France for Cyclists - Cycling Along the Loire

We stopped at the pâtisserie by the bridge, in the old port of Dinan. The smell of baking seeped through the walls; we couldn’t resist. At random, I chose two fat wheels of pastry, which the girl behind the counter heated before handing over. They tasted of caramelised sugar, butter, pastry and hot apple, a mouthful of fat happiness.

Duncan and I smiled – long, slow, toffeeflavoured smiles. The girl smiled too, then looked closer at our clothing. “Ah, you are on bicycles,” she said. “Where are you going?” The source of the River Loire, we told her, nearly 1,400 kilometres from here, in the Massif Central. She pulled a face and wiped her hands on her apron. “Courage!” she said. “Courage.”

As we pedalled away along the riverbank, I looked at the computer on my handlebars. It read: total distance, 31.5 kilometres. Courage? More like an injection of sanity, please..

I’ll be honest: we weren’t proper cyclists. We had bikes, sure, but we had never been cycle touring; our idea of pedalling was a quick burst on a mountain bike over a handy piece of moorland. And yet here we were, riding through the green swathe of Brittany, heading for Saint-Nazaire and the Atlantic Ocean, and then on to the mountains.
Why? Well, Duncan and I had been driving through France the year before, looking through the windows at the scenery. We couldn’t smell France, or touch it; a car moves so quickly the tendency is to keep travelling. And we suddenly realised that it was so sanitised; that we could spend our lives driving along these roads without ever being immersed in the place or the moment.
Somehow, we had to slow down and get closer to the country. Walking would take too long, horses or boats weren’t practical. Pedalling, despite our complete lack of touring experience, was the obvious solution.

River runs through it
So I looked at the map. A route jumped out: a river that ran through the heart of France, from mountains to sea. Along the way, it traversed 12 départements, thousands of villages, hundreds of kilometres. By beautiful chance, it involved long stretches of cycle path, which dived between green lanes and picturesque villages. This river – the longest waterway in France – was the Loire.

I started planning. For a trip this long – we allowed a month – we would have to camp; luckily, the campsites in France are the best in the world. Bikes, equipment, clothing, maps all had to be organised and the lists seemed endless. Actually, I enjoyed it: immersing myself in logistics and trying to anticipate a trip is like having the adventure twice over.

Part of the mission was to be as ecofriendly as possible, which meant trains and boats, rather than planes. Virgin and GNER trains in Britain would ease us from Yorkshire to Portsmouth, Brittany Ferries’ overnight service to Saint-Malo provided the prime launchpad to the continent, the TGV would whisk us to Paris once we’d finished cycling, with the final leg on Eurostar to London. Simple. All we had to do was ride.

The funny thing was, in my mind it was all about distance and timing. We would pedal, I announced, a certain number of kilometres a day, or a certain number of hours. We would stop at pre-selected châteaux, gardens or vineyards. Orléans, where the Loire swings south, would be reached in two weeks and the source, Le Gerbier de Jonc, in four weeks. I forwarded maps to post offices in France to keep the initial weight to a minimum and counted out energy bars.

In hindsight, I was in danger of seriously missing the point, which was to go slowly, to be flexible, to enjoy the moment. While I had absorbed guidebooks and maps, I hadn’t allowed for weather, or personalities we’d meet along the way. As it turned out, the characters we met in bars, gîtes and campsites, were the golden glory of this month in France.

In Brittany, for example, on our second day of riding: after the heady delight of our toffee-apple pâtisserie, we’d cycled along a muddy canal bank in driving rain. Arriving wet and filthy at a remote gîte near Médréac, we realised it was Monday, the shops were closed and we had no food.

I asked Marie-Anne and her cherubic husband Émile if we could buy some eggs from them for dinner. She ushered us into a pretty cottage, gave me yellow slippers embroidered with daisies and disappeared. Half an hour later she returned, with new potatoes cooked with smoked sausage, eggs from her mother’s hens, home-made bramble jam and bread, and lettuce from her garden. She chatted about her job with Crédit Agricole; how she loves to visit England; her son Paul-Émile; and this cottage which they had converted from a barn. When she left to allow us to eat, we realised we had morphed from being strangers arriving on a gloomy evening, into ‘probably never meet again but what fun while it lasts’ friends.

