We set off late from Donneville-les-Bains. It had seemed that we would be trapped there forever, the cyclists black hole. Olivier was very sad to see us go. We had been the only people he’d spoken to in a week. All the French people answered him in English, a language he could barely understand. Apparently I was the first person to talk to him in French in a long while.
Today’s trip began with difficulty and remained that way. First we had to push ourselves up the hill out of the campground, then, after buying groceries, we had to push ourselves up the hill on which the train station rested. By now we were ready for lunch.
As we sat eating, Granville’s air raid sirens went off. They seemed to go on forever. We looked around nervously but the locals just ignored them, so we followed their act. But continuously sounding air raid sirens would get under anyone’s skin and it made us both jumpy. There are things that go on in the daily world that scarcely faze you, but when you are a stranger in a strange land, without being plugged into the local information system, everything around you takes on a strange cast. It’s like watching a television show in a foreign language. You see everything that goes on, but nothing makes any sense.
After lunch we climbed the final hill leaving Granville and set out in the direction of Avranches. On the map the road was very straight, but, as we had feared, it was very hilly. Still, it was the first sunny day in a while and we enjoyed the good weather while it lasted. The French drivers seem to be getting ruder the farther into France we go. Many of them seem to take a perverse pleasure in getting as close to us as possible and sounding their horns. What they hope to achieve by this is beyond my understanding. They aren’t going to get us off the roads that way and since, if they scare us enough, the worst outcome is us falling off our bikes and under their tires, with the result that they end up in jail for manslaughter, it seems like a pretty stupid thing to be doing.
As we rode through the French countryside we passed a couple of fabulously decorated manor houses, obviously still occupied. The one that stuck out was right beside the road, square with great oval flares around the circular windows at the top. There was a double drive leading to the scrollwork-covered staircase at the front entrance and a garden that seemed to go one forever behind. It looked unscathed from the renaissance until now. Very enchanting.
Also on the road, at one of the steep parts where we were forced to walk, was a dead cat, struck down by a car or truck. To Heather, who lived most of her life with cats, it was very disturbing and even for me it was the worst road kill we had yet encountered.
Finally we crested a hill and there, off to my right, was the distant hazy image of Mont St. Michel. I pointed frantically at it, but Heather ignored me until too late, the Mont had disappeared behind a grove of trees. By the next clear patch the Mont had disappeared and I’m sure that Heather thought I was hallucinating. Sunstroke perhaps. After a mile or so, I was inclined to agree with Heather because, thought the right side of the road remained clear, there was no more sign of the Mont. Finally, as I was beginning to doubt my sanity, the Mont emerged from behind a rise so small and gentle, that neither of us had been able to notice it. Even from so far away you could easily discern the rugged shape and the peak of the Mont. It stands out in sharp contrast to the green hills behind, almost like a shadow. At the height of its power there is no doubt that it was awe inspiring and probably produced more than a little fear in the local peasants.
Soon our attention focused on a more immediate fear, the town of Avranches loomed up before us, a medieval city built high atop a great hill with sheer cliff surrounding it.
As we ate I looked through the map and discovered that Courtils, another planned stop, was not all that far off and it was only 2 hours past noon. Because it was such a warm day, with so little wind, we decided to push on and avoid the steep climb to Avranches. To follow our chosen route, however, we were forced to travel on a major four-lane highway. The highway was slated to become an autoroute next year but was still open to bikes at this stage. This fact did not discourage every driver we encountered from honking wildly at us at they passed. Nor was the shoulder particularly pleasant to ride on as it seemed to be a major centre for the disposal of glass.
Oh yes, I have failed to mention that the valve on Heather’s tire failed this morning, leaving us in a precarious position with only a single replacement inner tube left.
Somehow we managed to get off the highway intact, but it was not an experience either of us would care to repeat. We left the highway at Pontaubault, a small town with another bridge the allies had tried to bomb out, only to fail. It must have been pretty difficult to hit anything fifty six years ago. But the allies must have been pretty happy to miss because after the town was liberated it became Patton’s main access point into Brittany and most of the third army crossed that bridge.
After the town we passed some exquisite houses on rises where they could see the Mont.
Here in France the turret seemed to be a popular design feature on country houses, even when they are obviously modern houses.
At last we arrived in the town of Courtils. We passed a little through it, lured by the more expensive campground adverting a heated pool on the other side. But, despite the pictures, the pool was about as attractive as the average cesspit, so we sheepishly retreated to the campsite in town. It was cheap and clean and right across from a field of cows, which made things a little tense as I am allergic to cows and Heather has an inexplicable terror of them. I believe that in a previous life she was gored to death by an enraged cow...
or perhaps not.
Finally we went to bed, only to discover a little ridge beneath us so that no matter which way we slept, our feet were higher than our heads. We eventually managed to fall asleep, only to wakened by the local bells sound a hundred times at midnight. Nice.
Next Entry: Day 59. Le Mont St. Michel
Previous Entry: Day 57. Donneville Les Bains
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