Verneuil-sur-Seine to Château-Thierry
Everything I touched seemed loud. The espresso machine ground and grumbled away, the bowls clanked, the fridge door shouted out as if I’d slammed it shut with far my force than I had. As much as I tried to tiptoe around quietly to avoid waking the other guests, every move I made seemed to echo around the breakfast alcove and permeate up to the rooms above in amplified form. In the end, I gave up trying, finished gathering provisions and head for the table outside to eat in the peaceful still of the morning. Handily, this was also right alongside where my park was parked so I could kit up between mouthfuls of food and coffee. The weather and route check were a mixed bag – following canals meant a day of little in the way of climbing, but it would be hotter than anything those so far.
Getting straight to the point, Paris was not a destination for this trip. It was in my way. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a city I love. I lived here for 3 months setting up back office systems during the France Telecom privatisation. I’ve visited as a tourist many times, and will enjoy doing so again with Yoli some time no doubt. But alone by bike, on a stinky hot day, bashing through crowds and traffic, my goal was simply to get across with the minimum of fuss. I make these remarks in preface to the account of the day so I don’t seem jaded, or to be bashing Paris. Because the easiest and most direct route I had found was also likely to be the least savoury – through the northern suburbs. I had no experience of these, but most accounts I had read described them as shabby and run down, possibly not even totally safe if you took the wrong turn. Even before setting out I was somewhat nervous about unwittingly riding into a little too much adventure.
Verneuil-sur-Seine – 07:18
The street outside was quiet as the heavy wooden entrance door swung closed behind me. After checking every bag and pocket multiple times, I finally plucked up courage to drop the key in the box and leave. I rolled across the street and down into the small suburban roads along the river. I suspected this would be the last of the quiet riding I’d see for a while – just a handful of vans delivering to shop owners who were just rolling up their shutters. But only halfway, to let in some light whilst still remaining clear they were no open yet.
The first task was to get across the rail tracks and river, which already involved busier roads. I wasn’t totally sure the narrow pavement was actually a cyclepath. But the road alongside was 1 way each way with risen paving in the middle – so I opted for the path where it was actually rideable. Fortunately it was still quiet, but the traffic was building even in the few minutes it took to get to the T junction on the far side of the Seine. During route planning I’d initially plotted along the river here, but eventually I opted for going direct along the small town street figuring it was both quicker and not likely to be busy. That was partly true – there were some cars and buses, but not so many as to be slow or troubling. A left turn ahead onto a ramp of cyclepath up to a roundabout was the end of the quiet riding for the morning though. I crossed the roundabout onto the small cycle lane, and joined the procession. A solid wall of cars, trucks, and buses up to the next bigger roundabout, right down onto a smaller connecting road through a mix of offices and light industry. At least there was a segregated lane, although at each one of the many roundabouts it ended – meaning full focus to avoid the mix of pedestrians, other bikes, and cross traffic.
Eventually this recent, bypass section ended and dropped me back onto twisting older streets which led back to the river side again. Which seemed odd. When I left the river I was heading north east and the river was going due south. But after a massive loop, the river had come a full 180 degrees to meet me again. This part was still busy, and sometimes the riverside path was just for pedestrians and cyclists had to mix it with the traffic. But the morning was fresh, the air was cool, and the scenery was way nicer than I’d expected. There were a couple of tributaries where I had to negotiated bridges, sometimes larger, sometimes just iron structures for riders and walkers. But overall, the next 15km or so was lovely. That all came to an end at a giant construction site. Which, it must be said, kept me away from traffic for just a little longer. But involved bashing along gravel and one section which seemed totally closed, but the workers kindly nodded me through. I’m not sure it was even open to cyclists though to be honest – I guess I was wearing a hard hat of sorts though.