Chipmunk cheeks
Next day, in a hamlet called Iffendic: the village seemed dead, but the pâtisserie was open. Madame, with chipmunk cheeks and stern hair, looked sideways at us, then glowed when we said her pains aux raisins were the best in the world. She directed us to a butcher for cured ham; he had a Hitler moustache and a pierced nose. Near the butcher was a PMU bar which served the strongest espresso; a woman with rich red hair, black eyebrows and blue eyeshadow drank wine at the counter, a rheumy-eyed dog wrapped around her feet. In a car, you wouldn’t stop here. On a bike, it was a delightful interlude.

Rolling hills, silent villages, stone churches. After a long day’s ride we climbed a hill to a campsite; the gate was open but the site was closed. A cheery man in a static caravan leant over his picket fence: the site wasn’t open now, he said, the proprietor was crazy; he would give us water; lovely, here, wasn’t it?

He was a bus driver from Paris, now 84, retired here, loved walking and the birds. He lived alone, had travelled around Europe, had a house by the Loire river but it flooded every winter (he gestured to show water rising past the fence and made glug-glug-glug noises). Later, so tired that we got drunk on half a bottle of wine, we ate dinner and then the mosquitoes ate us. Our friend filled our water bottles in the morning. “Bonne route!” he called. “Courage!”

Brittany passed swiftly, a gentle warmup for the real thing which started, in our minds, at Saint-Nazaire. As we neared the city the terrain became flat and marshy. A cyclist on a training ride, all speed and Lycra, cruised alongside: “Where are you going?” Following the Loire, we told him, from the sea to the source. “C’est formidable!” he said and rode with us for miles. As he peeled off he called over his shoulder: “Be sure to visit my town, Guérande, it is a medieval wonder. Courage!”

Saint-Nazaire was intimidating, a great grey mass of motorways, fumes and buildings. We found, by chance, a cycle path that led us toward the vast suspension bridge over the Loire, to where our river tipped into the sea. Attempting to get close to the river, we rode past ‘No Access! Forbidden!’ signs into an industrial nightmare. With the bridge looming over our heads our nerve failed and we turned tail, heading back to the D100 and east.

The seaward Loire was hidden by industry. Just before Nantes, in the suburb of Coueron, we saw it for the first time. From a wooden jetty, we stared downriver toward the factories and upriver toward the city. This was the Loire: queen of the rivers; we rode east.

In those early days, the Loire was a gentle giant. Golden sand formed into banks and islands, trees and bushes sprouted with abandon. The roads and cycle ways were quiet; tourists, trapped by the châteaux honeypots, don’t venture this far west. After five days on the road, we had relaxed into the routine of cycling. We’d start early, cycle for 20 kilometres or to the nearest café/pâtisserie. Two milky coffees and pains aux raisins later, and with a baguette on my rear rack, we’d ride a little further, stopping for scenery or snacks. By mid-afternoon, we’d scout a campsite, buy food for dinner, enjoy an apéritif and a chat, and go to bed early.

Life became simple. The only decisions were when to stop and where, and even those seemed to happen on their own. Swept along by the map and the river, we wandered in and out of people’s lives. Rain fell, sun shone, cycle paths ventured into rocky, muddy wildernesses, villages appeared in surprising places and hearts were opened. It’s hard to describe, this abandonment to fate. C’est la vie, perhaps.

Château country
For two weeks, the terrain and the river barely changed. We bypassed busy cities in favour of quiet villages, keeping the river between us and the grey chaos of urban life. Entering château country in the Loire heartland, we were overwhelmed – so many châteaux, so much wealth, so many tourists. It became clear that we would have to be selective; after a while, one magnificent pile of stones begins to look like the next.

Montsoreau was our first stop. A creamstone shell of turrets and leaded glass housed a high-tech exhibition dedicated to the river at the château’s feet. The exquisite Renaissance château of Azay-le- Rideau, set in a lazy bend of the River Indre, was an early highlight, with a son-et-lumière lightshow to further tickle the fantasy. Chenonceau, we were told by a French couple we met on the cycle path near Angers, was unmissable. They were right: the gardens, the smooth straddle over the River Cher, the impossible perfection of the ballroom, explain why this is the most visited château in France.

