EuroVelo 6 - Meersburg to Sigmaringen - from the lake to the river

I’ve left the great weight of my panniers in the hotel room and set out on Craig (the name of my bike) with only the great weight of last night’s dinner to lug around. Craig and I both notice the difference, the creaks in his suspension and my knees have disappeared as we cycle past palatial houses with immaculate gardens and expansive views of Lake Constance. Old grapevines tangle up wooden sheds, apple trees bear fruit early in the season in neatly-rowed and netted orchards. Stalls beside the bike path sell buckets of apples and bottles of apple juice. 

    In Hagnau am Bodensee, the Rathaus has a flowering garden leading down to the shore and we cyclists ride straight under the imposingly wide and regal building through a convenient tunnel. I like a town hall that is so approachable. Next to the path, in the garden, is a small amphitheatre for musical recitals.

   Lunch today is taken in a beer garden under the shade of trellised vines, in what looks like a cafe exclusively for cyclists. Everyone eating here, and there are many, appears to have a helmet beside their meal. Families on a leisurely day out, old men riding home from the shop, couples in matching cut-off pants, the lycra-clad brigade. It seems to be impossible to cycle past without being lured into the garden. And I must say the beer is impossibly cheap - a bottle of water costs more than the amber fluid. So, I partake. 

   At Lindau, with the snow-patched Swiss Alps looming large over the lake, I wobble over the cobblestones and take shaky photos of the harbour with a statue of a lion guarding the entrance. An Austrian boat putters into the safe waters. The border with Austria is a few kilometres south-east of here. And a little further on is Liechtenstein and Switzerland. I could ride into four countries in one day... but I have another beer instead. Tax havens masquerading as Principalities are not my cup of tea, or jug of beer, as it were. 

   The next day I ride in the opposite direction along the lake towards Uberlingen. The water is jade green and shallow this far up the lake. A man sitting in a giant plastic strawberry catches my attention, as do the luscious red berries he’s selling. I buy a punnet, sit at a bus stop and eat half of them. As I resume my cycle, I’m so lost in the taste of the strawberries that I fail to notice I’ve ridden past the end of the lake. I look back in vain to wave goodbye. As Homer, the great American philosopher and nuclear technician, would say, ‘Yuuummm... strawberries.’ 

    A kind soul has installed bird houses thirty metres up a cliff face. His handiwork is well used judging by all the flapping and squawking and babybird-heads-poking-out! The road climbs gradually for the next hour. I can’t locate the bike path so I alternate between the wide footpath and highway. Trucks are as courteous as pensioners at a bowls club, all waiting their turn, no hurry Dear.

   As I don’t have a map, I have no idea where I am, so let’s call this Bodensee Heights Tableland shall we? Acres of wheat fields and cheery orchards, sorry that should read cherry orchards. And then the perfect village, an old church next to a school in a stone building, opposite a cow barn, covered in solar panels, a cow pasture leading down to a bridge over a bubbling stream to a football field, with the nets still attached to both goals. In the backyard of one house, a family eat lunch, the smell of bratworst wafts across the path. 

   Next stop is Messkirch, where a delicatessen sells warm bratworst on a roll! It’s downhill all the way from here into the valley formed by the Danube River. 

   When it comes to rivers that have always enchanted me, the Danube is up there with the Mississippi. I’ve ridden beside the Mississippi near the delta at New Orleans and today I ride along the Danube. It’s hardly the Blue Danube up here, near the source. In fact, it’s so shallow and insignificant, I see two children wading in mid-stream. But, it is the Danube, the second-longest river in Europe and a waterway that acts as the border for ten countries. The EuroVelo 6 now follows the Danube all the way to the delta in Romania, two thousand kilometres east. 

    To celebrate my meeting with the Danube, I eat the last of the strawberries and admire the fish ladders constructed to allow migration upstream. My destination tonight is Sigmaringen, a pretty village with a monster castle. Bleak, overbearing and austere, the medieval Sigmaringen Castle was briefly the seat of the French Vichy Government-in-exile at the end of World War Two. Perhaps that colours it’s appearance for me. 

