Isigny-sur-Mer to Cormeilles
Sipping tea in bed, I reviewed the day ahead. The wind direction looked kind, the distance was modest with few enough hilly sections that I could see and count them. There was a threat of rising heat in the afternoon though, so I resisted the temptation to linger and headed for breakfast as soon as the restaurant was open. It’s unusual for me to get more than 5 or 6 hours sleep on long rides, so the 7+ hours I’d got last night was almost as big a bonus as not having to ride out at 5am and scout for breakfast along the road.
If you’re used to English cooked breakfasts then petit dejeuner in rural France would be a bit of a shock to the system. But for me, a large coffee in something approaching the size of a soup bowl, combined with fresh pain from the local boulangerie, some cheese and cold meats, and of course croissants is pretty much a feast. And as quickly as it went down, it was thoroughly savoured. After thanking my hosts for the umpteenth time, promising a glowing review, and paying the bill, I was rigged up and ready to roll out once more – this time heading along the coast as I made my way gradually towards Paris. Not in any way a destination on my route, or anywhere I was particularly looking forward to riding around. More a necessary, unavoidable consequence of where I was headed and the route segments I had linked together from scavenging ideas on the internet.
Isigny-sur-Mer – 08:02
A luminous veil of mist cloaked the town as I rode back down the main street. It was so pretty I stopped at the small bridge to get photos of boats on the river bank in the soft, grey light. Enchanting as it was, it was also a little worrying. I made doubly sure all my lights were on, including my rear helmet light. Hopefully even through the fog, this small cluster of red would be seen by traffic behind. There were some sections of cycle path, but a lot of this early stretch was on main road away from the town. Fortunately it wasn’t long before I was on side lanes again. Whizzing past in a car on the highway alongside me it would have been easy to dismiss the scenery as bland. At the speed of my bike though, and in the frame of mind I was in it was anything but. A wonderfully green, rural patch of heaven – fields dotted with farms, small villages, and wildlife everywhere flying and scurrying around. A handful of crossings with more major roads serving the highway were something of a rude incursion to the otherwise blissful peace of the first couple of hours of riding. Along this section I also began to notice something rather odd. The first village with its town sign upside down I took to be some local act of fun or mild vandalism. But after two or three of them it became clear this was some more co-ordinated form of action. The immediate thought which came to mind (having watched Clarkson’s Farm) was that this could be French farmers protest against the poor conditions and treatment of small farmers by big business and politicians. I made a mental note to check this out at some stage. Before I could give it more though, the landscape changed abruptly.
I’d already sensed I was approaching the coast. Something about the contour of a long slow rise in the road had planted the idea in my mind. Soon after, in one of the many small villages, I turned left onto a narrow road between houses of the town. The road back a gravel track, as a wave of laden cyclists swept past me heading in the other direction. It was obvious I had joined a more major touring route. The track narrowed to a sandy brown trail, and swung slightly left to reveal where I was.
Ping
My phone buzzed at the exact point I saw the view for myself. Nico must have been stalking me back in South Africa at that precise moment. The photo he sent was exactly the scene in front of me. Rolling fields of wheat which the track wound through, and the Normandy coast line beyond. Far in the distance lay the faint outline of the D-Day remains – the largest being the Mulberry harbour, just off the beach. I stopped and stood astride my bike frame in silence for a few moments taking it all in. I knew, of course, that I would be riding along here. What I did not expect was how simultaneously beautiful and humbling it would be.
Arromanches-les-Bains – 10:20
Dropping down a last steep section of path into the town of Arromanches-les-Bains brought that home with even more force. Banners from the 80th anniversary remembrance celebrations in 2024 hung down from lamp posts, faded but still clearly showing the names and photos of servicemen who had served (and possibly died) in these battles. Almost automatically, like the many other tourists milling around, I stopped and took some photos. But it’s the quiet, sombre feeling which will remain with me from riding along this section long after those pics are forgotten.
