The first couple of days of our trip have been eventful to say the least.
I was welcomed to Roscoff by an icy, whipping wind and driving rain - things never really got any easier.
Our planning for the first leg of the journey consisted of a cursory glance at the map during the ferry crossing and a heavy reliance on a print-out from a website that apparently offers appropriate routes for cyclists. Thinking I could simply go on the internet and save the hassle of planning a route is a mistake I will not be repeating.
Within a few miles we had taken a wrong turn but a market trader in St Pol-de-Leon set us straight. “Go down that road there and just keep going.” We should have wondered why laughter could be heard ringing out from the market place as we sped off.
Having corrected that mistake our inadequate online guide told us to take a right down a narrow track between two fields. Having searched up and down the road for the proper turning we decided this must be it.
After half a mile of mud, stones and sand we bumped into a bemused farmer, who clearly wasn’t used to seeing weather-beaten Brits trailing down his track on racers laden with luggage. He was riding a quad bike, which was entirely more suitable for the track.
To my delight he confirmed that if we kept on going it would lead us to the town we sought. That euphoria was short-lived. With the sight of a real concrete road ahead I picked up the pace but as I did it all became more laboured. Then I noticed I was feeling the contours of the road rather too keenly.
A puncture – not a big deal I thought. I’ve got spare inner tubes and while I have never changed a rear wheel inner tube before myself, Joe is bound to have done. It very quickly became clear neither of us had ever done this before. I really regret having talked my Dad into fixing a puncture for me to get my cycling proficiency badge at cubs.
To make matters worse my bike is so old, none of Joe’s spanners would fit, so we couldn’t get the wheel off anyway.
Stranded in the Breton countryside we could not believe fate had dealt such a cruel blow so early in the trip. To our delight we saw a big group of cyclists emerge in the distance. Dragging my bike as quick as I could we positioned ourselves to intercept them. They were from a Cornwall based cycling group The Chodski Indians and recognising our desperation, they changed the tyre. A big thanks to them for helping us out a bit of a spot there.
Before I left my Mum, who knows Brittany well said the journey through the area should be fine as long as we avoid the Black Mountains. I readily agreed I did not fancy cycling over any mountains especially ones which sound like the setting of a cheap horror film.
Again naively I assumed our trusted website would not lead us to a certain death on a mountain top.
My heart sank when I saw that our road ahead was winding slowly up an enormous mountain of death. If there had only been one it would have been fine but we spent the rest of the day climbing endless winding mountains. The worst thing was not being able to see the top because there was no goal and nothing to aim for. All there ever seemed to be was a bend in the road followed by yet more calf wrenching slopes.
Much like myself my gears did not appreciate the extra strain being placed on them. I only had ten to start with but several gave up early leaving me with four to choose from for most of the mountain stage.
Then as we neared the end of the day’s cycling a wire snapped and I was down to two gears.
Having cycled 50 difficult miles and with Joe, me and my bike on the verge of collapse we decided to stay at a beautiful town called Chateauneuf-du-Faou.
It is a small town with only 3,000 inhabitants but it is a stunning little place with dramatic mountain views.
We stayed on a campsite next to a river, in a valley below the town. After a day of cycling up hills, the place seemed perfect.
We staggered to a nearby bar for a well-earned beer in the late-evening sun before heading to a handily placed pizzeria further down the river. I had never before eaten a calzone without pausing for breath.
There was even a bike shop and the bushy-moustached chap who ran it, agreed to fix my bike for free.
I am not the best sleeper and I was worried that even after a day of slugging my way up impossible hills, I would not be able to get a good night’s sleep on a roll-up mat in the tent. It didn’t help that I had not brought enough pegs, which meant the tent looked like it would collapse if the slightest breeze crossed the valley.
So I had a couple more beers just to make sure but I need not have worried.
At the moment I am just outside the picturesque town of Pont Aven in southern Brittany. Tomorrow we are leaving to travel through the final part of Brittany. We are hoping to find a lively town or city to join in the Bastille Day celebrations on July 14.
