One of our many incantations worked: the weather gods smiled today; we cycled in sunshine! That was the upside; the down side was: we ran into steady headwinds for a good chunk of the day.

But the roads are flat for today’s stage, and we manage to maintain a steady pace. It is beautiful countryside, with fields of wheat and barley either side, dotted with poppies and cornflowers, splashes of vivid red and blue.

And there are fields of a mysterious crop which we city folk struggle to identify. Squash? Strawberries? Artichokes? Bananas? Asparagus? For a while we think that they might be potatoes, until A is gripped by an unshakable conviction that they are sunflowers. And he is, after all, a highly respected academic (retired), with framed diplomas on his study wall. What can one do in the face of such credentialed certainty but concur?

Much of today’s cycling is through farmland, but we also pass though small towns, tempting the local dogs with our flashing calves. They vent their frustrations by hurling themselves against the gates. I slow slightly at every crossroad, particularly where the road bends away out of sight, and wonder where it leads. I think there’s a word for this, something which expresses that specific yearning; anyone?

We stop for coffee and pastries [editorial aside: as I type the preceding phrase, my iPhone autosuggests “pastries” as soon as I’ve typed the words “coffee and”; such a clever machine!] — as I was saying: we stopped for the usual pairing in the town of Seurre, where we select a plump, pink figue au chocolate, and something more elegant for J: a combination of buttercream and fresh raspberries in a delicate shortbread shell.

After dessert we take our savory course, on a shaded bench in the town’s square, where we contemplate the civic monument to the noble dead of both World Wars, Algeria and Indochina.

In Verdun-sur-Doubs, a pretty town at the confluence of the Doubs and the Saône, we find a perfect café, shaded by an old platane, beside a small, deserted square. I could imagine spending the rest of the afternoon there, or an entire week, drinking espresso, reading the local newspaper, or the International Herald Tribune. But we are on a mission, with many km still to go before we sleep, so we do not linger over our coffees, and our Oranginas (“Avec sa pulpe!”)

Tonight, we’re staying at a gîte in the countryside, not far from Chalons. There’s a cat, who is quite indifferent to us, and an enormous rose bush beside the door, laden with blooms, which towers to the eaves. Our bikes are stored in an open shed beside farm equipment, and a beat-up Aronde.

The rose bush…

…and the indifferent cat

The nearest restaurant is 3 km away, in Fragnes, too far to walk to, so we cycle there and back on bikes which feel strangely light, padding our daily distance and tieing our record of 70km.

We love the silence out here, and will continue on our way tomorrow after breakfast. According to A’s map, we will pass through Chagny, which is a stone’s throw from famous appellations like Chassange-Montrachet, Puligny-Montrachet, Meursault, Volnay and Pommard. Our oenophile friend Tim would undoubtedly turn off the Eurovelo 6 at that point. But we three are made of sterner (or: less sophisticated) stuff!

And the forecast for tomorrow is good: encore du soleil!

In a reflexive response to recent rain, we have become obsessed with the Weather app, consulting it last thing each day and first thing each morning. We treat its prophecies as if they came straight from the oracle at Delphi. According to our Oracle, today was to be yet another day of rain; clearly the goat we’d sacrificed at lunch (goat cheese on baguette) had been an inadequate offering to the weather gods.

In our case this meant:

1. select appropriate rain gear (including suitable—though not necessarily sensible—footwear);

2. purchasing our pastries early, before they sell out; and

3. lingering in a café longer than usual (our new team motto: “When in doubt, linger in a café”). We would simply shorten our riding time accordingly, to compensate.

Into Dole on foot to find it slightly more active than the day before: several cafés to choose from, and a couple of bakeries. Recent feedback from Finola (a loyal follower of the Downhill blog), whose comment on the lack of pastry photos here, has made us vow to redouble our research efforts. We follow the sign of the perching cat though the streets of Dole, and ponder a Latin inscription, which wards off thieves, mice, and ghosts.

We visit the bite-sized museum at the family home of Louis Pasteur, where we learn more about his cure for rage, and admire the many likenesses of Monsieur P, in bronze, marble, and on the packaging of soft cheeses.

Upstairs, as if expressly for our benefit, there is a small art exhibit, on early bicycles.

The rest of the day is more of what has gone before: cycling beside the canal; admiring the reflections of trees and clouds, chatting amiably; ringing our bicycle bells.

The lock-keeper’s cat

Pausing at one of the locks, we chat with a group of American cyclists, from California, who are on a canal-boat-based bicycle tour. A standard topic of conversation during these exchanges is: “How far have you been riding each day?” Our official spokesperson, J, tells them: “These past two days have been shorter due to rain, but earlier we’d done 60 to 70”. Admiring murmurs in response, until J clarifies that we’re talking km, rather than miles.