The river and I parted ways for a little here. Whilst it took another massive southward loop, I cut straight across town – or rather up and across town, since the road immediately pitched steeply as I left the river and headed up what would have been its right banks Except it was now covered in tarmac & concrete. Nearly at the top, one of those odd moments which stick with you forever occurred. It was now getting hot, and I was slogging sweatily up the last of the steep ramp, and in the wrong gear (not wishing to risk a tumble by shifting in the midst of traffic). I should definitely have waited for the pedestrian about to cross in front of me at the top. And, knowing I was in the wrong, was about to call out “pardon” when he spoke back to me instead. But instead of a torrent of abuse, what I got was a “bon courage” – my mouth shifted in shape to utter a “merci” in response as I crossed the junction and into the suburb beyond. I contemplated the incident as I did so, and wondered how many other cities would a pedestrian recognise the struggle of a cyclist who had just stolen their right of way and actually congratulate rather than berate them. Like I said earlier, I do not dislike Paris – but even with this I still wasn’t sure I was heading towards the best part of it.
Across the busy junction of Quai Voltaire and over the Pont Bessons, the river and I met up again (albeit once I’d negotiated a tricky temporary boarded section of switchback to get down to the river bank path). I had strangely mixed feelings as I rode through the parkland section. At first, it felt pleasant, with runners and walkers from the neighbourhood streets around. But as the park thinned and came to an end, I was less sure. There were fewer people here. The path was narrower and more overgrown, and heading through industrial as much as urban areas. It was all probably fine, but I was quite glad when I reached the end – a concrete wall lined service road, covered in graffiti which led up to a bridge and onto the surface streets of Quai du Petit Gennevilliers. I have no doubts that whatever nervousness I was feeling was without any no real basis. As well as the usual eyes everywhere for traffic, I was beginning to check corners or secluded sections for other potential risks. Like I say, all in my head. But it was, in my head, and it was stuck there now.
After a short urban section, the route followed a port service road – docks on one side, and logistics buildings on the other. At the end of this a new, long bridge carried the cycle path across a busy highway and down into a pleasant looking pathway section. This all felt like new development – a mix of housing and offices, with new infrastructure. Some local piece of urban regeneration, with newly built transport systems: passengers emerging from the arches of a newly built (or refurbished) train station, joining up with another throng around a tram station beside the park. My route from here right almost straight east, thru Villeneuve-la-Garenne and out towards Saint-Denis. A pair of bridges took me back across the Seine for the last time – approaching one or other of these I needed to negotiate a large crowd at a large crowd at a tram stop, and then pick a careful line across the bridge itself to ensure my wheels didn’t come to grief in the grips of the lethal tram tracks themselves. Once across, there was a short stretch past shops before the road became a car free zone (with broad pavements beside the tracks) which led to a third bridge, but this time one that took me over and connected me to the Canal de Saint-Denis. I’d been riding for over two hours, but I’d finally reached a point where technically I would now be heading out of Paris. I was almost directly north of the centre of the city. Instead of following the Seine, I’d now link up a sequence of canal side sections to carry me out towards the countryside west of Paris.
This was a functional, rather than memorable part of the riding. A few parts I do remember well – passing Stade de France which prompted one of the few photos of the morning. The last (only in fact) time I was there was to see the England vs South Africa Rugby World Cup Final with Yoli in 2007. It was interesting to watch boats navigating the few locks I passed – most of them seemed to be service craft of one form or other. The very last section of this piece of canal was memorable for all the wrong reason. On the far bank was an expansive homeless “village”, with what looked quite possible drug dealers plying their trade. Moments later, I overshot my exit from the canal towpath, and had to double back. In that instant I became suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was – with nowhere to go behind me, anyone who’d taken an interest and followed me had me trapped. I hastened my way back to the ramp and up into the suburb above. Which seemed completely at odds with the shabby, run down canal side. Just an ordinary Parisian street – I’d have been tempted to stop at a café if there was somewhere safe to stash my bike, and my nerves hadn’t still been on edge.
