Today, after eight days of pedaling alongside canals from Basel, Switzerland—the Rhône to Rhine Canal, then the Canal du Centre—we finally reach the Loire, at Digoin, where the Canal du Centre is carried over the Loire in a canal-bridge, becoming the Canal Lateral à la Loire.

Just past the Loire, the Canal de Roanne à Digoin heads south to Roanne: it really is an amazing network of waterways. The reason for the Canal Lateral à la Loire, which we will follow for several more days, is that the Loire itself is too shallow still to accommodate barges.

All along the Canal du Centre in particular we see signs of its early history as an industrial artery: old factories and brickworks, built right along the canal, with loading docks where manufactured goods would have been loaded directly onto barges for transport throughout Europe. The highways have taken over most of this work now, and many of these factories are abandoned, with windows either boarded up or broken.

But the canal paths themselves have been turned into this remarkable network of cycle paths; in some places (such as the approach to Bourbon-Lancy, where we are spending this night) we leave the canal path and follow another dedicated cycle path, along what was once an abandoned rail line.

In many ways it seems a golden age for cycle touring, with hundreds of km of dedicated bike paths. It has been such a pleasure to ride along, admiring the scenery, occasionally going under noisy highways (or over them) but for the most part being quite happy to leave the world of automobiles and trucks to do its own thing, somewhere else, away from us.

Today’s pastry tasting, of un Succes (“traditionally, two almond meringue disks covered in a praline butter cream”; ours had a chocolate ganache filling) in the town of Paray-le-Monial, was a grand success; photos above.

This prompts me to announce the Downhill blog’s French Pastry Tasting Service, available exclusively to our Premium Subscribers. Just let us know via a request posted to the comment section, which French pastry you would like us to sample on your behalf. We have between us three sets of teeth, and taste buds that have been through a rigorous training regime: we are standing by, ready to do your bidding.

At our café in Paray-le-Monial we were able to observe at close quarters some of the local mecs, for who this particular café seems to be a kind of headquarters. They sit solitarily, or in small groups, nursing their petit café noirs, brooding a bit, and chain smoking, the smoke drifting steadily from their table to ours. Whenever another of their circle passes by, there is a ritual shaking of hands, an exchange of bises.

It starts to rain about midday, just before we reach Digoin, so we take shelter there under an overhang to wait it out. It takes about an hour and a quarter for the rain clouds to drift east and pass over us, but we have a place to stay already booked for the night, so there is no particular hurry. We read, we watch the passing boats, we nibble on cheeses, saucisson au noisettes purchased at the market in Paray. We chat with other touring cyclists who also stop for shelter. One particular pair, two older Frenchmen from Orleans, have been cycle-camping for a month already. They started in Bratislava, and regale us with descriptions of the places they have camped: tipis; small wooden cabins; in one place they had a huge tent all to themselves, which would have accommodated ten. We also meet up again with Urs, who we have been playing leapfrog with ever since we first met by chance at a café in Verdun-sur-Doubs. In some ways it feels like the Camino de Santiago, where you repeatedly encounter the same pilgrims, sometimes several times a day, all heading in the same direction as you.

And I have to take a moment here to sing J’s praises: she’s done amazingly well, especially considering the fact that she hasn’t cycled much for the past few years. At one point today J was in the “sweep” position, with A and I pedaling slowly along just ahead of her, chatting loftily about the usual things: philosophy, politics, literature, engineering and sport. Feeling a bit boxed in, J put on a burst of speed and zoomed past us and inward down the path, exhilarated. If her hair had been longer it would have been waving in the breeze. Seriously though, it has been such a joy for me to share this cycling adventure with her — and it’s not over yet!

