Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie

by Andrew P. Sykes

  I had forgotten that to appreciate a monumental chunk of culture, you needed an equally significant chunk of the day and a body that was up for the challenge. I had neither but went through the motions of cycling up the hill, purchasing a ticket and joining the hundreds of other tourists to be directed on a strict route around the former apartments of kings, queens, emperors, empresses and one Pope*. In retrospect, I should have taken my camping chair, erected it in the gardens and admired the view. As it was, much of the undeniable beauty and majesty of the palace escaped me.

  Upon arriving back at Camping Grange aux Dîmes, I noticed much commotion taking place in the car park. A large maypole was being erected by a group of Germans, so not a maypole but a traditional Maibaum. A helpful local explained that every two years, residents of the Bavarian town of Bernried visited Samoreau to complete the task. The job of lifting the impressive length of wood to a vertical position was being done without any mechanical intervention. Burly Bavarians huffed and puffed until 90 degrees was achieved. Physical effort aside, it was a wonderful sign of international friendship.

  Indeed, the entire campsite had a very international atmosphere. When I went to the reception the following morning to pay my bill, a sizeable number of young Dutch people were in negotiation with the campsite manager. From what I could understand, a window had been smashed as a result of alcohol-fuelled high jinks and the French woman behind the counter was reluctant to return the group's deposit. After much discussion, everything was resolved amicably. Well-built Germans, drunk Dutch students, an exasperated Frenchwoman and an Englishman on his bike; rarely had I felt so thoroughly European.

  —

  Having attempted to cycle several times along the Thames Valley into central London following the National Cycle Network route 4 and, on every occasion, having lost my way (usually around Chertsey), I didn't rate my chances of cycling uninterrupted along the valley of the Seine into central Paris. It was time to call California and see what Google Maps had to say.

  The suggested route worked out just fine and, until I was close to the orbital périphérique motorway – only about 5 km from the centre – I followed Google's every twist and turn. I crossed the Seine for the first time at Bois-le-Roi, cycled through the centre of Melun, stumbled over a block of stone in Lieusaint used to define the metre in pre-revolutionary France, dodged joggers in the Sénart forest and then hit Paris itself… Well, not so much Paris as a Japanese tourist who was far too eager to cross the road, but let's not dwell upon that inglorious moment of this adventure.

  Once over the périphérique, the landscape was increasingly familiar: along the banks of the Seine, past the cathedral of Notre-Dame, over the multi-padlocked Pont des Arts, beside the Louvre, through the Jardin des Tuileries, over the cobbles of the Place de la Concorde and finally along the length of the Avenue des Champs Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe. Who needed an open-top bus when you could do the whole thing for free on a bicycle?

  I parked Reggie near the middle of what must surely be the world's most prestigious traffic island and sat for a few minutes to admire the view down the busy thoroughfare along which I had cycled. You couldn't have wished for a more pleasant spring day, with the sun high in the blue sky and a light breeze – sufficient to breathe life into the oversized French tricolour dangling from the triumphal arch behind me but insufficient to take the edge off the warm afternoon. Having just achieved the feat of cycling from the southern tip of Europe to one of the continent's pre-eminent capitals, I was triumphant, and where better to be than an arch dedicated to that very emotion?

  I'm in Paris! Look forward to seeing you at the Eiffel Tower at 10.30-ish.

  Great news. Thierry is up for looking after Reggie.

  So went the text conversation with my former French teaching colleague Kerrie. The school group had arrived in Normandy a few days earlier and would be travelling up to Paris early the following morning. Thierry was their coach driver and he had accepted the challenge of minding the bike for the day. The plan was coming together well.

  All that remained to do was for me to find somewhere to stay. In most cities I would have shuffled off to the nearest modestly priced hotel, but this was Paris. Did such things exist? My guidebook told me that the nearest campsite to the centre was Camping Indigo, on the other side of the Bois de Boulogne. If Hyde Park is one of the lungs of London, the Bois de Boulogne is the artificial respirator of Paris, slung over the shoulder of the périphérique and a stone's throw from the Arc de Triomphe. Within 15 minutes, I was outside the gates of the campsite, a small cluster of rather stylish reception buildings before me and beyond them a pitch beneath a tree that would be my home for the next 36 hours.

  I cycled a rather slimline, pannier-less Reggie back through the Bois de Boulogne the following morning. The weather was OK, neither good nor bad. Despite this, many vehicles were parked along the roads criss-crossing the park and their female drivers had removed many of their clothes – far too many clothes for them to be comfortable in the freshness of a May morning in Paris. In some cases they had stripped down to their bra and pants. Could it have been an issue with the air conditioning? Were they waiting for a mechanic to turn up? Some of the ladies had abandoned waiting in their vehicles and were perched on nearby benches, their legs wide open in the hope of the cool air penetrating even the most inaccessible areas of their bodies. Lacking the necessary mechanical skills to offer assistance, I smiled and cycled on.

