T de T: fin de ballade

Farewell from Nick

Farewell Georg, fairwell Neri. They set off from Ibis Budget Mark 6 at about 8.30 am, G determined to cross the border into Deutchland as soon as possible. 

We left beautiful Tours a little later on our final leg. This would be Loire day. Stephane took us as close to the North or Douth bank as the excellent country roads permitted. There was little traffic. Les Anglais - usually Loire-loving folk from June to September - have been staying away this year, a cafe owner said. She didn't know why but the bad weather might be a reason. Nothing to do with Brexit.

The Loire is such a wide and peaceful river. Hardly any craft on it. Occasionally a small boat with a single occupant fishing or contemplating the universe. Restful just to gaze at its slow flow from right to left as we sip some cold wine. All to soon I began to recognise the familiar South bank as we near Paimboeuf and le Pont de St Nazaire.

We arrived around 7 pm and there was just enough time to organise white wine in the fridge, showers and a final aperatif round the table which, in typical French style became supper.

Jony and I gave Stephane and Karine a bottle of whisky and a map marked with our journey and signed by us all. 

Our five-day tour is the little loop at the bottom;
Georg & Nery's one-day return journey stretches out to the right...

It's a screw Nick, not a nail.
Call yourself a Homesteader? 

To this I added the nail that had to be dug out of Stephane's rear tyre, that the mechanic handed to me. Stephane seemed pleased with the souvenir.

Now on the ferry, and England beckons. Hey ho.

T de T: two German pilots go into this pub

Sorry to see Georg and Nery returning to Germany today but they leave us with this classic, as recalled by Nick.

George began his joke in halting (very) English thus, as we strained to catch his meaning. "Zere were two German Luftwaffer airmen coming down in parachutes. Zere plane ist shot down kaput. Zey land in England und zey are very...sirsty. So zey komst to a pub, but problem. Zey haf no English (Ed. And don't want to be caught). One komst to ze bar and he says to landlord "Martini?" Ze landlord says "Dry?". Ze flier says "nein, Zwei".

Sorry but it's the way he tells them…

Georg' s audience react to his classic joke telling technique. 

T de T: joke of the tour

While we were enjoying a quiet coffee yesterday, Nick announced to the company, in his best French, that he was going to 'inspecter vos noix' later that day. After a moment of silence while the assembled company absorbed this news, Nick thought he should reinforce the point. 'I'm going or inspect Stefan's nuts, then Georg's nuts and finally Jony's nuts.'

A glance at our biker babes suggested that they were both horrified at the prospect of a testicle inspection. Surely, this time, the always-unpredictable Neek had gone too far?

A thought flashed across my mind. 'Nick: are you thinking of chicken strips by any chance?'

'Yes, of course,' he flashed back, ' I had some particularly good corners back there and I want to check whether their tyres are as worn at the edges as mine.'

At the news that Nick was talking about a pneus inspection, with a P, not a noix inspection, there was a general letting out of breath and much merriment at the pronunciation of this wonderful language.

T de T: de foie gras et technologie

Our Harley rider reports...Ha! A great day's biking - bends galore, little cafes in the middle of nowhere and wonderful endless dolopps of French countryside. What more could a cultivated and devastatingly handsome Hells Angel want?

Well in the absence of anything else, the answer is foie gras, washed down with some Montbazilliac or peut-etre some Muscat, served with warm toast and lightly dressed salad. Lovely evening tonight spent at Montlucon in a brasserie with a sun that refused to set, more foie gras and the treat of France v Germany at the Hotel. 

Trouble was that, just after the French undeserved penalty making it 1-0 there was a power cut. And that was that. The match continues and a keen Frenchman in front is watching the French hang in there on his portable. Hey ho. And so to bed.

Perhaps my favourite picture of the trip. Indulge me.

T de T: in which Nick rediscovers his mojo

Written by Nick after a night in Brive la Gaillard (spelling highly suspect). 

Yesterday was Wednesday, and a day in which Merle surpassed herself.  She is used to London traffic and hates it. But now she is on the open road and in the environment that Harleys are designed for. That said, Stefan served us up with spectacular riding - hairpin bends, steep gradients, winding descents. There were a few straight bits but they didn't last for long. Just as well for Jony, naturellement, who gets easily bored when the road lacks hair-raising excitement. He rides behind me to check that I am taking the bends with appropriate aplomb ie leaning over so far that you have to wipe road-kill off your wing mirrors. Actually I have come to suspect another reason for Jony's rearguard vigil - a secret briefing from wifey to keep me in view at all times... The trip was full of variety. Stefan's satnav directed our little convoy of 2 BMW 1600s, me and Jony's BMW 1200 down a farm track with low overhanging branches that had never seen a Harley before. I was expecting a farmer to stand in the middle of this grassy chemin with a pitchfork and a few chickens shouting "On ne passe pas!". A great day. 

