A Ride Through Time

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Ahhh, where do I even begin? The weekend of June 21st-24th, 2012...or something like that.

Leading up to this weekend I had zero clue what the plan of action was. Leaving was France was my first choice, but that didn't happen. Transportation around Europe is very cheap...if you book two months in advance of the departure date. However, if you wait until two DAYS before leaving it is extremely expensive, only royalty can afford these prices. Well, or young college kids who poorly planned a weekend trip and give in to the pocket busting prices. Perhaps Greece should look into similar means of revenue. So with my peasant budget I began scowling over the internet trying to find the perfect place for a weekend visit. For some reason or another, only big cities seemed to stand out for places worth visiting. But then a new idea began forming in my head. A destination that would really show me what French life was all about.

The country side, historic, peaceful, pleasant...different. This was the weekend I was looking for. But where? If you are geographically challenged, France is a rather large country and you can only imagine all of the little hidden gems that are hidden just around the next bend. Going somewhere close would keep costs down. One of our professors had mentioned something about the Garden of France, but my foggy memory of a bland class was escaping me... Oh yes, the Loire Valley, that was it!

A city just southeast of Nantes, by the name of Saumur, looked to be the best starting point to trek along the scenic river where visiting many villages and historical sites would be easy to do. While looking up a place to stay, an add for a bike rental shop scrolled across my screen. Why hadn't I thought of that!? A bike would extend my reach my by ten fold! So there it was, the plan of all plans. Train to Saumur, rent a bike, ride along the scenic Loire River stopping at any and all places that caught my eye, until I reached "one of the most beautiful villages in France," Candes Saint Martin, where I reserved a two night stay at a B&B named Le Basinierre. Perfect.

Did it go according to plan? Of course not! Are you kidding me, does it ever!?

This time I was mad, for I truly believed I had covered all my tracks. I even had back up plans, just in case something did go astray. Getting to Saumur was simple and went along without a hiccup. But then my next step was to rent a bike. There were two bike shops just near the train station, I found my first option rather quickly, but staring me in the face was a large black and red sign that said "FERME, CLOSED." Sweet, thank you bike shop option number one, but you can't get me down, for I will just take my euros to your competitors. Address in hand, I searched and searched. But mysteriously the road was nowhere to be found. Literally nowhere, merdre (common French word used during stressful situations).

So I did what any logical human would do, head into town to search for another shop. This turned out to be another one of my exhausting walk-a-tons. Hour after hour I walked and still nothing. I caved and ended up calling my dad. Racking up the international call fees, I asked him to search online and see if he could find the nearest bike shop in Saumur. To my dismay he informed me that the closest one was two towns away. No way, my luck I would walk all that way and there would be a sign on the door saying they were closed due to a recent attack by a dragon or something weird. But if I didn't have a bike, my whole weekend would collapse and I was not ready for that fate.

Drastic measures were needed. I did what I never thought I would do. Pulling my hood over my head, and slipping on my shades, I strolled into the tourist office.

Instead of hearing noisy English tourists, whining children and couples complaining that their hotel room didn't look like the pictures, I walked into a quiet, modern office space that was newly renovated with shinny wood floors, large flat screens that were scrolling advertisements, and large leather couches. Whoa, was this the right place? A woman at the front desk gave me a warm smile and asked if she could be of service. Holy crap, this was incredible! I asked her where I could rent a bike for the weekend. After a few minutes on her computer, she had printed me off and entire LIST of bike shops! This angel then pointed me in the right direction with a smile, saying the closest shop was just a short walk away. I would have kissed her right on the lips if she were 60 years younger and didn't reek of cigarette smoke.

Overjoyed, and a little light headed with this new idea of tourist offices, I made my way to a shop by the name of Air Bikes, well Air Velo (bike). Strutting into the small shop, beautiful bikes that looked like they were for 2056, were hinting to me that I had entered a sanctuary, a place were the perfect two wheeled weekend chariot was awaiting me. A stout, bald headed man with a goatee, wearing a grimy tee-shirt stained with bike grease, greeted me. Feeling like a king, I blurted out in French that I was looking to rent a bike for the weekend. He glanced up and quickly said "no." Hold on? No? This man obviously had no clue what rings I had to jump through to find his precious little shop, and all he could say was no? Steam pouring out of my nose and ears, I asked again slower this time, "Can I-rent a bike-for the weekend?" He looked up again, and seemed to be examining my soul. Was I a worthy bike rider? Could I handle the cherished life style of a French cyclist?

