Poole to Isigny-sur-Mer
It has to be said I enjoyed the simple pleasure of a hotel breakfast, basic as it was, rather than rushing to pack up and get rolling. Sure, it was still an early start (I was down as the restaurant was just opening) – but that was entirely about making it to the ferry for my crossing rather than an urgent need to get cracking on another day of monumental mileage. In fact, even if I added the included the kilometres from here to the port with those on the other side in France I’d still be under 100km for the day – almost more time spent on the boat than the bike. I could get used to this way of riding. I don’t recall now if I spoke to anyone at breakfast, beyond exchanging the usual pleasantries – I have a vague recollection of an elderly couple next to me inquiring on my journey.
Poole – 06:42
Well fed, kitted up, it was time to get cracking on the ride proper. Yesterday felt more like a transit day. Today was real travelling – a boat to another country, and the first sections of the ride down to Munich. Time to get cracking! Minutes later though, barely having left the hotel, I was already lost. A maze of concrete and flyovers got me completely turned around as I tried to decipher my route to the port. The GPS didn’t help much either – it’s signal either blocked under the structures, or not keeping up with so many U turns. I crossed a car park, a bus terminus, the paved area of a closed shopping centre, ducked under another flyover, and came back again. Eventually I realised the large dual carriageway above me was actually my route, even with minimal traffic it was not the most pleasant navigation to get there – a busy two lane roundabout, followed by the main road over the bridge too. At least for that part, the handful of trucks, cars and buses seemed happy to give me a full clear lane – passing in the outside lane. The bridge crossed over loading yards and a narrow stretch of water, and once beyond it was just a couple of left and right turns before signs appeared to the docks. My radar was clearly still off because my choice to follow signs to the pedestrian terminal was also wrong. The helpful lady behind the counter directed back up to the roundabout at the entrance and into the flow of vehicles. Cyclists had handily been allocated a middle lane, which meant crossing lanes of queuing cars both to get there and back again the other side.
My memory is a little hazy of the group of guys on fully loaded rigs in front of me. There were definitely 3 or 4 of them, and I think they said they originally were from Slovakia (or maybe Slovenia), but now lived in Bournemouth and were off touring in France. Our conversation was along those lines at least. I remember a little more clearly the group of motor bikes alongside us at the front of the line waiting to go up the ramp to the ship. Mainly because I couldn’t resist goading them by suggesting we have a race up the ramp when they let us board. A couple, who I vaguely recall being from Portland (the one in America), took the bait and returned the banter. And funnily enough we did beat them all up to the top, but only because the dock staff gave us a head start. I was a bit nervous about riding onto the ship, having nearly come to grief on slippery metal decking last year. But the situation didn’t arise – we were told to dismount at the top and push the rest of the way to our allocated space at the side of the deck. My Voile straps immediately came into use to lash the bike to a nearby rail, although they were probably overkill – the deckhands also roped our bikes up securely.
I stood up on deck and watched the coastline slowly slide by as we set sail. The boat snaked around the long harbour, eventually reaching the narrowing mouth at Sandbanks which I’d crossed yesterday on the small ferry. Beyond, the estuary opened out into the sea and Britain gradually shrank from view behind us. With no more scenery, I headed inside. It was an unusual sensation on a long distance bike ride – 5 hours in daylight with nothing I needed to do, except sit, and eat, and drink. With amazing foresight I’d booked a club seat – which came with free coffee, water, and biscuits. It only took a couple of visits to the refreshment station to already recoup the very reasonable price this optional luxury had cost me. I’d take a precautionary Stugeron, but even with this I was glad the chap opposite agreed to swap seats so I could keep half an eye on the horizon. Which prompted a now familiar dialogue about where I was going, and surely Munich was a bit of a long way on a bike. Two days in, and on about the third or fourth iteration of this conversation the questions and answers already had a predictable flow – which is not to say they were unwelcome. Riding solo thankfully doesn’t mean you are always alone. Especially on days like today.
Lunch was quick affair in the café (Beef Bourguignon if I recall), followed by a short wander around the perimeter of the deck to stretch my legs. Once back at my seat a couple more visits to the club coffee station extracted the maximum value from what now seemed a rather cheap upgrade deal. A troubling thought had begun to settle though, during the last couple of hours of sailing. I couldn’t believe that suddenly 100km felt like possibly too eager on distance for the day. But the ship was already running late and the hour time difference meant I’d probably only hit open roads by around 3pm. I knew it was a flat and fast route once up and out of the hilly coastal landscape, but the hotel I was aiming for did not have 24hr reception, and I’d definitely want something to eat before bed too. Back on the car deck, our bikes disentangled, we stood ready to ride – but waited for what seemed like an age to actually disembark. My level of anxiety was way higher than expected for a casual touring day. I sent a precautionary message to the hotel that if I was going to be beyond 9pm perhaps they could leave a key for me somewhere, and a cold selection plate out. I did have the manners to wish my fellow riders and the bikers well on their travels, but my mind was elsewhere as I made rapid tracks for the exits once the lines of cars had eventually emptied alongside us and we were allowed to move.
Cherbourg – 14:40
Crap!
