Against the wind....

Route: Cayuex sur-Mer to Wimereux. Distance about 100 km

The old man who gave me the table and chairs last night has a girlfriend! I saw her doing the walk of shame around 6 this morning. It can’t be that bike of a secret in such a small trailer park.
I returned the set with a smile and a thank you. He smiled back and gave me the traditional parting “Bon La Road.” Captain Dickface came by on his little golf cart and sneered at me. Some people. Can you tell I’m tired?
I guess picking a trailer park next to a bar to sleep in is probably not going to add up to t quiet night. I was woken up at various times by kids exploding firecrackers, drunk people walking and talking up and down the road, and at least one couple in a drunken French argument. I didn’t have to speak the language to get the jist what the girl’s probably was with her man.
After I left the village, vainly looking for a quick cup of coffee once again, I found the greatest bike path in the world! The Somme river empties into the channel at this point creating a large bay. All around the bay was this separate and perfectly maintained bike corridor complete with benches, signage, and trash cans! I half expected to see bathrooms!
The best thing about this path was that they had planted trees and brush to block the wind. I was flying! I covered the 40km to Berck in what seemed like a dreamscape. There were all kinds of people out, and there was a road bike race going on with flaggers to direct traffic at every interchange.
At one point, this super-agro group of German’s in full racing kit came rushing by screaming at the top of their lungs to each other. It was comical to actually hear phrases like “Von Schnell!” yelled to the group by the leader in front. He was obviously someone who didn’t tolerate any talkback. They faded off into the distance in front of me, hauling ass, and disappeared over the hump of a hill. To my left was a German machine gun pill box in the middle of a field.
All along the route were pillboxes, bunkers and machine gun dugouts leftover in fields, usually near crossroads. Sometimes, though, there were just there in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason other than to surprise someone advancing over the land. For the most part farmers had adapted their use to their own purposes. Several were overgrown and used to stack bails of hay. Others were used to store fencing material and irrigation piping. Some were actually being used as flower beds. What a fitting end to something built with hate in mind.
During the last push to my latest McDonalds outpost, the pain from my saddle became exquisite. I can’t wait to see what it feels like in a month! The newish Brooks leather saddle is perfect for touring, but needs to be broken in still. Until I ride more on it, which I will, it won’t soften up. The result is like riding a freaking shoe for a bike seat!
I wanted tonight’s camping spot to be a good one, maybe with an ocean view. So, I put my head down and hauled the last 40 km out to my daily goal at Wimereux. I’ve been generally assuming that little coastal towns have the best camping. With the exception of last night’s little foray into the trailer park style, I have found this to be true. On my way past a huge complex of German bunkers overlooking Boulogne-sur-Mer, The horizon opened up before me and I finally saw the place on the coast where I get to turn east! Thank God! One more day and I’ll be in Belgium.
The sun shown down on the city below, and I saw strangely out of place Teepees dotting a hillside. The sign a littler farther down the road indicate that I would be staying at the “l’ete Indian Campings”. The office was pretty much what you would expect, grotesque carved wooden Indian figurines, prints of buffalo and wolf, and a French dude about my age running the place. He was cool, spoke English with me, and gave me the spot for 3 Euro less than the price. He also gave me an adaptor.
While setting up my tent, I had a joyful encounter with some girls from Holland. Anika and Lespeth. I overheard them speaking English and couldn’t resist walking up and introducing myself. Thank God, what a relief to speak to someone in English for the first time since leaving Cherbourg 5 days ago. I never knew how lonely it gets not being able to talk to anyone.
We hung out for a bit, and they only reinforced my desire to get to Holland. They were coming the other way down the coast from the North on bikes and tent camping along the way. They told me about the camping got farther and few between the farther inland I went and that I really should buy this specific type of book when I get to Holland. Someone has written an entire series on cycling specific trips including campsites along the way.
It’s strange. Talking with them made me happy, and I have no doubt that I came off as a complete lunatic because I haven’t talked to anyone in English in 7 days, but it also made me sad. I realized for the first time how very alone I am over here. How I won’t be back home for 4 long weeks. How all I was thinking about before coming was the excitement of seeing the places I’d always dreamed up like the Tower of London, and the invasion beaches.
When that excitement wore off, which I think it just did, the only thing I’m thinking of now is how much I want to be home with Becky and Levi. No wonder grandpa wrote so much about how he missed grandma and home. He must have had a similar transition at some point too. Something I would term as the desire to get it all over with and come home, to do what you came to do and get back.
I’m really struggling with basically not wanting to be in France anymore. I really can’t take the constant attitude towards Americans and the lack of anything that I would term as close to home. I did kind of jump in the deep end here at the beginning of this trip and I knew it was going to be hard. I just didn’t realize until now what making a complete break with your “normal” life feels like. I’ve never been so alone and isolated while surrounded at the same time.
I think I’ll wake up tomorrow and haul as fast as I can to Calais to get the train a day earlier than planned. That will definitely give me enough time to meet my contact in Ospel. I am excited beyond belief to finally get to the ground where grandpa fought, and meet some of the people who were there. We will be touring the battlefields in a period Jeep, talking with Dutch veterans, and attending a memorial dedication in Sillengry, France.
Can you tell I’m ready to get on out of France?