  My former colleague Kerrie hadn't told the pupils that they were about to be reacquainted with one of their former teachers. Whether this was because she didn't want to deal with insurrection in the student body ('What? You're dragging us to Paris to see Mr Sykes?!') or whether this was to add an element of happy surprise into their day akin to that which would be provoked by them bumping into their favourite pop star or professional footballer, I shall leave for others to judge. But the children certainly gave the impression of being pleased to see me and it was a genuine delight to see their familiar faces.

  As a teacher, it was strange to be surrounded by familiar children but not have anything other than a passing moral responsibility to keep them safe and well. Aside from Kerrie and two other French teachers, the group of four adults accompanying the pupils from Henley-on-Thames was completed by my good friend David. Away from the classroom, his interests were very much of the two-wheel variety. A fellow northerner – in his case from Lancashire – he had spent many years living and working in the Thames Valley and had even worked in the bike shop in Caversham from where I had purchased Reggie. He had coached cyclists at the Reading cycle track, and was able to talk with enthusiasm and passion about cycling in a way that wasn't just mindless waffle.

  David had helped me to keep my nerve prior to embarking upon the trip from Tarifa to Nordkapp with his regular injections of supportive words and advice. At times I questioned my decision to leave my job and venture off along the cycle paths of Europe but David never did. It was good to see him again and, as the kids went off to explore the Eiffel Tower and have their portraits painted in Montmartre, we chatted about the cycling and the travelling in a way that I hadn't been able to do with anyone in months. Who needed performance-enhancing drugs when I had a performance enhancing friend? By the end of the day, my motivation to complete the task of cycling to Nordkapp was high and I was in good mental shape for the challenges ahead of me.

  As the coach trundled off along the Avenue de New York and I stood waving on the pavement, I felt a sudden pang of loneliness. I had spent seven hours amongst the people of my old life and now they were gone. Once again I was alone, surrounded by strangers. I carried Reggie up the steps of the Palais de Chaillot, pushed him around the Trocadéro roundabout and cycled back towards the Bois de Boulogne. The women were still there, waiting for someone to come along and repair their air conditioning. Just as I had done earlier in the day, I smiled sympathetically and cycled on.

  * * *

  * Pius VII, who first visited in 1804
and was subsequently held there under arrest between 1812 and 1814. His 'cell' was very comfortable. (BACK)

  THE FOURTEENTH DEGREE

  49°–50° NORTH

  19–21 May

  So, Picardy, excite me! I might have shouted if I hadn't been spending so much of my time and energy battling the wind. North of Charles de Gaulle Airport, I paused to examine my large paper map but after several comical minutes of struggle, I gave up. Mother Nature had beaten me. She refolded the map in a manner she saw fit and I chose a road that was heading roughly in the direction that I needed to be travelling. Between the centre of Paris and the airport, traffic had been fairly heavy so it was with a sigh of relief that I was now able to turn off the main road and head for… somewhere.

  Southern Picardy was a flat landscape of cultivated fields. A few modest settlements and the occasional copse added a small drop of diversity to proceedings. I was beginning to suspect that this northernmost section of France wasn't going to be the most interesting portion of my trek to Nordkapp. I tweeted as much and when I checked my phone a little later, one follower had replied: 'Look out for the castle at Pierrefonds. It's worth a visit.'

  It was in the direction I happened to be heading. Something to look forward to. In the meantime, the lingering inner glory of having cycled as far as Paris was keeping a smile on my face and, however mundane the ride through Picardy was turning out to be, it felt comfortable.

  Nearing Pierrefonds, I had been on the bike for over four hours and had knocked off in excess of 80 km, helping to nudge my daily average distance in the correct direction again. I wanted it to be pushed significantly above 75 in the flatlands of northern France, Belgium, Germany and Denmark, before heading into the more mountainous areas of Scandinavia. A few days of 80, 90 and 100 km or more would be useful at this stage. With few things to stop me in my tracks, I saw no reason why this shouldn't be possible.

  I was then stopped in my tracks.

  My view had been restricted by trees on either side of the road but suddenly, ahead of me, poking up above the greenery was a cluster of pointed turrets. Passing coaches parked to my left and a pretty yet crumbling white church to my right, I cycled a little further and looked up. I wasn't expecting that.

  I had found the château of Pierrefonds, an edifice of considerable size. Cylindrical towers supported ramparts with conical roofs. Between the towers were high walls resembling those of a mighty dam, their smooth surfaces interrupted only by a few small windows. Embedded into the wall of each tower was a statue. The building had been constructed on a mound to one side of the town centre. The fact that I hadn't seen it coming was perhaps one of its greatest attributes and all credit to its medieval builders.

  Yet something was not quite right. The medieval castle had somehow failed to age. The walls were blemish-free, the tiled roofs too pristine. Where were the cannonball scars? There were hints of a Disney castle and it looked faintly familiar. I reached for my guidebook.

  ... built in the twelfth century, dismantled in the seventeenth and restored by order of Napoleon III in the nineteenth to create a fantastic fairy-tale affair of turrets, towers and moat.