   At the foot of this pile of rock, I eat rhubarb strudel and contemplate tomorrow’s waltz along the Danube. Sorry, had to finish with that shocker...

EuroVelo 6 - Bad Sackingen to Meersburg, Germany. Me and my bike... on a boat.

 If I was surprised by the size of dinner last night, with a one hundred kilometre cycle ahead today, I’m prepared for breakfast - muesli, juice, fruit, yoghurt, thick brown bread, and a boiled egg. That should get me the first fifty kilometres. 

   In this area, the Rhine is a fetching pea-green colour as it meanders through a narrow valley. I stick to the German side until Laufenburg, a lovely town on a bend in the river. Here, I daringly cross the stone bridge to... Laufenburg, Switzerland. They were one town until 1800 when Napoleon divided them, making the border the centre of the river. Both towns have lovely five-storey buildings fronting the Rhine. As I take my own photo on the borderline, I spy a couple sitting on their balcony overhanging the river, eating breakfast. What a lovely way to start each day.

    Somehow, after thirty kilometres of cycling along the German side, I find myself lost in Switzerland, without even having crossed the river. It’s all very confusing. Lunchtime is upon me and I don’t really want to eat in Switzerland. The hassle of paying in Euros and getting Swiss Francs as change. What will I do with them? And to tempt me even more a weinfest is on at Rafz. Scores of people are sitting at long bench tables at the entrance to a large barn. The smell of barbecue smoke drifts across my path. Only a moment ago, I saw my first Rhine vineyard, in Switzerland. And yet, I’ve never heard of Swiss wine. 

   The Swiss houses all have window-boxes full of flowers, many also have old-fashioned shutters on each window and exposed cross beams. One bright yellow house has a sundial attached to it’s southern wall. It’s an hour slow. Perhaps allowing for daylight saving?

    My stupid mobile phone keeps alerting me, through text messages, that I’ve entered Switzerland. Or Germany. Or Switzerland. It’s as confused as I am. Then, all of a sudden, I’m back in Germany. Lunch is a choice of schnitzel... or back on my bicycle. It’s a very small Gasthaus. 
    I cycle all afternoon, border-hopping until I reach Singen and my hotel. Tonight, in honour of the large Turkish population in Deutschland, including Mesut Ozil, I eat at the Bosphorus Restaurant. It combines the taste and quality of Turkish food with the size of German dishes. Sehr gut!

   The next day is a public holiday and everyone has decided to ride with me to Lake Constance. It’s like Parramatta Road for bicycles. The town of Konstanz, on the lake, bulges under the pressure of so many tourists. The constant click of camera shutters accompanies my lunch of bratwurst on a roll and a beer. A mother tries to get her young son to stand still for a photo with the lake as backdrop. He just wants to run into the water. Can’t say I blame him. It’s a scorching hot day, like Bondi in summer with the smell of sunscreen replaced with the aroma of sausage. 

   For the first time since leaving the French Atlantic coast, I take my bicycle on public transport, a ferry across the lake to Meersburg. With the number of tourists, I expected to be waiting for hours. I underestimated German efficiency. I rode straight on deck, paid a paltry amount and enjoyed the views as the boat released from the gangway.   

   Meersburg is a medieval town with a castle dating from the 7th century. The town rises steeply from the lake and is divided into two old sections, upper and lower, both free of cars. I wander around in a tourist daze, gawking at the variety of food on offer. Oh yeah, and the castle, the huge wooden water wheel, the lovely town square of cobblestones and cafes, the wonderfully preserved wooden crossbeam houses and the intricate paintings on many of the public buildings.