Fascinating way of holding up a metal fence!

Ten hours in the saddle = ???

This was taken in Collonges-la-Rouge, a very cute sandstone village 
'nestling in the chestnut and walnut trees of the Bas-Limousin", close to Meyssac.
Very touristy, very pretty, very hot. 

If you're passing, check out Curemonte, 13km south east of here, whose  'brazier' golden-coloured sandstone mark it as one of the most beautiful villages in France - a high accolade indeed. 

Stephane shows no sign of wilting in the sun, 

despite wearing his biking jacket

T de T: held together by vines

We are led by Stephan, who is a 50 something in insurance, and is accompanied by his significant other, Karine, who is a 50 something in HR for a company who produce seals for the motor trade (Ed: shurley shome mishtake.)

 Stephan and Karine live, separately, near Les Mans in northern France where, for their sins,  they have six boys between 15 and 30 between them!




Next in the convoy is Georg the Bavarian giant, who has just retired from Aeon Insurance and lives somewhere near Munich with his partner, Nery, who is a small bundle of Peruvian polyglot energy.

Then comes Nick, from whom much more shortly, followed by his tail gunner, moi.

Although there is much more to be said about each of these two-wheeled pilgrims , it might be worth touching on how this unlikely group is tied together. 

Way back in the early 1900s, Rachel moved out from Paris to find somewhere to spend her summers/escape from the crush of life in 1920s Paris. She chanced upon a little seaside resort on the south of the Loire, where this majestic river rolls out into the sea at St Nazaire on the bottom of Brittany. She built/bought a small place in the Alleé des Vignes and here she brought up her children, including Jeanette who was another bundle of energy and who started walking out with a Yank, called Park Honan - a child of the 60s who had left his native America in order to find a new career

Amor vincit omnia and Park and Jeanette eventually married and set up home in Leeds where they had three happily bilingual children of their own. For holidays they brought these children back to France because they loved it there and because they had lots of friends living in the same little vine-clad Alleé who had children of their own. Nick's wife, Corinna, was one of those children. And so was Stephan, whose son, Marin, cooked us an excellent tartiflette the other evening in their grandparents' house, just a couple down from the 'chateau' - as the neighbours have dubbed the house that Nick and Corinna have converted in the Allée.

Neighbours came out to wish us well and take pictures of the biking convoy. Whether their history stretches back to Rachel's time or whether they are  relatively new arrivals, whether they are full -time residents like Joceline or summer expats like the champagne communist Christian, all are bound in to the local community that seems to be held together with frequent coffees, glasses of something, little impromptu dinners - and much chat!

Mon Dieu, do they talk! To be honest, after a day's tiring biking, interspersed with a stop over to meet Henri, Stephan's uncle  His aunt at their flat in La Rocelle, my limited reserves of French conversation (like my stomach and petrol tanks)  were pretty much exhausted. I would have happily curled up with a good book and a glass of something. But that's not how things are here: Nick in particular is on a lifelong mission to find the perfect pun and pursues this object with a determined passion. Old stories, new stories - all is relentlessly plumbed for new material as he entertains all and sundry in his immaculate, deliberately awful french. Surely, I can see them thinking, this man is not going to embark on that tale? But he does and, inevitably, they are drawn in and beguiled by his charm and bonhomie. 

In addition to the search for the perfect pun (chapeau de nuit anyone?) we have another reason to persist: we both feel awful about the result of the referendum and are on something of a charm offensive to explain to our European colleagues, who are bemused and appalled at the British vote in equal measure, that we are not all exiters. So our  little multi-ethnic pilgrimage/convoy, battling through the language barriers, winds its way through the lovely countryside...

T de T: and it's goodnight from him

Time for bed, but just before I slip away, let me remember Rochefort with its old harbour and rope making factory or "Corderie" weith 120 meter long workshops all along the side of  a gravelled yard in stone that looked very much like Greenwich. 

