Boat is at 8. Not sure if my bike classes me as a vehicle (check in by 7:30) or a foot passenger (7:00), so time is tight as it always is on these dashes to Dover.
But the Sunday morning traffic is kind the whole of the routes, and I am cresting the clifftops and catching the glint of the sun on the gentle sea long before 7:30. I park the car without fuss, remove the bike parts from the boot and reassemble it in place, then drive up to the terminal. It appears I am a vehicle, though I have a whole lane to myself. It's a long way over all the ramps to get to the boat. It seems like nothing at all by car, but I am huffing and puffing after a while.
I have not long to wait before my lane is called and I pedal up my final ramp, and onto the car deck of the Rodin.
I seem to be the only person on the boat for a while, but soon it is filling up. I settle down in front of the large picture windows to watch the trip. Then I spy the restaurant set for breakfast, all linen table cloths and napkins. Have seen it before, but withe the kids in tow, at £8 a head it has always been a bit expensive. Breakfast for one though is a snip, and in the end I go continental, which costs just £6.
I have left the ipod headphones behind, and decide I must have music whilst cycling so pay £8 for a set of retractable ones. I break them within ten minutes, but eventually get them fixed. A quick wash in the loos and then it's time to reunite with le velo.
I scoot down the ramp, then mess up a gear change and the chain is dangling on the floor. A group of bikers pass me and ask if they can help but I assure them it's ok. By the time I get going though, the cars are off the boat and I have to compete with them for road space. It takes about 10 minutes to get to the town centre, and I am hindered by a strong head wind.
Arriving at Gare Calais Ville, I do battle with the automated ticket machines and confirm a round trip to St Omer at just 14 euros. I check with the fellow behind the counter that I can take my bike on board, and am assure there is no problem, and even better,no charge.
Half an hour to kill. Too early for pastis, but time for a demi. Two English people are next to me. They have travelled to the world's foremost culinary mecca,and have ordered a full English. Actually it smells bloody good. Who'd have thought I'd ever have seen it in France though. Then my bill arrives and I get the option to pay in sterling. I take it to hang onto my euros. For £20 I got 22 of them for fuck's sake!
A couple of black guys are talking to a Frenchman on the next table along. I can't work out where they are from, but they speak in fractured English.
I pay for the beer and wheel the bike down to the platform, where a large double decker train is waiting. I wheel the bike aboard and prop it against the door, then go upstairs, simply because I have never been upstairs on a train before.
There are some flics on the train, and I notice that one of the black guys from the cafe is also on board. The police decide to demand his papiers. He clearly has trouble understanding, and their attitude becomes incredibly hostile. The policeman speaks to him in English, but makes no attempt to disguise his contempt for the lad. It is like a Gestapo officer talking to a suspect. Eventually the policeman is satisfied, and starts to make his way through the carriage. Everyone else goes to their pockets for their ID cards, and I look for my passport, but he throws us a polite, friendly smile. Clearly his other persona is reserved solely for "les noirs" Disgusting.
The train pulls out through the Pas de Calais. The railway shares a more intimate relationship with it' surroundings in France than at home. It's not buried in a cutting, but merely separated from roads and gardens with a modest fence. Level crossings line the route, and the local architecture, mainly low rise houses whitewashed with orange tiled routes, cluster around the track.
The line crosses roads at every small village, cars patiently queueing for the great beast to pass. The interior of the train is not pleasing; lots of cheap shiny plastic, almost every square inch of which has been defaced by mindless graffiti "tags". Out of the window we leave Calais and it's suburbs behind. The hinterland is more interesting than I had ever imagined from ploughing a similar furrow by road. It's a world of marshes crisscrossed by an extensive network of canals of varying widths and presumably depths. Lil lies grow on the surface, sometimes covering from one bank to another. In other places the algae has taken over.
Boats abound. To the right, on the main water artery are houseboats and working craft. To the left on the smaller creeks are flat bottomed craft, presumably to be punted through the marshes. It's a verdant land. The canals disappear into clumps of reeds in places, and in others are lost in great clumps of trees. The whole area says grab a boat and explore. In a way it reminds me of Lincolnshire, though it is saved the featurelessness, presumably as the soil is left fertile, as there seems to be very little grown here.
The train rattles along through all this, stopping once or twice to let a trickle of people on or off. Being upstairs, it is surprising how the carriage rocks back and forth.
Soon we are in St Omer. I lift the bike up the stairs and over the bridge, and remount to explore.
It's a ten minute haul into the centre of town, a huge Flemish square which has today been given over to an enormous car boot sale without the cars or the boots. There is no end of tat to be sifted through, and it is so unappealing that I resist the temptation to dig out a nugget.
I ride away, reasoning there must be more to the place than this. A few years ago I am sure I remember driving through this town and being struck by an area of houses lining the canals. On subsequent visits I had failed to find these again and failed, so now I needed to find out if my memory was faulty or not. Whilst searching I could also seek out a venue for the primary aim of this mission. Sunday lunch in France.
