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.

Ca va

 

Tour 2016 J 1&2

Day 1 - Depart

So, that time of year comes around again when the Evans family set forth for the summer tour en velo. This time the départ would be in the company of fellow SBCC travellers, as they were catching the same ferry to Roscoff. We all assembled at the designated time and made the last minute checks that are meaningless given that there would be no time to return home before the ferry set sail . . .

. . . and case in point being the Skinner Custom Rear Rack: this, which he had fettled the previous night in order to reduce weight. The trouble was that the erstewhile firmly positioned supports now pendulumed back and forth in and out between the spokes of the rear wheel - not a good thing when descending at speed if you don't want to be eating a tarmac sandwich - this was pointed out by more than one of the assembled mechanics. How to fix it? If this had been 60 years ago then it would be a simple matter of fashioning a cantilever arrangement using a piece of knicker elastic requisitioned from S's panniers . . . alas, the gossamer-like nature of modern grundies are not up to roadside DIY, so that idea was abandoned. Then we thought we could cut the elastic grippers off the the top of the Skinner leg-warmers, but the thought of Dave cycling around in 80s retro fashion when inclement weather necessitated their deploy was more than most of us could bear. As the assembled sages considered the problem I rooted through the depths of my Carradice saddlebag. Beneath a 10 year old energy bar and a bit of baguette, which had been there so long it had evolved its own race of sentient, bread-based beings, I found some long unused emergency velcro which turned out to be the perfect solution to the Skinner rocking stays - patent pending.

So all was well, and everyone made it onto the ferry despite a 4x4 driver moaning at us about jumping the queue. This was odd because, as I mentally ponited out to him, YOU WILL SPEND THE NEXT 6 HOURS STATIONARY IN THE BOWELS OF A SHIP YOU ******* **** - he was clearly a Brexit voter. An uneventful crossing ensued and we sped in convoy to Morlaix where the traditional café au lait at Hotel d'Europe (now renamed Hotel d'Brexit) was imbibed. This is where we parted with our SBCC compadres, S and I to the Hotel St Melaine for a hot shower and slap up meal, and the rest to another 2-hours slog to Huelgoat for a run around under the shower and a slap up omlette at Le Brittany Pub.

Day 2 - Voie Verte to Lescouet-Gouarec

The route from Morlaix, South toward the Nantes-Brest Canal, is well wheeled by these intrepid travellers. So it was with a measure of confidence that we set forth, having briefly stopped to replenish our victuals at the Patisserie and Cave du Vin. But for some reason the legs were hollow, and what should have been largely downhill became a distinctly uphill slog for most of the way to Rostrenen, where S needed a quick kip by the canal . . .

. . . before the for-real uphill slog. In her defence, she was wearing her new snazzy shorts for the first time on a long ride, so they were just being broken in. I did point out that it could have been worse, and offered to exchange her saddle for a more comfy one to ameliorate the chafe . . .

. . . Ca Va

 

French Raid 3

Huelgoat Aller et Retour

Today was reserved for a quick dash down the voie vert to Huelgoat, the favoured destination of SBCC (other clubs are available) excursions across la Manche from Plymouth. At this time of year, the cycle track is a pleasant ride through verdant countryside, with birds and bees filling the air with their humming and singing. Being a disused railway line, the track has a constant gradient, mostly downhill from Morlaix, which avoids the undulations of the road. It is not a route for skinny tyres, but our trusty HEVANSCCs (other brands are NOT available) were equipped with 32s and 38s - so not a problem. We were hoping to repeat our experience of last year and stop at the old station at Scrignac for a café and mini Far Breton, but alas, it has now been converted to a 16 bed gîte d'etape so will forever remain a Brigadoon moment in our cycling history.

The track was the busiest we've seen it, awash with cyclists and walkers, plus a gypsy caravan to negotiate . . .

. . . and clearly S should have bought the sprig of lavendar proffered by the old crone in the back, and so avoided the curse of the most complete chainring imprint I have ever seen . . .

