Days like unfilled doughnuts

August 16, 2019

Epinal to Nancy

SOME days are unfilled doughnuts. They're delightful at first and then at the end. But the middle is dull and even unpleasant.

And so it was today.

All morning we rode the path beside the Moselle that flowed at our door. It runs south to north - you'll remember that we passed the watershed - and so all morning we rode slightly downwards, the sun shining behind fluffy clouds and the breeze at our back.

And this evening we are camping on a false island, a patch of grass hidden and sheltered by low trees on the other side of a lock.

Home between the trees on our magic island

It is as idyllic as you could hope just 15km from an industrial city, perfect in every way but for the distant muted rush of car tyres on one of Nancy's ring roads.

So far, so good. It was the afternoon that let us down. The silky paths and immaculate signposting of the Vosges ended as we crossed into Meurthe-et-Moselle, a name to challenge after a few drinks.

We were being treated to Lyon again. The path became stony and close to impassable and one of the rare signs put us on a long, straight main road as dull as it was busy. Twice we sought relief on the bare evidence of tracks only to be forced back to the road and its lorry-loads of gravel.

It was the driver of one of these lorries who came close to killing us by pinning us into a pinch in the road. High in his cab, he was invincible. But even the mighty must stop at traffic lights and - further evidence that the female of the species is deadlier than the male - Steph blocked his way, launched into a lengthy tirade and pulled out her camera.

What he made of it as he sat there muttering, we don't know, but pictures of him and his number plate will worry him for a few days and, more immediately, the delay cost money to a man paid by the delivery.

Yelling at drivers makes little difference. Taking their picture does, especially for commercial drivers who welcome intervention from neither bosses nor police. We don't get troubled more than anyone else but the camera leaves a worry that lasts the week. It's been employed now in Canada, Romania and Switzerland and now for the first time in France.

We've never taken photos to the police. That just means more effort. The revenge is the worry and the feeling of impotence that the camera produces.

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These stones stand all over northern France to mark the passage of liberating armies, in this case the French 2nd Armoured Division

The Moselle was important to both sides in the war and both fought hard to master it. Marker stones trace the route of invading and therefore retreating armies.

It's often overlooked that, though France was occupied, the Free French raised an army of 300,000 for the second D-Day. In fact it's often overlooked that there was a second D-Day at all, landings in Provence and a long sweeping action that raised still more men and cleared the Germans out of cities such as Strasbourg.

And there were enough Frenchmen in the Normandy landings for them to break off and liberate Paris, something Eisenhower didn't want but which he came to recognise as symbolic.

Philippe Leclerc - and his ubiquitous walking stick - beneath the Arc de Triomphe after liberating Paris

It's all ancient history now and, happily, holidaymakers sunbathe and play on the landing beaches. But it never pays to forget because history has a habit of repeating itself for those who don't know their history. And for that reason it's recorded wherever it happened.

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Anyway, we got back to the path and faith in the world was restored. The trick now was to get close to Nancy without straying into it, because then there'd be nowhere to camp. There were fields to our left, but sealed by continuous hedges, and the canal glistened to our right.

Grass existed beyond the locks and narrow bridges gave access to it. But, while locks are supposed to hold back water, they don't. They leak and leak noisily, loud enough to disturb even the most tired cyclist in the silence of night.

And then that rare thing: a sealed lock. No splashing water. No sound of an industrial tap going full belt. We walked the narrow bridge to the far side, found an area in trees that had the air of a secret island, and that's where we are now. The last cyclists of the evening are chatting as they ride the path across the river but soon even they will be gone and we will have paradise to ourselves.

An over-optimistic mermaid but it cheered us up

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