The Rhône to Rhine Canal finally reaches the Saône River just east of St Jean de Losne, which is our destination for the day. Cycling along a canal path for four days has been amazing, and this feels as if we’re ending a significant stage of our journey. The terrain will be hillier from here, since, though there are more canals to come, not as much of our route will be so closely alongside them. We’re properly in Burgundy now, about to enter one of the most famous wine regions in the world. J (who has been appointed the expedition‘s sommelier) has a lot on her shoulders.

In St Jean de Losne we are staying at Les Charmilles B&B, an 18th century home located a couple of blocks from the Saône.

M, with blogging machine

The highlight of our evening meal in town was the entrée course of white asparagus. It is tender and succulent, and is even better when slathered in generous amounts of aioli. Back home, we fall asleep to the sound of rain on our skylight. Our bedtime prayers are to the weather Oracle, who has predicted sun for tomorrow.

Long story short: we took fright at all the talk of pending rain, and at the predicted thunderstorm coming mid-afternoon. So we declared today to be a rest day of sorts: bought three train tickets from L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs to the historic (and reportedly gorgeous) town of Dole, where we would lounge in our hotel room, or hole up in a café with our books. We’d look out occasionally from our dry and warm café, watch as the rain roped down from black skies, and we’d feel good about having dry shoes and socks, dry shorts. Plus: we’d have a day in hand, we’d be ahead of schedule; we could take it easy from then on. We’d feel good about having played it safe.

M ignoring the warning signs…

…to carry the bicycles to the far voie

Reading while waiting for the train

But it didn’t feel good, to look out the train’s windows at the passing countryside. I wanted to be out there, despite the rain. For I might never be back here again. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d let slip my one chance to cycle down that bit of river valley, to pedal alongside that section of canal, to see that tree come into view, reflected in satin water, as I rounded that specific bend.

J, considering some changes in her vegetarian diet

A, exploring the rainy streets of Besançon between trains

All three of us had loved the previous two days of riding; the sense of well-being that comes when you feel that there’s no place you’d rather be, nothing you’d rather be doing. We were just starting to find our pace, our rhythm. And the rain out there was nothing: much lighter than had been predicted. Why had we caved?

My restlessness was contagious. As we changed trains in Besançon we came up with a perfect compromise: instead of arriving in Dole by train, we’d get off one stop earlier, in Orchamps. We’d cycle along the canal path from Orchamps to Dole, whatever the weather. J&I would be able to test out our new rain booties (and A could test out his plastic bags). We’d get some fresh air and some exercise; we’d clear the cobwebs from our brains.

And so it was! Even a short day’s ride in the rain would be better than no cycling at all.

In some ways it was better than the previous, sunnier days: the canal paths were less busy; the canals themselves were gorgeous: the water’s surface a grey-green satin, dimpled by rain drops, and reflecting the low, ragged, black and grey-shaded clouds.

As you approach Dole from the east you’ll find a long, straight stretch of canal, and as you pass into this section of the path you’ll feel as if you’ve entered an enchanted world. It seems quieter. Enormous platane trees grow on either side of the canal, their branches meeting overhead, held aloft by knobbed and scaly trunks as thick as the massive stone columns of Notre Dame de Paris. And all of this is reflected in the dark, still water of the canal: all is doubled. You want it to go on like this forever.

But at the end of that magical corridor of trees there is a bend in the path, and a bridge takes you to the other side of the canal, and you carry on. The canal bends gently to the right, and then to the left, and as it straightens again you suddenly see the stone tower and the tiled roof of the church of Notre-Dame de Dole, high above the town, framed by platane leaves, and reflected in the canal. Seen from this vantage point the church seems to loom protectively over Dole itself, and I cannot imagine a better way to enter that town for the first time.

We follow the bike path into town and across a stone bridge, where we discover a grand fête in progress, a buzzing, clanging, bright-light-flashing, traveling fun fair. We wander though the fair grounds like yokels, dazzled by the wide range of vertigo-inducing rides, and the games of chance (“Every one a winner!”) There are food booths that want to sell us churros, or gauffres, or clouds of sweet and gritty barbe à Papa.

We manage to survive our passage through this carnival Calvary, and walk our bikes across the passerelle to our hotel, a clean, contemporary stone building on the site of a former mill. Most of the restaurants in town are closed (we’d forgotten that today was Pentecost), but the hotel’s bistro is open, and their food is hot, and good.

