Even before dawn, the Rue Cler was buzzing with activity as the wholsalers made their deliveries. I weaved my way through them exchanging “Bon matins”, the wheels of my travel bag clacking over the wet cobblestones. It promised to be a magical day.
I took the metro to Saint-Lizaire Gare, found my track, my train, my seat, and, soon after, found myself watching the countryside of Normandy fly by. Normandy is lush green farmland unscarred by development. No billboards. No graffiti. No suburban sprawl. The grass is a brilliant green as far as one can see.
I arrived in Bayeux and, as promised, Francois the proprietor of the local bike shop met me at the station. He was a kind and enthusiastic man, eager to help a fellow cyclist, and whisked me in his truck to his bike shop in an industrial park south of town. it was my first interchange with a non English speaker. I could tell that he was skeptical of my choice of a high end Specialized Tarmac bike, but I managed to convey I had some experience and had completed four “double siecles.” He didn’t seem impressed, but smiled indulgently.
We trimmed the bike to my size together. He loaded me with a tube and pump, lights, a hex wrench, stuffing them in every available pocket in my pea coat.
I could tell he was concerned and skeptical of my plan as I wasn’t dressed for cycling 20 kilometers and was riding a little top heavy. But I reassured him I would be fine and set off, a bit wobbly at first, but finding my balance with the suitcase on my back. Francois followed me in his truck down the road a ways to make sure I was all right, shouted he would see me on Monday morning, gave me a thumbs up, and sped ahead.
It was a cold, crisp fall day, a bit of a sharp wind, colors like a Van Gogh painting: trees with black trunks, orange leaves, green grass, and blue skies. The bike, a Specialized like my own, was well tuned and the pavement was smooth. The country roads were narrow, but I soon found French motorists are to cyclists—especially old, panting geezers, in a heavy Pea coat packing a 40 pound suitcase on their back–very courteous and swing wide into the oncoming lane to allow a comfortable space when passing. There were fewer cars passing me than me passing cows.
I crested a hill near Arromanches to catch my first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean below and Gold Beach, now so serene, seventy years ago so violent. I enjoyed a long descent to the sea with the wind at my back, not a care in the world (other than the somewhat squishy brakes Francois might want to tighten up when I return to Bayieux on Monday.
Turning north I passed through La Fontaine-St-Come, Asnelles, and arrived at Ver-sur-Mer. I found my way to the B&B where I was to stay. It is everything and more than I imagined; a quaint 19th century farmhouse, a stream flowing outside my window, white shaggy cattle grazing twenty feet away, and a golden retriever lying watch at the door to my room. Mylene, the owner, apologized that I was the only guest this weekend, but invited me to breakfast on Sunday morning.
Dumping my load, I set off to explore the coast to the north, had a delicious croissant avec jambon for lunch, rode south to a bluff as the sun set, road back and crashed into bed.
This is the first quiet place I have stayed on this trip. It is a welcome quiet.
"Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost" 