Ken's Blog

Col de la Schlucht was the highest point on the European stage of the expedition, some 3,200 feet above sea level. Not exactly Everest, but higher than the Scafell Pike, and I’m not sure I’d drag a bike up there. Bright but with a chill breeze, I found a sheltered spot on the terrace of a cafe. It was quiet, mostly German bikers, clad in brightly coloured leathers. I watched for a while as a few workmen prepared the nearby ski lift for the forthcoming season.

Then the descent to Colmar. About 35 kilometres. I joked with a young French couple that I’d be down in about twenty minutes. Actually it was about an hour, but I did stop to take a few photographs. Winding down through the forest, these weren’t exactly alpine switch-backs, but they’d do. Then, quite suddenly, you emerged from the woods, still high above the valley bottom. Proper alpine pastures.

Passing swiftly through the villages towards the town of Munster, there was only the familiar boulangeries to remind you that you were still in France. Even the places sounded German – Soultzeren, Stosswihr and Gunsbach. The houses were different – steep sided roofs ready for the winter snows. Grazing cattle, each with a huge bell around its neck, the slightest movement making it clang quite noisely.

I’d been under canvas every night since I’d arrived in France, and, as the country drew to a close, it was time to try a roof over my head. A small motel on the outskirts of Colmar. The owner showed me a room, tucked out of sight at the back. The decor was dated, the furniture an assorted of styles, and not even the Gideons had visited. But it had clean towels and fluffy pillows. And it was cheap. I would take it.

Later I wandered to the bar, past the abandoned car and the assortment of discarded shopping trolleys. I don’t think it was actually open, but the owner let me in anyway. An assortment of tools on the empty tables, neat piles of paperwork amongst them. He was a jovial character and, as I explained about my venture, he gave me a cold beer and some pretzels.

Being so different to the rest of France, I wondered if this part of the country had ever been part of Germany. No, the owner explained, the answer lay in the unique origins of the Alsace region’s culture. It could trace its heritage back several thousand years to a time when what he described as ’Old German’ was spoken along the length of the Rhine. A language, he was very adamant, was no relation of modern ’Deutsh’. The region still had its own dialect, Alascien, which, I was assured, was incomprehensible to a French speaker.

In the morning at breakfast it seemed I was the only guest. The owner explained that he would be closing the restaurant over the weekend for refurbishment. You had to admire his optimism.

An early lunch was in order, and the ’Snack des sapins’ cabin looked just the place. A couple of pain au chocolat for breakfast would not be enough to comfortably reach Col de la Schlucht, at over 3,200 feet the highest point of the European section of the expedition.

It was Seige’s place. He wondered if I was on my way back to England. Sort of, I explained. I told him about my venture. I’d ordered hamburger and medium frites – what arrived was half a baguette filled with beef burgers, almost hidden by the frites piled on top. There was more than one mountain to be climbed that day….

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.