Day 3. The big one.
The Mercure laid on an early breakfast for us, and we were out the door at ten past six, turning right at the McDonalds and heading down the Boulevard de Choisy, stopping only for about a hundred red lights before turning left and crossing the river at Choisy-le-Roi. All this was good. Paris on a Sunday morning is a treat for the cyclist, and our escape through tranquil suburbs, through one of the better looking parts of town was wildly different from the previous day’s mayhem. And then....just as the one became one with one’s smugness....apres le-Roi, le deluge. We’d got about a mile down the D138 to find the dip under a bridge had collected four feet of water. A local showed us his new gumboots (to be fair, they were pretty darn spiffy) and said the tops had been surmounted by water. Quel dommage!
Back then, north and then east to the RN6. Which was tough. I’ll explain....
I had three routes to Melun in my back pocket. The first was to use the RN6 from Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, get off at the D50 at the point that the signs say ‘pas des velos’, go through Montgeron, then jump back on the RN6 again before sliding on to minor routes through Lieusaint. The second was to go east from Montgeron, skirt the Foret de Senart and come in to Lieusaint from the north. The third was to go east from Montgeron and go on forest tracks across Senart. As in off-roading. Scary.
So, by the time we got to Montgeron the RN6 was looking kind of tough. Enter, stage left, three club cyclists, all togged up for a day out. At the point where the D50 rejoined the main road, they struck off left toward Senart. Hmmmm......We followed, through suburban streets memorised from Plotaride, and, nothing ventured, nothing gained, went on to the forest tracks, which were ok, in a faintly squishy kind of way.
So, there we were for about five miles, rolling through one of the Sun King’s hunting forests, listening to the birds, taking in the early morning forest vapours, and watching the sunlight glance through the branches. And there he was, a deer, lit by a shaft of sunlight, standing on the path ahead of us, giving us the eye, before slipping away into the darkness. On such a big day there’s a temptation to invest these moments with significance; a reproach, a warning, or an invitation. In reality it was just a dumb animal unused to the sight of bicycles.
At Lieusaint we joined the Napoleonic road that underlay most of RN6, now retitled the D306. Straight as an arrow, flat as a pancake, paved to perfection it took us in to the cobbled centre of Melun, and, thereafter on to the D605, another iteration of the old main road. Now we had the legs working the miles slipped by. We rode through stone villages separated in to two by the generous width of the road, and in truth still separated by routiers avoiding the tolls on the Autoroute. A brief stop for a squashed fly and cheese sandwich sustained us all the way to Pont Yonne, where our route took us off the main road and down the western bank of the River Yonne. The water level here was no less startling than in Paris – on a level with the road having submerged gardens and taken away small trees.
Another short stop in a bus shelter, more squashed flies, more cheese and ham, and with forty miles to go we were still in decent shape. The traffic on the minor roads was close to nothing, the tarmac was baby’s bottom smooth, the temperature almost ideal and the gradients had taken pretty much the entire day off.
We crossed the river, went through Joigny and rejoined the RN6, now titled the D606 – our home for the next day and a half.
By this time the routiers were out in numbers. A penny dropped. They were giving us three metres, whatever happened to be coming the other way. Now....truck drivers in southern England have improved out of sight in the last twenty years, but they are not on the same page as French truck drivers who (and this is not too strong a word) cherish cyclists. We felt ourselves blessed, reckoning that even if France never ever produced another Tour winner, the future of the Tour de France was enshrined in a culture represented by the routiers. I doubt that the Googlebots that succeed them will be as good company.
One last nasty little rise on the outskirts of Auxerre and we found ourselves in a town of some style, arriving at the wonderful Relais Saint Pierre at twenty past three – not bad for a 108 mile trip.
Auxerre’s half-timbering was less embellished than Normandy, but the angles were just that bit crazier. And the town clock was............judge for yourself.
We took a stroll round town, had a burger and fries washed down with.....