Tomorrow is market day in Dole, and I expect that there will be booths set up in the square at the top of the town, between the market hall and the church. We’ll check it out after breakfast, and hopefully we’ll find a good café, and an unctuous (and/or flaky) pastry or two to sample before we saddle up and head on our way again, downstream.

The weather forecast had warned of rain, so we felt lucky to only encounter a few sprinkles throughout the day. Today’s ride was even longer than yesterday’s (sections 4, 5, and 6, to use Velotourisme’s terminology; 70.6 km on the odometer).

A stone cross at roadside near our start

…with memento mori

It was another busy day along the Rhône to Rhine Canal: a steady stream of long-distance cyclists, riding in both directions (though not simultaneously). It’s good to remember that the Eurovelo 6 route runs all the way from Nantes, at the mouth of the Loire, to the Black Sea, so it is impossible to tell just how far these riders have come, or how far they intend to go.

Added to the long-distance riders were many day-riders, out on an overcast Sunday with friends or family. We talked with one—who, though clad in Spandex, sported a physique which not many would describe as Spandex-ready—had once cycled the Eurovelo 6 all the way to Nantes, and just last year had cycled eastward as far as Vienna. E-bikes have become very popular (somewhere between a quarter and a third of all bikes we’ve seen); one canal-side bike shop had a wide range of E-bikes on display, ranging in price up to 4200 euros.

Today was a day of many locks, each representing a gain (or loss) in altitude of 2-4 meters. Most of the time you’re riding along a level path, with a slight slope as you’re passing a lock. Where roads cross the canal, the path tends to go beneath the bridge, curving canal-ward, then back. It is advisable to sound your bell as you head under the bridges, to warn less attentive cyclists who might be heading in the opposite direction. J has not yet mastered the system of communicating by bells which A&I developed on our Vezelay ride in 2015; she’s eager to learn, though, and has a musical background, so we have high hopes (those of our readers who need a refresher course in this patented system of bells can review the relevant blog postings, here and here).

In Montbéliard we ventured off the cycle path and into town in search of a café. We found the centre of town devoid of life. Eventually we stumbled on a solitary café overlooking a deserted square, with four lonely tables clustered forlornly under an umbrella. We sat and sipped our tepid coffees, and fed the sparrows crumbs of stale baguette, before continuing on our way (readers are welcome to reuse any of the preceding adjectives).

There’s a lot to see while riding along canals in France: herons standing quietly in the shallows of the canal’s far bank, like sentinels on guard; graffiti (and other, more official forms of signage); and dozens of fishermen (almost never a fisherwoman) who seem able to spend the entire day sitting patiently canal-side in their sling-back chairs. Each pêcheur has several rods, their lines slack, situated close to hand, and many have a small tent pitched right beside their chair (in case of rain, I suppose).

A points out the “duck ramps” which have been installed at regular intervals on the opposite bank, to provide the ducks a way up from the canal and onto the bank. From which I conclude that French ducks must have an extremely powerful lobby group.

You have to stop and watch at least one lock-opening: it’s a great spectator sport. The locks are operated by officials of the VNF (the Voies National de France), who speed along the canal path from lock to lock in their small white vans. It is as if each boat or barge has their own personal escort, paid (I assume) by the French state.

A has occasionally shown dangerous signs of euphoria, cycling with both hands off his handlebar, his arms spread out like wings. J&I are seriously concerned, and are considering some kind of intervention, before he veers abruptly off the canal path and plunges headlong into a lock.

Tonight we’re staying in L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs, a small town situated on a cingle, or loop, of the Doubs river. We’ve managed to secure two rooms at the rather faded Maison au Canal, whose glories include: a fine set of synthetic duvets, mismatched drapes, and ineffective WiFi. The range of fabric patterns and colors displayed in our room stuns the retina and boggles the mind, recalling the dazzle patterns used on destroyers in WWI. The clincher is that their rates are not much below last night’s excellent hotel.

The three of us check in, and receive training on the light switches, the door locks, and the gendered bathrooms down the hall. Afterwards we wander around a nearly empty town in search of dinner, trying to decide between: a pizzeria; a sad looking kebab place (where we are mistaken for Germans); the Cuba Café (a bar, filled with helpful, slurring locals); and the cafeteria of the Intermarché. It’s a definite step (or two) down from the night before.

What an amazing cycle route this is! I can’t remember when I first heard about the Eurovelo long-distance bike routes—years ago—but the reality is much more impressive than I’d imagined. The French Velotourism web site is impressive and helpful (on our first day of riding we’ve covered what they show as Section 1 through Section 3, plus about 6 km within Basel to get to the “start”). Total distance for the day: 65.2 km.