   Now back to the food. I sit outdoors at a lakeside restaurant and order a beer. This is the view in front of me. A bottle of beer; a line of stunted oak trees; flower boxes on the fence protecting the crowds from falling off the promenade; the lake, at least five kilometres wide at this point with every type of water craft - yachts, beautiful wooden power boats, dingys, kayaks, ferries and old steamers - all crisscrossing the water as if in a choreographed dance; the Swiss shoreline and hills rising behind. And if I turn my head, just a little to the left, why there’s the Swiss Alps, still patched with snow, despite the spring weather. It’s a wonderful scene, if only all the other people would get out of the shot!

   A woman walks past with an ice-cream cone the size of an Olympic torch. She holds it aloft... and takes a huge bite. Three steroid-enhanced men in tight t-shirts and designer sunglasses walk behind her with a swagger like Tony Abbott. I shudder and order a warm apple strudel, just to prolong my time at this table, of course.

   The man at the next table eats a huge cherry pie, washed down with a giant glass of coca-cola and a coffee and then finishes his wife’s cheesecake. At the other table, four people eat schnitzels the size of feet, accompanied by noodles, chips, and a salad. The amount of food we eat is disgus... oh sorry, here’s comes my strudel.

EuroVelo 6 - Basel, Switzerland to Bad Sackingen, Germany - eating my way out of a wedding cake...

After my first rest day in three weeks, I’m eager to continue the cycle east. Basel sleeps in the warm sunshine of a perfect spring day as I cross the Johannite Bridge and within a few minutes, I enter Germany. For a citizen of an ocean-locked country like Australia, it still gives me a thrill to pedal across the border between countries. And when the changes are as prominent as I’ve noticed in leaving France two days ago and now entering Germany, it’s even more thrilling.

   Within forty kilometres, I have gone from a country with towns named Le-Mesnil-en-Vallee and St-Firmin-sur-Loire to one with towns named Bad Sackingen and Friedichshafen; from the Hotel de Ville to the Rathaus; from caressing my vowels in saying ‘petit dejeuner’ to spitting them out my nose when I ask for ‘fruhstuck’; from the occasional solar panel to vast arrays of panels on simple farmhouses (one up for the Germans); from wine to beer; from the pastoral to the industrial; from delicate-waisted madames to big-boned frauleins; from steak tartare to schnitzel. 

   In Rheinfelden, there is a Saturday market with stalls offering giant loaves of hard crusted bread; sausages, eggs and salami; cakes and strudels and lots of fruit and vegetables. I cross the Rhine to the neighbouring Swiss town, where there’s also a market, although not as well-attended as it’s German companion. Most of the Swiss seem to be drinking coffee in outdoor cafes. I continue along the Swiss side, deep into a forest above the Rhine, with extended views up river to a dam, with sluice gates locked, where swans swim close to the bank oblivious to the chimney stacks and chemical plants on the German side. The hills on either bank are heavily forested. The Swiss have red bike markers, the Germans blue, and neither seem to worry too much about telling me I’m on EuroVelo 6. They use their own numbers and as I’m without a map for the first time on the trip, I’m happy just to keep sight of the Rhine. 

    Downwind of a fertilizer factory, I see my first stork of the season. Such a giant bird with a corresponding size nest, they are highly valued as good luck, meaning no-one disturbs their nest. So the stork builds wherever it damn wants to. I like that. This stork has chosen the top of a disused old chimney. Despite the surrounding smell, I watch the bird sitting proud, surveying her domain. 

    Bad Sackingen is a gem of a town with the entry from the Swiss side via the longest covered bridge in Europe. I’ve loved covered bridges ever since riding across them in Amish country in Pennsylvania twenty-four years ago. This one is so long it has a slight turn at one end. I ride back and forward a few times before I notice there is a white line painted across the middle of the bridge. I dismount from the bike and put one foot either side of the line. ‘Look, everybody, one foot in Germany, one in...’ sorry, I’m indulging. 

