Deux Camping

We rode out with Wim on his way to work, and he pointed us onto the route where we rejoined the fietsnetwork for the first stretch of the day before picking up a canal path all the way into Leuven — a slightly less glamorous city than Gent or Antwerp, but intriguing all the same. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to get a closer look at a building as when the town hall first crept into view.

The Belgium bike network.

These are dotted along bike routes to throw your empties in.

Eal drafting some free miles.

South of Leuven, Belgium changed quickly. The towns grew more rustic and rural, nobody spoke English any more, and everybody spoke French. I’d studied German at school and knew almost none of it beyond the basics. We could just about fool people into thinking we spoke French with a bonjour and a merci, right up until they tried to carry the conversation any further, at which point we simply stood there looking plum-faced. The riding was made harder still by several cobbled streets, and all my excitement about passing through Hoegaarden — home of the beer, which we’d learned is actually pronounced ‘who-yarden’ rather than the ‘ho-garden’ we’d been saying for years — drained away on a downhill over chunky cobbles that rattled the bikes half to pieces. Whatever tough climbing lay ahead, I resolved, at least it wouldn’t be cobbled.

Horrid.

After a night’s camping at Manoir De la Bas, more cobbled towns and a few long nine per cent climbs followed the next day as we reached the hometown of another beer, Chimay. Skirting the outside of the Ardennes hadn’t spared us the climbs. Our mileage had picked up, with a couple of sixty-five mile efforts behind us now, and I suspected we’d need a rest day soon — if not for our legs, then for our clothes. The clean shorts and jersey situation was becoming critical. I’d be wearing mine upside down and inside out before long.

Roadside kitchen.

A man called Ray, from Portsmouth, tried to befriend us at the Chimay municipal campground, unfortunately right after a long ride, while we were trying to get some tea cooked and the tent up. He told us he spent ten days camping in Chimay every year and planned to hitch home, offered us some chillies pulled from the top pocket of his shirt, which we politely declined, and advised us to use a pinecone as a scrubbing brush for our pans. We rather regretted not talking to him a little longer. He was a quirky fellow.

Another dish from the roadside kitchen.

Chimay sits close to the French border, and we made the crossing soon after. Every French town seems to have its église, usually right in the centre, and a boulangerie to keep us in pastries. After a couple of dog chases, a few wrong turns and a ride of over seventy miles, we reached the town of Grandpré on a blazing hot Saturday for another night under canvas. The municipal campgrounds in these small towns cost only a couple of euros each, and between that and cooking for ourselves most evenings, we’d barely spent a penny in days. Easy living, while the weather held.

Every French town is identical.