Travellers’ tales: A Norman invasion by bike
We are first off the boat, as we arrive at Dieppe at dusk having caught the ferry from Newhaven. The city seems deserted as we ride the two or so kilometres to our hotel.
Thanks to Chris’s Garmin we are settled in our hotel rooms in no time. Next morning we are on the road before 8am heading for Rouen, 70 long kilometres away, famously described by Victor Hugo as “the city of a hundred spires”.
The sky is cloudless as we try to find the L’Avenue Verte, a long-distance cycle route running from London to Paris, created in 2012 and a mecca for those on two wheels.
Depending on which route you take, the total distance is either 294 or 253 miles. Our journey is more modest: a triangular route from Dieppe to Rouen, then on to Gournay-en-Bray and back to Dieppe.
Stuck in Dieppe
Things don’t get off to a good start. We can’t find the route out of Dieppe. At one point we find ourselves dodging heavy early morning commuter traffic as we drag our bikes across a dual carriageway.
Minutes later we’re stranded outside a Nestlé factory belching out fumes that smell like a bar after the drinkers have left on the outskirts of Dieppe. Finally, we find our way. Our mood lifts as we pedal along a traffic-free paved former railway line. At long last we are riding on the L’Avenue Verte heading south-east.
To our right there is a succession of small lakes twinkling in the early morning Normandy sun. We’re beginning to see why artists from Monet to Hockney were inspired by this part of rural France.
The weather starts to warm up as we leave the cycle path and head for the open road. We won’t be re-joining L’Avenue Verte until the day after tomorrow. The landscape is breath taking: undulating fields of wheat, meadows studded with placid-looking cows the colour of alabaster.
Traditional Colombage buildings – timber framed with exposed beams – leave us in no doubt that we are in very much in Normandy. There’s a sense of space and tranquillity that is hard to find across the channel.
In other words, perfect cycling country. What traffic there is gives cyclists a wide berth when overtaking. None of the jostling for position that often forces cyclists into the gutter in the UK.
Time to refuel
As the road starts to gently climb, I’m already beginning to feel tired. We stop at a boulangerie in Arques-la-Bataille. I buy a tuna baguette and a can of Orangina, somehow resisting the sugary treats that French patisserie is famed for. I eat half the sandwich and put the rest in my panier to finish later.
Back in the saddle I begin to feel better. We make short work of the day’s first significant climb. All right, it’s not Alpe d’Huez but our racing days are long behind us.
We’ve been warned that finding a café open during the day in rural France can be a challenge. We descend into the picture-postcard village of Cléres. It’s lunchtime but two of the village’s restaurants are closed. Fortunately, the third one is very much overt.
We sit outside in the shade and eat a delicious lunch. Our galettes are perfectly cooked and filling. Remarkably, there are only around 20km to go to Rouen. We’ve broken the back of the day’s journey.
Before long the scenery changes dramatically. The pastoral panorama is replaced by an urban, post-industrial landscape of disused smokestacks and run-down red brick terraces. We’ve arrived at Coronation Street, Normandy-style.
The road to Rouen
The temperature is in the high 20s. For the first time on our journey, there are road signs directing us to Rouen. So far, though, no sign of the promised cycle path that runs alongside the mighty Seine that will take is into central Rouen.
We navigate a busy intersection. There is traffic everywhere. Remembering to stay on the right we finally find the promised riverside route into Rouen. It’s more a roadway than a path, with ample room for both pedestrians and cyclists.
Overlooking the river are bars and restaurants. In the near distance we are treated to our first view of the city’s celebrated Gothic cathedral. The crenelated spire seems to be wearing a bandage.
We are euphoric as we head into the city proper. It’s tricky navigating our way to the hotel as we walk our bikes across a busy inner ring road. Thirty minutes later we’ve checked into our hotel and are ready to visit the cathedral, barely a 10-minute walk away.
For years I’ve wanted to visit Rouen, twinned with my hometown of Norwich. The two cities thrived on the spoils of the medieval wool trade. Each is surrounded by agricultural land. Both are home to magnificent cathedrals. Rouen feels buzzy, modern and multicultural.
After a decent dinner – the French onion soup hits all the right notes – we head for an early night. I am tired and desperate to lie down. Our hotel rooms are small, but the bed is comfortable. Both have balconies with sliding doors, just as well because it’s a hot night and the sounds of people partying outside continues until 2am.
Disaster (almost) strikes
The next day we’re up early again. Another good breakfast. The brioche is delicious. There’s a tense moment as Chris realises his bike no longer has the Garmin. He dashes back to the lift and finds it on the floor. Phew.
I’d left my bike in the luggage room conveniently located behind the reception desk. Somehow, Chris had manhandled his in the lift all the way to the fifth floor. In such a tight squeeze the Garmin fell from its handlebar mount.
