Cycling through France, down long and windings roads,
reveals a landscape of rolling valleys and hills. There are
green forests, mountains covered in pine trees, and valleys
through which clear rivers meander. The air is warm and
sparkling, the landscape seems to run on forever. It is
summer and there are birds flying over the trees and
skimming along the water. Occassionaly you hear the odd
rustle, and a small squirrell may appear for a moment, stare
at you with large, startled eyes, and dart back into the
forest. The sun, fairly hot, beats down and creates a dim
haze, causing you to sweat. A butterlfy with yellow and
brown wings flirts from leaf to leaf as you pass by.
The road winds it's way up, and you change down into a lower
gear. The world slows down, the landscape appears motionless
and you can see the smallest details, the cracks in the
road, the brown barks of the trees, covered in moss. The
leaves flicker with sunlight, and move gently with the wind.
There are tall banks at the sides of the road, which mark
the end of the forest. The banks are covered by long grass
and thickets.
Up and up you go, along the winding roads. Near the top, you
look down, and have a spectacular view of the valley below
and the mountains on the far side. All around you, you are
surrounded by green forests. Occassionally, you encounter
the peaks of some isolated Chataue, standing out like
a fairytail castle in the middle of nowhere. Tall spires,
shining in silver and blue. As you cycle passed the tall
walls and look through the bars of the black iron gates, you
catch a glimpse of a green lawn and trees planted in neat
rows.
Going downhill, you change gear again and speed up. The
landscape passes by quickly as you whizz passed. You hold
onto your hat and get the exhilirating feeling of flying
along effortlessly, with the wind blowing in your face. A
feeling of freedom. Blood rushes to your face. The air cools
you down. You look at the forests hurtling by.
Down below, the outlines of a small village appear. Always,
the spires of the church, rising up in the centre of the
village, higher up than any other building. You catch
glimpses of brown walls, windows with wooden shutters. Then
you are cycling through the centre, along cobbled pavements,
passed the boulangerie and patissery. You stop in the centre
of the town, opposite a small fountain or water pump, to
fill up your water bottle, or you may decide to rest for a
while under the shade of the trees.
You lock up your bike and walk over to the church. Gothic
style- talls spires and arches, statuettes and gargueles.
The huge wooden doors are open, and you take off your hat
and walk inside. You go through a side door, turn right and
open a second door, which closes silently behind you.
Inside, the air is cool and musty. The noise, the heat and
commotion from outside is cut off abruptly. The church
broods in stillness.
The first thing you encounter is a small table, covered with
pamphlets and postcards. There is a noticeboard, with
timetable and some photos. A small cupboard contains
candles, with a money box-for donations. Then you look up.
At the far side there is the altar. Above the altar hangs a
large golden cross. Behind the altar are huge stainglass
windows, in the form of a rosary, displaying scenes from the
bible and telling the life-story of the Saints and Prophets.
Light streams through the windows,and falls onto the altar.
High above, lies the ceiling. The dark stone curves it's way
up, in tall arches. There are huge stone pillors running
along the sides, supporting the wheight of the ceiling.
You turn now, and walk along the sides. Old paintings are
hung on the walls. The paintings are cracked and faded and
shrouded in shadow. Small alcoves open up along the sides
into separate prayer rooms, containing statues and
tapestries. Beneath a statue of the virgin Mary is a table
with lighted candles. Looking behind and up, above the
entrance, you see the tall, thin golden pipes of the organ.
Occassionally, if you are lucky, there may be someone
playing, and the sounds of Beithoven, Mozart or Bach will
echoe through the church.
You walk along, looking up at the stainglass windows on each
side. Copper plaques are hung on the walls, a donation from
the family of some rich nobleman who died. In the centre,
small wooden chairs, with thatched seats are laid in neat
rows. You sit down a minute to rest. On the side, about
half-way down, you come across a winding staircase of wood,
which ends in a platform, the priests pulpit. The sides of
the staircase are elaboratively carved, with figures of
animals, birds, flowers and fishes.
You come out of the church into the sunlight and noise of
the outside world. You drink some water, perhaps nibble on a
slab of chockolate or baguette. Then continue. Across the
cobbled stone. You take out your map and stop and ask for
directions in french, to be treated to a long description.
Then the landscape changes. You come to open fields, and
gentle, rolling hills, covered with grazing cattle. Sheep
and cows eating grass. Colours of green and brown and
orange, an earthy smell to the air, mingled with manure.
Wire fences with gates made out of wooden stakes. Neat,
colourful farmhouses. Flies flitter across your path, making
your eyes blink and water. A farmer says good-day to you in
french, watching you cycle passed. Workers in the fields,
bent over, picking tomatoes and putting them in baskets. A
farmer on his tractor, plowing the fields. Horses eating
grass in the fields.
You cycle passed apple orchards. If you are lucky, the trees
may be bursting with ripe fruit. The ground beneath the
trees is littered with fallen apples. You stop to pick a few
apples for lunch, wiping off the dirt on your shirt, or with
a bit of water. The apples are slightly smaller and more
bitter than the ones normally bought in the market, but you
can eat them.
Coming into the next town, you stop at the local Supermarshe
or supermarket, to buy lunch. A baguette, some Normandy
Cheese, Pate', a tin of beans, a bottle of wine. You sit in
a quiet spot in the shade of some trees, on the grass, in a
park, next to a river or fountain. Take out your knife and
tin-opener. Spread some cheese and pate' onto the baguette,
and eat. The bread is light and tasty, you can eat it on
it's own. The cheese, coated white on the outside, is orange
and creamy within. The pate', brown, made out of pork or
beef. The wine, cheaper than coldrink, semi-dry, red. You
finish your meal, wipe the knife on the grass and wash it in
water and put the waste-paper in a packet. You consult the
map again, and then you are off.
An hour passes. Your buttocks ache slightly, and you shift
your seat. You lose awareness of the sweat and aches and
effort being expended. Towards evening, the air grows
cooler. You start to look out for the campsite. Then you are
there. Three or four more kilometers. you turn off the main
road, and follow the sideroad. You pay for the night, or
give your passport, buy a token for the shower. Then you
look for the spot to put up your tent. Test the ground. Move
away stones, make sure there's space for the pegs. Spread
out the tent. Crawl inside. Up go the poles. Knock in the
pegs. Bring in your sleeping bag and things you need:
toiletries, change of clothes and underwear, shorts for
sleeping in, a towel, your money and camera, a book to read.
You put your cuttlery on the grass, a small tin cup, plate
and bowl, light and easy to carry, knives and forks. You
light the tiny gass-burner and boil some water for coffee.
Then you can relax.
Afterwards, a hot shower, supper under the stars, an easy
stroll around the campsite, and bed. The sound of crickets,
outside, the cool air. You rest your head on a pillow of
clothes, turn on your side and fall asleep.