I have not had a wink of sleep overnight and am strangely relieved when the cabin crew summon us ahead of our arrival in France. It’s 3:30 and we’re treated to increasingly aggressive knocking on the door as we stumble out of bed.
Having re-assembled our belongings, we head out in to the corridor. The on-board bar/buffet is still open as we sit around waiting to descend to the vehicle deck. It is, of course, still pitch black outside as our vessel pulls in to the port of Dieppe.
Back down with the bikes, it’s surprising to see five additional bikes lined up beside ours. It turns out that the friends of the desperate chap we heard on his phone last night did somehow manage to get to Newhaven in time. However, it’s still a far cry from the mass of stacked bicycles I witnessed on this crossing five years ago.
We disembark at 4:20 and cycle through the port of Dieppe to join a queue of motorists waiting at Passport Control. At first glance, it looks like the system has improved since our last trip, when we were chased down the road by a single officer whom we had inadvertently passed as he stood in the dark behind a hedge.
However, things quickly descend in to farce on this occasion too, as one officer takes it upon himself to direct cyclists on to the grass verge for an impromptu check of his own. However, he hasn’t mentioned this to his colleague at the booth, who then angrily calls us back, accusing us all of bypassing his checkpoint. “Bienvenue en France”, it’s not.
To add to the general confusion, Gareth is told by the man on the grass that he must return to the (rapidly increasing) queue of cars in order to get his Canadian passport scanned at the booth. Exactly as happened last time, we’ve been shouted at by French officials in the dark at 4:30 in the morning.
Regardless, or possibly stimulated by this, we feel surprisingly energetic as we head out of the port and in to Dieppe. The town is void of life, save the trickle of cars coming off the ferry. We stop to admire the Pont Colbert, an imposing swing bridge, and then, without further ceremony, follow the rural road towards Arques-la-Bataille, where the French leg of the Avenue Verte begins.
Although there are lamp posts along the road, the street lights are initially off, as part of an energy-saving initiative, and we’ve no choice but to map-read using our front lights. Happily, the street lights do come to life at Martin-Église, making for a far more comfortable ride.
It can be a fairly fast road by day, but tonight we’re passed by just one car, which crawls past us barely any faster than we’re cycling. The start of the Avenue Verte feels further from Dieppe than I remember it but we do eventually reach the village of Arques-la-Bataille, where a large road sign points us off to the right.
Strangely, this small village of 2,500 inhabitants seems to be a hive of nocturnal activity, with several teenagers still out drinking and one who has collapsed on the pavement, unable to walk the rest of the way home.
A small car park and some signage mark the start of the Avenue Verte, although this does not look in any way familiar; I believe the layout may have been altered since my last trip, or possibly I am totally disorientated by the darkness. The short stretch of disused railway track that Mark and I posed with five years ago is not apparent this time round
At the end of the car park, the Avenue Verte leads in to total darkness. Gareth points his front light in to the distance while I aim mine just a few metres ahead, in combination giving us decent coverage of the road.
The first few kilometres of the Avenue Verte zigzag around the Varenne ponds, with numerous flat bridges over the water. These are terrifying, as the dark wooden planks contrast with the light grey tarmac to give the impression of a sudden void. It takes some getting used to before we can confidently ride across them without hesitation.
There is serene silence around us, apart from the occasional crowing of cockerels and some very loud cows. We spot a tall communications mast in the distance, illuminated by red beacons. As the minutes and kilometres pass, it doesn’t feel like we’re getting any closer to it.
Suddenly, in the village of Neufchâtel-en-Bray, large neon lettering bathes our path in blue light from the side of an E. Leclerc supermarket, albeit a closed one. Quite a contrast against the dark isolation of rural France through which we’re cycling.
We come to frequent Stop signs along the route, as small roads intersect the Avenue Verte. At most of these, signage indicates the cycling distance to key towns along the route, such as Meulers and Neufchâtel-en-Bray. However, just like in Denmark two years ago, the digits are reducing rather more slowly than we would hope.
At 6:30, having covered 36km in two hours, we finally stop for breakfast, at the disused station of Neufchâtel-en-Bray. This is the first of many former stations adjacent to the cycle track, which replaced the old railway line in 2003.
We search in vain for a bakery and, after a hasty ride around the village, we settle down on the old platform for a breakfast of sandwiches, muffins, bananas, grapes and fruit juice, the supplies we so wisely purchased at Sainsbury’s last night.
As we eat, the first light of day finally greets us, a lot later than we had anticipated it would. Although we don’t expect any rain today, I take the opportunity to put my overshoes back on, as they are also effective against the cold.
We get going again after half an hour, but the journey feels slower and the distances greater now that we can actually see our surroundings. There’s some spectacular localised mist in the surrounding fields, a beautiful sight to behold.