All of it has been alongside water: the Rhine, and then the Rhône to Rhine Canal, which begins just south of the Passerelle des Trois Amis: the footbridge across the Rhine which took us from Germany into France.

In Basel

Crossing into Germany

The German border

The Passerelle des Trois Amis, crossing the Rhine to France

On the bridge into France

No border controls; no customs inspection; no armed guards, just a smooth flow of people and bicycles quietly going about their business. A minor miracle, if you stop to think about it, and reflect on the centuries of armed conflict that have usually accompanied national borders (and the crossings of rivers, which historically have served as protective barriers against the ambitions of the warlike).

Back home, I’ve been been reading Caesar’s account of the Gallic wars, which begin when “foreign” tribes (like the Helvetii, for example, from what is now Switzerland, and various of the tribes in what is now Germany) have the audacity to cross the Rhine into Roman-controlled Gaul. Battles ensue, with Caesar’s legions inevitably triumphant, bring order and discipline (at least in his, the victor’s, account). It would be nice to have the book here, now, but libraries are not particularly portable on bike trips like this (and time is also limited!) Which reminds me to stop digressing…

Almost all of the day’s riding was alongside the Rhône to Rhine Canal: flat, quiet, peaceful, a lot of it shaded, a lot of it paved. Well sign-posted. A dream ride, really. Wonderful to see how much the Eurovelo 6 route is being used, with pannier-laden cyclists pedaling in both directions; we nod courteously to each other and call “Bonjour!” and “Bon route!” as we pass. One cyclist we chatted with was from Perpignan, and had started cycling in Chalons sur Saone; his destination was Copenhagen, following the Eurovelo 6, and then the Eurovelo 15 (I think) along the Rhine. He had 30 days set aside for the ride.

Early in our ride, on the French side of the Rhine, we discovered a scale model of the solar system, installed along the canal path, to demonstrate the relative distances between planets; we got through the inner planets relatively quickly (“Look, there’s Venus!”) before entering the vaster spaces between the outer planets. We’d almost forgotten about the art installation by the time we pedaled past Neptune (and if Pluto was represented, we missed it entirely; perhaps it still lies ahead!)

Picnic site, near a WWII battle site

Coffee in Mulhouse

Not many bakeries or cafés along canal paths, but we did find a workmanlike café in Mulhouse. At about the 55 km mark we found a perfect place for a beverage break: a guinguette (or rather, La Guinguette), with tables and chairs set out beneath the trees of an old orchard. They were doing brisk business on a sunny Saturday, serving teas and coffee, and beer, and generous slices of a delicious homemade rhubarb tart, topped with meringue.

We’d booked into the Auberge Sundgovienne, a lovely hotel, situated a bit off the route, uphill (not the best way to end a long day of riding!) Our rewards: a hot shower, a delicious meal at their excellent restaurant, and a comfortable bed. They also offer a comprehensive breakfast buffet. It’s expensive—which helps to alleviate some of the guilt we three feel as we forage furtively, gathering the makings of a fine picnic lunch.

J&I had allowed just one day to get over jet lag while exploring Roger Federer’s birthplace (ironically, it was the day RF was defeated in the French Open semis by Nadal) while we awaited the late-evening arrival of A, our cycling companion.

The previous day, during our evening walk beside the Rhine, we’d chatted with a local on the river bank, where he’d gone to smoke a CBD cigarette after work (learning that we were Canadian, he’d waxed enthusiastic about our “wheat stocks.” At first we thought this was a Swiss variant on barley soup, made with Canadian Red Fife; in fact the young man was a budding investor in our marijuana industry: his “wheat” had been “weed.”)

Perfect mushrooms

Seasonal white asparagus

Red carrots

Foraged wild asparagus

White asparagus

More perfect mushrooms

We’d selected a few of his Basel suggestions to check out: Basel Minster, the famous twin-spire church; Basel’s beautiful town hall; the “Middle Bridge” across the Rhine; and the Tinguely Museum. As residents of the Hostel, all bus and tram rides were free during our stay, and museum admissions were half price.

Basel Minster

Plaza near Basel Minster

Bubble guy

A popular selfie subject…

…to which M is not immune

Basel Town Hall

Basel Town Hall

Basel Town Hall

Town Hall detail

Town Hall detail

Town Hall detail

The Tinguely Museum was a highlight (there’s also a Tinguely fountain in downtown Basel, reminiscent of the one at the Pompidou Centre in Paris). The Museum is on the far side of the Rhine, a bit upstream from the Hostel. It’s filled with dozens of Tinguely’s amazing machines, all of them lovingly restored and maintained. In front of many of them are foot-activated switches, which, when pressed, set the pieces into noisy motion: whirring, spinning, clanking, clattering, and hiccuping metallically.