   I eat lunch opposite the 18th century St Fridolin’s Cathedral where a wedding has just taken place. The bride and groom walk out to cheers and applause. I leave my schnitzel and potatoes to watch the happy scene. Afterwards, I enter the Cathedral. Wow! I have never seen such an overblown confection of a church interior. The ceiling has intricate baroque paintings featuring... well, everything really. Lots of cherubs, some holding grapes, some offering flowers; Cupid shoots his arrow; animals peer down on the parishioners; half-clothed pilgrims reach out wanting to touch God, I imagine. The colour scheme is blinding white, apricot, blue and it’s all so three-dimensional and over the top, I return later in the afternoon for a second look. This time I notice the sculptures of cherubs on the ceiling. On the side walls of the Cathedral are the Stations of the Cross, but these paintings seem mute compared to what’s going on above. The image of a being inside a giant wedding cake comes to mind.

    I’m so early to my hotel today that I just drop my bags and go for a cycle up a Category Two mountain just outside of town. It’s a short climb, only four kilometres, but very steep. The scent of pine hangs thick in the air, the huge trees shade the narrow road, keeping me cool. On top of the hill, I have views of the Rhine Valley, it’s forested slopes, acres of farmland and pockets of industry.   

   I eat in the hotel restaurant. They bring me a little bowl of ‘pork in jelly,’ free from the kitchen. I love that. It always sets up a meal nicely, it doesn’t matter how small the gift is, it’s the thought that counts. The waitress brings a large salad to start, smothered in a creamy dressing, tasty but overwhelming. For my main course, she brings a saucepan full of veal and mushroom stew and a plate-size portion of rosti. She cuts half the rosti and serves half the veal. My large plate is full. She then puts a lid on the saucepan and a cover over the remaining rosti. I finish my plate. The rosti is sensational, crisp and buttery and it soaks up the cream sauce of the veal. The waitress takes my plate and refills it with the remaining rosti and veal from the saucepan. She expects me to eat a second main course. At lunch, I’d noticed the portions were large, but this is heart-attack territory. I eat half the second serve. I can’t move for an hour afterwards. The waitress asks me if I want dessert. I fear my dreams tonight will be of being stuck inside a wedding cake and having to eat my way out.

EuroVelo 6 - Besancon to Mulhouse - Days Fourteen and Fifteen - riding in the Alsace

   Billy Connolly once said, ‘There is no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes.’ He was referring to Scotland, but as I set out from Besancon with the rain tumbling down and the clouds suffocating the surrounding hills, I can relate to the sentiment. Two jackets and a pair of lycra shorts is not going to keep this rain at bay. The plastic bags strapped around my shoes in a vain effort to keep them dry attract amusing glances from the commuters. 

    There’s always one day in any journey where the emphasis is on getting from one location to another, more than on the sights along the way. The bike path is very quiet this morning. I’ve noticed fewer recreational cyclists since leaving the Loire and the Saone rivers. Now it’s only we madmen, pushing out the miles. In this reverie, I almost miss a deer bounding through the grass in front of me. Young and skittish, he seeks shelter in the woods, his white tail a bouncing apostrophe. 

    At Baume-les-Dames, I walk into the only bike shop in town, plastic bags slipping across the floor, a puddle forming where I stand. The owner doesn’t need asking, he leads me to the shoe covers and offers me a pair. ‘Pour la pluie et le froid,’ he says. Rain and cold, that sounds about right. I offer him some money... and the used plastic bags. He calls, ‘bonne route’ as I leave.

    The rain stops immediately. The Doubs River and it’s sister canal are still with me. Sometimes, the path leads me between the two, so close to each, that I could almost reach down into the canal and scoop a handful of water and toss it into the Doubs. Almost, but not quite. 

