Cycling Savages

Week 1 - Normandy and The Seine Valley

Camping au Savage by The Seine

There are a few things that long distance bike packers don’t often discuss publicly. One of them is their toileting arrangements as they pedal through uninhabited areas. This first post from our two year bicycle tour is not an appropriate time to lay out our toilette savage arrangements, but in the spirit of full and frank disclosure they will be discussed eventually. Maybe in a few months, when we’ve all settled in a bit. Consider yourself warnt.

Another thing that bike packers don’t usually let people know about is the fact that they’re off their tits most of the time. When you’re out on your bike you get an endorphin hit of serotonin and dopamine.

Over a long and testing day on the bike, this dosing can be significant. Do you know anyone who was a bit of a demon for over-indulging in their social lubricant of choice in their early years, only to kick those chemicals for regular exercise in later life? What you have there my friends is an endorphin fiend.

During the last week myself and Ellie have found ourselves sheltering from the cold and rain in bus shelters, trying to chaw down on some French bread and cheese, while doubled over, crying with the laughing. Out of our bulbs on the happy hormones. I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what we were laughing at, but it’s invariably something incredibly silly.

We’ve been cutting those neurochemicals with the realisation that after nine years of talking about it, five years of planning it, and three years of giving every spare hour to achieve it, we are actually on the road cycling around the world. It feels surreal, and the dreamlike delirium is only enhanced by the bio-bangers pumping through our systems as we pedal across the top of France.

As difficult as it is for us to believe this is happening, some of the folk we’re meeting on the road are finding it just as unbelievable. Outside a Lidl in Cabourg, a guy who had loaded up his bike with his shopping asked us where we were from and where we’re going. He was a sound looking head: Ellie reckoned he looked like a French version of New Orleans piano legend Dr. John. I’ve taken to telling people we’re cycling to China, which is much easier to say in French than trying to explain what we’re actually up to. When I told Le Docteur we were cycling to China, he appraisingly looked me up and down and exclaimed “La Chine? Non!” Cheeky fecker. Thankfully he headed off soon after and didn’t get to witness us getting lost trying to get out of the Lidl car park.

Tricky car parks aside, we’re making great progress. We’ve been cycling for eight days, including one day to get from Tramore to Rosslare. We’ve covered 606km so far, averaging 70 to 80km per day while we get used to the full packs (tent, winter sleeping gear, cooking gear, tool kit etc.)

We’ve wild camped, camping au savage as the local folk colourfully put it, for three nights, and although it’s fairly cold, getting into the minuses some nights, the tent and sleeping bags are playing a blinder. We’ve had to shake ice off the tent some mornings, but we’ve been very comfortable so far. Out of eight days we’ve only had proper rain twice, and no head wind to speak of. Whoever is lighting the candles for us, please continue to do so.

On the fifth night we camped on a small rural beach where the mouth of the Seine reaches the sea, just south of a gorgeous piratey vibed fishing town called Honfleur. It was exciting to finally look across what looked like a massive bay, only to realise that’s it the mouth of an enormous river, a river we’ve seen in a much narrower form under the ornate bridges of Paris.

The mouth of the Seine is more than a kilometre across at full tide, and we could see massive tankers, refineries, ships and cranes at La Havre on the other side. The view across the river satisfied an odd penchant we have for checking out foreign industrial estates. When the sun went down, the far bank lit up like Las Vegas, and the sound of containers being dropped into cargo ships boomed across the water like thunder. It may not sound too appealing as a camping ground, but we were delighted with it as a spot to pitch the tent for the night.

We lit a fire at dusk, brewed the tea, and made some grub. A French lad walking his dog along the strand popped up for a chat. The usual two questions - where are you from and where are you going. He was suitably impressed we’d made it this far from Ireland. Even though he didn’t have a word of English, it was clear he was up for a laugh. Through a series of elaborate charades and muddled French, we managed to have a good buzz with him.

