EuroVelo 6 - Chaumont-sur-Loire to Orleans, France

From my window, I watch the morning mist shimmer over the surface of the Loire. A big breakfast and an extra layer of clothes are in order. It�s clear and cold, a finger-numbing six degrees as I begin to pedal slowly along the river road. 

Despite the bright sunshine, I�ll blame the wind chill for what happens next. A few kilometres past Cande-sur-Bevron, lost in thought over whether to choose a cafe eclair or Paris-Brest pastry at the next boulangerie, I miss the sign for the Eurovelo 6. Or, in my defense, I follow another sign that I think substitutes for the Eurovelo. Merde! 

Somehow, I end up in the Foret Domaniale de Russy, which, according to my map, is large and bisected by two D roads. Pity I can�t find either. I ride slowly along the forest path, listening to the ever-present birdsong. Dirt tracks lead off north and south every few hundred metres. I assume I�m heading east. I hope I�m heading east. Spiderwebs stretch across the forest track, like gossamer finishing tape at the 100 metre sprint. My medal? A face full of cobwebs. Today is my first one-hundred-kilometre section. I imagine it�ll be one-hundred-ten kilometres, if I can find my way out. 

The Foret Domaniale de Russy has an amazing network of tracks. I ride them all for an hour. But wait, is that a jogger or a track-suited mass murderer running towards me? He appears as surprised to see me as I am to encounter him on this lonely bush track.

�Ou est Blois?� I ask.

�Perdue?� he suggests, perhaps unnecessarily, but who am I to criticise.

�Oui,� I say.

He turns and points from where he�s come, �Gauche, tout droit. Blois,� he says, simply. He reinstalls his earplugs and waves me au revoir. Left, straight ahead, Blois. Could it be any easier? Well, yes, actually. Because as I reach the suggested left turn, I notice there are two tracks heading in that direction. I choose the widest path and five minutes later, I�m on the D765 being buffeted by trucks and tractors heading into Blois. I am very peased to see the Loire once more. 

Blois is a handsome town on a hill overlooking the river. This area of such bucolic charm has a bloodstained past. Blois was the location of the first ritual murder in France, nine hundred years ago. The victims were Jews who became known as the martyrs of Blois. They were allegedly massacred because one of their number was falsely accused by a peasant of murdering a child. In 12th century Justice, the accuser was subjected to the �water test�. The peasant was ordered to step into a large deep pool of water. He did not drown, but floated. This was treated as proof he was telling the truth. Therefore, the accused Jew must be guilty. It is believed up to thirty Jewish citizens were massacred because one peasant could float.    

Blois is also the town from where Joan of Arc set out to liberate Orleans. I am now truly in Joan country, with her statue prominent in many villages. After a cafe eclair and one more check of the map, I follow the path east. For the first time, I witness water sports on the river. A kayaker slowly windmills close to the near bank while a speedboat pulls a wet-suited water skier along in ever-widening circles. The kayaker ignores the water skier, determinedly gazing across the fields as he makes slow, graceful progress. 

Beaugency, where Joan of Arc lead a successful battle to capture the strategic bridge, is a fine town of ancient buildings and loitering teenagers. It�s lunchtime and the students gather in laughing groups, enjoying the sunshine. One pony-tailed student juggles a football, the girls giggle as he traps it between his knees, a bow-legged jester. I cycle into the centre of town, where an elegant restaurant is open. Shiny tiled floor, wide balcony with cushioned chairs, well-dressed waiters� it�s this, or more cycling.  

Businessman in suits, finishing their coffee, look up as I tentatively enter. Could I be a courier in lycra? Non. The waitress offers me a table either indoors or outside? I suck it in and plonk myself down next to the two portly gentleman. The long booth seat is covered in rich brown leather. I put my backpack on the floor under the table and order the plat du jour. As usual, a large basket of bread and a carafe of water arrives soon after. I�ve half-emptied the basket before my tender, barely cooked steak arrives. It�s fantastic. I mop up the juices with the last of the bread. The vegetables are delicious, even the zucchinis. The waitress refills my basket. I mop some more. I am the last to leave. It�s thirty kilometres to Orleans and another ten to my lodgings in Checy.

After Meung-sur-Loire, I take a detour to Clery St Andre to look at the 15th century Basilica. It�s a Gothic beauty, with glorious stained-glass windows and vaulted ceilings. The church houses the tombs of Louis XI and his wife. More importantly, it�s also the resting place of Jean, the Count of Dunois also known as The Bastard of Orleans and Joan of Arc�s companion. If I could choose one name this would be it. Imagine introducing yourself at parties, �I am Jean, Count of Dunois, The Bastard of Orleans.�  I ride away, mimicking a fencing duel, whispering to myself, �Attendez moi, The Bastard of Orleans.� With one elaborate lunge, I almost ride into a ditch. A dog barks, in applause. 

Which leads me to Orleans in the late afternoon. What a fine town it is. I nod in deference to Saint Joan, her statue prominent in the square, before wandering the vaulted interior of the Cathedral. I sit in the rear pew, trying to imagine a nineteen-year-old peasant girl leading an army. And for her valour? Soon after, she was burned at the stake. An old woman in a shawl, walks down the aisle and crosses herself in front of the altar. The last rays of the afternoon sun stream through the coloured glass windows. A dove coos from high above.

Time for a beer. And what better place to choose than Place du Matroi, with the enormous bronze statue by sculptor Denis Foyatier, of Joan of Arc on a horse, her sword drawn. I raise a Kronenbourg to our heroine and watch the afternoon town go about it�s business. I play my favourite French outdoor cafe game - asking myself irrelevant questions. 

Why do I dislike children who wear sunglasses?

Is brown an appropriate colour for a full-length overcoat worn by that gentleman admiring the statue?

Why does every second teenage girl wear ballet shoes?

Should we enact laws to prevent young men from wearing white trousers?

How did my glass empty so quickly?

Why is that waiter ignoring me?

The cycle to Checy is, understandably, slow and wandering. I follow the river which eventually leads me to the side door of the Bed and Breakfast. My room is small, overlooking a leafy garden. There are no restaurants in town. After one hundred and ten kilometres, I cannot manage the cycle back to Orleans. I dine in the Kebab shop. The owner is Tunisian. He speaks garbled English. I speak twisted mime. We entertain each other for the duration of my meal. 

Accommodation: Les Courtils, rue de l�Ave, Checy. Small room, large guest area, wi-fi downstairs, a back deck and garden for guests. Price: E52-60. My score: 15/20.

Route tip: Follow the signs! Do not get lost in the forest! Perhaps detour to the Chateau de Chambord, an imposing pile of French Renaissance architecture, the largest Chateau in the Loire Valley. A bicycle path leads you directly to the Chateau and its extensive parkland. Ideally, if you have time, spend two days exploring the region. Orleans has numerous accommodation options.

Distance cycled today: 110km

Actual distance: 92km

What I should have said: �I am The Bastard of Orleans, and I demand another steak, s�il vous plait?�

This is an edited extract from my eBook, baguettes and bicycles.

baguettes and bicycles is a travel adventure, a restaurant safari and a guidebook for those who enjoy slow food, easy cycling... and fast descents!

To purchase this book for $2.99, go to my Amazon page, here.