   Ahead a man walks towards me, behind him a donkey pulling a cart. When the man sees me approaching, he calls to his donkey. I swear the donkey immediately moves to the right, to give me room to pass. We exchange pleasantries, the man and I, not the donkey, although I dearly wanted to see what other words the animal understood. The sign on the cart read, ‘Dieter on tour 2012’. 
   Isn’t it wonderful to know there are people like Dieter around? His ilk are my heroes. They are an antidote to our current condition that demands constant economic growth and endless hours of work for excessive consumerism. Dieter, to a large degree, lives outside of this madness. We seek ‘quality of life’ too readily through consumerism... while Dieter walks across Europe with a donkey and a cart. 

   At Clerval, I enter a restaurant, packed with the lunchtime crowd. The waitress shakes her head. No spare tables. A man sitting alone sees this and gestures to me that he’s finished. I thank him profusely. I gesture to the waitress that this table is free. She shakes her head. I’m not being served in this restaurant, it seems. I doubt that the formule menu is closed as it’s only one o’clock. Maybe my bedraggled appearance has finally met with disapproval, not humour. I walk down the road to a truckstop restaurant. All the tables are taken. The waitress asks a single diner if I can share his table. Voila. I eat ham steak, carrots, potatoes and... brussel sprouts. I’m not refusing anything at this place. 

    I say goodbye to the Doubs River, it’s chocolate-coloured waters flow south while I ride north-east to Montbeliard. It’s been another one hundred kilometre day. I cruise the narrow lanes of the old town, under the towering monolith of the Chateau, it’s two towers dating from the 14th and 15th century. In architectual-speak, it’s an imposing pile of stone, looking over the confluence of the Lizzaine and Allan Rivers. My hotel room has a view of the Stadium Auguste Bonal, home of Sochaux Football Club. The stadium is named after it’s former director who refused to co-operate with the Nazis and was subsequently murdered. Sochaux FC have a defender with the poetically-inspired name of Yaya Banana. 

   At breakfast the next day, I meet a Welsh couple who left Saint Nazaire a few days before me. Their destination? The Black Sea, in Romania. I’m hugely impressed... and envious. Although we left the Atlantic Coast only a few days apart, they’ve had rain every day. I’ve had hailstones once, and rain twice. I wish them clear skies for the rest of their epic voyage. 

    It’s back to the Canal du Rhone au Rhin, which strictly speaking doesn’t flow between the Rhone and the Rhine, but it does allow access between tributaries of both major rivers. My fisherman friends are back in force, ever hopeful. Near Dannemarie, a train races past a bus, which in turn overtakes a cyclist who easily cruises past a barge. The old man walking his dog ignores us all. Retzwiller is a village of modern block-form houses, individually coloured - yellow, mauve, pink, maroon, orange - it’s like passing LegoLand. 

    Despite the technicolour of Retzwiller, the houses in the Jura and Alsace regions are much more austere than those on the Loire. They have a steeper-pitched roof to keep off the snow, much less ornamentation and a certain solidity that implies winter and bleak skies. Except a few houses in the towns of Altkirch and Hirtzbach, a detour up a steep hill I can't resist.

     Both towns have lovely churches and old houses with decorative support cross beams. They look like the builder was making it up as he went. The timber is painted brown, the house green, or mauve, or yellow. I call it kitsch authentic.

     I arrive at Mulhouse early and check into my hotel, with trams running past my window. It’s good to be off the bike for the afternoon. I walk into the old town and have a beer at an outdoor cafe on the cobblestones of the Place de la Reunion. The scene before me best represents my time in France. To my left is a market where I just purchased a strudel, and a butcher at a stall is cutting slices of leg ham and offering them to people. There is a line and I wait... delicious! Next to the market is the neo-Gothic splendour of the Temple of St Etienne, a Protestant Church, built in the 19th century but with exotically-coloured stained-glass windows from the 14th century. There’s a classical music concert scheduled inside for next week. Alongside the church is a merry-go-round, slowly turning, mothers walking beside their children who are sitting on either a beautifully sculptured horse, elephant, princess carriage, motor-bike or biplane. No-one sits on the donkey with the big ears. Near my cafe is a row of old buildings housing a chocolatier, a boulangerie, a fromagerie and a few more cafes.
    Every outside table is taken, people drinking either kir cocktails, wine or beer. The french are soaking up the pale afternoon sun and enjoying all that food and wine and history...

