The Airbnb experience was not great. The apartment was tiny, not helped that I stored bike in the kitchen area of course. On top of which I didn’t sleep well and I was glad to leave, although it took me ages to actually get out of the place.
My departure was even louder than my arrival, clattering and crashing up and down the stairs, across the yard and negotiating the ill fitting jammed front door several times. Broke a couple of wine glasses on the way too, just to add that into the mix. Curtains in a lower apartment twitched and I could tell that the neighbours were not happy which, at 6.30 on a Sunday morning, I can’t say I blame them.
Reims was looking fine in the early morning sunshine though, its Cathedral truly magnificent. The city had a prosperous feel to it and always nice to see a few fucked up revellers returning home from a banging night out. Made me feel a bit homesick for my beloved Portobello, in fact. Long queues at the boulangerie and cash points aplenty.
I had been overthinking the route last night, concerned that I may miss a turn which was surprisingly not very well marked and which meant I could have ended up on the main N44 autoroute if I didn’t pay attention which, whilst not illegal, was not ideal. As ever the roads were impossibly straight and rolled off into the distance, a luxury we do not have in the UK due to lack of space. It did involve one unpaved track but the run into Vitry-le-François on the D2 was lovely and the final stretch to the campsite was on a beautifully paved canal.
One major miscalculation was food. I had thought that by the time I arrived in the town of Vitry-le-François, I would be able to find something to eat but I hadn’t figured on it being a Sunday and absolutely everything was shut. The only venue that was open was a McDonalds and it was rammed to the rafters. How crap is that, starving in a country of epicurean delights and all I had to assuage my hunger was a Big Mac Meal.
Given the crowds in the restaurant, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the bike unattended for long so I sat outside waiting for my order to get ‘prepared’ but by the time it was ready, the doors had been locked due to the large numbers and Covid restrictions, so I couldn’t get back in to pick up the meal. When I finally did, the mushy mess was lukewarm and I huddled outside under some pitiful awning under the watchful gaze of the other diners as it poured again. Not the greatest moment of the trip so far.
My campsite for the night was superb with a friendly, organic kind of vibe. The owners had the most enormous greenhouse area growing a huge collection of massive cucumbers, tomatoes, courgettes, runner beans, peas and much more. There was also a large area with several exotic looking varieties of chicken all clucking around like they are supposed to do. Church bells started ringing and I was really looking forward to a massive cock-a-doodle-do session tomorrow morning. I found a great shady spot, set up camp and lay down on the mattress, looking up at the leaves and sky above.
I was relived to see there didn’t appear to be any lake or pond nearby. My legs were in pieces from mosquito bites gathered over the previous few days. It had been perfect conditions for them with boiling weather and large areas of still water in most of the places I stayed. In addition, I had made the classic schoolboy error of scratching them and they were red raw. Although I had been liberally dousing both my legs and indeed any exposed skin areas with a multiplicity of mosquito repellent sprays, nothing seemed to do the trick.
I became fascinated with the life cycle of this deadly and vicious creatures which kills over a million people a year and watched as one landed on me and started probing around in search of my exotic English blood, and what I found out was that this probe is made up of 6 individual needles which have all evolved to saw, drill and hold open skin so that chemicals to numb and make blood flow easier can be injected and allow for maximum vampire action.
On one occasion, I squashed one that was on my skin and a load of blood splattered out, which I for politeness’s sake, I hoped was at least mine and not someone else’s. I couldn’t work out how I was getting bitten so much and then I realised that there was a hole in the inner tent and in addition to their drilling, they could navigate their way around and find it. You have to admire them.
I needed to charge my tech, so made my way over to a communal area which had an assortment of plugs. Whilst there, I got chatting with a terrific guy called Manu, which I guess was short for Emmanuel. He was the size of a tank, smoked incessantly and had made his way through half a bottle of red by the time I met him. He was a keen cyclist and truly defied any preconceptions of what could ever be described as athletic. He just didn’t give a toss as he confidently told me of his various trips over the years and I was riveted. How on earth did he possibly do it, indeed perhaps he didn’t. But he was very convincing, keen to share his vittles’ and I was happy to accept.
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