Day 66. Le Meillerage-De-Bretagne. Oct 11 2001.

Fog and Spiders Part II.

We woke this morning to a fog as thick as yesterdays. But today we couldn't roll over in our sleeping bags and sleep or sit up and watch the intricate patterns. Today we had to pack our soggy things and carry on with the trip. Everything was wet and had begun to acquire that wonderful smell of moldy bread and we have little left in the way of clean socks and underwear. Not ones to be daunted we rose early, I cannot say bright because the sun was hidden, stuffed our soggy things into our wet bags and climbed out of our little vale towards the main roads.

Breathing was like drinking and before we had gone very far we were drenched to the skin and all our hair, along with any fuzz on our clothes, was coated in a thick pattern of white beads that made us look hoary and grey. We passed out from the village over the dam that held back the reservoir and to our right a rocky little stream bubbled down over the stones and fallen logs to disappear mysteriously into the mists. Looking down on it was like looking through a magic mirror into an enchanted land and we forgot, for the moment, our sopping bodies.

Biking in a mist as thick as today’s was an interesting challenge for we could not see more than a hundred feet in front of us. Trucks appeared out of the mists like magically summoned beasts or the ancient ones of lovecraftian stories, leaving behind their roar and swirling clouds as they disappeared once more. Trees appeared like leering specters on the edge of our vision and houses sat silent as though deserted. Used to mists at home, that scarcely last past midmorning, we waited for the sun to emerge and burn off the fog. We waited and we waited and we waited.

We also passed some very interesting signs on the road.

Today we had planned on a big push towards Nantes to avoid staying at a closed campground. But we had not reckoned for roadwork. The road we should have taken to Chateaubriant was closed for construction and we were forced to take a very long detour. Long at least for those on bikes, it was perhaps twenty minutes to half and hour out of the way for someone in a car.

At the intersection where we would have turned off the French tourist board had erected a replica Neolithic monument amidst a circular garden.

It was very eerie to have watched such a monument loom at you out of the mists, no matter how contemporary it was.

I wonder if genuine ones really marked a road of power for the ancients, if they did in fact follow ley lines of mystic energy or were only solitary isolated attempt to mark, in a human way, the feeling of the numinous. Perhaps in much the same way as Cathedrals and spires do.

Again today the spiders were out in full force, eventually growing to numbers that put yesterday to shame. They dropped from the tress and spun webs between vast distances, linking lamp posts and telephone poles and road signs in one vast cobweb. Even we, who were constantly on the move, became hosts for spider webs, eventually trailing them like streamers in long lines behind us. Occasionally a cluster of webs would break from their moorings and float along an imperceptible breeze, riding currents over furrows in the fields like dragons over mountaintops.

We followed the detour signs away from our destination, Chateaubriant getting more and more distant with very turn of the pedal. I grew first concerned, then worried and finally mad that we had to move so far from our path. Ironically enough the road which we now followed led straight to Angers.

Finally, after a brief consultation with the map, we took the next turn south, despite the sign warning “no through traffic.” Now we entered a dark and gloomy forest that sheltered us, for the moment, from the mists. At last we could see ahead. It was like pulling off a blindfold. Soon we left the forest, reentering the mists and eventually hooking up with a westward road that would take us straight to Chateaubriant. It seems the road detour went all the way to Angers despite the fact that you could shorten the distance the way we did. Perhaps the locals didn’t want the traffic.

Now at last the mist began to dissipate and we were treated to a wonderful blue sky and no wind to speak of. It was enchanting to watch the mist lift off the fields in long columns of vapor but a little strange to watch it happen an hour after noon. Just on the outskirts of Chateaubriant we saw a monument peering through the trees and through we might break for lunch there.

It was a large patriotic monument dedicated to 27 locals who had been executed by Nazi’s. 27 pillars with portraits of the dead ringed a square while at the front were wooden posts like those they were tied to before being executed behind them and looming over all was a stone carving of the men dying at the post.

Beneath were glass canisters in a wall with earth from every place important to the French resistance. Overwhelming it all was a spirit of “Never Again” But I was forced to ask myself, never what again? Never again should people be executed? But hundreds are executed around the world every year, many of them in the US and few protest. Never again should people die for their beliefs? What about Waco or the followers of Falun Gong? Never again should people be under the rule of a people like the Nazis? But the Taliban forced Hindus and Jews to wear yellow badges’ setting them apart and nothing was done ecept a little posturing. The war in Afghanistan has nothing to do with the Nazi-esque behaviors of the Taliban. So the question remains “Never Again” what? Does "Never Again" only apply to stable westernized democracies and even then those with a sufficiently large nuclear arsenal are left alone?

We left there without eating and entered the town of Chateaubriant and decided to take our lunch in the courtyard of their beautiful castle.

Here a man approached Heather, shouting angrily in French that there was no eating allowing in the yard, despite picnic benches and garbage cans everywhere. When she did not understand he became exasperated and his lady companion translated in disgust. As we left we were glared at from every corner. We would have liked to explore the castle and look at the theater next to it but we left in disgust instead. The theater across the street from the castle was a small cube, supported inside by four pillars. The outside was entirely of transparent glass and it was called La Theatre en Verre, the Theater of Glass. Very intriguing.

We headed south once more and once more were wrapped in cocoons of spider silk. Eventually we became too exhausted to go much further and in spite of being far short of our goal we began to look for campground signs eagerly. We found one at a small town and occupied its municipal grounds with vigor, despite the locked washrooms. At least the water was running. I have discovered something about France. The smaller the town the larger the name. Paris, Nantes, Avignon, Bordeaux. One or two, even three syllables. The name of this town, the one before, tiny places, long names. Inferiority complex perhaps?

Here too we were reintroduced to the sound of church bells, unheard since Mont St. Michel, every hour and half hour. But after six o’clock the ringers began making mistakes, ringing four times or fifteen and, after a mistake, they would ring the bells like crazy as if to cover their error with a cacophony of noise. Enchanting as bells can be, after three mistakes we were ready to blow up the church. Perhaps explaining many religious wars in the process.

This campground was very isolated and the youths who dropped by to check us out from time to time did little to sooth my jumpy nerves. We kept looking in askance in the direction of the town, made very tense by the constant loud shouting and violent barking of dogs. We felt sheepish on peering over the bushes and watching a man try desperately to teach his dog to fetch a stick. Stupid dog! Still the constantly falling acorns made strange noises in the dark and I did not sleep particularly well.

 

Next Entry: Day 67. Nort Sur Erdre
Previous Entry: Day 65. Marcille Robert

Day 58. Courtils. Oct 3 2001.

Today we had planned on stopping at the intermediate town of Avranches and reaching the towns near Le Mont St. Michel the day after, but plans, especially plans made by us, get changed.

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.

The only road into town rose along a steep and long path to the base of the city walls. We needed a break before we even contemplated going up that route. We stopped in front of the local McDonalds and ate our food, unfortunately not McDonalds food. Our cholesterol dependant bodies cried out in anguish, but we resisted temptation. Heather was worried about us eating no-fast food on their lawn. I figured that we had given enough and it was about time that the fast food industry gave something back.

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.



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