Musings from the Chronicler about border crossings, and other snippets.
You know that you’ve arrived in France when disembarking from a cross-channel ferry and riding past full to capacity pavement cafes, then heading for some grocery resupplies, you find the car park deserted and the gates locked.
We’ve watched this movie before. Timing is of the essence to be able to be awarded the tee-shirt, our timing is good; we’ve had some practice.
“It’s May, “nobody works in France in May”, to quote a French cyclist I get chatting with. It’s the conjunction of weather forecast and moon phases, seculars wars and socialist dogma. This year the French Labour Day falls on a Monday which equates to a long weekend. Victory in Europe is on the Wednesday which by default makes Tuesday an unofficial holiday. Thursday is Ascension Day coming nine weeks after the peripatetic, calendar-wandering Easter Monday. Leaving the Friday as a lonely soul wedged in by the prospect of a warm sunny spring weekend. Net result is nine days relaxing on the Normandy coast. Only it’s not. Ride into the town of Lillebonne to find everything shuttered. Siesta or half day closing; only the church bell has yet to strike the noontime call to down tools, which leaves local holiday as an explanation.
Our first potential campsite is municipality-owned and run by the local Hotel de Ville, ergo, not manned at the weekend or on holidays. So in theory a ‘free night’, only the sanitary blocks are guarded by keypads. Secret codes known only to the absent concierge. “Vive les Workers”.
The next three sites are all full. The fifth allows us in after some discussion. We’re starting to get twitchy about the next few days of holiday time; will we be struggling to find accommodations? The booking apps, often a useful barometer of traveler activity seem to have availability only in the financially stratospheric realms, and that for the last few remaining basic rooms. Hot tub and Rakki stones extra.
In Belgium we add to our collection with the two day event that is Whitsun, acquire a pass in the Netherlands, only to catch Corpus Christi in Germany, where the grocery stores don’t open on a Sunday.
At least in France the boulanger will always be baking, will always be open, if only until midday.
It’s why there will always be a spare backup meal lurking at the bottom of a pannier. It might rotate, although the couscous has now traveled across six borders without bursting its bag.
With May’s rolling panoply of holidays completed, it’s time for the students to term end and the earnest informant or the local know-all to enquire if we have booked all our overnights ahead. Weeks ahead. “Y’all got reservations… everyone’ll be vacationing”. It’s an interesting conundrum; plan everything to the last detail, live within a permanent deadline and smother all spontaneity or just ‘go with the flow’. We’ve received the instruction in so many places, yet the result is always the same. The predicted demise never materialises. Riding a bike, hauling a green tent is our insurance option: when all else fails we can still ‘stealth camp’.
The dedicated, segregated, secluded, cycle path stops abruptly. Beyond this point ‘be dragons’. Belgian dragons. You know you’ve entered Belgium because the old border guard post has been renovated and converted into a chocolate shop. Cycle networks lost: candy by the kilogram.
You know you’ve entered The Netherlands when the toddler who’s still searching for a finger to hang on, climbs on a wooden kick-trike and immediately becomes a highly mobile, proficient cyclist. They start them young.
You know you’ve entered Germany when the Dutch tarmac gives way to tessellated tiles of monoblock and glazed brick back roads.
You know you’ve entered Denmark when the first row of five houses all have flag poles, there’s a discount sex store occupies one corner of the crossroads and a pig slaughterhouse the other.
You know you’ve entered Norway when rounding a corner a gent on roller skis is poling effortlessly uphill in summer training, and the signage distinguishes between langlauf and downhill ski centres.
It’s really not that difficult to collect stereotypes on a frontier.