He must have seen my inner cyclist or something in me, and asked me to wait a minute. The bald, goateed man walked into the back room where I heard heavy objects being dragged across the room, clutter banging about and then a metal sheet fell to the ground creating a loud, almost musical note, indicating that a miracle was about to be preformed right in front of my eyes. First came a wheel, then the handle bars, the frame, seat and finally the second wheel. Instead of a modern 60 geared, light as a feather, carbon fiber, shinny road bike, he was offering me an antique, a vintage 40 something year old bike.

This was a vintage bad boy, dull green, rusty, dusty, flat tires, and a worn leather seat. A Peugeot, I thought that was a car brand? But all I could do was smile. For whatever reason, this piece of history, this humble and noble form of transportation, was calling to me. We had a connection, one that goes deeper then the soul. I wanted to ask it so many questions. It must have been at LEAST 40 years old. Who had ridden it? Who had owned it? Where has it gone, what sights had it seen? If only it could talk. But for this weekend, we would be partners conquering the Garden of France together, just as ancient Kings and their horses had done for the past millennium.

Yes, this would be the greatest adventure. I asked the man how much for three days. But he didn't speak a lick of English. I tried again in French. 35 euros in cash, threw in a lock and I was out the door.

The sensation of a bike! It was incredible! Walking for the past three weeks has been easy, but a bike? I could get from point A to point B in half the time. I cruised around the city, no joke, with a smile on my face. I probably looked really stupid but at that point nothing could bring me down. Not even the terrifying narrow streets with tiny cars almost nicking my wide shoulders, the bumpy stone roads causing my body to jiggle like a turbulent air plane ride, or the confusing arrows, dashes and symbols painted on the road, could dampen my spirits. I felt like a knight or noblemen excited for the journey that lay ahead.

Rolling hills, wide rivers with lush brush and trees claiming their banks, crystal clear streams, caves where underground passages were one used by wine makers, cliffs with houses build right into them, Kings chateau's, ancient churches and cemeteries, perfectly lined vineyards with ivy covered stone walls surrounding them, made this 16 km ride breathtaking. The paths I traveled on were so secluded, serene, peaceful and lush, that I felt as if time had reversed and I was on a pilgrimage to Candes Saint Martin. On this journey I would have to fend off outlaws living in the woods with their cloaks and daggers who were waiting to pounce on the first traveler to cross their path, or a band of gypsies who would suck me into their herd with their hypnotic ways.

Okay maybe not. My real obstacles were long up hill stretches and rocky, dirt paths that my noble Peugeot was not made to handle. But we made it to our final destination of Le Basinierre, after seeing countless spectacular sights. I could spend all day trying to find the correct words to describe these them or write a million words, but it would not represent these sights that I had witnessed.

Finally riding up to, what felt like my own castle, was Le Basinierre. This was a small B&B owned by a man, who could give the most interesting man in the world a run for his money named Yann. Yann warmly greeted my with a cold beer poured into a goblet, which was greatly appreciated after the long ride. We chit chatted about my ride, some of the sights I had seen, and some of the other important not to miss sights. But what I really wanted to know more about was the my little castle known as Le Basinierre. This was huge stone house located right on the Loire river. How did Yann get this slice of hevan? When was it built? But he said he would tell me about it later at dinner.

Over dinner at the local creperie, well I was eating and he was just watching me eat, I asked Yann if he did anything else, like had a real job for this was too good to be true to be his only means of income. He said no, I do "this." He was working, he was providing me with a clean, warm, place of rest. How long had he been doing "this" I wondered. He then began telling me his story of how he acquired this prime piece of property. The story was almost mythical. When you hear stories like this, they are almost hard to believe. They are stories to be dreamed or romanticized about, they are never actually true. Or are they?

Yann's family had owned the Basinierre property for over 900 years. Here they had build a large Chateau of their own. The original building no longer exists, but the wine cellar that was built at the same time did. The cave was still intact and he showed it to me the next morning. It was built in 1204, imagine all that wine that had passed through its doors! As for the house that stood now, that was build in 1864 and my bedroom was actually the pigeon room. What the benefit was of a pigeon room was, I have no clue, but they had one and it was my place of rest for the next two nights.

Now imagine the early years of 1200. It would be pretty hard to occupy a piece of land that was right on the river, and then build a chateau on it. So what did Yann's family do, or who did they kill, to get this prime time land? Well, the traditional stone of the Loire valley is called tuffeau. Tuffeau is a soft stone that is white, and unique to this part of the country. Yann's great, great, great, great grandfather found a way to break down the tuffeau and filter out the flint. The flint was then used to create black powder, or as we like to call it-gun powder. Basically Yann's great, great, great, great, grandfather worked directly with the King of the current time and fueled the French army. Like I said, one can only fantasize about a life like that.

