Day 6 St Brévin-les-Pins to Barbâtre (Ile de Noirmoutier)

There are moments, sometimes hours, in cycle touring that stay with you for a long time. Not because of the scenery, however lovely it may be; not because of the joy of hearing the bird song, feeling the breeze, breathing in the sweet scent of summer hay, or simply chewing up the miles using nothing but the dinner you consumed the night before. No, as any long-distance cycle tourist will tell you, the parts that really stay fixed in your memory are those rare and special encounters that happen from time to time along the way. These are what remain in your heart over all the years of work, kids and the routine responsibilities that intervene between adventures.

There is much I still remember about the countryside and campsites of the many countries Tony and I passed through when we cycled the six thousand kilometres from London to Athens (via Wales, Ireland and Spain) on our way home in 1984. Those memories come and go, get a bit fuzzy around the edges, and lose some precision over time, but the parts that sit there solidly with names, details and emotions, are those crazy, chance encounters with people, either curious and hospitable locals whom we attracted because we were touring the country by bicycle, because we were a long way from home or because we were from New Zealand, or with other cycle tourists because we shared a common bond, a love of travelling by bike and all that that involves.

I’ve been sad that neither of these have been happening for me, yet. The curious locals, well, they just aren’t around. In those ‘olden’ days, there were no marked bike trails or marketed bike routes. We bought a Michelin map, studied it the night before, picked out the smallest roads and away we went. These days, most people seem to follow these specially designated bike routes. Yes, they’re (mostly) safe from traffic, but I also think it’s about doing things easy. People don’t want to have to go the trouble of buying and reading a map. Just following the signs sounds easier, safer. And that’s why I’m doing it this way, because I’m on my own and it felt easy and safe because there would be lot of people around. (Well, that hasn’t happened!)

But it also means that you don’t come across many local people. The trails pass along beaches, through marshland, behind villages, through forests, and, although there is nothing more dead than a French village at lunchtime, you rarely pass through villages at all.

Even when you do pass locals, they no longer seem to be curious. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman alone and a bit scary or abnormal (I’ve certainly seen no other woman touring alone). I’m proudly flying a silver fern but maybe New Zealanders aren’t such a rarity these days in these parts (even though anyone with whom I’ve discussed it would struggle to place our country on a map). Maybe people's lives are just busier and more serious than they used to be and they don't take the time to talk to others. Most likely it’s because cycle tourists are so much more prevalent than they were thirty years ago. Even though it’s still not a common leisure (?) activity amongst the French, there are certainly other nationalities (British, Spanish, German) whom I’ve met or heard of doing it. So although I’m sad that not one person has approached me or shown any interest (Tony and I almost had to fight them off!), I understand. Times have changed.

Even the other sort of encounter, the one with other cycle tourists has been rare. I’ve seen less than six groups of them in all coming in the opposite direction and none at all going my way (maybe I’m too fast for them!). But one did happen for me today. It epitomised all that is good about cycle touring. How your path can happen to cross that of others for a while, often brief, and for that time your lives are connected and entwined; you are touched and enriched; and then they’re gone and it’s gone and you can only think about them from time to time and wonder what they’re doing now.

Today was good from start to finish. Every evening I’m asked, tea, coffee or chocolate to drink for breakfast? I’m not sure why this has to be organised the night before but there we are; clearly it does. Hot chocolate is a normal drink for breakfast in France, usually served in a large bowl with croissant or bread to dunk in it. Given that I felt in need of feeding up, after my rather lean time in Brittany, I opted for hot chocolate. Monsieur was delighted. It was his speciality. He was concerned that I would have to wait a while but anxious to get it right. Which he did. He poured an enormous bowl of steaming melted chocolate and placed it proudly in front of me. Was there any milk in it or just chocolate? I suspected the latter! Half an hour and several croissants and home-made breads and jam later, I managed to drain the bowl, declaring it the best hot chocolate ever, and staggered from the table. It took me a long way today.

Michael, a German cyclist, was also staying at the B&B, starting his trip from St Brévin and heading in the same direction as me. He was on a recumbent bike, un ‘vélo couché’ which caused a stir wherever he went. It was a huge affair with a trailer as well. He had the works, even a solar panel to charge his GPS and so on. His plan was to go down the coast to Bordeaux then across the south all the way to Nice, in three weeks. He reckoned on doing ninety or a hundred kms a day, compared with the paltry forty or so I had been doing up until now.

We had a great send off and he seemed happy to sit back and keep me company. He was fun. I enjoyed having someone to admire the scenery and eat lunch with. We stayed together all day. He was positive and I liked his sense of humour. Of course, our bikes looked hilarious together. Talk about the big and small of it! He was faster into wind (much lower), and faster downhill (more weight). I was faster with the wind behind and much more manoeuvrable around the numerous barriers, gateways, etc that you encounter during the course of a route like this. I think he was surprised how well I could keep up. He used his GPS to navigate; I used my map and route guide. Together we got it sorted. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

The route was great. Varied, not too hilly but not all flat, a bit along the beaches, parts inland through verdant pastures, past leafy high hedges, views for miles, parts through seaside villages. It was sunny and warm; we were happy.