Tonight we have an entire two-story private house to ourselves: Chez Mimi, on a side street a few blocks from centre ville in the spa town of Bourbon-Lancy. J&A found it last night on the Internet, for an amazingly low price. Mimi, the woman who rents it out (I expect it’s on AirBNB as well) lives 28 km away, so we were instructed to pick up the key from Mme Vincent, the neighbor across the street. Mme Vincent shows us the location of the little shed where we’re  to store our velos, after which we start to open shutters, turn on lights, shower, wash clothes, and change for dinner. In town, as we wait for our meals, we meet up again with Urs, who joins us to discuss cycle-touring gear etc. He’s doing the Eurovelo 6 from Basel to Nantes, as a way of resting up between stages of his longer cycle-touring project, a huge loop which will take him up through Norway, beyond the Arctic circle, and then south again, by one of the other Eurovelo routes.

Our food eventually arrives, and as A&I savour our Burgers Maison Charolais, we try not to think of the gentle, accusing eyes of the many Charolais cows we have seen along the way.

Époisse marks the beginning of the watershed which divides that part of France draining toward the Mediterranean, from the part which drains to the sea. The first lock that we encounter today has a sign (in a lovely antique font) identifying it as “Écluse No. 1 (Méd ée)”; 4 km down the road is its companion lock and sign: “Écluse No. 1 (Océan)”; imagine the important decision facing every raindrop which falls between these two markers: which way am I supposed to flow?

Today’s pastry and café stop is in Blanzy, where we find a patisserie with a better-than-average selection of the classic French pastries, among them the Paris-Brest (a wheel of choux pastry stuffed with praline-flavored buttercream, named after the famous bicycle race); the Baba au Rhum; and the Religieuse (“two choux pastry cases, one larger than the other, filled with crème pâtissière, most commonly chocolate or mocha”). After some hesitation we select a wedge of flan coco, and a Paris-Brest (we are, after all, Experienced Cyclists).

The Paris-Brest is presented in a tasteful carrying case, which inspires the following set of unboxing photos, that we dedicate to the pastry fans out there:

Our café is on one of Blanzy’s main streets (and there aren’t that many streets in Blanzy); while we sip our coffees and nibble at our pastries, we can look directly across the street, where a young mother is proudly showing off her plump and phlegmatic son, Roland, to her neighbors, and to the world.

From Blanzy we cycle along the D974, a departmental road which closely follows the Canal du Centre. Most of our route today is along this road; gone (at least for now) is the dedicated cycle path. The official Eurovelo route is slightly different from the route we’ve chosen (it’s away from the canal), but their route would still have us traveling along roads, and since traffic on the D974 is so light, there’s really not much point.

We pass through many small towns (by our standards “small” means “without a café”), as well as one (Montceau les Mines) which is fairly busy, with an industrial fringe, where we consider stopping for a quick twistabdo tapis rameur at Squash Sauna; we even consider waiting for Godot.

In Génelard we experience another watershed moment, one which requires a bit of backstory.

In 1980, M was cycling solo in France, on his first ever such adventure. He (or rather, “I”, since the third person is so awkward) was following the Loire from its source: two nights camping sauvage, and the third night in a hostel. My route took me though the small village of Cuffy, where I found a fête in progress. To make a long story shorter: at the fête, in conversation, I mentioned that I would be camping sauvage that night, just up the road. “Nonsense! You’re staying with us!”

And so I spent several nights with a wonderfully generous local family, with their 4 small children (a few photos from that 1980 visit are shown above). For me, traveling solo, and far from my own home and family, it was a very special gift. We exchanged letters for a short while afterwards, but then lost touch. Which brings us to just before the present.

While planning this year’s trip, I noticed that the Eurovelo 6 route passed through Cuffy. “I wonder…,” I wondered aloud to J, “whether any of that family still live in Cuffy?” And now, thanks to the Internet (and to Facebook), I am back in touch with one of those 4 small children (who are, of course, now not so small). To follow the mildly anonymizing (and mildly annoying) conventions of this blog, I will refer to her here as D (in the photo above, of the children at the beach, D is the one on the far right). Which brings us to this afternoon.