  In the main square below the castle I noticed a couple of painters busy at their easels. A third person – a man – flitted from one to the other, offering advice. A black Range Rover with a British personalised number plate was being used to keep them supplied with paint, brushes, rags and whatever else one requires to paint a 'medieval' castle. I pushed Reggie to a position where I could see their paintings and fell into conversation with one of the artists.

  'Do you know Merlin?' she asked.

  'Not personally…'

  'No, the TV series Merlin. The one with Victor Meldrew. Well, the actor who played him.'

  'Richard Wilson?'

  'Yes, that's him. It was filmed here.'

  'I don't believe it!' I could have said, but didn't.

  This answered my question as to why the castle appeared familiar. The very French Château de Pierrefonds was, in the imaginary world of TV drama, the very English Camelot. My appetite was whetted and I was eager to explore. The castle was, however, about to close; I would need to come back in the morning. If only there was a handy local campsite… 800 metres down the road I found Camping de la Forêt, checked in and made camp.

  Shortly before 9.30 a.m. the following morning I watched as the employees of the castle arrived for work and then set about opening up. I formed an orderly queue of one. The contrast with the noise, bustle and enforced herding I had experienced at Fontainebleau was welcome. After the first half-hour, I was joined by perhaps half a dozen other visitors. One turret per person – a perfect castlewandering ratio.

  In Pierrefonds we were back to Napoléon and the Bonaparte dynasty. In 1789, as I'm sure you are aware, France was revolting. La Révolution tore through the ranks of the aristocracy but, within 15 years, Napoléon Bonaparte had crowned himself emperor and set about defining modern day France. However, after his disastrous Russian campaign, the other European powers forced him to abdicate and sent him into exile on the island of Elba. Ever the restless general, he escaped and marched on the French capital to regain power.

  Louis XVIII had been installed as the new head of state only to be overthrown by Napoléon on his return to Paris. In June 1815 the action moved to Waterloo – much more of that later – where Napoléon was defeated once and for all and eventually sent to distant Saint Helena where he died in 1821. Louis XVIII was restored to power. Was that the end of the Bonapartes? Not quite…

  Over the course of what remained of the first half of the nineteenth century, things got a little messy in France, as democracy and monarchy fought for supremacy. Louis was succeeded by Charles X, who in turn abdicated and was replaced by Louis-Philippe (keeping up?). Meanwhile, Napoléon I (that's Napoléon to you and me) had had a son who was (you guessed it) Napoléon II. He was never accepted as emperor of France but that didn't stop him from adopting the title. He died, in Vienna, at just 21 years of age, without leaving an heir. Was that the end of the Bonapartes? Not yet…

  In 1848 civil war appeared imminent so Louis-Philippe did the courageous thing and fled to England. The Second Republic was declared, elections held and a certain Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, nephew of Napoléon I, was elected as president. However, prevented by the constitution from running for election a second time, he did the next best thing, which was to orchestrate a coup d'état, instigate an empire, declare himself emperor and rule as Napoléon III. Job done*. Was that the end of the Bonapartes? Yes.**

  Despite his lack of democratic credentials, Napoléon III wasn't all bad. He became famous for engaging Baron Haussmann to redesign the Paris that we know and love today. Bringing a little relevance to this long tale, I should now explain that he was also responsible for rebuilding the Château de Pierrefonds.

  Inside the castle, several paintings and one very old photograph showed how the building appeared prior to 1857: much like you would expect a crumbling, derelict, medieval castle to look. The architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc was instructed by Napoléon III to start the renovations. He came with a good CV, having already set about restoring Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris and the fortifications of Carcassonne in the south of France. The restorations were never completed but what Viollet-le-Duc created was a wonderfully fanciful version of how a medieval castle 'should' look. The interiors were as colourful as the exteriors were pristine. Indeed, it was easy to see why, when the TV executives were looking for a Camelot for Merlin and his mates at the court of King Arthur, they came knocking. I loved it.

  I had been wrong to be so dismissive of what Picardy had to offer and, as I continued my cycle north, looked forward to discovering other places. I was again setting off with only a vague direction in mind and certainly no fixed route. I would cycle where my whim was telling me to cycle, albeit within the parameters of a ride that would hopefully have me in Maubeuge by the end of the following day.

  —

  It
was almost impossible to travel through this part of Europe without regular reminders of the two world wars. I was heading in the rough direction of Saint-Quentin, picking out a route that kept me well away from any of the busy roads. Many of the little towns and villages sported quaint, almost poetic three-barrelled names: Cuise-la-Motte, Berneuil-sur-Aisne, Moulin-sous-Touvent, Tracy-le-Mont… It was difficult to imagine this area as one large battlefield. I smiled at the uncharacteristically short sign to the village of 'Cuts' but my mood was to change as I approached the town of Nampcel.

  Initially, I thought the dark posts in a field behind some trees to my right were agricultural, supporting a crop that had yet to grow. But then I realised my error, parked the bike by the side of the deserted road and walked towards the entrance. The sign read:

  Deutscher Soldatenfriedhof

  1914–1918

  MOULIN-SOUS-TOUVENT

  Cimetière Militaire Allemand

  It was a World War One German military cemetery containing the remains of 1,903 soldiers.