Pornic, a very pretty harbour town, was packed with tourists enjoying the sunshine, the first I’d really seen. Brass bands competed for attention, and shops selling plastic windmills, beach towels, and buckets and spades lined the streets, along with glaceries. Of course, we had to try: mango, blackcurrant, salted caramel, chocolate … the options were endless, and all, no doubt, delicious.

Some marshland flew by along with small fishing villages and harbours. This is a big mussel and oyster region. Curious fishing huts lined the coast and a windmill park, at first tiny on the horizon, gradually grew until we were right beneath each giant machine whirring loudly above us. Luckily, the wind was behind us all day and at times we almost sailed along, reaching 27kph at one stage. I wondered if it was a record for a Brompton.

Michael wanted to go to the Île de Noirmoutier. He had obviously thoroughly prepared his trip. I had not. It had been a last minute plan to bike at all. I had been going to walk some of the Chemin de St Jacques, but then the idea of biking grew and here I was, with a map and a guide, but barely a day ahead of myself in my preparation. It was by now 4pm and we’d already had a long day and done many more kilometres than I was used to but it sounded fun and I tagged along. There was a problem: to get there from the mainland you have to cross on a four kilometre causeway, called Le Passage de Gois, that is underwater at all but low tide. There is an alternative route via a bridge but that would have involved a long detour for us. The causeway used to be the only access to the island before the bridge was built in the 60s.

But the tide was not yet low enough; we would have to wait a couple of hours. While we were standing on the side of the road considering our plan, we met Bernard. Down the road he came along on a ‘granny bike, comfort the priority, rather like I have at home. Aged around seventy, he was camping on the island, had been out for a day ride and he too was waiting for the tide to retreat. He spoke German to Michael, English to us both but with a curious accent. Of course, I had to figure out his origins. Away I went with the questions and soon I had his life story, or most of it.

And what an interesting one it was: born in then Czechoslovakia at the end of the second World War, he was switched in error at birth with another baby and so has never known his real parents. He only found this out when his own son was born many years later and blood types didn’t match. He was brought up in Germany initially and then had a spell in Essex, England. No wonder his accent was tricky even for me! He recently finished writing a book about his life and had it published. I’ll be reading it when I get home.

So there we were, the three of us, an eclectic mix of bikes and bods, when along came number four, a Frenchman from Nantes, also on a recumbent bike, but a different kind from Michael’s; it had three wheels and he preferred it because you didn’t fall over every time you stopped, which apparently is quite common with the two-wheeled ones. He was off to Portugal, to Santiago de Compostela, following one of the Chemin de St Jacques trails all the way from his home in Nantes. The plans and the bikes, of course were all discussed in great detail and with great enthusiasm. He even admired my bike. His wife has a Brompton too, a red one!

So, now we were four, all waiting long into the evening to cross this crazy causeway. Once a year, the locals put on a race here. Competitors are started off not long before high tide when the sea crosses the road. They have to run as fast as they can across the causeway, all four kilometres of it, before the tide comes up and over. If they’re too slow, I guess they get washed away; it’s all part of the fun!

Well, we had fun: we set off, on our four weirdo bikes, across this thing, partly cobbled, partly tiled, just as the water was receding. Bernard was in a hurry; he’s a diabetic, had come out for the day with the wrong insulin pack by mistake and hadn’t been able to get back because of the tide. He was in a hurry to get ‘home’. There were queues of cars from both ends. They stopped in the middle when they got to water that was too high. Half of them stopped and parked while the owners climbed out and went shellfish collecting. There were cars everywhere. We bikes led the cavalcade. There was just enough room for cars to pass each other on the ‘road’. When the water was too high we had to wait a bit. At one point, where the water was deep on one side, the oncoming cars all stopped and waited for us to pass by. At the other end were queues of traffic and crowds of people watching the spectacle. I’m not sure how common bikes are on it, let alone four like ours.

And then it was over; we made it to the island; the party split up. The Frenchman was staying in a hotel in a different village. The English/Czech/German had to hurry to his campsite at the opposite end of the island to get to his insulin before he collapsed. Michael went off to a campground; me to a little (and lovely) hotel. The moment of shared pleasure, companionship, security in numbers was over. I wouldn’t have braved that little adventure on my own.

Michael and I had dinner together later that evening. We ate pizza and each had a glass of beer as long as my arm. We shared the moments and relived the adventures of the day. I ran into him briefly twice the next day but essentially we were on our own from then on, each on our own agenda. I never saw any of them again.