Ken's Blog

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.

They were everywhere. Hideous, deformed creatures. Yesterday it was Angerville, then Mereville. This was Gnomeville. The campsite had looked idyllic on the website, and to be fair, the reception – more a small chateaux, was enchanting. But, beyond the trees that circled the small lake in front of the house, lay the private mobile homes. A tacky world of cheap statutes, tired garden furniture and the gnomes. Horrible ones. They seemed to be the only residents. I decided it was time to walk into the nearby town of Etampes.

Harry had a passion. Languages. As a boy he’d been fascinated by them. Not just French. Or German. But also Dutch. Fluently. Together with wife Jean, they’d travelled a lot in Europe. They were on their third caravan. We met on a campsite south of Chartres. The place had seen better times. The normally neat privet hedges between pitches were unkempt. Broken lavatory seats in the washrooms. Reception was closed for the day. Nobody seemed to care.

Harry and Jean Dixon were heading home after five weeks in the south. This was just a brief overnight stop on the journey north and they were equally unimpressed. They invited me over for dinner. They apologised, quite unnecessarily, for the lack of space inside, but, they explained, it was just too time-consuming to put the bed away and set up the table for just one evening. I didn’t mind. Having a stool to sit on after weeks in a tent had an appeal all of its own. Besides, they had a fridge. It came with a delicious salad and a cheese board. And plenty of red wine.

We chatted late into the evening. Then a generous night cap of whisky. I left with orders to return at 8.30 sharp for breakfast. There was lots of it, and I returned to the tent with more rations for later in the day.

Fabienne greeted me with a smile. Opposite the school in the small town of Mamers, she knew her market. Alcohol free cocktails, music channel on the large screen, pinball machine at the back. Smart decor. The lunchtime rush had come and gone. That left just me. I ordered a cheeseburger. It had been a damp day. ’Avec frites?’ she guessed. I nodded.

She continued cleaning whilst I ate. The place was spotless. A little later she brought me the visitors book and indicated that I add something. There were a few entries, and some press cuttings of the opening of the ’Loft Cafe’. She had the same beaming smile in the photographs that had welcomed me earlier.

I made a brief entry – ’Je m’appelle Ken Roberts. Je fait le tour du monde a velo. Le repas dans ’Loft Cafe’ etait delicieux’ (My name is Ken Roberts. I am cycling around the world. The meal in the ’Loft Cafe’ was delicious). She looked pleased. I thanked her again for her hospitality and left.

This may seem a little strange, but only now am I beginning to contemplate the enormity of the task ahead. I know the theory – take it bit by bit – and reckon I’m pretty well equipped, both in terms of what I carry and the training I’ve done. The tangible stuff is fine – can be a bit tough a times, but the problems you encounter can be bounded, they can be broken into manageable chunks.

The psychological aspects are a little different – grasping the notion of four years – actually three years and eleven months – is almost beyond comprehension. Knowing you are going home, having contact with family, friends or just interested well wishers visiting the website, helps enormously. And yet meeting English people abroad can be problematic – the company is always appreciated, often relished, but in the background lurks the unsettling certainty that, unlike you, they’ll be going home soon.

This was always to be expected, just a question of when. Eight hours a day in the saddle is a lot of thinking time. Writing the blog has become very important, keeping the grey matter busy as I pedal along, toying with how best to convey to the reader a flavour of what I’ve seen or experienced. In a honest but, I hope, interesting style. And the certainty that, back at home, people are reading it helps maintain that vital link with the world I’ve left behind. The tent can be a lonely place.

Fabrice was also a traveller. Within France. ’It’s a big country’ he explained, in a very good English. Once the site outside Fresnay-sur-Sarthe closed he would head south towards Marseilles for the winter. He shared some Gaelic humour with me. ’Someone who speaks two languages we say is bilingual. Someone who speaks just one we say is…. French’.

I’d expected ’English’ to be the punch line, and really couldn’t have argued with that. But it seems that, unlike their German neighbours who love to go roaming all over Europe, the French generally stay within their borders. If they do wander further afield, it tends to be to former colonies like Algeria. Doesn’t sound like the Brits at all then.

Charles had got me thinking. Four years. That’s a long time on the road. My niece, just a few weeks old when I saw her shortly before I set off, would be about to start school by the time I returned. I pictured the comings and goings of the seasons, the village fete in summer, and the joviality of friends around for drinks on Boxing Day, enjoying the generous warmth of the woodstove. Birthdays I would miss. Otherwise shared experiences that would pass me by.

Charles suspected, that for all the wonderous experiences that lay ahead, I would always be looking forward to returning home one day. Perhaps because to really appreciate what you have, you have to do without it for a while. Four years would be ample.