And met a young man cycling from Northern Ireland to Marseille to watch his football team play. And then, pooped as pooped can be, we went to bed.
https://www.plotaroute.com/route/198250
The Mercure laid on an early breakfast for us, and we were out the door at ten past six, turning right at the McDonalds and heading down the Boulevard de Choisy, stopping only for about a hundred red lights before turning left and crossing the river at Choisy-le-Roi. All this was good. Paris on a Sunday morning is a treat for the cyclist, and our escape through tranquil suburbs, through one of the better looking parts of town was wildly different from the previous day’s mayhem. And then....just as the one became one with one’s smugness....apres le-Roi, le deluge. We’d got about a mile down the D138 to find the dip under a bridge had collected four feet of water. A local showed us his new gumboots (to be fair, they were pretty darn spiffy) and said the tops had been surmounted by water. Quel dommage!
Back then, north and then east to the RN6. Which was tough. I’ll explain....
I had three routes to Melun in my back pocket. The first was to use the RN6 from Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, get off at the D50 at the point that the signs say ‘pas des velos’, go through Montgeron, then jump back on the RN6 again before sliding on to minor routes through Lieusaint. The second was to go east from Montgeron, skirt the Foret de Senart and come in to Lieusaint from the north. The third was to go east from Montgeron and go on forest tracks across Senart. As in off-roading. Scary.
So, by the time we got to Montgeron the RN6 was looking kind of tough. Enter, stage left, three club cyclists, all togged up for a day out. At the point where the D50 rejoined the main road, they struck off left toward Senart. Hmmmm......We followed, through suburban streets memorised from Plotaride, and, nothing ventured, nothing gained, went on to the forest tracks, which were ok, in a faintly squishy kind of way.
So, there we were for about five miles, rolling through one of the Sun King’s hunting forests, listening to the birds, taking in the early morning forest vapours, and watching the sunlight glance through the branches. And there he was, a deer, lit by a shaft of sunlight, standing on the path ahead of us, giving us the eye, before slipping away into the darkness. On such a big day there’s a temptation to invest these moments with significance; a reproach, a warning, or an invitation. In reality it was just a dumb animal unused to the sight of bicycles.
At Lieusaint we joined the Napoleonic road that underlay most of RN6, now retitled the D306. Straight as an arrow, flat as a pancake, paved to perfection it took us in to the cobbled centre of Melun, and, thereafter on to the D605, another iteration of the old main road. Now we had the legs working the miles slipped by. We rode through stone villages separated in to two by the generous width of the road, and in truth still separated by routiers avoiding the tolls on the Autoroute. A brief stop for a squashed fly and cheese sandwich sustained us all the way to Pont Yonne, where our route took us off the main road and down the western bank of the River Yonne. The water level here was no less startling than in Paris – on a level with the road having submerged gardens and taken away small trees.
Another short stop in a bus shelter, more squashed flies, more cheese and ham, and with forty miles to go we were still in decent shape. The traffic on the minor roads was close to nothing, the tarmac was baby’s bottom smooth, the temperature almost ideal and the gradients had taken pretty much the entire day off.
We crossed the river, went through Joigny and rejoined the RN6, now titled the D606 – our home for the next day and a half.
By this time the routiers were out in numbers. A penny dropped. They were giving us three metres, whatever happened to be coming the other way. Now....truck drivers in southern England have improved out of sight in the last twenty years, but they are not on the same page as French truck drivers who (and this is not too strong a word) cherish cyclists. We felt ourselves blessed, reckoning that even if France never ever produced another Tour winner, the future of the Tour de France was enshrined in a culture represented by the routiers. I doubt that the Googlebots that succeed them will be as good company.
One last nasty little rise on the outskirts of Auxerre and we found ourselves in a town of some style, arriving at the wonderful Relais Saint Pierre at twenty past three – not bad for a 108 mile trip.
Auxerre’s half-timbering was less embellished than Normandy, but the angles were just that bit crazier. And the town clock was............judge for yourself.
We took a stroll round town, had a burger and fries washed down with.....
And met a young man cycling from Northern Ireland to Marseille to watch his football team play. And then, pooped as pooped can be, we went to bed.
https://www.plotaroute.com/route/198250
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