EuroVelo 6 - Days Eight and Nine - St-Firmin-sur-Loire to Decize

    A quick calculation tells me I’ve cycled over 650 kilometres and am more than half-way across France. It should have only been 520 kilometres, but I’ve had a few diversions and got lost regularly. 

    I’m sorry to leave Saint-Firmin-sur-Loire, so enjoyable has been my stay with Jean-Paul and Regine. They even come out to the farm gate to wave me goodbye. 
    Just down the road is Briare, a town on the confluence of the Loire River and the Canal lateral a la Loire. It’s a curious site, a canal flowing over a river via an aqueduct decorated with dragons and elegant lamps. At 662 metres, it was the longest navigable aqueduct in the world between 1896 and 2003.

    For the next few days, the cycle route will alternate between the canal and the river. After a few kilometres, I see my first barge, moving at a ridiculously slow putter. The Captain stands high in the cabin, his wife sits on a deckchair in the sun, a scarf wrapped around her in the early morning chill. Two bicycles are parked on the bow. Swallows flit over the canal, scooping low to drink. I don’t fancy their choice, the water looks green and sluggish. Soon after, a larger barge chugs into one of the hundreds of locks on the canal. The lock master flicks the switch and the lock slowly fills with water, lifting the hulking barge to the correct level. I’d stay, but it’s a little like watching a bath tub fill. Perhaps if someone sprinkled bath salts in?

   I detour to Neuvy-sur-Loire, not because it’s a world-renown town of beauty. In fact, it’s singular claim is that it has a nuclear power station on the outskirts... it’s a change from vineyards and Chateaus. I stop outside the school and read the menu, posted for the information of parents, and nosy Australian cyclists. Today, les enfants are dining on melon, rognon à la graine de moutarde and a dessert of yoghurt. Tomorrow looks even better :- quiche lorraine, ragout d’agneau, legumes couscous, camembert and cherries. Is that a four-course lunch for school children? Better than a pie and a packet of potato crisps. It says everything about the french and their relationship to food. From an early age, children learn variety, quality and, perhaps most importantly, the cultural imperative of relaxing over a long meal. Cheese, fruit, eggs, meat... all part of a balanced diet. I study the menu and cannot find any ‘low-fat’ or ‘dairy-free’ options. I have yet to see a fat child in France. The proportion of overweight adults is relatively low. When asked how many cheeses in France, my friend Jean-Paul answered simply, ‘365, one for every day!’

    It’s a short, sharp hill climb to Sancerre, a wine mecca for tourists and aficionados alike. Me, I just want lunch. Chevre chaud salade (again!), kidneys in mustard sauce (just like the school children!) and tarte poire. And a local savignon-blanc wine. I can report that Sancerre wine does not aid cycling abilities. I wobble down the mountain, all the way to Pouilly-sur-Loire and tonight’s B&B. In the interest of research, I go to a local winery and purchase a bottle of Pouilly-fume. My vote, the Pouilly-fume over the Sancerre. I’m asleep at 9pm.

    I’m now in Burgundy, yet another famous wine region of France. The morning chill is stark, 6 degrees, with a headwind (remember Nigel?). I’m riding on the levee, a windmill slowly clanks, crows fly over a ploughed field, a old man tends his garden. I pass a patchwork of stone farm buildings, in one enclosure a peacock preens, his feathers fantail wide. The females ignore him. The next paddock has three donkeys and a herd of llamas. The farmer is diversifying.

   After admiring a bulwark of barges (what is the plural for barges?) at Argenvieres, I become lost, again. I trundle over backroads for an hour, hoping I’ll come across the bike path. I don’t. Only one solution... to stop at a boulangerie. Whilst getting cake crumbs over my map, I notice that if I take the D40 north, I can make Nevers, my lunch destination and shave twenty kilometres off the bike path, which I can’t find anyway. So, me and one hundred and fifty-eight trucks and camper-vans head to Nevers.   