From the bike ride, to the historic sites, to the fantastic story of Yann's family, my head was spinning. What year was I in? Was this the local red wine getting to me? Or was I just THAT tired? Whatever the reason, I was ready for bed.

Next thing I knew it was 9 am. I awoke to the sound of the breakfast bell being rung by Yann. I threw on some fresh clothes, rubbed the sleep out of eyes, and went down stairs to be greeted by my favorite scent in the world. Fresh brewed coffee. A typical simple French breakfast of fresh bread, butter, jam and coffee made for the perfect concoction of taste and protein to build up the energy necessary for yet another noble quest of cycling through the Garden of France.

Equipped with fresh air in my tires, and a full water bottle, my precious Peugeot and I were ready for a new quest. One where not even an outlaw (long up hill ride), a gypsy (getting totally lost), a dark knight (dreadful rain that seemed to spot me where ever I go in France), a dragon (cars driving way too close and/or too fast to me) or even a witch (anything weird that could affect my trip, because at this point nothing was out of the question) could get in our way.

Our first stop (when I say our, I mean the bike and I. At this point we have formed a kind of brotherhood, it is no longer just a bike, but a buddy who I can count on) was to the Abbaye de Fontevraud. Sparing most of the details, the rich history of this abbey is known around the world. William IX, Duke of Aquitaine established this religious community in 1100. It was only one of the few around the world the hosted both nuns and monks at the same time. Talk about a party! It also became a hot spot for young royalty to establish their religious backgrounds. Many members of the French Bourbon dynasty lived within its walls. King Henry II of England, his wife Eleanor, their son Richard I (aka Richard the Lionheart) and a few other note worthy historical icons are buried in the chapel, however their remains whereabouts are unknown. A little event in French history known as the French Revolution (ever heard of it?) may have something to do with the lost souls, as well as the destruction of the order in 1792. Then from 1804 to 1963 the abbey became a horrible prison for men, woman, and even children. It was a fantastic place to visit, but construction on the grounds seemed to hamper the whole ambiance of the peaceful abbey.

Next in line was the journey into the unknown to find the village of Chinon. With no map, no internet, no phone, and no sense of direction, I was going to attempt to get there before the apocalypse. For the next two hours, our journey was something out of a scenic movie, or descriptive book, where the sprawling land scape was something from another world. Deserted wheat fields danced in the wind, birds darted across the blue sky, stone huts seemed frozen in time, all the while, we were just cruising along. At times I would feel like this ride could have been anywhere in the world, but then an ancient building crumbling away, or a chateau looking down from its safe spot on top of a hill would remind me this wasn't anywhere, it was France.

Seeing very few people, only cows, pigs, chickens and other various farm animals, I began to forget what time period I was currently in. The most modern structure must have been the local telephone booth in one of the small villages I cruised through. Cars were few and far between as well. New cars? Not even close, cars that made my well aged bike look like a baby.

Crossing a bridige I saw in the distance a towering castle dominating the sky line of green trees. This must be the Royal Fortress of Chinon. I had made it! And thank the bike gods I had made it, because I was surley due for a meal and more importantly a cold beer.

Getting a few funny stares, probably due to mass amounts of sweat running down my forehead and back, I triumphetly strolled into the medieval city square. Satisfied without running into a single problem on this leg of the quest, I decided that a large meal was well deserved. Sitting under the shade provided by the cafe umbrellas, I kept nervously looking over my shouler. High up above me, ontop of the cliff sat the Fortress of Chinon. This fortress has the highest wall/moat combo in all of Europe. Living in this city must be a bit stressful, for at any given time that mamouth wall could come tumbeling down showering the good folk of Chinon in a not so pleasant rain of rock, iron and glass. But the prospect of that beer and meal took over all other emotions rather quickly.

The French take a two hour lunch break everyday. Yes two/2/II hours. On this occasion, I gladly took my first official French lunch. Sitting at a cafe in the town square, I was regaining my energy through carb filled pasta, and rehydrating, well kind of, with a few beers for the alluded time slot of a French lunch. After that, I was rearing and ready to take on the Fortress and final leg of that days journey.