To prevent over-use and prolong the lives of these marvelous machines, the switches are programmed to activate only periodically: between once every 6 minutes to once an hour. At one room-sized piece, a small boy waited patiently with his mother, getting up every minute or so to rush over to the switch and try again.

Throughout the day we’d been checking out pastry shops and cafés, before finally settling on one across from the Tinguely Museum.

Swiss pastries

More Swiss pastries

Even more Swiss pastries

…with coffee

At end of day, after a modest meal at the Hostel (we’ll spare you the photos) J&I waited in the Hostel’s lobby, exchanging emails with A, whose flight had been delayed. Picture the scene, if you can: A emerging from the darkness and light rain, just before the Hostel deadline; a brief reunion as A checks in; the three of us sitting, making hasty plans for an early morning departure, while A enjoys his dinner: Pringle’s and a beer.

Friend and neighbor D arrives at 10 as promised to accompany us to the airport with our bikes, returning later with our car (merci beaucoup D!) On the drive we talk about travel: Japan by bike, and backpacking in India in the 1970s and 80s.

Transporting the bikes to YVR was rather ad hoc, since I’d forgotten how much the preparations for air travel changes the bikes: our rack was not designed to accommodate a bike whose handlebar has been taped to the top tube; but we managed.

Air Canada YVR provides heavyweight plastic bags, which we will keep (since I know from previous trips that Air Canada check in at Paris CDG will almost certainly not have such bags). Fingers were crossed as we handed the bagged bikes over to airport staff for “special handling.” You always imagine the worst: your precious bikes tossed carelessly onto conveyor belts as soon as you’ve turned your backs; jammed forcefully into cargo holds; arriving (if at all) with spokes broken; front forks bent; etc.

But all appears well as they finally emerge from the bowels of Basel airport. It takes about 50 minutes to reconstitute the bikes with wrench and Allen keys: plastic bags removed and folded; protective cardboard bits and duct tape removed; pedals reattached; handlebar realigned; seat raised; tires reinflated.

With panniers and handlebar bags mounted we exit the airport into light rain, and locate our bus (#50) which we take to the Basel train station. From there it’s just a short ride to the Basel Youth Hostel, where we’ll be for two nights. Checking in, we raise the average age of the residents by about a decade.

It’s in a great location, quiet and central. A small stream runs past the entrance, you cross a bridge to check in. The bikes are locked away for now in their basement bike room; we’ll explore Basel on foot. Our room is on the second floor, with a balcony overlooking the stream, and (bonus!) a private bathroom (I’d braced myself as we walked past the shared showers: rather grim cells opening directly onto the hallway). Jet lagged, we hit the sack early after a simple meal at the hostel cafeteria and a walk to the banks of the Rhine.

Outside our room the halls of the hostel echo late into the evening; “Ah, the exuberance of youth!“ we say benevolently, reaching for earplugs.

The Saturday before our departure J&I did a full “dress rehearsal“ ride: a dry run in the Seymour Demonstration Forest, our bicycles fully loaded with all our gear.

It’s a spectacular setting, a smooth, paved road that runs all the way to Seymour Dam, shaded by tall fir and cedars. We parked 2 km before the parking lot, which made it a 27 km round trip. I don’t know why we don’t cycle there more often (one possible explanation: no cafés!)

It’s green and peaceful, no cars in sight, just the breeze though trees, with clusters of walkers and other cyclists, all outdoors enjoying a sunny day.

The highlight was a bear encounter, about 4 km from the endpoint. We’d been warned about the bear by a returning cyclist, and could have turned around. But he was easily visible from a distance, so we could watch—the bear, and other cyclists—from safety while we decided what to do ourselves. The bear seemed quite content to munch on roadside grasses in the sun, and completely ignored all those who were brave (or foolish?) enough to pedal past.

We’ve done very little preparation for this trip: M rides a couple of time a week in the warmer seasons; J hasn’t ridden seriously in several years. And god knows how much riding A has been able to squeeze in as he wraps up his distinguished career in academia! But M believes in “training as you go,” so all should be well.

As our departure date drew closer, though, J&I decided that a bit of training might not be all bad. Above you see a photo from a 40 km ride in Coquitlam, along the Traboulay PoCo Trail. And below are a few photos from an overnight trip to Victoria, along the wonderful Lochside Trail.