He told us this area was renowned for drug smuggling, and that there’d been a seizure of 10 million euros worth of cocaine along this shore line. Similarly to the Young Offenders storyline, dog walkers had come out here and found bails of the stuff washed up on the shore. I told him that our waterproof duffle bags were actually full of cocaine, an idea he seemed to find just as plausible as the prospect of us cycling to China. Himself and Le Docteur had much in common.

The dog walker left us with the parting shot that we shouldn’t worry if we heard any gunfire because there’s a lot of duck hunting down this neck of the woods. Drug running, gun fire and people smugglers across the English Channel. A grand spot for some wild camping so. Those St. Brigid’s crosses and St. Christopher’s medals we’re toting were working full tilt that night.

We’ve spent four nights as guests of members of the Warmshowers community. It sounds kinda dodgy, but it’s a network of cyclists and bicycle trekking enthusiasts who offer fellow travellers somewhere to stay for the night. I’ve been a member of it for several years, but the hospitality we’ve been afforded by people in France has been exceptional. We’re welcomed into their homes, we break bread with their families, they offer us invaluable local insights, and we get to wash and have a bed for the night. After a shower in one of our host’s homes, Ellie remarked as I walked past, “you smell nice, dear.” “What do I smell like?” I enquired. “Not arse.” What’s seldom is wonderful.

Thibaud and his lovely children, Astrid, Octave, and Augustin. Our hosts in Rives-en-Seine.

I haven’t seen or read any news reports in the last week, but I’ve benefited from the kindness of strangers several times, enough times to know that I’ve recently been distracted from remembering that the world is predominantly full of kind people who will help others when they can. It’s something worth keeping in mind, and the kindness we’ve received so far is something we intend to pay back long into the future. It’s possible that kindness is catching.

Buzzed upon the kindness of strangers, and grinning like dopes full of the happy hormones, we found The Shire in a place called Marais-Vernier. Higgledy-piggledy thatched houses, leaning this way and that, with red earth packed in between thick wooden beams. As if to heighten the effect of these hobbity habitats that we were passing in this rural part of the Seine valley, across the river, far in the distance, were flames shooting out of the enormous chimney attached to some kind of industrial plant. I’m no Gandalf, but I would swear that it could have passed for the Eye of Sauron. Thankfully, this far into proceedings, our precious rings are still intact and well protected.

The quaint village of Arsy.

One of our Warmshowers hosts recommended staying a while in Deauville. It’s incredibly beautiful, which is saying something in an area populated by elaborate houses that look like they’re directly out of a Lemony Snicket story.

I noticed on the way into Deauville that it’s twinned with Kildare town. Fairytale mansions, a yacht club with two massive watch towers controlling a draw bridge, a tennis club on the beach, and sports cars parked along the promenade. No offence to the landlocked Lily Whites, but Kildare is definitely punching up.

The highlight of our first week on the road for me was rolling into Rouen. We crested a hill a few kilometres outside the capital city of Normandy, and down below us the ancient city was laid out like a tapestry. We arrived at the 13th century Cathédrale Notre-Dame just as the bell was striking noon. Each peal seemed to roll back time, and we couldn’t help but place ourselves among the pilgrims who for centuries have been arriving in this town square, in front of this building, as part of some epic journey they’ve decided to take. It felt right.

Twelve bells in Rouen

Ellie wasn’t leaving this city without visiting the spot where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake… by the English! The oldest inn in France overlooks the spot, and it’s odd to think that people were taking wine and bread inside and outside this establishment, much in the same way they are today, as Joan of Arc was put to her death. Shit went down in this city, and when you wander through its streets you can feel it.

As I write this post, we’re snuggled up in the tent, camped beside a lake in the woods a few kilometres east of Compiègne. With evenings this dark and cold we’re usually inside our down sleeping bags not long after sundown.

There’s an owl hooting in the distance, the church bells of the nearby town are striking seven, there’s snipe drumming across the lake, and an almost full moon is cutting through the trees. The endorphins have worn off from today’s spin, we’ll be stiff and achy when we drag ourselves out of the tent into the cold wet marshland at dawn, but for now I’m pretty blissed out.

Le Docteur might be right, and we may not make it to China, but we’ll have some laugh trying.

Hold her steady, and keep it between the ditches.