EuroVelo 6 - Decize to Paray-le-Monial, France

It�s raining this morning and I have little inclination to circle Decize looking for the bike path, so I pedal east on the D979 and... voila, discover the only D-road in Burgundy without traffic. Blackberry grows wild in hedges, sheep without overcoats huddle under trees and I crest my first hill of the day. It won�t be my last. Let�s call them �folds in the terre,� which soon enough become sharp creases. But the rain buggers off, so I relax into the cycle and let my mind wander. 

What is the name of that movie about a drunken writer sleazing around New England? He�s forsaken poetry, love and a future until he meets a young woman played by Kelly McGillis. At the end of the movie, he stands on a chair with a noose around his neck... but he starts thinking of a good line for a poem, and another, until he convinces himself there is still hope... and then a dog bounds in and knocks the chair from under him. I spend an hour cycling past green fields and small villages, recalling every detail from the movie, except the title. Such is the preoccupation of a long-distance cyclist.

Bourbon Lancy is a spa town. On the hill is a belfry, church and the small medieval village. It�s in perfect repair, a little too neat for my liking. The ornate signs that hang from every shop are quaint, but appear more for the tourist than the local. Well-dressed ladies sit behind counters in shops offering expensive leather shoes, totally unsuited to wearing on the cobblestones outside. Creeper clings to high stone walls and swallows choreograph the sky. I enter my first bike shop of the trip, in curiosity. The owner asks me how far I�ve travelled. I answer �l�Atlantique, l�Allemagne.� The owner whistles, impressed. I add, �lentment.� Slowly. In faltering English, he says, �It is zee only way.� As I leave he calls, �bon voyage.�

In the spa quarter, the Grand Hotel is named more in hope than reality. What is it about spa towns that suggests a fading decadent past and a precarious decrepit future? The buildings are regal yet rusty, the spa pools harbour bacteria rather than wealthy tourists, the bars are windswept and faded, the only customers glassy-eyed senior citizens. What was once a pleasurable holiday now seems the last refuge of the dying. The potential customers of these towns are jetting off to Thailand for beachside massages rather than hanging out beside the eau minerale pool. It�s a sad lonely elegance. In a melancholy mood, I cycle out of town through an imposing stand of oak trees.

A sweeping downhill returns me to the quiet backroad where I marvel at a farm of failed possibilities. An above ground pool stands warped and empty beside a rusting trampoline. A teepee, one side torn and flapping in the breeze is surrounded by scrap metal. Bike frames linger beside the front fence, waiting for two wheels and new riders. The house is shuttered and boarded, the owners have moved on to wilder, more exotic schemes perhaps?

Lunch is pot-luck at a restaurant beside the Loire. No-one speaks English. Once again, I point to the formule menu and let the waitress decide. Entree is pate and a basket of bread, followed by a plate of raw chicken slivers accompanied by salad. I look at the waitress, confused. She smiles and holds up one hand, indicating I should wait. No worries there. I�m hungry, but tucking into raw chicken? She returns with a sizzling stone plate, carried on a wooden tray. She places it carefully on the table, repeating the words, �Tres chaud!�. I get the idea. With a fork, I toss a few chicken pieces onto my very own barbecue. They sizzle and curl. I turn them quickly. The waitress brings an extra basket of bread and a carafe of water. Perhaps she�s expecting flames and second-degree burns and wants the water nearby? I settle in for a slow lunch. Dessert is fromage blanc, the silky cheese-milk so beloved by the French.

Digoin is the start of the Canal du Centre, which I�ll be following for the next two days. Built in 1792, it links the Lateral canal a la Loire with the River Soane. After over 700 kilometres, I say au revoir to the Loire. In farewell, I cycle twice over the stone bridge, looking down at the slow running water.

The new path is not well signposted, but a joy to ride. Escargot in their dozens slither across the tarmac... at snail�s pace. Ouch, sorry. I do my best to dodge them, even though I�ll be eating their cousins later in Beaune. An imposing stand of trees line the canal, fisherman with multiple rods resting on poles stare off over the hills. They all nod or offer a wave as I pass. I have yet to see anybody reeling in a fish.

In the 1670�s, Margaret Mary Alacoque in Paray-le-Monial, saw numerous apparitions of Jesus, thus establishing the town�s status as a stopover for pilgrims seeking forgiveness and/or divine assistance. My hotel room looks over the Chapelle of the Apparition, its butter-coloured stone facade mute in the evening light. Pilgrims pass below my window in the late afternoon, holding candles. I�ve been to Lourdes in Southern France and Medjugorje in Croatia, both �apparition towns,� but thankfully Paray-le-Monial avoids the awful commercialism of those places. No glow-in-the-dark Mary or Jesus plug-in lamps here. Just pilgrims slowly circling.

I wander the town in the evening, have yet another bad french coffee in a cafe (more about coffee in a later Chapter). Paray is undoubtedly a wealthy town, there are more shoe shops than boulangeries. The Centre-Ville is a tableau of old buildings with frenchmen drinking appertifs in the fading light. I walk to the stream flowing through the village and like an eager teenager, snap photos of myself at arms length with the backdrop of the church reflected in the water. For dinner, I enter an Italian restaurant. Tonight, I am waiting for the miracle of pizza. Like all french pizzas, it�s heavy on the cheese, rich and filling, and washed down with a pichet de rose, s�il vous plait. Later, I recline in bed, unable to move with the weight of pastry in my stomach. The pilgrims still pass by my window. An apparition can appear at any hour, it seems.

Accommodation: Hotel de la Basilique, 18 Rue De La Visitation, Paray-le-Monial. Quality hotel with large rooms, wifi, elegant cafe and restaurant, excellent breakfast and a garage for the bicycle. Price E43-62. My score: 16/20.

Route tips: You may be inclined to wander at your leisure from Decize to Digoin, but do not miss the Canal du Centre from Digoin to Paray. It�s an oasis of calm. Even if you don�t have a bicycle, I�d recommend hiring one for the journey. It�s fifteen kilometres between the two towns and you may want to take it in both directions. A path for those of us who enjoy our cycling easy, with scenery. And with a good restaurant at the end.

Distance cycled today: 84km

Actual distance: 76km

What I should have said: �Monsieur, petit fromage dans le pizza, s�il vous plait?�

This is an edited extract from my eBook, baguettes and bicycles. To purchase this book for $2.99, go to my Amazon page, here. 

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