Alas the rope-making museum was not yet open when we arrived 
but they had some nice photos on the wall to show what ropes looked like.

Or perhaps looking round the Cognac museum and discovering that Cognac and Armagniac differ because the latter is distilled only once. Or perhaps the wonderful detours that Stefane would suddenly take off the main roads into beautiful little villages with flowers everywhere and farm animals wandering about without concern, plunging into forests along tiny roads through shade or dappled sunshine. 

I defy you not to misread the name of this vessel!

But the final saddlesore arriving is a real joy - a basic Budget Ibis Hotel with a shower that works and a few moments to get yourself together. Today we then went out into Bergerac, a very old town, with houses that must have been no younger than the 16th century and slender streets with cobbles and gutters down the middle. Lovely little place in the middle of the town to eat, near the bridge over the river Dordogne, Beautiful and memorable evening. Night night.

Nick

The swallows were going crazy over the river that evening!

Nery and Karine discuss the finer points of tonight's menu. 

Georg contemplates life in the main square at Martel

T de T: the river of life

Day one of our little bike tour seems to have involved quite a lot of riding. Starting at Nick's place at St Brevins Les Pins at St Nazaire we headed directly south and followed the coast down the coast to La Rochelle, where we stopped for some much-needed liquid before completing the last 80km or so to our pre booked hotel at Rochefort, on the mouth of the Charente. I think this was only about 230km, though it felt longer.

On the way we passed through an area called the Vendée, which reminded me of the Fens on a good day. We also crossed a river called 'La Vie', so we can claim to have crossed the river of life. 

And who, I hear you ask, is the 'we' of this little group? Answers to follow. For now, here's a few snaps taken in La Rochelle, including a picture of Liberty blindfolded by the Tricolour flag. Must symbolise something...

The French are amazingly unfailingly polite and friendly - especially when handled by an expert native speaker. We have christened Karine our 'eclaireuse' since she scouts out the best deals/where to eat as soon as we arrive, leaving Stefane to charm the très polit French with his endless stream of qwitticisms. They seem to like nothing more than to laugh and all conversations are directed towards quips. Of course we Brits are the butt of many of the jokes . But it's nothing unpleasant and nothing we don't encourage. 

T de T: ends and beginnings

I couldn't resist flipping up my helmet and having a chat with the cyclist waiting beside me in the queue at Portsmouth harbour, 'I was exactly where you are now some years ago, though I had much more luggage than you do. Far too much in fact.' I could have bored him at length but, luckily for him, they waved us through.

Cycles, motorbikes, cars and ferries.
Anyone see a plane in the sky?

On board the MV Bretagne I was struck by how little things had changed since I last headed south with a bike. Now, as then, the HMS Victory was seen in a spectacular sunset as we left Portsmouth Harbour. 

The same tacky Brittany Ferries mascot was still in evidence, together with a new pal - Pierre le Bear - a souvenir keyring of which was being created before your very eyes, on a 3D printer. (All that technology being put to such mundane use.)

And now, as then, we had barely passed the dramatic Emirates Spinnaker Tower before the noise levels in the bar were notched up a peg or three by Brits determined to start their holiday early. There may even have been a major sporting event on the big screen then as now but I didn't hang around to find out: it doesn't take much to drive me on to the modern equivalent of the poop deck...

...there to share a beer with Nick because this was not the start of a cycle tour of discovery but a few days motorbiking round northern France with some eurochums; a mini adventure.

What else is different? In place of my usual parsimonious reclining chair, was a fancy pants cabin that Nick insisted was 'de rigeur' for this crossing and ahead lies the prospect of some jolly biking company - of whom more anon. 

A surprisingly good shot of the old chap doing his
Nelson impersonation as we sailed past The Victory. 

Yet, as we were about to hit the sack, for some reason, Nick threw a line of of poetry at me from the bottom bunk: 'We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and to know the place for the first time.' He was rather surprised when I guessed its origins correctly but, although I couldn't claim in any way to have been on the kind of journey that TS Eliot had in mind, it was a striking coincidence to hear these lines at the very moment when the idea of things going full circle was so vividly before me. Now, as then, a house had been sold, belongings packed away, a new page turned. 

Writing that page will start properly a couple of months hence, when I head off to Ireland to begin pushing at my comfort zone. For the moment then, bonjour à l'Europe, willkommen zu unseren Freunden, let the rebuilding of our shattered friendship with Europe begin with the supper to which I now depart.