I ride around for about an hour, and in truth am unimpressed. The town had always seemed picturesque an full of interest when passing through, but now I am here it seems to offer little of merit. In particular there is a dearth of decent restaurants. I ride past a park where some kind of fete is going on, take a short cut down a few pedestrian precincts, all crowded with Sunday shoppers, and soon I am back to the central square. This is lined by a bunch of fairly unimposing bistros and fast food joints, none of which are likely to lure me in. I head off in another direction, and soon am back at the station. Then I spy the canal, and head for it, and at once I recognise the place I had been looking for. So I wasn't going nuts! Now I had some hope that this area might be populated by canalside bars and restaurants. In truth there is nothing but small terraces of houses, with the occasional atelier breaking up the row.
I ride out of town for a mile then head back to the main square. I check the menus of a few restaurants at the top and start to make a mental pecking order, though none really cry to me "Come in!"
On the way in I had spotted one very nice looking place on a smaller square, and I search for this again. At last I rediscover La Cynge. The menus are expensive, but gazing through the windows it seems to be doing a roaring trade. the menu seems ok without stirring up my juices. The entrance is in a side street. I peer inside. It appears rather grand and I suddenly feel rather shabby. I've packed my nice YSL shirt, and slip this over my grubby t shirt.
I follow in a couple, and am soon greeted by a charming, smiling blonde,who is elegance personified. If I am too scruffy for her restaurant, she shows no sign of letting me know about it and cheerfully leads me to a table, then has the kindness to move the heavy chair from one side of the table to the other to afford me a better view.
The restaurant is very grand. The tables are all well set with thick, luxuriant linen, fine glasses and expensive cutlery. the menus are well made. Best of all though is the amazing silver chariot de fromage, the size of an upturned oil drum, and containing literally dozens of cheeses.
I order tuna and john dory, and whilst I wait there is a little amuse bouche. I have absolutely no idea what it is. In truth it is fairly nondescript.
The tuna arrives. It is in a spicy provencale sauce, and served with wafer thin slices of chorizo. To my mind the tuna is a little over done, but then I do like Tuna almost raw. All in all very tasty.
The main course arrives, and is a little disappointing. The JD looks to all intents and purpose like a large sea bass fillet. It is draped over a huge black heated pebble. Not sure I am that thrilled by this. The fish is not cooked in any sauce though there is a fairly nondescript pot accompanying it. the fish is fine, but nothing I couldn't cook at home.
The room has a well to do, well at ease feeling. Clearly this is the place to eat Sunday lunch in St O. Everyone seems to have made an effort to arrive smartly dressed, and the place is alive with conversation which resists the temptation to rise to a hubbub in the manner of say Loch Fyne. It's all very civilised.
The main course is whipped away. I now have to order pud, which will be prepared whilst I tuck into the fromage. And the fromage is very, very good!
Pud is even better, a delicious chocolate creme brulee creation with a Colombien name, and decorated with strawberries and raspberries. It comes with a very generous serving of Banyuls.
Coffee finishes things off nicely, then it's time to part with 53 euros and be on my way. Not what I was looking for, but a good meal nonetheless.
I am tired now. a pastis, half a bottle of wine, and a huge glass of fortified wine has passed my lips, and I have been up since five. I want to sleep.
I ride to the park, and follow a path which leads to a perfect spot. A spur of a canal,bordered by a high brick wall, with a long grassy path alongside looks ideal. I ride my bike to a sunny spot, put it down, scattering a busy family of ducks, and soon I am drifting away.
The sleep is continually interrupted by the manic screeches of some kind of exotic bird perched somewhere in one of the trees high above, as well as the more work a day quackings of the ducks. I must sleep for a full hour, before I have to consider returning to La Gare. Approaching it from town, one is struck by the grandeur and scale of it. It's seen better days though, but must have been magnificent in it's pomp.
I have fifteen minutes to wait. SNCF run a highly efficient, bang on the minute train service, but nowhere on it's remit is the provision of toilet facilities in it's rural hubs.It's only grudgingly that they provide similar in their mainline stations. It'll wait.
The train appears on horizon, around the bend and pulls up to the second. I get the bike aboard and am joined by the conducteur, a diminutive, pretty girl in her early twenties whose tiny frame and pigtails are totally at odds with the huge grey SNCF hat she carries. I meet her at every stop on the way back as she emerges to press her buttons and blow her whistle.
Up the stairs again at Calais.There's an hour to kill, but with the drive home in mind I dare not linger over a beer. So I ride around, take a few photos, explore the back streets, and take a long way back to the port. On the way I come across another market of crap, this time running the length of a street of houses. I cannot work out if it is the residents of the houses who are vending their wares, or if the sellers have merely decamped on their doorsteps.
The boat, unusually for Seafrance, is a little late. I get another half hour of sleep on the way home.The Euro final is on tele, and Spain take the lead over Deutschland near the end of the first half. I go back to the shop and proudly negotiate a replacement set of headphones in French. Pleased with that! Then it's time to alight and it's back over all those ramps.I get lost and cut back on myself, before finally escaping the clutches of Dover harbour.
I drive back through London. A mistake. It takes forever, and it is close to midnight when I arrive home, exhausted,but happy with my day's adventure.
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