Château Clos Lucé, final home of Leonardo Da Vinci, drew us into Amboise. Wandering the gardens in bright sunlight, discovering models of his inventions tucked into trees and corners, was a respite from the tourist frenzy at the nearby château. By contrast, grand and ornate Chambord repelled us. It looked cold and excessive; we stared from the outside and rode away. Then, cycling through its forests on a dirt track, we came face to face with a stag. We watched, through the mist of rain and breath, until he stamped and vanished into the trees.

People and places
Despite the architectural wonders, the highlights of the trip remained people, in tandem with their places. In the village of Saint-Étienne-de-Montluc we found a café by the church. Elderly women pushed old bicycles draped with leather panniers, stopping often to greet, kiss, exclaim. A woman with helmet hair, freshly coiffured, checked her profile in every car window. The church bell tolled. Duncan went shopping for cheese for lunch in a grocery shop staffed by an ancient couple. Three customers were in front of him; each had a conversation with the patron, a round up of the week, encouragement for the day. It took him 40 minutes to buy a Camembert.

In Drain we found a tiny, grimy bar on the edge of town. Madame poured chilled rosé into thimble-sized glasses and gave us peanuts and the local recipe for soothing insect bites. “You must use white vinegar. It is cheap and natural, not like all these chemicals from the pharmacy,” she said, spitting on the floor for emphasis. At the riverside campsite, the cheerful owner told tales of flooding – “for two months the water is to here!” – she pointed at the office steps. At night the river turned apricot; as the sun set, birds chirped and frogs gurgled. A fish flopped and a futreau, a black punt once used to glide the river, sighed at its mooring.

Across the river from Saint-Mathurinsur- Loire, beside a tall house of white stone, we found a tabac. Cigarettes were stacked behind the bar, a rack of magazines offered bosoms and fish. Six men on their way to work drank coffee, smoked vigorously, talked loudly. Posters above their heads advertised an Inuit art exhibition, motocross and a scrabble contest. We sat, invisible, in a corner, drinking strong coffee in a warm fug on a grey day.

In Saumur, the Saturday market was busy. We bought wet goat’s cheese with herbs, garlic sausage, a pile of peppers and courgettes still crusted with dirt, all for €3. Live jazz plus duck thighs with green beans lured us into an ancient restaurant whose floors sloped like a small alp. It was our first restaurant lunch – and last. Cycling any distance after a decadent meal was, we realised, a non-starter.

One Sunday, riding through a rain storm, we arrived sodden in the village of Huismes. Creeping, dripping and unsure, into the bar we were greeted by David, a blue-shirted man with a big smile. “Bonjour! Ça va? Café? Bien chaud?” A big, old dog at the door wagged welcome, everyone who entered shook hands and kissed, including us in the circuit. Banter filled the bar and Sunday was celebrated with rosé and grapefruit juice, poured from a jug, €1 a glass. David searched for a bed for us for the night, but the town was inexplicably full. Reluctantly, we rode on.

Another day, another bar… this time Isabelle, in Saint-Dye-sur-Loire, let us into her life. She provided coffee and French lessons, correcting our grammar as she offered more sugar. She told us about her children, aged 22, 15 and eight; about her husband who sells motorbikes and about how she wanted, more than anything, to get out of Saint-Dye. “You must write an épopée, a story with all the details, good and bad,” she said. “And you must put me in it.”

Campsites, too, proffered slices of life. At Chenonceau, we were the only customers on the municipal site. The guardian told us proudly that he had lived his life in the Loire area. The Chenonceau château, he said, was privately owned by a brother and sister who still lived in the village; it was the most visited château in the country.

When I commented on the number of tourists, he shrugged; “If you think this is busy, you would not like it in August.” The château mustvisits, he said, were Cheverny from the inside and Chambord from the outside. Amboise and Blois, he assured me, were nothing special.

At Huisseau-sur-Cosson, the campsite proprietor joined us for an apéritif. A shy man, he talked quietly about the nuclear power stations near the river, about global warming and the need to cycle rather than drive. He hadn’t travelled but had met many travellers; most didn’t want to talk. He wished us “bonne route, courage” and we rolled away from his campsite, into another day.