The next part was a very odd mix – once away from the canal, I crossed a junction into a large science park (Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie). I guessed it was built during the rejuvenation of the area around the same time the new stadium was built. In theory, it would have been an amazing facility. Yet it seemed somewhat neglected, ageing and underutilised. There were buses with school kids. But the concession stands were nearly all closed and away from the central exhibition buildings themselves it seemed unkempt and uncared for. I could almost imagine the impressive designs, and models that were shared between financiers and architects when dreaming of this space. But all that money spent seemed to have created a short term “wow” moment rather than a lasting uplifting to the lives of the locals in the area. Grand city planning overlooking the actual needs of the suburban folk living here. Of course I may have been seeing it through prejudiced eyes, it was a fiercely hot day and the city riding was beginning to grind me down somewhat. I wasn’t quite done with all that though.
There was a breeze, I think, once I reached the water’s edge again – at a sort of “canal crossroads” where the Canal de Saint-Denis met with the Canal de l’Ourcq. I swung left to follow the latter, although it took me a few attempts before I figured how to get to the other side where the cyclepath ran. My GPS track looks like something melting in a Dali painting where I did finally figure my way across. The previous crossing only had a lift, with stern signs declaring no bikes were allowed. Oddly, the bridge I finally wound my way up onto was clearly meant for cyclists at one end but once across with more of the same. I forget now if I just ignored them and took the lift down, or found a ramp or stairs to get me off the bridge. Rather hopefully, I looped around an area of concessions stands in the small park at the foot of the bridge. But they were all close too – in fact not just closed off, but fenced in with temporary barriers. The local authorities really really did not want anyone chancing their wares. Which was a shame, because I was now in the mood for at least coffee.
The Canal de l’Ourcq was loooonnng – or maybe the heat made it feel like that. But it wasn’t featureless. The path rose to cross a few road junctions, switched banks a couple of times, and went through a huge rail marshalling yard where it became a narrow channel due to a tangle of thorns and bushes encroaching on either side across the concrete planked walls hiding the comings and goings of shunting engines and trains beyond. A later stretch had a strange sequence of totem poles at regular intervals, each with a word or phrase attached. There was parkland beyond, but from the view of the canal banks none of the concessions looked open their either. Maybe it was just bad timing – perhaps these places only opened at weekends. Soon after that I crossed the canal again, and onto a temporary floating boardwalk around a section of construction works which covered the path. In theory, you were supposed to walk this section but what cyclist can resist the temptation to ride on floating pontoons. It’s just way too much fun feeling the balance shifting unpredictable beneath you. And old lady at the far end looked at me sternly as we met on the corner where the boardwalk rejoined the path. Once again today, I was the ugly cyclist in the wrong. Only this time greeted with much less tolerance.
Aside from regular short ramps up and down to cross over, or go under roads, the riding was free flowing and fairly quick. At one point, the path left the canal side, and ran parallel on a path through what seemed like an old but still popular (judging by the walkers) park. By now I was really in need of a break – the canal riding was in shade, but it was still fucking hot and I needed a snack and water refill. I finally gave up on finding something beside the canal, and at the next road junction swung right into the neighbouring suburb. It was perfectly judged, in a sense. The place was a hive of activity, albeit more than a little run down and shabby looking. I circled around the central area, trying to decide whether a kebab joint or 24 hour convenience store was the better bet, when I spotted a café which seemed a much better fit. I stood outside juggling a bulging assortment of coffee, juice, water bottles, and pastries (maybe a sandwich too, I forget). There was nowhere to sit, and I couldn’t be bothered to move from the shade. So I just ate the majority of it there and stashed the rest. Stood there kitting up again, I was struck by how out of place the café felt with the other establishments dotted around the small semi-circle of shops. But a steady stream of customers came and went whilst I was there, so clearly the chain’s location spotters recognised that there was a clientele for a more conventional bakery cum coffee shop in the neighbourhood. As I rode back to the canal, I was tempted by slices of water melon on one of the many market stalls. But my tummy and bags were now full – which is a shame, because it’d have been a nice antidote to the heat.