Though no longer living in Cuffy, D now lives not too far away from there, in a village which happens to be a mere 5-minute drive from our cycle route (I know: small world). And so today, after being out of touch for nearly four decades, I once more had a chance to visit face to face with D, who drove to meet us at a small café in Génelard. She brought us a gift: a selection of viennoiserie from her local bakery (she’s been following the blog). Merci beaucoup D! C’était très généreux! And in a few more days, further down the road, we will meet up with D’s parents too. So stay tuned…

After coffee, D guided us though the wet streets of Génelard to the supermarché, so that we could pick up some supplies for our dinner. We’re staying at a gîte in the small village of Saint-Aubin-en-Charollais, and there are no restaurants for miles and miles (or: for many km, if you prefer). But when we booked our room, the gîte owner let us know that there was a shared kitchen we could use. (Three key facts you need to know about our gîte host: when shaking hands he offers just the first two fingers; he needed us to know, frequently, that his day had been “Très bousculé,” or “Rush, rush, rush”; and he seasons his conversation liberally with “Pas de souci,” or, in English: “No problem.” Nothing is more noticeable than someone else’s speech tics.)

We’re planning a filling pasta dinner (since cyclists need carbs to balance out all the pastries): spaghetti with a special combo sauce (half bottled, half home-made), and grated cheese. A&I will top ours off with sausages de Toulouse; J will add some tuna to hers.

And so our day of watersheds comes to a (ful)filling end.

A here with my first posting.

While our blog has provided plenty of information on the places we passed through on the Eurovelo 6, less attention has been paid to ‘what to ride’ on the numéro six (numero kuusi, for our growing number of Finnish-speaking readers). We also have some tips, not just on what to ride, but also on what to wear for the discerning cyclist who wants to be ‘noticed’ on the No.6!

Well let’s start with a pair of elegant cyclists. You can tell they are good friends by their matching coloring scheme. The very fetching red and blue combo.

On the ride, there are some who take this a little too far. For example, the cyclists with matching helmets, orange vests and electric bikes! So uncool!

If you want to be fashionable then why not try a recumbent bike? We have passed a few recumbent bikes — one-person and two-person bikes and tricycles. They have mostly been traveling at speed, so difficult to photograph. But here’s an example of an electric recumbent tricycle ‘at rest’ outside a canal-side cafe.

And a tandem recumbent with trailer! Is this like a ‘bike train’? My question with tandems is always: who gets to sit at the front, who gets to steer, and who gets to use the brakes?

Bike and trailers seem very common on the No. 6.

And if you don’t want to cycle alone, you can always bring a small child, or in this case, a small dog! 😊 in your trailer?

And if your dog doesn’t attract enough flies, remember to wear plenty of yellow… and orange!

But if you want to avoid  flies while cycling.   We suggest to our loyal readers that they: 1) Cycle quickly… perhaps aided by an electric motor?

2) Wear a protective cape… and/or cycle in the rain.

Or 3) try camouflage! … for example, try to pretend that your bike is really a tree??

This blog post will continue next week as we continue our research on the latest fashions in what to ride and what to wear on the Eurovelo 6!

We left our gîte after breakfast, our host taking the requisite starting selfie, and were soon back at the canal. By staying where we did (in the countryside) we bypassed Chalons entirely, without regret. “It’s all about the bike!” (though Lance Armstrong would disagree); J&I will have ample city time later, in Paris.

From Chalons we’re following the Canal du Centre, which connects the Saône to the Loire, at Digoine. It is another sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. Hawks hover above the canal, swiveling their tails to maintain position, probably hoping to find an unwary fish or frog. Yesterday I saw one hunting from high above a field, which suddenly stooped, returning to the air with a mouse in its claws.

Parts of the route through this section are still “provisional,” which is a euphemism for “you will climb hills.” It also means:

1. that the canal-side cycle path is still being built (at one point we saw a stretch of fresh asphalt, but it was barricaded, and we were forced to take to the hills); or
2. that the canal-side roads in this section are dangerous for cyclists, either because they carry a high volume of traffic, or because there is no shoulder.