There was of course no escaping passport lines. The afternoon was half gone by the time I rolled out of the port and into Cherbourg. I quickly made my way across the busy port service road and onto the cycle path alongside. After a couple of junctions I swung left and through the town. A clear line of hills ahead marked the high ground above the coast – I knew before long I’d be climbing some route up there. From memory there were a few ramps before the route flattened out across country to my destination for the night. This would be the first. It started in a rather odd way, ducking under a low bridge along a narrow cycle path beside what was either a small stream or maybe a storm drain. I do love picking off road routes, and this was definitely an “off the beaten” track kind. The hill away from the coast started on lanes soon after – and although I was pressed for time, I couldn’t resist a photo of “Chateau Cherbourg” (it probably wasn’t called that, but it’s what it seemed like at the time).
The weather felt changeable – there was a very real threat of rain, and a few drops did fall as I started the slog up the first uphill. It was more of a long slow grind than an actual climb. A crossroads part way up revealed an ominous glimpse of a painful looking gradient beyond. But fortunately it was just a short steepening which soon relaxed and, in fact, was really the beginning of the final stretch to the top. From here, the route twisted around, and rolled up and down. In a few parts I was off road on old rail tracks, and others on short sections of rural lane which linked between sections of the rail path. These link lanes were typically very steep, dipping down into valleys where once the railway presumably crossed on a now derelict or removed bridge. At some point though, that all changed. The detours onto lanes stopped, and the route was all gravel rail track with bridges still intact. I’d been watching the GPS like a hawk, but as my pace picked up along the long, flat continuous stretch of rail trail I could feel the time pressure easing. The near continuous sequence of mental calculations I had been making since leaving the ship now seemed to suggest that, barring incidents, I could be at the hotel before 9pm. Maybe the restaurant would even still be open?
More relaxed, I paused briefly to get my headphones on (Jawbonez, not in ear of course) and my extensive Deezer playlist running (768 tunes, all downloaded and running on shuffle). Plus I stuffed down a bar and pre-loaded another at the ready in my top tube bag. I might get time for a quick water stop, but I wasn’t expecting any significant refuel stops. I’d checked my route cards a few times already, and the most likely places for a quick pit stop were at Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte And Carentan-les-Marais, so I made haste towards them.
The distance piled up rapidly. I had to drop my speed often for regular barriers and gates to navigate places where the route crossed farm tracks and roads, or occasional sections on surface streets through towns, but even with these progress was good. It was delightful riding – a mostly good gravel surface, sometimes tree lined, and sometimes with views across farmlands. I checked the few towns I passed through for possible resupply, but nothing leapt out at me as quick and easy. I decided the mostly likely option was the further option of Carentan-les-Marais. At 81km it was possibly too close to the finish, but I’ve learned that finding and checking in to a hotel takes time. And a short fuel top up an hour or so before getting there is perfect to keep the energy levels up before piling in a full meal. Plus I remembered intentionally tweaking my route to go right through the middle of town. I’d originally expected that it would be for dinner, but my progress had been better than expected. As I dropped off the rail track and onto the town streets I recognised this part well, having studied it often on Google Maps. Riding under the railway, turning left onto the main road and then right back into a street leading to the marketplace felt uncannily familiar for a town I had never actually visited.
Carentan-les-Marais – 19:20
I quickly checked my messages to see if I should find a meal here. But no need. The hotel was now an hour or less away, and the owner had messaged to confirm that late arrival and food would be no issue. So I nipped into a small spar shop and grabbed a juice (or maybe coke, I forget), water refill, and a couple of bananas (one for now, and one for tomorrow morning).
The route out of town was alongside a main waterway, and having swung northward directly into a block headwind. It might have bothered me but with the news that my accommodation and meal plans were all going to work out I couldn’t have cared. And, in fact, before long it swung eastward again and out of the wind. I vaguely remember a couple of busier road sections, but not much of detail until I spied a gradual uphill and cycle path on the left which was clearly departing to go around the town ahead. This was my destination. I knew I could just stay on the road and straight into town, but there was still some traffic, so my initial decision was to stick to plan and wind around the town on the wonderfully smooth, seemingly new path. But after an initial sweeping curve on a raised bank I saw an exit into a housing estate. It felt like I probably wasn’t far from the hotel and I could shortcut here, so I zoomed out the GPS screen and took an instinctive shortcut. Sure enough, after a couple of turns I reached the main road, and could see buildings in the centre of town. Moments later I was pulling up to the front of the hotel.
Isigny-sur-Mer – 20:20
One ding of the reception bell and the helpful lady owner was there with my key, ushering me to a courtyard at the back and urging me not to leave my bike in the street but rather get it into the garage she had just opened up for me. Even better, in perfect English she confirmed that food was no problem, the restaurant was open and they had a table – she told me to take my time, settle myself in and get unpacked. After the stress of being here in time the friendly welcome almost overwhelmed me. My room was in a corner of the rear courtyard – basic, but clean and with everything I needed. I dropped my bags, freshened up somewhat, and headed for food.
I was sure the chalkboard was a misprint – somewhere just over twenty euros for 3 courses. That couldn’t be right? But it was, and the food was amazing. From memory, some form of light pasta salad to start. Pork chops with amazing sauce and veg. And something sweet that now escapes me for pudding – possibly Tartes Tatin with ice cream (if that had been offer it is most definitely what I’d have chosen). Even with a panache I didn’t manage to spend thirty euros.
What a perfect start to the tour proper.