Ken's Blog

Route des Cretes – that sounded like hard work…

First it was Goldilocks, now the Smurfs. I was sure I was drinking out of the right bottle…

Beyond Froncles the rhythmic ebb and flow of the gentle valleys was replaced by steeper climbs and long, winding descents.  The pattern was broken only by the town of Bourmont, siting imposingly on a steep sided conical hill.  The precipitous, narrow streets were deserted, a gentle breeze easing the afternoon heat a little.  A sharply pointed church spire jutted out from amongst the houses on the very top of the hill, where otherwise a castle might have stood.

It couldn’t have happened in a nicer place.  Three thousand feet up in the largely deserted ski resort of Belles-Huttes, about 50 km short of the German border at Freiburg.  Cloudless skies, warm in the afternoon, bitter at night.

It had worked the night before.  But not now.  The netbook wasn’t playing, just the dreaded blue screen before it turned itself off.  Maybe it was sulking.  In the grand scheme of things it shouldn’t matter.  At worst, maybe a few weeks without my own working computer on a venture that would take years to complete.  As you can see, it doesn’t stop me from keeping the website up to date, it just makes it that bit harder.

Reflecting over lunch, this was just another problem to be solved.  There would be many more.  And I had a plan……

The bears had gone out for the day… Actually, this is a permanent residence on a campsite in Epinal, Eastern France. No, really. And it’s illuminated at night.

East of Troyes the landscape was more undulating, long straight roads that gradually rose and then slowly fell. Rhythmic. I reached Froncles quite late in the day, just enough light remaining to pitch camp on the outskirts of what seemed to be more a large village than the small town the map suggested. I was there because I liked the name. Annonville, 20 miles to the north, had also intrigued me, it sounded, well, nondescript. But it didn’t have a campsite.

An ice cold beer seemed like a good idea. After some searching I found the only place still open, a small kebab shop. A few youths sat outside, drinking and chatting as the warmth of the evening finally ebbed away. A drink and some frites. Some salt would be good. I went inside.

The owner was finishing an order so that two young men might disappear into the night on their tinny motorcycles. His daughter stood by, watching behind the counter. I greeted her, expecting her to serve me. But no, this was her father’s place. I waited a short while before it was my turn. Conveniently, everything cost whole numbers of Euros, which the owner indicated with his fingers. He wrapped the frites with a refined flurry, as any craftsman would when making the final touches to his creation. Fortuitously, the final bill matched exactly the note I’d already removed from my wallet. Must have ordered the finest frites in the house. I wondered what I’d get for a single Euro.

Retreating into the darkness with my purchases, I eventually found a park bench, a street lamp above it, on which to sit and enjoy them. It was then that a sad looking tabby appeared, its one remaining eye looking rather forlorn. I’d have offered him a chip but doubted if he ate that sort of thing. Besides, he seemed content just with the company. And I’d paid for the frites.

The village woke slowly the next morning. It had been a bitter night and the first warming rays of the sun had yet to reach this small valley community. A lady was delivering baguettes, placing them in stockings hung on doors. The postman with a heavily laden push bike, just starting his round. I visited the nearby ’8 a huit’ (’Eight to eight’) supermarket to get some breakfast. You’d have thought the opening hours were a bit obvious, but that didn’t wash with one disgruntled customer, clearly irritated that the place hadn’t opened sooner.

I had my camera with me, attempting to capture the early morning light. Back out on the main street, a lady gestured towards one of the many hanging baskets dotted around. Since reaching the river Seine I’d become increasingly aware of ’Village fleuri’ – a sort of Britain in Bloom en Francais. They took it very seriously. Froncles had a theme. Red. Floral displays adorned the civic buildings, or hung from lamp posts like giant baubles. Private window boxes joined in. Like so many places they had been awarded two stars, but were striving hard for the much coveted third.

Troyes cathedral’s exterior was enjoying a deep clean. Looked like they’d be there for a while so I left them to it. I headed deeper into the city. Gleaming modern shop fronts on old timber framed buildings. I thought 1700s. Some familiar high street names. Lots of attractive looking eateries. A smart county town, Cheltenham perhaps.

The lady at the campsite had explained that many visitors came to see the architecture. I’d come for the shopping. I felt purposeful but must have looked lost. It wasn’t as if I’d inadvertently strayed into the lingerie section of one department store, but almost immediately I was intercepted by a very polite assistant. It had been the same the day before. Happily concluding a long but satisfying day following the river Seine, a fellow cyclist appeared alongside. Having explained my destination that evening, he insisted on guiding me there, quite some distance away.

Purchases completed, I decided to explore a little more. I suspect it doesn’t feature on any of the guided walks around the city, but the Municipal Police station is one of the most beautiful buildings of its type I’ve ever seen. A fine timber framed affair, with a few bars added to the lower windows. I’d have taken a photograph but knowing how touchy these law enforcement types can be, decided that probably wasn’t wise. I wasn’t that keen on a look around inside.

There seem to be quite a few police forces in France – municipal, national, and then the Gendamarie. I think secretly everyone wants to be in the latter. Smarter uniforms and bigger cars. Public service workers love their combat style trousers, plain with a reflective band around each leg, be they the long arm of the law or refuse collectors. You just have to remember one’s armed. They’re very keen on recycling.

Suitably replenished I returned to the campsite on the outskirts. A mix of English, German, Dutch and the French, all mixed in together. We were much closer to Strasbourg than before. I had enjoyed France but sight of the Seine had got me thinking more and more about the Danube. Germany was beckoning.

The rain didn’t help. South of Chartres the landscape was largely flat and featureless. Endless open fields. Just the odd small wood to break up the skyline. The occasional village provided brief respite from the unrelenting headwinds, but otherwise these were drab and lifeless places. Only the rivers provided relief, cutting deep, fertile valleys into the otherwise bleak landscape.

The campsites were increasingly frequented by migrant workers, Poles mostly, or French road contractors. Tatty caravans, some cheap plastic chairs dotted around, or tents long faded by the sun. I felt sorry for them.

Further east, beyond Etampes, the road towards Nemours and the River Seine lifted my spirits. The same pop-up villages – they disappeared from view as quickly as they had appeared – but somehow it was different. Avenues of trees beside the roads. You felt someone cared. There were hanging baskets. Moret-sur-Loing, on the banks of the Seine near Fontainebleau, resembled Henley-on-Thames. This was the France they wanted you to see.

At least it had a decent sized supermarket. Etampes, a little south of Paris, offered little else. I spent ages finding the Syndicate d’Initiative – the tourist information centre – to see where I might stay over the next few days. But that would put me in another Department – administrative region – so they couldn’t help. At all. Terribly polite about it.

I wandered around the back streets for a while. It had been a long, hot walk into town and I was in no rush to return prematurely. A few ethnic food shops and afro hair salons. The sort of places I’d become accustomed to when I lived in London. It could have been Tooting Bec. Much more of a multi-cultural flavour than I’d previously come across in France.

A few drunks sheltered from the sun under the odd tree. It was time to shop for some provisions and then return to the gnomes. Charles, back in Fresnay-sur-Sarthe, had warned me about much of the area surrounding Paris. He was right. Etampes wasn’t Surrey.