There was quite a lot of traffic along the first section of the canal, close to Chalons, both bike traffic and boat traffic: each lock we passed was in use. Occasionally we encountered clumps of guided cycle-tourists wearing identical vests, and I had the impression that they were all pedaling in lock-step. Canal boats were moored photogenically along the canal bank near towns: Le Saphire; Cornelia; Imponderabilia; Ulysse; as well as one mysterious boat, moored a bit apart from the others, painted all in black, with rust-colored trim, which sat very low in the water, and bore no name at all.

At one point we stopped to watch a lock in action, and started talking with a young French cyclist, Remy. He was from the Lorraine region, and had cycle-toured extensively along the Eurovelo 6 as well as other routes; this time he was leaving the Eurovelo 6 at Chagny, and heading north, through Beaune and Dijon. He’d decorated his velo with bits of wood, which he’d lashed on with cord; they’d kept him safe so far.

For quite a while we’d been concerned about three semi-circular loops shown on our map, where the Eurovelo 6 route leaves the canal and heads for the hills. The Cyclotourisme site fueled our concerns, at one point stating “Note that the way is along quite steep little roads and should only be tackled by experienced cyclists. You can avoid this difficulty by taking the train from Chagny to Montchanin.”

But we’d already taken the train once, with some regrets, and had endured derisive comments from one or two of our followers as a result (no names here, but you know who you are!), so we were motivated.

We pedaled for longer than we would have liked in search of a suitable café to take our mid-morning break, striking out in Santenay, in Saint-Gilles, and in Dennevy. Finally, in St-Léger-sur-Dheune, we found our spot: a canal-side café, where we could rest and refuel before tackling the first of the three loops: the shortest one, with just one steady climb. The second, which headed into the hills on the other side of the canal, was longer, but more gradual.

The third loop, the longest and the most challenging, began at St-Bérain-sur-Dheune, a roller coaster sequence of three noticeable hills, the last being quite steep: at least a double arrowhead. J received a bouquet of flowers upon reaching the top, and we all basked in the knowledge that we could now legitimately call ourselves “experienced cyclists.”

Action shot of M

Action shot of J

This night we’re staying at Entre Terre et Mer, a simple, clean hotel in the town of Écuisses. Our room, on the second floor, looks out over the canal, and we fall asleep to the sound of frogs.

Entre Terre et Mer

…their rates

The view from our room

For several days we have been observing the effect that A’s gilet jaune has on the various small insects which gather in clouds beside canals. They hang there in the cool, moist air, buzzing almost imperceptibly, discussing the many things which occupy the insect world: the stock market (Monsanto: up or down?), sports (Allez la France!); literature (“Lord of the Flies” and Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” continue to be popular). Such is a midge’s life in France—until we come along.

The three of us often ride in single file, with A (usually) in the lead, shining like a beacon in his bright and bilious yellow vest. When the midges first sense the approach of A’s trademark vest—and how they do this is still a mystery—they go mad.

That specific shade of fluorescent yellow appears to have a particularly potent aphrodisiac effect on midges; they become aroused to such an extent—frantic with such uncontrollable desire—that they lose all self-control, all decorum, and plaster themselves passionately against A’s chest and back by the hundreds, seeking some sort of tiny, insect-sized consummation. The only polite thing one can do in such circumstances, I feel, is to avert one’s eyes, and let the relationship proceed to its natural conclusion.

A, in his matching T-shirt

Later: a cluster of sated midges; if you look closely you’ll see that they’re all smoking very tiny cigarettes

NB: it should be noted here, for the record, that A’s wardrobe contains other, equally vivid garments: a matching fluorescent yellow T-shirt, and sunglasses trimmed in the same emphatic shade. Not many people can carry off so bold a fashion statement; A can.

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.