The heat was slowly rising, so I took the opportunity to duck under a café canopy in the shade. Whilst I knocked down juice, coffee, and a second breakfast I also shed my early morning layers and lathered up with some sun cream. From here on I didn’t expect any respite, the heat of the day was only going one direction, and there wouldn’t be much shade until I headed away from the coast, which would only be around lunch time. The hill up and away from the little town was brutally steep – but thankfully short. There was a reward at the top though, a magnificiant view overlooked by a Sherman Tank parked at the top. I’d thoroughly recommend this stretch of riding for anyone touring the area. The views and little harbourside towns were delightful, if a little busy and not easy to fully enjoy in the sweltering heat.
Omaha, Gold, Juno, Sword – one by one I alternated between riding along the seafront, or twisting around town streets but always following the succession of instantly recognisable D-Day beach names. As a kid I was an avid model kit builder and war gamer, and these names took me right back there. To days spent making and painting tanks, planes, and troops from this era. It suddenly struck me as odd that 50 years later would be the first time I’d actually visit here. At one point my route mapping became a little too adventurous and I found myself literally trying to ride along the sand. Not only was it impossible to get traction, but the signs made it clear these dunes were too fragile for riding so I hopped off and pushed the few hundred meters until I could drop down behind the dunes and onto a proper riding track again.
I’d intended to get lunch along the coast somewhere, and there was no shortage of places, But all of them were in the full glare of the sun which did nothing for my appetite. Plus the riding was generally fast and easy, aside from a few occasions where I had to gravel bash across rough sections of road closed for repairs. Or small ramps where the route diverted from the beachfront. Before I knew it, I could see ahead the mouth of OuistrehamHarbour – where my route would swing right and head away from the coast. In fact, it was a bit of a nightmare twisting around the mix of road works, closed cycle paths and ferry port. Eventually I emerged onto a path alongside a wide canal and I was on track, well almost, I went wrong first and had to double back onto the path proper. At this point I thought I might have blown my chances of an easy lunch stop, but a vague memory came back to me. I recalled that up ahead was a bridge where I would cross the canal to my left. And that around that spot was a sort of quay area with some cafes. It was still early enough that they should be serving.
Pegasus Bridge, Bénouville – 13:15
Both parts of this memory turned out to be correct. There was indeed a quay with cafes, and the one I made a beeline for had open tables under shady umbrellas. The bridge part turned out to be another significant wartime memorial too. The food, view, and shade could not have been more ideal or well timed. I’m going to arbitrarily categorize the conversation with folks on the table next to me as #10 in the sequence of “seriously? You’re cycling to Munich?” episodes. If I’d made notes I could write a book on that alone. But, as always, it was pleasant and lively company – although when I saw the size of their burgers, I was very glad I’d gone with a chicken caesar salad & side of fries. There is no chance I could have ridden any closer to Germany today if I’d tried to eat that vast plateful.
The next section of road was the least pleasant so far – predictable really for a truck transit and tourist route. Fortunately it was just a short connecting piece to get onto side lanes again and heading inland. Having eaten well, I figured a drink and snack stop would be all that I’d need now from here to my destination for the night. I knew from my route that things would get a little lumpy from here, and it was evident from the landscape ahead that I was crossing a sequence of valleys.
I have 2 vivid memories from the remainder of the riding this day which I’ll cover in turn.
The first was a sizeable climb, albeit one I was fully expecting. The route had run parallel to a main road for some time but eventually ducked down and into countryside again. A gradual rise through a pretty hamlet signalled the ramp I knew was coming. None of that is what made it memorable though. Passing through the village a parade of amazing, brightly painted 2CVs sputtered past me. If you’ve ever heard the sound of that 2 cylinder air-cooled engine you’ll know how instantly recognisable it is – I was aware of what was coming from behind long before I saw them. But I wasn’t prepared for so many in such a bright procession. Initially I thought maybe a rally or local club, but the logos made it seem like maybe a touring company. They were stunning, and all passed me with great care. As I left the last of the buildings the hill got my attention back, pitching up to a harsh, double digit gradient. Not being fully ridden fit yet, I expected to hike some of this section, but my legs and spirit surprised me. They kept grinding up and before I knew it the crest came into view and it was done. Better still, on the descent I saw the 2CVs parked up for drinks and photos so I stopped to grab a photo – something not been remotely possible when slogging up the climb.