At 7:45, with 50km already covered today, we stop briefly to watch the sun rise over the horizon. Despite the isolated location, the unmistakeably beats of some distant electronic music roll across the fields towards us, possibly from a faraway rave.
As the sun appears, we’re immediately surprised by its heat. It’s the first sunshine we’ve experienced since leaving rainy London and provides a very welcome boost to our morale. The energy it delivers is overwhelming.
Riding the Avenue Verte in daylight is a delight, passing through several charming villages, each with their own church or disused railway station. One of the stations, at Nesle Saint-Saire, has been turned in to a café, but it’s not open this early on a Sunday.
To my astonishment, the railway tracks in Forges-les-Eaux that lay derelict and overgrown when we made this trip five years ago have recently been replaced and it emerges that this section of the line is scheduled to reopen before the year is out.
Having covered 80km, the original Avenue Verte section ends in the small town of Gournay-en-Bray. Here, we break for hot drinks at the first open outlet we’ve passed today, a small café whose friendly owner is happy for us to take the cups out to a bench in the sun.
From here, we shall favour Donald Hirsch’s more direct route to Paris over either of the two Avenue Verte options. That means we’ll be mostly cycling along quiet roads guided by his downloadable PDF, rather than dedicated cycle paths with Avenue Verte signage.
Shortly after, we’re tempted by a further shortcut to shave a few hundred metres from the route. It involves a fast Route Nationale, where a disconcerting sign informs us that 19 people have been killed in the last five years.
The scenery reminds Gareth of the Windows XP desktop wallpaper, with vibrant colours, a deep blue sky and fluffy white clouds. In the next village, Saint-Germer-de-Fly, a large village fête is underway, along with a braderie and barbecue.
By 12:30, we’ve already covered 100km, and our thoughts are turning to lunch. However, we’re determined to reach Marines, where Mark and I stopped for lunch five years ago, and Gareth did so the year after.
We make it to Marines, but it’s 14:15 by the time we do so. We’re behind schedule as we sit down on the terrace of Café Kington, where the owner immediately warns us that there’ll be a 15-minute wait before we can order. It’s unclear why, as there are few other people.
Happily, some removal men arrive to keep us entertained by lifting a massive sofa out a first-floor window across the street. Disappointingly, their death-defying operation is an apparent success.
Our waiter then returns to the table with a menu and starts listing the dishes that are not available. He quickly concedes that it would be quicker to list those that are, and reduces the entire three-page menu down to just five types of sandwich.
Although none of them sound particularly appealing, we eventually opt for salmon. The sandwiches are surprisingly large (the two-tier kind) and tasty, while the accompanying chips are astonishingly poor. They’re soggy and under-cooked, with an overwhelming taste of sunflower oil.
Gareth somehow manages to fall asleep while sat in his chair as we wait to pay the bill, a poignant reminder of the short night we’ve had crossing the Channel and our emotional, as well as physical, exhaustion.
It’s 15:30 by the time we depart the café and we boldly vow to cycle without stopping for the next 40km, in order to make up time. However, we’re abruptly halted before we’ve even left the village, as a motorcycle procession winds through the village. From Marines, Donald Hirsch’s route to Paris takes us through some quintessential French villages, featuring grand old town halls and picturesque towers.
My own tiredness is evident as I repeatedly fail to take a picture of the a grain tower in Vigny, pressing the wrong button on my camera each time. And, in Boisemont, we become disorientated after confusing two water towers. It’s the same mistake that we made five years ago and a rare moment of confusion in the mostly-clear route directions.
After looping Boisemont a couple of times, we get back on the right road and enjoy a very long and winding descent down to Triel-sur-Seine, on the banks of the River Seine. This was another point of considerable confusion five years ago, but the route directions have been improved since then and we are directed to cross the river over a different bridge this time.
Last time, we crossed the suspension bridge in the heart of the town. This year, we head further east to an out-of-town flyover. It’s a nasty dual carriageway and feels like a motorway. There is a cycle lane across the bridge, but that offers little reassurance against the fast-moving traffic.
It’s certainly the weakest link of the entire route, but only spans 600 metres, before we exit on to a quiet path along the south bank of the river. It’s unclear whether we’re on private property, having passed through two open gates, but the route plan confirms we’re on the right path.
At one point, a short diversion takes us further away from the river, around a section of concrete that is in danger of collapse. Then the path throws us in to an enormous braderie – a giant car boot sale stretching along kilometres of residential streets. The road has been closed to cars and, even on bikes, we struggle to get through.
Contrasting with the bustling braderie we then enter the first of several forests on our approach to Paris. Disaster almost strikes as the route directions fall from my pocket, along with our only map. Luckily, we need backtrack only 100 metres or so to find the papers laying on the grass verge. It was nevertheless a close call.