I was welcomed to Roscoff by an icy, whipping wind and driving rain - things never really got any easier.
Our planning for the first leg of the journey consisted of a cursory glance at the map during the ferry crossing and a heavy reliance on a print-out from a website that apparently offers appropriate routes for cyclists. Thinking I could simply go on the internet and save the hassle of planning a route is a mistake I will not be repeating.
Within a few miles we had taken a wrong turn but a market trader in St Pol-de-Leon set us straight. “Go down that road there and just keep going.” We should have wondered why laughter could be heard ringing out from the market place as we sped off.
Having corrected that mistake our inadequate online guide told us to take a right down a narrow track between two fields. Having searched up and down the road for the proper turning we decided this must be it.
After half a mile of mud, stones and sand we bumped into a bemused farmer, who clearly wasn’t used to seeing weather-beaten Brits trailing down his track on racers laden with luggage. He was riding a quad bike, which was entirely more suitable for the track.
To my delight he confirmed that if we kept on going it would lead us to the town we sought. That euphoria was short-lived. With the sight of a real concrete road ahead I picked up the pace but as I did it all became more laboured. Then I noticed I was feeling the contours of the road rather too keenly.
A puncture – not a big deal I thought. I’ve got spare inner tubes and while I have never changed a rear wheel inner tube before myself, Joe is bound to have done. It very quickly became clear neither of us had ever done this before. I really regret having talked my Dad into fixing a puncture for me to get my cycling proficiency badge at cubs.
To make matters worse my bike is so old, none of Joe’s spanners would fit, so we couldn’t get the wheel off anyway.
Stranded in the Breton countryside we could not believe fate had dealt such a cruel blow so early in the trip. To our delight we saw a big group of cyclists emerge in the distance. Dragging my bike as quick as I could we positioned ourselves to intercept them. They were from a Cornwall based cycling group The Chodski Indians and recognising our desperation, they changed the tyre. A big thanks to them for helping us out a bit of a spot there.
Before I left my Mum, who knows Brittany well said the journey through the area should be fine as long as we avoid the Black Mountains. I readily agreed I did not fancy cycling over any mountains especially ones which sound like the setting of a cheap horror film.
Again naively I assumed our trusted website would not lead us to a certain death on a mountain top.
My heart sank when I saw that our road ahead was winding slowly up an enormous mountain of death. If there had only been one it would have been fine but we spent the rest of the day climbing endless winding mountains. The worst thing was not being able to see the top because there was no goal and nothing to aim for. All there ever seemed to be was a bend in the road followed by yet more calf wrenching slopes.
Much like myself my gears did not appreciate the extra strain being placed on them. I only had ten to start with but several gave up early leaving me with four to choose from for most of the mountain stage.
Then as we neared the end of the day’s cycling a wire snapped and I was down to two gears.
Having cycled 50 difficult miles and with Joe, me and my bike on the verge of collapse we decided to stay at a beautiful town called Chateauneuf-du-Faou.
It is a small town with only 3,000 inhabitants but it is a stunning little place with dramatic mountain views.
We stayed on a campsite next to a river, in a valley below the town. After a day of cycling up hills, the place seemed perfect.
We staggered to a nearby bar for a well-earned beer in the late-evening sun before heading to a handily placed pizzeria further down the river. I had never before eaten a calzone without pausing for breath.
There was even a bike shop and the bushy-moustached chap who ran it, agreed to fix my bike for free.
I am not the best sleeper and I was worried that even after a day of slugging my way up impossible hills, I would not be able to get a good night’s sleep on a roll-up mat in the tent. It didn’t help that I had not brought enough pegs, which meant the tent looked like it would collapse if the slightest breeze crossed the valley.
So I had a couple more beers just to make sure but I need not have worried.
At the moment I am just outside the picturesque town of Pont Aven in southern Brittany. Tomorrow we are leaving to travel through the final part of Brittany. We are hoping to find a lively town or city to join in the Bastille Day celebrations on July 14.
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