What is the word for a group of cyclists? An annoyance? An annoyance of cyclists are getting the ferry from Portsmouth (which is a shithole) to St Malo (which is not.) One group is a stag do, and everything you’d expect. But there are also more sedate people, like us. We have a nice chat to a recently retired couple who are off on a two week tour in Brittany for their first bike trip. There’s a guy who works for cycling parts company with a beautiful new gravel bike, but he croons over our vintage tourers, and I manage to sound like I know what I’m talking about.

There’s a heightened terror alert following an incident the previous week. Almost every other car is being stopped and searched. All the cyclists are pulled over, and panniers selected at random to be removed and scanned or searched. The bike guy loses his multi tool, because it has an attached knife. We have a penknife on a multi tool as well as a folding knife for food prep, but luckily the bags those are in aren’t searched.

The anticipated biometrics still haven’t materialised at the border, so it doesn’t take too much time to clear passport control. We do spend some time on arrival looking round St Malo though, which really is lovely, so we don’t get very far.

The following day we set off properly, and it’s hard to describe the feeling of freedom. It’s like the last day of school, or the day of leaving for a holiday. But this is for the long term, and though we have a map in our heads of our route, the almost limitless possibilities are intoxicating.

We have a couple of brutal days in Brittany. The weather is awful, so we take the most direct route. It’s sharply undulating, and tough on our softened legs and lungs. I keep reminding myself that this work will stand us in good stead in a couple of weeks, but it’s hard when it hurts. Our direct route means we don’t start the Loire from its mouth, but instead angle to Angers and meet the river there.

The weather is great when we arrive, and the Western Loire is gorgeous. This is one of my favourite parts of France with the stone houses, wine caves and quiet roads. There’s a feeling that this is what we came here for.

That maybe lasts 48 hours until heavy rains start, but the initial campsites we stay at have enough provision for cyclists and hikers to mitigate this. We have covered areas to shelter and cook in, so as long as we are prepared with provisions it doesn’t effect us too badly. More annoying are the FOUR bank holidays in May. Do the French even do any work.

As we move east, the Loire towns become more touristy, and the bike route busier. Bikepacking as an activity has exploded in the last few years, and tent fields at campsites have multiple cyclists turning up every day, even in the low season. They fall into two categories. Young, with gravel bikes, frame bags, arse rockets and very specific gear and clothes. In the same way that all pubs are now painted exactly the same shade of blue, all bikepackers wear the same range of colours and have one of a couple of tents. The other category is older retired folk, usually German or Dutch, with their Schwalbes and derailleurs. Much more likely to have a tunnel tent, a touring bike and chairs. It’s the former who ignore us and the latter who greet us, and comfortably strike up conversations. We fit into that group more now. 

After the heavy rains, it gets blisteringly hot as a heatwave smothers western Europe. All I want is normal, seasonal weather. A couple of weeks of 21 degrees, and maybe the odd shower and I would be happy, but it isn’t happening. It’s almost too hot for a shower. Even when the water’s cold, the porta cabin shower blocks are like greenhouses and so, so hot that I’m sweating more after showering than before. It’s too hot to go in the tent at all until gone 10pm, and even then it’s a case of lying in a film of sweat and hoping for sleep. The alternative is sitting outside with the mosquitoes, which appear in swarms as soon as the sun goes down. By 3am, when I’m forced awake by the inevitable need for the loo, it’s lovely and cool, but by 6 it’s starting to get hot and becoming a scramble to get our gear packed before I start dripping sweat on everything. 

National stereotypes are often not true, but my God, French supermarkets in a heatwave are nauseating. On the flipside, I will never understand the trope that the French are rude. With a couple of very minor exceptions (I have a red pepper taken off me at a self service checkout because I haven’t weighed it) I’ve always found this country warm, friendly and helpful.

We don’t go to the source of the Loire, because we decide to jump east to the Dijon area for a change of scenery. The day’s riding south, through the gorgeous vineyards, rolling hills and pretty villages is one of our highlights so far. Through this terrain, I can feel how much stronger I am now compared to when we left. Until Richard has a huff and moans about how slow I am being, which takes the wind completely out of my sails.

The sensible thing now would be to head east again, and drop down into Switzerland, which is our next destination. But we have the wind at our backs, and that is so rare and so enticing that we keep south along the Saone, heading for Lyon.

The heatwave becomes record-breaking in France, there’s even an inter-ministerial meeting about it. Richard is less bothered by the heat than I am, but now he is becoming bored. I love France, and the days on the Saone have been nice, albeit not challenging. I am inclined to agree with him though that canal and river cycling is getting a bit dull and unchanging, and I would like to move on. We decide that Lyon is the furthest south we will go, and then we’ll head for Switzerland.

The day into Lyon is the hottest yet, but we have the treat of a hotel to look forward to. I get a migraine, surprisingly the first one since we left, and we need to sit for a while until I can see properly again. Then I lose all gears and am stuck in a downhill gear (of course) for the rest of the day. It’s killing my legs, so it’s a huge relief when I finish navigating to our destination, only for us to have had our wires crossed, with Richard having booked a different place a few kilometres away. I was dreaming of an afternoon just lying on a mattress in air conditioning, but off we go to the nearest bike shop, 5km away in another direction, because my bike is not rideable.

I am very worried that my front shifter has broken. It’s a part sourced second hand a year ago, with the advice from the mechanic who found and fitted it, to not let it go even if it breaks because they are so rare now. The friendly mechanic at the bike shop takes a look, rides it round the block and fixes it instantly. It’s so simple he refuses to charge me. I feel a bit foolish, but he shows me how I can repair it if it happens again, and now my bike is fine.

From here we head to Geneva, me with the goal of cycling the Alps, Richard of going to Liechtenstein. He is already making unhappy rumbles about crossing the Alps, but it’s hard to know how he intends to reach the little principality without doing that. Regardless, I am keeping a weather and mountain watch. There has been a huge dump of snow in Valais Canton, and the passes we’re heading to are still shut for the winter. It’s hard to believe, when the temperature is so disgusting less than 200 miles away. Before all of that though, we expect a pleasant ride beside Lake Geneva before we make a final decision on how to navigate Switzerland.

A playlist for the ride: