-up was had by all . . .

. . . plus Keith made us a special chocolate cake to complement the tarte au pommes . . .

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Tour 2016 J 6&7

Il Pleut

Well, it wouldn't be Brittany without a bit of rain and the inevitable day infront of the telly. The gentle, misty precipitation swept across the central spine of Bretagne, underhandedly sneaking in under your sou'wester and finding its way into your boots . . .

But it did brighten up later so we went for a walk around l'etang where we exchanged pleasantries with the locals over half a 'stella in the lakeside bar - run by and Irishwoman from Wexford and simultaneous patronised by an ex-fireman from Middlesborough. If we find any French people I'll let you know. So around the lake we walked, clearly using different muscles to the cycling ones - because 6 miles without wheels seems a long way. But packed with little sights and surprises, such as a new shrine to St Efflam (they recently knocked down the old chapel) . . .

. . . and the water feature that some retired engineer has lovingly constructed in his back garden, where all the bits and pieces rotate and reciprocate und the power of a water wheel (OK, I know I've posted this picture before but consider this an update; the clothes on the see-saw dummies have been changed) . . .

. . . and windmills . . .

Now, regular readers will know that S is prone to the occasional 'chain-ring tattoo', but this holiday she has uncharacteristically avoided this fate . . . until today. The inevitable happened and here is the evidence of, admittedly a small but definite, indication of a return to normal service.

A spin around Lac de Guarledan today. Apparently the plug has been found and le lac is once again full of water (see last year's blog for details of the empty lac). Clearly an empty muddy valley that was once a lake (but also prior to that an empty green valley) maintains it's tourist attractiveness for only a limited time, plus I expect that they wanted the electricity back. We checked out the garden of whacky sculptures where S has spotted the frock she wants to get after her post-vacation diet . . .

S is perpetually mystified by how it is possible to go on a cycling holiday, travel 1000 km under your own power - and burning 50,000 calories according to the Garmin - but still put on weight. My explanation is threefold: 1. the Garmin lies; 2. all non-cycling time is spent either eating (plenty of evidence of that in previous blogs) or; 3. this . . .

2. and 3. being fairly typical holiday behaviour, I have consoled S with the knowledge that if it wasn't for the pedalling we would return home looking like the Pillsbury dough twins.

One of the differences I have noted en France is the unaccountable survival of Durex vending machines on the external walls of pharmacies. In GB, Such machines would swiftly be stripped of their contents, not least by wishfully thinking, adolescent boys too embarrassed to go into the Chemists and make the purchase in person. To add to this, I can now report sight of a baguette vending machine . . .

. . . not likely to be raided by adolescent boys I admit - unless they wanted to make a particulalry large impression. The question remains: how does it work? Is it a large bread making machine which someone fills with yeast, flour and water evey night before goimg to bed, or is it replenished with fully-formed baguettes each morning by an itinerant baker? And do the baguettes come shooting out of the small hatch, requiring you to take your own baguette catcher? I was tempted to make a purchase but S forbade it on the grounds that I would make a scene. I shall have to return after dark to find out . . .

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Tour 2016 J 3-5

Internet and network downage, plus lack of activity makes for a threadbare blog. Sunday was spent in a deckchair with cap pulled down over my face and a rug over my knees to keep off the chill, despite it being sunny. No, I haven't aged 30 years since arrival, it is just called being knackered. Lack of cycling preparation this year has taken its toll and the typical Brittany weather is as unpredictable as our own changeable climes. Despite it allegedly being 17° C or so, the granite gîte needs a good couple of weeks of baking hot sun to get the air temperature even up to Economy 7 standard, so we hurried it along a bit . . .

. . . well, it was there, and you just have to don't you?

So Sunday was a day of rest. On Monday and we had arranged to meet up with the SBCC at the Decathlon, in Carhaix - no, not a sporting event but the chainstore purveyor of sporting goods and apparel. Tradition dictates that the club must make at least one visit to this emporium during any European trip of more than 3 days duration . . . so thus it was and purchases were made. On to an al fresco lunch on the Nantes-Brest Canal after which we wished each other bon route and went our separate ways . . .

We have not explored this part of the canal before, between Carhaix and Rostrenen, so we cycled back along it. Compared to other parts it is a bit neglected but still quite rideable, so we scorched past other slower pedalling folk with baskets on the front. Even S got into the swing as you can see by the racing set of herjaw as she sped along the dusty track . . .

Unfortunately on this part of the path the puncture fairy was living in the undergrowth because, shortly after, she waved her magic wand over my rear wheel which suffered a massive blowout, the type which makes such a loud noise that you immedtately think a fatal mechanical failure has befallen an unobtainable component . . .

. . . the component in question being my rear tire, which had suffered a severe fraying gash to the casing. Repairing the inner tube didn't seem sufficient but after much scratching of (and transferring oil to) the nose - and watching the aforesaid slower pedalling folk with baskets go serenely past - a technically sound solution presented itself . . . the judicious use of superglue and a Brittany Ferries boarding card on the inside of the tire.This is the second patentable discovery of the holiday; if I carry on like this I will be able to retire as I watch the royalties from these licensed strokes of genius come rolling in . . . a new tire has been ordered by the way.

Tonight we are off to the pictures to see an English film with French subtitles - presumably in the company of the middle-class French equivalents of English people who go to see French films with English subtitles . . . It is based on a Jane Austen novel so S will be happy, even if it hasn't got Colin Firth in it.

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