Then we pass Saint-Germain-des-Prés horse academy, and enter a built-up environment. I feel that we should probably reach the Eiffel Tower in half an hour or so, but Gareth cautions against this prediction, remembering that he had grossly underestimated the ride from here last time.
The suburbs are very deprived and a gang of men point and laugh as we cycle past them, apparently entertained by the sight of two long-distance cycle tourers. Not long after that, we stop among some trees to snack, but a strange man paces back and forth in front of us – and we quickly move on.
By the time we enter the Marly forest, dusk is beginning to fall. We’ve literally been cycling from before dawn until after dusk. Then we reach the Forêt de Fausses-Reposes, another one of several forests that will take us almost in to the centre of Paris.
By now, the night has engulfed us and the unlit road leading down in to the park looks really rather daunting. The thick canopy of leaves means that even the moonlight cannot penetrate down on to the steep winding road.
We spend several minutes debating whether to brave the park or go around it. Although lit with street lights, the alternative road is an unappealing dual carriageway. Finally we opt for the forest route, and we’re soon startled by the unexpected speed humps.
Having negotiated a long descent through the forest, we emerge in to a clearing full of buildings, a small isolated village surrounded by wooded darkness. Our relief at reaching this unexpected bastion of civilisation is however short-lived.
We navigate our way through the buildings and then up a narrow alleyway to reach a tall white-washed wooden gate. It’s the entrance to the Parc de Saint-Cloud, which apparently closed for the night just twenty minutes ago. Our route map shows no alternative route and we cannot find anyone to ask for directions.
Going all the way back up the hill is a non-starter. Even if we did, it’s unclear whether the dual carriageway would lead us in the right direction. So, instead, we gamble on a small, unmarked road which appears to run around the edge of the Parc de Saint-Cloud, although it’s hard to know for sure without a map.
However, luck is on our side at last, as the road emerges from the forest on to a busy residential street. A quick glance at a street plan on the back of a bus stop reveals that, much to our general relief, we’re back on the intended route. There’s also a railway station nearby, but we resist completing the journey by train.
We persevere and, at 21:45, we finally catch sight of the Eiffel Tower. It’s a huge boost to our morale, a distant beacon of hope. The zigzagging route take us along the Passerelle de l’Avre aqueduct. Luckily, Gareth remembers just in time that the stairs and ramp are reversed at either end of the aqueduct, saving us a painful surprise at the far end.
At 22:20, we pass the boundary sign for Paris and take the obligatory photo memento. It takes us just another 15 minutes, along mostly cobblestone roads, to reach the Eiffel Tower.
The Jardins du Trocadéro are sealed off for an event and it’s disappointing to find our view of the tower obscured by parked cars. In a remarkable coincidence of timing, a torrential rain shower (the first rain we’ve experienced today) starts within about a minute of our arrival, sending us off to shelter under the nearest bus stop.
At this point, we realise that we’ve neglected to print detailed directions to our hotel, or even a full address. With just the road name and general area (near the Bastille Metro station), we head off along the north bank of the Seine, using the bus stop maps to find our way, much as Mark and I did five years ago.
The cycling facilities through central Paris seem adequate, with a mixture of dedicated cycle routes at pavement level, and extra-wide lanes for buses and bikes to share. The latter have plastic Armadillos to separate them from other traffic, an interesting feature that I’ve not seen applied to a bus lane before.
Crossing junctions is a little intimidating, as cyclists and pedestrians get the green light at the same time as turning traffic. Although turning vehicles should give way, this is not guaranteed, especially in the darkness and drizzle. Our only other grievance is the large number of cobbled streets, which make for an uncomfortable and slippery ride.
The ride to Bastille is longer that we had anticipated and I have to resist numerous waffle and crepe stands, as we hurry to reach the hotel before it gets too late, and wet. We eventually find the Bastille de Launay hotel with relative ease, and great relief.
The night receptionist is really friendly and, although he doesn’t have access to the baggage room, offers to stow our bikes in the boiler cupboard overnight. While I check us in, Gareth is already on the Wi-Fi, trying to get in touch with Karyn.
However, his phone app isn’t working and nor is the telephone in our bedroom. I shower, oblivious to the drama that’s been going on back home. I emerge from the bathroom to find desperate messages on my phone. And it finally becomes clear why Gareth has been so desperate to get in touch with Karyn today.
It emerges that he’d told her we’d be arriving in Paris mid-afternoon. As we’ve both been unreachable all day, the girls back home have grown increasingly concerned. They’ve been in touch with the Foreign Office and Interpol, who were only able to confirm that we’d not been arrested, nor hospitalised in France.
It’s a stressful evening and our plans for a large celebratory dinner quickly crumble. Instead, I’m finishing my supply of chocolate and raisins, while Gareth sneaks around the hallways of the hotel apologising to Karyn on his mobile. I’m asleep by 1:00.