The Fortress of Chinon is a spectacular castle, like I mention before, placed perfectly on the side of a cliff over looking the city below as well as miles in all directions. It had exchanged nationalities between the French and the English over the past centuary. Honestly, the history of this fortress seemed a lot like that of the Abbaye de Fontevraud. Many of the same historical characters played similar roles here, so I will spare you yet another repatitve history lesson. You're welcome.

My ride back to Candes Saint Martin flew by. My legs were stuck in a monotonous cycle motion, my hands were beginning to blister, and yet another intense sweat session began (only adding to my medieval stench at this point). Arriving at home, I was completely spent. It was struggeling to stay awake long enough to watch the sun slowly sink into the Loire river. Some how managing to keep my eyes open, and was rewarded with a stunning sun set. Another truly inspring day had concluded. The trance of time travel had truely set in at this point... I was seperated from the rest of the world.

9 am sharpe, the breakfast bell was rung by Yann. To my suprise I had not been the only guest that night. An elderly French couple and beaten me down the stairs and were already stuffing their faces with fresh bread, while crumbs dusted the front of their shirts. They kindly introduced themselves, in French, then went right back to the food. Conversations in French flew over my head as I ate my bread, butter and jam. Soon the fresh loaf of bread was getting shorter and shorter. I realized I was in a bilingual, breakfast bread, battle. Sword in hand (my butter knife), I passed this old man from Brest the bread. He left it on his side of the table. I asked for it back for another slice and left it in my territory this time. He then asked for it back. After a few trips back and fourth, the old man threw in the towel, he was full. I gladly finished off the ends with a little smirk, that went unnoticed. This was obvoiusly a one sided battle, maybe this time traveling was getting to me. I had to remind myself that this was 2012, not 1012 where bread was rationed. But little did I know, that the next few hours would actually make me believe that I was in another time period.

Just before departing Le Basinerre, Yann explained to me that there was a bike race today. The main road would be clear of crazy French drivers and their mini cars. What he didn't tell me was that this was a vintage bike race. La Rando Velo Retro Vintage. A vintage bike race, are you kidding me! When you are having one of the best weekends of your life, there is usually a point where things start to fade back to normal, average, everyday life. But not this weekend. Every hour provided me with a new suprise, a new experience to enjoy.

This vintage bike race was hilarious. People were wearing clothing from the early 20th centuray. The bikes were old, the clothes were old and even the cars were old. Old men and woman were dressed with old clothes (probably taken from their own closests) and younger generations did their best to fit the style. Pencil thin mustaches were drawn on the men, and the woman were having a hard time trying to keep their bikes steady, with one hand trying to keep their over sized hat's on their heads, and their highheels slipping off of the pedals. The town square of Saumur was blazing with energy. Accordians, violins, and a banjo could be heard over the scrathcy sound system. The market was filled with street vendors in custums that were selling antiques and old bikes. There was even an orginal printing press, printing out official Vintage Bike Race certificates. At this point, no one could have taken the silly smile off of my face. I felt like Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris, who had just traveled back to the 30's for the first time.

But at some point, I had to return to 2012. Waiting at the train station, the weekend was flowing through my mind like an epic movie. I was sad to return to the real world. I was sad to end this quest, this journey into the past. I was sad to return my bike, no not my bike, my companion. Hopefully I had done it justice, maybe even added an interesting chapter to its experienced life, because I knew this weekend had done that for me. But all good things must come to end...



Or must they?

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Photos

Candes Saint Martin
My home was somewhere on this beautiful river side village.

My pilgrim route
This is where I had to watch out for those outlaws and gypsies.

Troglodyte
The caves that are now abandon, but they left some old furniture in this particular one to show what they were like during use. They most important role was to store grapes for wine. Now these caves are an underground mesmerizing maze.

Somewhere in France, somewhere in time
This was once a working cafe.

Kinda like Napa Valley...
But a little more historic.

Abbaye de Fontevraud
The inside of the Cathedral at Abbaye de Fontevraud. Very pretty with its white stone walls.

Thanks French Revolution
Many statues shared the same dreadful fate as Luis XVI.

Seclusion
When I look back at this, I realize that I was crazy to be there without a map.

Lunchtime
With frightening walls threatening from above.

Chinon
Over looking the land and the Loire river, which was ruled by so many different rulers over the past millennium.

Come on
Great sunset.

Oldies but goodies
Some of these bikes made mine look like a modern piece of art.

Old School
Saumur, June 24th 1906. I mean 2012

Thank you
For the shades

I introduce to you...
the Peugeot. This was my beautiful bike that was so noble and trustworthy. We rode way too many miles together.