Canal de l’Ourcq – 11:30
If you’d asked me where I was at this point, I’d probably have said still in the Parisian suburbs. But the last 25km of canal side riding had proved a quicker way out of the city than river path and street bashing had been heading in. By now I was beyond what could really even have been called the outskirts, and nearly half way into my distance for the day. I was also, almost done with this particular canal. Less than 5km further along I came to a spot I recognized well from late nights at the PC studying maps. In theory, according to OSM Cycle, I could have swung right across a small bridge, onto the other bank and followed what was optimistically shown as cycle way V52 / EV3. And the bridge itself was ramped up to allow for cycling. But no part of my studies online suggested this was an actual cycleway – in fact every photo, from every junction showed clear “no cycling” signs. Maybe Street View was out of date, but I’d decided not to chance it and plotted a direct route along rural lanes instead. And, in the midday heat, I was not tempted to waste time checking whether the photos were wrong. Instead, I swung left up onto the bridge and enjoyed some direct, and quick (if sweaty) blasting on lanes across the nearby farmland. At the village of Charny, my route swung southward again. But the river it took me took was not the canal I had left, nor the Seine, but one of its major tributaries: The Marne. An important artery that flowed into the Seine somewhere behind me on the edge of Paris. I’d be riding around and along this river (and it’s navigations) for a substantial chunk of the day’s ahead.
The twist of road just as I joined it also confirmed my suspicions of the supposed V52 too. As I spun over and around a small stretch of navigation there was a very clear “no cycling” sign on the sandy track leading from the road to the canal path. Clearly, this section of V52 was more hopeful imagination than reality, and I was glad I hadn’t wasted time on it. Instead, I followed the quick section of road between navigation and river into the hamlet of Trilbardou, up a short ramp, and left out over more farmland – only this time, quite literally, over the farmland. I rode on a dusty, rutted tractor track between the fields. It was exactly how it had appeared on the satellite view and limited map photos – serviceable, and direct, but slow and bumpy riding across broken, stony trail. This was also the V52 cycle way, except a real, somewhat rideable part of it. And, as slow and rough as it was, it was also direct – carrying my almost straight across to the edge of Meaux. At the far end, where the dusty track became road again I saw for the second time two people sat in a vehicle on their lunch break. Except on this occasion, it was workers in a van actually eating their lunch. At the top of the hill heading out of Evreux the day before it had been a Peugeot saloon parked on rough wasteland between where the road became track back to the main cycle path. And, with no sandwiches in sight, those occupants seemed more interested in eating each other’s faces. I’d guessed, as I past them, they may not be married – at least not to each other – and averted my gaze lest I catch sight of body parts exposed during the lunchtime fumblings. But these two chaps I waved a friendly greeting towards which was returned with enthusiasm.
Looking on the map, this narrow strip of tarmac’d lane has a title far grander than its size would seem to warrant: Chemin Rural de Lagny a Meaux. Despite its weighty name, it didn’t even actually carry me into Meaux. For that part, I wound around concrete barriers, under the highway on a shared use path, and up and out past more car prevention barriers onto a smooth section of newly minted road and cycle way serving a recently constructed industrial space. It ended with a ramp up to an older, somewhat more overgrown section of cycle path. My planned route and the route I actually took at this point diverged for a couple of reasons. The first of these was across the other side of the main road down into Meaux: a Macdonalds, which I knew was coming up having marked it on my cue across. As well as now being pretty hungry, I also fancied a break from the heat somewhere with air conditioning. So I didn’t hesitate to swing across the bridge and into the car park. So grateful was I of the respite, I lingered there for close on an hour before mustering the courage to head back out into the furnace beyond the double glazed windows, and cool of the stark plastic chairs and plain white tables.
