Whilst on the train bound for the southern British city of Portsmouth - the only British island city, fact fans - I received some great news that kick-started the second phase of my Lack of Plan, which was to cycle and train it to Berlin. The day before I left, I had ordered a mountain bike at a Portsmouth cycle store, and according to the chap on the other end of the phone it was now ready for me to pick up. The timing was perfect: I could swing by the store and make the evening ferry crossing to France.
Leaving Portsmouth & Southsea train station like a man possessed, and with A-Team-like efficiency, I hiked to the ferry terminal and bought a ticket (£45 for me and the bike - not bad for a 10 hour crossing, I thought) then went shopping for the essentials: puncture repair kit, tyre levers, spare inner tubes, stupid looking helmet, before picking up my steed on the other side of town.
I had stopped riding bikes at the age of eleven when I fell off and broke my arm; since then, I had only done a few hours of cycling in Thailand on my last RTW. I hadn't done any training. I didn't even know how to fix a puncture. In short, it was going to be a challenge.
I successfully boarded the ferry via a certain amount of dicing with death in Portsmouth's rush-hour traffic and settled in to my new environment, clocking where the important things were - bar, cinema, where to sleep - and thoroughly enjoyed the crossing, sleeping very well even though I only had a reclining seat, to burst onto the streets of St. Malo, Brittany, France the following morning.
St. Malo was a quaint port, apparently all freshly restored as it got reduced to rubble in the war, but tastefully done. I pedalled out a circuit of the town, old men and children passing me with ease, and by lunchtime my thighs were burning from the exertion, so I checked into the YHA and put my feet up a bit, chatting with my roommate, an older, retired chap who was motorbiking around France. He shared the opinion of my friends and family, which was to cycle Continental Europe in Winter was just a tiny bit nuts.
Later that day I got my first puncture. I put off the job of repairing it until the next morning, and it took me a good hour and several inventive swearwords to fix it, but by mid-morning I was ready to ride again.
I followed the Brittany coast - stick to the coast, I thought, it'll be nice and flat - passing into Normandy and slowly seeing the island citadel of Mont St. Michel unveiling itself from the haze. I based myself in the largest nearby town, Pontorson, and grabbed a room in a rundown hotel, the type with peeling paint, rattling pipes and worn carpets.
That evening I dined in my tumbledown room on fresh baguette, duck pate and brie, washed down with a few glasses of French red wine. It was perfect.
The next day, somewhat aching from my 40km ride, I pedalled out to the coast and across the causeway to Mont St. Michel. It was an immense sight, built up like a fortress with the Abbey sat on top, pride of place. The lower levels had the usual tourist tripe shops - to be expected - and I look a long time examining some of the cushions they had on sale in one shop, since there just happened to be a warm air vent nearby: it was blimmin' cold outside.
I roamed over the battlements and enjoyed the views back to Pontorson and out over the English Channel, or la Manche as it is called here. It cost money to go in the Abbey at the top, and since I was both incredibly tight and not the greatest fan of Christianity I decided to give it a miss, pedalling back to Pontorson with the intention of getting the hell out of it, since it was rather small and uninteresting.
Having been largely separated from the news for over a week I hadn't realised there was a national train strike in France. At the station I found were no trains running from Pontorson; I was stranded.
I had to stay an extra day in Pontorson, which was pretty miserable, both because of the frustration of wanting to push on and because it pissed down with cold rain, which put cycling out of the question. Eventually, the next day I braved some drizzly rain and cycled to the next large town along, Avranches, such was my desire to get out of Pontorson.
There were still no trains, and from Avranches, which was only mildly more diverting than Pontorson, I cycled on again north to Granville, a seaside town, which had more going for it but still seemed to close at around 9pm at night. The only place I could find open was the trusty kebab shop, so I dined in with a kebab and a beer and mulled over the week.
I had enjoyed St. Malo and Mont St. Michel, and also the French food - exquisite, and fully available to those on a budget; there were simple three course meals for only €10. (Oh, and I had also enjoyed the kebabs). The language had been a struggle at first, with me not having spoken any French in 14 years since learning it at school, but I was determined not to use English. Despite this, I still found many French people to be rather unfriendly to me, even rude in some circumstances. It wasn't my fault I was a stupid rosbif; I was as polite and respectful as I could be, and yet I still got a distinctly frosty reception in some places.
All in all, it had been a frustrating week; with the national train strike entering into its seventh consecutive day, I could only get up to Bayeaux with pedal power alone, and given my paltry maximum daily cycling range of 40km that would take days and force me to stop in deadbeat towns such as Pontorson and Avranches - or worse.
I hoped the next week would see an end to the strike, as I was not particularly enjoying my trip at the moment.