. . . though in her defence please note the co-ordinated socks. Talking of which, the fashion this year in bike apparel seems to be matt black. We passed many earnest-looking cyclotourists kitted out with matt black bikes, matt black panniers, matt black shorts-shirts-helmets, and pretty much matt black expressions on their faces; like squadrons of cycling terminators autonomically determined to 'get there' according to an inviolate timetable. As regular readers will know, I am a keen advocate of scientific methods, applied to rigorous training for a cyclotouring life, not least of which is the necessity of frequent stops for rehydration with isotonic beverages bought at great expense from specialist sports . . . erm . . . bars . . .

So, having escaped the cycling sentinels of doom, we arrived at Huelgoat to find the sun glinting off the lake, le champignon in full bloom and the chaos in full flood (see previous Huelgoat blog re. interesting granite formations) - so we made straight for Le Brittany Pub . . .

. . . where we had the ususal omlette et frites; a first for S, but she declared it to be 'the finest omlette I've ever had' - praise indeed. Such was her joyous mood that she even bought me a celebratory (slightly dodgy looking I have to say, but I leave that to your imagination) ice-cream . . .

Ça va

 

French Raid 2

Tour de Manche Reprise

Stoked up with the best that La Dolce Vita could provide (refer to any blog post from Morlaix of the previous 5 years for an explanation of our 'go-to' restaurant) we were off for a repeat of the first section of our Tour de Manche of two years ago, this time sans panniers and trailer. Weather was again Baltic for the time of year, so arm and leg warmers remained firmly in place for most of the ride.

Now, regular readers will know how S loves to go 'off the beaten path', and this ride was no disappointment for her . . .

Subsequently, there were several turns off piste which S forbade me to explore . . . I suppose it worked out well in the end because, as we rounded a corner two old hulks hove into view . .

 

' . . . that makes four of us', I said to S

 

The destination of the day was Locquirec, where we had camped two summers ago, and the route was as I remembered it; frilly and hilly - hilly in the way you know it to be if you live in Devon or Cornwall and similarly, frilly in the sense that the signposted way insisted in taking us up and down every creek and inlet, so that 1 km = 20 km.

The more astute of you will have observed over the years that S has the sort of engine which doesn't go far on 'vapour' - one minute the needle is on the quarter tank mark, and the next . . . complete shut down. So it was imperative that we reach our destination p.d.q. or I would be endlessly circling back with cajolements and offers of scraps of three-day old baguette from my back pocket for the last 10 k. Luckily, we arrived in time to refuel and enjoyed tha harbour view as we munched our poulet complet et saumon et crevettes, washed down with the customary demi-bouteille.

 

 

Typically, having enjoyed a hearty lunch, it becomes necessary to avail oneself of the local conveniences, but, having convinced myself there were some on the harbour, could I find them?. . . of course not. This, despite sending S out on a reconnaissance in a vague direction, dimly remembered (guessed) from past years? So, at odds with my natural predeliction to skinflintyness, we resorted to buying a café solely to avail ourselves. Normally in these situations I send S off to test the ground - not difficult, she being invariably being the most needy - but on this ocasion, having subjected her to one wild goose chase, I went to investigate myself . . . alas, they were occupied, so I returned to report back; after a suitable delay S sallied forth . . . still occupied; third time lucky I thought and, emboldened by my swelling bladder, I used a firm hand on the door . . . still occupied. It was at this point that I decided to do what no paid-up member of the male sex ever wants to, I asked . . . and received the reply 'Oui monsieur, it is over there, it is free . . . it is a sliding door'

I put it down to some sort of drug in the coffee because, on our return, I swear that I rode past a succession of tractors driven by the cast of the Wizard of Oz, and then to top it off, Andy from last year's SBCC club tour cycled past - well in fact it was Andy, so I stopped for a bit of a chat.

Returning to a foot-tapping S, I treated her to a Perrier (glass of water to you) at the Café du Port just to show that I know how to show a girl good time . . .

 

Ça va