In Remembrance of Times Past

So, back on the road, and still coming to terms with all the things one forgets: like the fact that the French; God bless them, use a keyboard where the A and the Q are mixed up and the M is located somewhere in the alternate universe that is the alt grnd key.

Other things: hills hurt. They really do. They hurt only marginally less now than four days ago, when I set off with Brother Dan from Calais, heading for Rome. But I am slowly getting used to the screaming thighs and inching up with gritted teeth. Oh, and the getting back on the bike after a short break....,mmm, did my bum hurt that much last time? It seems that long distance cycling is like childbirth, one forgets the bad bits as soon as it is over.

It was a bit odd, beginning again, if I am honest. France wonderful but familiar, and my mission, to get through it as fast as possible to Italy, rather different than that of two years ago. But nonetheless, this lovely country never disappoints. It was typical Flanders stuff: canals and sweeping views and untroubled calm. So many fishermen, sitting by the water and staring at nothing very much at all. Coming to France is an instant slow down. Stress just melts away.

But the real gem was Ardres. It had a cobbled square overlooked by a big white church, and the usual French post-lunch hub-bub of the daily shop. We went into the T.O to find accomodation and ended up having our photos taken for the notice board, because we were pilgrims. Then had a bargain chambre d'hote in the middle of nowhere and a pilgrim meal of home grown veg and local pork for 10 E.

The next day was memorable for wholly different reasons: firstly being woken repeatedly by the most monumental storm. Then, for chasing around the fringe of another storm, heading south from the ole Chausee Brunehaut in Artois (found out Brunehaut was a Gauloise Queen, in case anyone is interested).

At first, leaving an unremarkable agricultural village called Tincques, it looked like we might make it. Unfortunately, we were half way onto a wide open agricultural plateau when it became obvious that we wouldn't. The sky was biblical and the thunder coming in unholy rumbles and cracks with terrifying frequency. We told ourselves there was only a bit of cloud to cloud lightening to worry about, but the thick shaft of fork lightning sundering the rise just ahead of us soon persuaded us otherwise. The trouble was, there was nothing but us on this plateau and apart from two piles of gravel by the side of the road, we were the highest things around. So we did the only thing we could: got off, dumped the bikes by the gravel and ran to lie in the hay a few metres away as the storm passed right overhead. I can vaguely remember saying to Dan that I didn't want to die. I remember, too, thinking of those stupid puzzles - you know: a piece of cloth, a box and a dead man found in a field - and wondering vaguely if someone would find us like that later, only a little more deep fried. But eventually, the rain hurled down slightly less aggressively, the sky rumbled more to itself than directly overhead, and we made a run for it back to Tincques.

We sat out the second set of squalls in a bar tabac; started again only to make about 100 metres when the sky opened once again and the lightning sliced the sky on our route, so retreated to the petrol station cafe/hotel: Eventually, I called the tourist office in Arras and explained we were stuck by the Armaggeddon going on outside, and they found us an amazing ferme chateau. Unfortunately, it turned out to be in Penin - just up the road we had been trying to cycle up for the last two hours which was the centre of the Mordor-esque son et lumiere going on outside.

Once the rain slackened slightly and there hadn't been lightning for - oh; ten minutes or so - we sprinted back up that damn plateau, still in the hurling rain. As we did so, a chap in a battered red Renault drew alongside and asked if we had somewhere to stay. Then another chap in a battered beige Citroen 'trott trott' asked us if we were heading to Penin. It turned out he was from our ferme chateau and had come out in his van looking for us! What a country! What a people.

Have to go now; but will fill you in on the route to Laon and Reims next time.

A bientot, mes amies!