For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to go on a bike backing adventure.
This is probably a slight over-exaggeration as I can remember nearly exactly the prompt and the inspiration, which occurred during a backpacking adventure four years ago in South East Asia. A sweet solo adventure of nine months which took me through Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, Cambodia and eventually my beloved Vietnam. In the last weeks of this trip, when I was sucking the marrow out of life on the road before returning home, I met fellow travelers who annoyingly one-upped me in the adventure stakes; they had eschewed trains, planes and buses in favour of their two wheeled friend, the bicycle.
My impression was followed by hungry readings of Full Tilt by Dervla Murphy once back in the Emerald Isle and a local bike tour around the Dingle Peninsula with an Australian friend.
Not satisfied by just keeping things local, I recently realized my dream by setting off with Daisy to the continent...One girl, one bike, one interrail ticket and two over-packed panniers. Surely the necessary beginning to any good story?
The plot goes like this:
In the beginning there was France. A tour that began in Tours and ended in Paris with a mileage of 170.01 spread over four days in the saddle.
In the middle there was Germany which for the purposes of plot twists, leaves the saddle and instead follows rail routes. France > Münster > Berlin > Munich. The typical story plot involves some kind of a 'learning journey' or 'take away' for the protagonist. Well, I won't disappoint.
Exhibit a) Protagonist learns (the hard way) that there are 3 'Munsters' in Europe
Exhibit b) Protagonist learns that bike reservations are strictly necessary
Exhibit c) Protagonist learns that an 'oh dear' does not lend to a 'let me help you' in German lexicon...
In this story, the slightly frazzled but loveable protagonist (channeling 'damzel in distress' like a true girl boss) experiences all flavours of national stereotyping and learns them to be all....largely true.
This, like all classic tales, leads me to the end which is set, rather romantically, in Italy. Even more romantically, this part of the story is also set on two wheels with meanderings as follows... A train from Munich to Brescia, a cycle from Brescia to Lago d'Iseo to Bergamo and il finale sur bicicleta: Bergamo to Milan. The mileage in Italy totaled to 82.3 miles spread over two glorious days.
Like a dutiful traveler, I did some furious journaling during this trip in lieu of writing blogs. So, for a taste of authenticity and to rewind back to my voice in the moment, here goes:
Day 1, 16th May 2022
A plane from Dublin to Tours.
Unpacked my bike on the other side, a box that could carry a flat packed horse and successfully assembled:
-Pedals
-Wheels
-Handlebars
Then came to the easy part of inflating the tires and, of course, I could not do it. My hand pump would not attach. Eventually requested that the air hostess, en route to leave, called a taxi for me.
Yay! A taxi man with little English but a love of Ireland and a desire to show me all of his Irish holiday snaps while driving me to the city.
Arrived to 'The People' Hostel, a 'bike friendly space' and thank god, a handsome French man behind the desk who showed me how to fix my hand pump.
Classically, just a 'simple matter' of removing an inner (hidden) valve et VOILA!
But oh no, not oh la or voila. I discovered, when cycling, eventually, to a restaurant for dinner that my front tire had developed a real life puncture, probably from the trauma of being flat for so long. Quelle disaster! I made the decision to ignore this in favour of enjoying my first meal out: a glass of Sauvignon Blanc plus Tagliatelle au Saumon rounded off with 'Glaces' de pistachio et yaourt.
I also wandered the city 'a pied' as I reasoned a perfect opportunity to do something with them other than pedal.
7.30 AM: Alarm tone sounds to signal breakfast (croissant, of course) and straight back to the tire. Wheel off, tube out, new one in--no problem. But then, the challenge I had been expecting hits me full force: Fitting my tight tire back over the rim. Neither I nor three other people in the hostel could put humpty together again. I watched, wincing as an elderly yet very determined man attempted to fit it back on using an assortment of cutlery and tire levers--all of which were instruments that my dad had told me, in no uncertain terms, to 'avoid' due to the very real risk of causing another puncture.
Eventually wheel in hand (successfully having pried the determined old man away) I found a bike shop in the centre and sought help there. The bike shop man used a 'magic tool', not, brute strength and it was on. This did not give me much hope for if a similar problem were to occur on the side of a road...I don't think these magic tools have the ability to appear magically in front of you if summoned.
11.00 AM: FINALLY! I set off. Beautiful, beautiful bike paths along the Loire, tiny villages with cobbles and vineyards galore. The heat is insane. Quite possibly 30 degrees, though now I sit, write and relax under the shade of a tree
in the grounds of a ...
I, as well as relaxing like a professional, am also wine tasting. Here's what I've learnt:
The grape 'Chemin' found only in the Loire Valley, South Africa and New Zealand. It is possible only in this region to make the medium dry/sweet wines due to the Indian Summers leading to more sugar in the grapes.
Day 2, 17th May. A visit to the 'Grand dame' Jacqueline and a cycle from Lussault sur Loire to Blois
Jacqueline is a French woman who lived for many years in Wexford with her husband Terence...pronounced, she insists as 'Ter-honce" not with any of the Oirish twang. Jacqueline loves classical music, cherries and reminiscing over a past life so well lived she breathes stories....and quotes..
"Ah Kilkenny, Oh I don't know how to describe it. It has a kind of intellectual feeling as if you are in a little salon"
"The Irish, I don't mean to offend you but they would be your friend but take your handbag behind your back"
(Suddenly fixing me with a meaningful look)"Do you know how to say 'no' in French?"
Me: "Non"
Jacqueline: "Non, Monsieur, I am not that kind of girl"
The above visit to Jacqueline also included me stepping into the role of 'hairdresser' as, before I knew it, the old lady--suddenly not seeming so old at all--had dunked her head into the kitchen sink, emerged dripping and had presented me with a scissors. At her insistence I found myself standing in a shady part of her garden trimming the ends of her silver hair. She watched it fall to the ground exclaiming "oh, is that all. My goodness, I used to have so much more".
In the spirit of Jacqueline's joie de vivre, I had not booked any accommodation in Blois. I felt that riding in by golden hour and happening upon a delightful (and cheap) B& B run by a French couple called Pierre and Noémie would be entirely possible and preferable.
~To be continued~
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