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NEWARK NOTES from the Secretary

June 2006 - part 1

Brittany, sparingly, on 28 miles per pint

The guy at the hotel was clearly not impressed. Lifting John's bike, resplendent with its four panniers, he enquired "You are here for three or four weeks?" "No, just one", John replied. "Then you have too much luggage" he countered. I was tempted to say "I told you so" but I was too busy repairing my puncture. Again.

I'd noticed my tyre softening the previous evening in the town of Antrain, but then our priorities were more fundamental. Having passed a Chambre d'hote, we went into the town centre to check there was a restaurant. It was that small a town. Not seeing one, I asked the only living soul on the street, in my best schoolboy French "Pardon, Monsieur, est ce qu'il y a un Restaurant dans ce ville?" "Dunno, mate, I don't speak French" came the reply. I never found out his name but he and his wife took the others in and plied them with wine and biscuits while I leant my bike in front of the local policeman's garage (complete with defense de stationner sign), located the puncture, removed a piece of glass from the tyre and replaced the tube.

It turned out that there wasn't a restaurant in town but our new hosts informed us that there was one, and a hotel, in the next, so, thanking them for their hospitality we pressed on. The hotel turned out to be closed for the night (as hotels apparently do in France) but the staff, realising we were a bit stuck, agreed to let us stay, provided we used the fire escape for coming and going, as the main entrance would be alarmed. No problem. Except our bikes were left in the reception area, and I thought my tyre wasn't as hard as it should be. Come the morning, my fears were confirmed; the tyre was flat as the proverbial sorceress' chest. I removed another piece of glass from the tyre and replaced the tube again, while the others chatted with the staff in the sunshine. I had just finished washing my hands when Brian asked "How hard did you pump up your tyre, Mike? it doesn't feel very hard". I removed a third piece of glass from the tyre, patched the tube and crossed my fingers. As I write this, the offending tyre is still inflated, so any future punctures I may get are presumably unrelated…

The terrible May weather in the UK meant that there wasn't much cycling activity, certainly nothing to make an interesting article about (nothing new there then…) within the Newark section, so it was with some relief that four of us headed off for a week in Brittany in early June. The plan, as for last year's trip to Ireland, was that there was no plan, and it should have been the same five cyclists of the apocalypse, but for those who weren't paying attention last month, Steve's knee was still hors de combat.

Embarking from the ferry in the same heat we'd left behind, our morning's ride was along the coastal strip to Mont St Michel. The countryside was reminiscent of our home territory in its flatness, probably as well in view of the heat, but with an occasional glimpse of coast to add interest. Reaching the Mont in time for a late lunch, we tucked into baguettes whilst admiring the scenery (predominantly the young female tourists in hot pants…) before looking around the island itself. For those who haven't been there, it's a bit like a slightly Gothic version of The Shambles in York tipped up at 45 degrees, with the Minster at the top. We could easily have imagined Harry Potter and co. flying overhead on their broomsticks. Realising that there was no way we were going to get to Rennes, our initial target, we rode off southabouts intending to stop at about five or any town on the map where a suitable opportunity presented itself. Which is where we came in.

Thanks to my pneumatic contingency it was mid morning the next day, and already hot, before we left Tremblay. The countryside was now more like Northamptonshire, rolling rather than particularly hilly, with a similar mix of fields and woodland; pleasant if not spectacular, and we made fair time, punctuated only by a stop for me to buy more inner tubes. At our lunch stop in Hede, we chatted with an Irishman who ran a hotel nearby, as we washed down more baguettes with the local beer, then continued south-westerly to Paimpont. The only hotel in town looked expensive, but we were feeling the effects of the heat so decided to stay anyway. In fact it wasn't bad value and definitely had the most comfortable rooms of the trip. After supper, we explored the town's abbey and lake before returning to the hotel bar, where we were entertained by the local drunk telling us, and anyone else who'd listen, why England had no chance in the World Cup and how great Bob Marley was. No, we couldn't figure out the connection either. He was already in his place in the garden when we went for breakfast the next morning; we wondered if he'd been there all night.

[Continued]

Mike Graham

Page updated 29/06/06