Some towns, we visited. Favourites were Blois, Sancerre and Le Puy-en-Velay, combining architectural beauty with quirky corners and well-tempered traffic. Most towns, we body-swerved, some we had to traverse. Roanne was the worst; we lost the Loire as we struggled through grey streets, but found it again on the far side.

The river now became tighter, smaller, faster. We started to gain height, lost the tourists, felt the air freshen. Amazingly we thrilled to the effort of climbing, loving the satisfaction of meeting the challenge. Over the hills to the Loire gorges; to Le Puy-en-Velay in the foothills of the Massif Central. Up and up, through the remote hamlet of Goudet, on roads forgotten by council budgets, always following the Loire.

After three weeks of cycling we paused, on a glorious sunshine morning, at lac d’Issarles. Mountains reflected in its mirror and we realised we were just hours from our destination. Fresh from its source, the Loire gathered itself here, in a placid lake camouflaging a huge hydro-electric scheme. It was an early example of just how often it would change, on its run to the Atlantic.

In the final 50 kilometres, we climbed 1,200 metres. We climbed through wild flower meadows, above deep gorges and through rich woodland. After so, so long on the bikes, we climbed the final piece of road to Le Gerbier de Jonc, and when we saw the souvenir stalls and the tourist coaches, we nearly kept going. But we stopped, found the pool that is one of several claimants to the source, and dipped our wheels in the water.

Journey’s end
In the morning, feeling strangely expectant, we rose with the sun. Why? Because soaring above the pool of water, the souvenirs and the coaches, is a volcanic plug of rock. Water infiltrates the permeable layer and re-emerges when it reaches the impermeable, granite layer, in small trickles that the souvenir standowners claim as the source. This plug, then, is the real source, because all those trickles originate inside it – and so we planned to climb it.

As we stumbled up the steep, rocky path, we thought about the previous month. It was amazing to think that the drops that force their way through this rock become the busy trickle, the gentle stream, the tight curves with golden beaches, the huge lake, the fat torrent, the great, lazy beast that barges into the sea. It was equally amazing to think that, by simply turning the pedals, we had followed it through all its different forms, to this point.

So we stood on the summit and looked over the blue bulk of France. By this evening we would be in Valence, after a long descent through the Ardèche gorges, the air getting hotter and the traffic getting busier. We would leave the Loire, take the train back to Britain and struggle to adjust to a normal life. But for now, we were on the roof of our world. And just as we had hoped, on that motorway morning nine months before, we were soaking in the smells and the sights of France.

We were immersed in the place and the moment – and right then, given a choice, we surely would have stayed.

THE BIKE
If you plan to cycle for more than a few days, it makes sense to take your own bike. That way, you can ensure it is set up correctly – seat height, in particular, is vital for comfort.We took mountain bikes (comfortable riding position) with slick tyres (decreased rolling resistance on the road). Unless you are riding principally off-road, the extra tread of mountain bike tyres creates too much drag, which is very tiring. The free Loire By Bike Handbook (www.loire-a-velo.fr) has a list of bike hire and repair shops along the Loire Cycle Route. Most larger towns will also have a bike shop with basics like tyres and inner tubes.

To prepare ourselves we rode 20-30km a few times a week, for three weeks before the trip. The plan (which worked) was to build up bike-fitness on the flatlands, so when we reached the hills after Roanne we would be ready for them.

THE KIT
The key to cycle touring is to travel light. Including camping gear, clothes and camera equipment, our load weighed just 7kg per person, in two rear Ortlieb panniers (waterproof, lightweight, with a rolltop closure). A small Ortlieb bag was mounted on the handlebars for food, camera, clothing, first aid kit, etc. This light load significantly enhanced our progress and enjoyment of the route.

Clothes should be lightweight synthetic, easily hand washed and dried, and multi-purpose. Jeans, for example, are too heavy.Washbags can be reduced to travel miniatures – there are plenty of pharmacies to buy replacement items.We weighed, to the gram, everything we took. As we finished with maps or were able to dispense with an item, we posted it home.We also used the Poste Restante system to send a batch of maps to ourselves at the halfway stage, saving around 500g at the start of the trip. On the bike, cycle mitts with padded palms, and well-padded, multi-panel cycling shorts are essential.We wore two pairs of shorts at a time. Shoes with a stiff sole are recommended; we used cycle-touring shoes with cleats that clicked into the pedals.