   An impressive town it is too, set on a hill with houses dating from the 14th to 17th century along narrow streets and lanes. Pride of place in town is the Ducal Palace, commanding a fine view over sculptured gardens and the Loire.

   Still no sign of the bike path, so I stay on the backroads crisscrossing my way slowly to Decize, where the Canal lateral a la Loire and Canal du Nivernais meet. The population of the region is in town to welcome me... or it could be the attraction of the market with stalls selling everything from naff striped t-shirts to nougat. My hotel is closed until evening... yep, they’re at the market too. So I go to a cafe and eat cherry crumble, just to pass the time. 

    It’s a great hotel, when I finally get in. A lodging for workers with a bar serving beer and pastis, single old beds with frayed but clean sheets, a bathroom the size of a closet and an old water-grill heater on the wall. The owners are a gruff but helpful couple who look like they lived here forever. My room, with breakfast costs a paltry $52. I lie in bed, listening to the rain on the roof. I hope it passes before tomorrow.

I arrive in France and they elect a socialist just for me...

I'm in Saint Nazaire, a seaport at the mouth of the Loire River on the Atlantic Coast of France. It took thirty-four hours to get here, including two bum-numbing plane trips and two mercifully shorter train journeys. I arrived on a lovely spring afternoon and immediately put my bike together to go for a cycle. Sure enough, there was a shared bike path/promenade along the water. Every few hundred metres, a kiosk was open, offering beer, coffee and deckchairs to catch the last of the afternoon sun. The locals were out in force, especially the cyclists. And not one of them was wearing a helmet. Old men, children, sporty lycra-clad racers, teenagers, all sans safety gear. I felt like a man wearing flannelette at a fashion show. It was all too much. I stopped at a kiosk and ordered a beer, removed my helmet and watched the cargo ships rolling in from the ocean, heading for the port around the bend on the Loire. It felt good not to feel the rumble of jet engines under my feet, to not be moving.
Saint Nazaire has a few old buildings, but many were bombed to rubble by the Allies in World War Two, for this town was an important Nazi U-Boat base. In fact, the remnants of the base still remain. Legend has it the concrete walls and roof the Nazis constructed was so thick, that demolition after the war proved impractical. So, making a positive out of a negative, the hulking monstrosity of a building was refurbished with cafes and restaurants. It's a lovely location on the water, but nothing can hide just how toad-ugly all that concrete is. Imagine a bomb shelter six storeys above ground. Thankfully, they haven't tried painting it, or rendering (shudder) - this is not Tuscany... it's a sombre reminder of what this pretty little town went through in the war.
My hotel room is in the main street of town. I love French hotels. Simple, basic accommodation with double-glazing on the windows, a clunky grilled panel heater in the corner for warmth and those weird long round pillows that only a frenchman could love. All this for the princely sum of $58! Breakfast of juice, croissant, baguette, jam and coffee is $9 extra.
It's Monday night in Saint Nazaire. The only restaurants open speak loudly to the multicultural Fifth Republic. A Turkish cafe, two pizza restaurants and a Chinese take-away are my only choice within walking distance. I opt for a calzone, superbly cooked, loaded with champignons and jambon in the restaurant downstairs from my hotel. The friendly waitress brings me a carafe of rose and I eat my fill. Two single elderly french people are the only other diners. We have all ordered rose. We smile at each other as the smell of pizza wafts from the kitchen. In celebration of my arrival, I daydream that the French yesterday elected their first socialist President in seventeen years, just for me. I'm happy beyond measure.
Tomorrow, I begin my cycle across France, west to east, following the two great rivers that cross the country, the Loire and the Soane. At one thousand kilometres, I figure I can enjoy the calzone, and the carafe of rose, guilt-free tonight.