Aside from the seemingly ever rising heat, the second clear memory is of an insanely quaint town. After rolling up and down various small hills, I tracked onto a longer descent which ran out onto the main street of a clearly very old town. It was impossible not to stop for photos and, having done so, the idea of ice cream and a beer came to mind since I was already off the bike. I failed on the first part – the Tabac I pulled into at the top of town was happy to pour me a large panache, but didn’t sell ice cream. I had to content myself with YAS (Yet Another Snackbar).
Blangy-le-Château – 16:30
Whilst sat under a tree enjoying my beer I embarked on conversation #11 (I may have lost count here) along the theme of “Surely you’re not cycling to Munichh?” I chatted at some length with the very friendly biker couple on the table next to mine – I forget almost every detail about that conversation, except for perhaps the notion they may have been Dutch, or possibly even German. What I’ll never forget though was how pleasant it was to sit in the shade outside a little bar in a ridiculously pretty town, exchanging experiences and tales with fellow travellers. The afternoon could hardly been have more perfect and, with shadows beginning to lengthen, I had to tear myself away from the temptation of a second beer. My destination was close now, and it would be nice to unload the bike and get some food.
Cormeilles was barely another 6km, but by the time I got there the relentless sun, heat, and maybe also the beer a little had done a number on me. I stood outside the exact spot shown on the GPS for my hotel, but wandered around confused and not finding the entrance. Eventually I figured it must be the whitewashed townhouse I was stood right outside and looked for signs of life. I forget if I just went through the little black side gate, or the young lady came out and met me, but either way with enormous gratitude I found my way in. The room was in an annex – a perfect little corner courtyard separate from the main building, with somewhere to stand my bike out of the sun and sheltered a little from rain by the overhanging roof. There was also a drying rack, ideal for my laundry. So it was easy to keep up my 100% record, and both get last night’s washed gear properly dry for tomorrow and also give a head start for today’s gear after the obligatory double twist drying process in the spare towels. It was nice to get into my leisure clothes too for exploring the town. Although, based on the comments of the owner it sounded like Monday evening a lot of places would be closed so Pizza was likely my best bet. That was fine, last night had been a hearty spread, and I reckoned on the edge of Paris tomorrow I’d probably find another solid meal.
Cormeilles – 17:45
What I was struggling with was why I felt so disoriented and dazed – until I saw my face in the bathroom mirror. Despite lathering factor 50 cream on all day, I was badly sunburnt. I’d never experienced sun cream “going off” before, but what I had brought alone had clearly expired (even if the date said otherwise). My face was a harsh red mess, especially my nose. I hurried the rest of my shower, laundry, and gear/battery charging process so I could get into town. From my experiences on other rides, I knew that one thing many (maybe most) bigger towns in France seem to have is a pharmacy. What I wasn’t sure of was how late it would stay open. Luckily, as I rushed the short distance into town there it was, still open, across the main square. Even better, what looked like a decent brand was on special offer with a free “after sun” – just the thing to tame my beetroot-faced complexion. All that remained on my wish list was food – oh, and maybe a belt – my casual shorts seemed to have stretched to being dangerously close to falling down with the weight of phone and purchases in my pocket. I decided not to push my luck in the small town, and settle just for the pizza.
The little takeaway place had exactly one table outside, and made the pizza so fresh that I’d nearly finished my zero beer (or maybe lemonade, I forget) by the time it was ready. It hit the spot perfectly though, with just 1 slice left by the time I was full. I figured that might get eaten later, so I bade the owner goodbye and wandered back through town, the streets now orange with the evening sun. I snapped a couple of half-hearted record pics on the way, but what I most wanted was my bed and sleep. I’d negotiated a reasonably early breakfast tomorrow with the owner, but even so this could set a new record for a bike tour: 8 or 9 hours kip. I could get used to this.