There is no time to visit an exhibition dedicated to Jacques Anquetil, the legendary first five-time winner of the Tour de France, a local hero born in a suburb of Rouen, or the city’s highly regarded Musée des Beaux-Arts. We have real countryside views to look forward to.
Getting out of Rouen is relatively simple. The cycle paths are well marked. Before long we are on suburban roads heading to Gournay-en-Bray, some 66km away, where we will rejoin the L’Avenue Verte. The route is hillier than yesterday. There are some fabulous descents.
We cruise through villages, stopping frequently to drink and snack. There is a bit more traffic about than before. A longish climb sees me dismounting and walking my bike up the hill. Chris powers ahead.
No lunch stop today. Instead, we rest at a crossroads propping our bikes against a wooden crucifix. It’s a peaceful spot, pancake flat and reminiscent of England’s fens.
Historic churches
Knowing my love of historic churches, Chris says he has a treat in store for me. We arrive in Saint-Germer-de-Fly. The village is dominated by what appear to be two separate churches welded together as the Romanesque meets the Gothic.
We knock back Orangina, crisps (being French they actually taste of cheese) and an ice cream. The temperature is in the low 30s. Inside the church, it’s mercifully cool. The former Benedictine abbey is a splendid place, atmospheric and showing its age in the nicest possible way.
The remainder of the journey into Gournay is uneventful. The Hotel Normandie, just off the main square, is perfect for cyclists, which is just as well as Chris and I are sharing a room. It’s spacious and comes with a bath. Chris fires up his mini-speaker, and we relax to some Sixties psychedelia.
We have an excellent dinner of steak and chips at a nearby restaurant packed with locals. It’s a quiet, country town. In four days, stage four of this year’s Tour de France will liven things up a little when the world’s greatest bike race hits Gournay.
Next day we wake to overcast skies, but the sun soon breaks through. Chris informs me that we’ll be spending the entire day on L’Avenue Verte. In the morning, we ride on deserted rural lanes.
About 5km outside Gournay we spot a café. It’s called the Le Velo Jaune. The owner, Rob, is a cycling fan. He tells us he will be out cheering on the Tour next week. He’s a proud Glaswegian and a Scottish flag is flying in the garden. He serves shortbread with his coffee.
Brits abroad
When Chris tells me we still have around 40 miles to go my apprehension returns. We are a couple of hours behind schedule. Back on the road, we stop to chat to a group of British cyclists. “I’m 52,” says their leader “and I don’t know how much longer I can do this for.”
We tell them our ages. He informs us that one of his group is 76. We say our farewells and head for the ride’s longest climb. Chris takes it in his stride. I walk up. Once at the summit, we admire the views.
By lunchtime, we arrive at Forges-Les-Eaux, a substantial town. The patisserie is too good to resist as we knock back fruit tarts. “It’s downhill all the way to Dieppe,” promises Chris.
And so it is. Not only that, but the final part of our journey is also traffic free. It’s 33km back to Dieppe. At Nuefchatel-en-Bray we stop at a creperie housed in a former railway station.
It’s the culinary highlight of our short excursion. My crepe is covered in caramelised apple, cream, ice cream and a sauce that somehow accentuates the flavours without being overpoweringly sweet.
We count down the kilometres to Dieppe. The weather has finally broken. Cloudy skies threaten rain. There is one last surprise treat as we pedal towards the port city – a quintessentially French quartet playing silly music: saxophone, bass guitar, banjo and a female singer belting it out via a megaphone.
It's Saturday and this section of the L’Avenue Verte is relatively busy – all kinds of cyclists, boy and girl racers, heading for Dieppe at speed, families with kids, people carrying baguettes in shopping bags and men of a certain age like us.
Drizzling in Dieppe
By the time we reach the suburbs of Dieppe it’s drizzling. But not even the weather can dampen our spirits knowing that we’ve ridden 135 miles in three days.
The sky is overcast. Despite this, Dieppe late on a Saturday afternoon is a totally different experience compared with our night-time arrival three days ago. The city is lively. There are drinkers and early diners sitting outside at restaurants and cafés overlooking the marina.
The rain on Sunday morning is steady. By the time we bike to the ferry terminal, it’s eased off. Another smooth crossing. The train back to London from Lewes is full of cyclists returning from France, and The Love Supreme festival, a bus ride way from Lewes. The train is packed but the mood is noticeably convivial.
As the train trundles through Sussex (yes, there’s a speed restriction) we learn that some of the cyclists left Paris at 4am that morning – cycling 115 miles to Dieppe through the dawn. That’s almost as much as our total mileage in three days!
The good news is that as I’ve discovered cycling in Normandy isn’t only for boy racers. Anyone with a decent bike and a modicum of fitness can enjoy the joys of L’Avenue Verte and cycling in this glorious part of rural France that is almost within touching distance of the UK.