Meaux – 13:00
A combination of heat, and meal induced torpor saw me with something of a brain fog back at the main road. I went back to the previous junction, but the road from there looked an unpleasantly busy down ramp onto an even busier dual carriageway. I looked back to the junction by the Macdonalds. Across from there was an industrial estate, but on the GPS it appeared to also lead down towards the main road but possibly via a nicer route. I backtracked again, and crossed right into the industrial estate. It did indeed take me down to the dual carriageway, albeit on the wrong side. A few meters down though was a pedestrian crossing over which I managed to get onto the what may have been a cycle path (or possibly not, but it was away from traffic). So unmarked was my exit, I nearly missed it. Even after studying this section multiple times, the thin strip of path leading down off the banked sweep of road had been hard to spot. It was no easier to see in real life. It was steep too, I dropped down it like a stone to the service road in front of the railway line below. Fortunately, the entrance to the railway crossing was much easier to find – almost directly opposite, a shallow ramp up onto and old concrete bridge with paint peeling of the blue painted railings. It got me to the other side though, so I had no complaints over its decorative condition.
Almost immediately beyond I was rolling up another ramp to a bridge. This time much newer though, and across a bend in the river Marne and into the middle of Meaux. Not being in need of anything, I just rolled through the town and out onto a small riverside road into the countryside beyond. At this point, the V52 was a pleasant and rideable sequence of quiet lanes following the river. Before long though they rose up away from the river and took on the only significant hill of the day. Not much over 120m of vertical, and with a gradient mostly below 8%, it wasn’t a challenge – but in the heat it was plenty energy sapping. After dropping back down to the river I was in need of a cold drink, and a break in the shade. A small village I soon passed through offered both – a little Tabac with cold drinks and a small, and completely shaded street to sit and drink them in. The street was too narrow for any outside seating, but it was way too hot to sit inside. But the tall steps up into the house next door served just as well.
Ussy-sur-Marne – 15:30
From here on., my route hugged the Marne valley pretty tightly – which was a relief, because on both sides the countryside rose upwards steeply away from the river. It also made for truly delightful scenery too – a beautiful contrast to the morning’s cross city bash. In theory, I was supposed to cross over the river and follow the V52 along the banks – but there was absolutely no visual evidence that track existed, except perhaps in a few short sandy sections which were only joined together in the imagination of whoever marked it on the map. At one point, I did veer down towards the river in a clear access road in the hope of finding it. But once at the river, all I managed was a few meters of rollercoaster tractor furrows which petered out into bumpy grassland with no clear trail. I have up on the V52 and reluctantly wound back to the main road. Energy and time wasted in the heat – not a mistake I would make again in the heat. Instead, I rolled on through the succession of villages.
As tempting as the caves advertising champagne tastings were on the gradual ramp through Crouttes-sur-Marne, I knew there was zero chance of me enjoying them. A Tabac with a freezer outside sporting a giant Walls logo wasn’t so easy to pass up – so I ducked in for a panache and an ice cream. It was only around 20km to go, but at this stage I was uttterly wiped out. The heat had pretty much finished me. And unfortunately, the last section hid a painful extra 150m of rolling countryside too. By the time the hills broke free and I rolled down towards my destination I was utterly spent. Even the short ramp of hill away left at the roundabout and up to find my b&b nearly broke me. In fact, once into the actual housing estate I didn’t even attempt the last short steep pitches up to the accommodation itself.
Château-Thierry – 18:00
The owner was extremely friendly, and the quiet little annex beyond the main cottage was ideal – private and secluded. Although I was warned there may be visitors wandering around as they had the property on the market. I’m not sure if they witness any of my laundry spread on the small patio outside my room, but hopefully it just served to reinforce the impression of an active and thriving b&b. As early evening set in I walked back down to the little constellation of bars and cafes across from the roundabout at the start of town. Something named the Au Bureau – Pub et Brasserie seemed a good fit, so I headed inside and grabbed a table. I managed to eat and drink plenty, but my whole being was still feeling very “off”. Not just tired and worn down by the heat, but something bigger. The food was good, but I didn’t really enjoy it. And the feeling of not being quite right only grew as I left and walked back up the hill to my room.