ENERGY
Fuelling your body is a big part of enjoying a cycle tour. Finding the right balance of carbohydrate and protein is a personal thing, but here’s how we kept going:

Breakfast was an energy-fest: muesli and fresh bananas.We always stopped mid-morning for coffee and pains aux raisins (this is France; it would be rude not to). Lunchtime was bread and cheese or whatever we picked up in a market. Twice we had long lunches in restaurants but it destroyed the afternoon – it’s too hard to cycle on a full stomach! Evenings we carbo-loaded: pasta or potatoes, with vegetables and meat. During the day, besides eating bananas for instant energy, we drank two or three litres of water each. Staying hydrated is as important as not getting hungry.

As well as fuelling your body, it helps to be nice to it.We stretched hamstrings (which shorten while cycling), backs and shoulders every time we got off the bikes, and at the end of each day. It made a huge difference.

THE ROUTE
The original idea had been to spend four weeks riding from sea to source, covering a total of 1,350km. Daily distances were planned at between 50km and 80km, allowing plenty of time for sightseeing. As it turned out, our shortest day was less than 30km, our longest was 110 km and we reached our destination in three weeks. Had the weather been kinder we would have spent more time wandering around châteaux gardens and village markets.

It appears to make more sense to ride from the source – the highpoint – to the sea. In fact, doing it the other way around was, for us, the right decision. Starting over flat land and graduating to climbing when you are bike-fit makes sense. The scenery becomes more dramatic as you work toward the source, building in anticipation as you get higher and nearer. People cycling the other way often abandon at Nantes, because the grim reality of industry is too horrid. Above all is the sense of achievement, of standing on the summit of Le Gerbier de Jonc, looking out at the blue hills and knowing that you have cycled from the Atlantic, from sea level, to this point and the only way now is down.

For families or first-timers:
A week of touring in the châteaux country, using the waymarked Loire-à-Vélo cycle path (cycle lanes or quiet roads) could be Angers to Orléans, or a loop from Tours taking in Saumur, Chinon and Blois. For a fortnight, start in Roanne and ride to Angers or Nantes (or the other way around). Slightly tougher: Nantes or Angers to Le Puy-en-Velay, with some climbing in the final few days.

For a fortnight:
More experienced cyclists who relish the challenge of riding up hills would enjoy a fortnight from Tours or Orléans to Valence, via Le Puy-en-Velay and the source. This takes in châteaux, varied terrain, wine country, hills and the Ardèche.

GETTING THERE
Brittany Ferries (www.brittanyferries.com. Tel: 0870 536 0360) is bikefriendly. To start your tour on the Loire, and to return at the end of your trip, the train is the most logical choice.We organised our rail travel through Rail Europe (www.raileurope.co.uk. Tel: 0870 837 1371), planning well in advance to reserve spaces for bicycles.

BEING THERE
Accommodation: Options are to camp or stay in hotels, auberges, chambres d’hôtes, gîtes or gîtes d’étape (at the most basic, a dormitory with mattresses and blankets) The free Loire By Bike Handbook has a list of bike-friendly hotels. Campsites are a fine option for the selfsufficient, although many are closed from October to May. Maps & guides: IGN 1:100,000 maps (Carte de Promenade, blue cover with a bike graphic) are ideal (you can buy these mail order, from www.ign.fr). We planned our route and likely stopping-off points through The Rough Guide to the Loire (www.roughguides.com). For distances and likely day stages along the Loire we used the Cicerone guide Cycling The River Loire – The Way Of St Martin by John Higginson (www.cicerone.co.uk). The Loire By Bike Handbook was a valuable resource.

LOIRE VALLEY CYCLE PATH
This project aims to create an 800km-cycle route from Cuffy to Saint-Nazaire. In June 2007, we found that it effectively started at Ancenis, with signs petering out at Orléans, and a gap between Tours and Blois. The Loire by Bike Handbook shows the waymarked route. For the latest, go to www.loire-a-velo.fr