6. At the farm
Clutching the brake levers of the 80s Motobecane, I descended the 10% grade hearing the less-than-comforting squeals of the tough rubber pads. My mind ran through the possible situations where this could end very, very badly. Hopefully none of the passing cars would get too close as they squeezed past my bike and oncoming traffic. Hopefully none of the straps on my luggage would wriggle loose and lodge themselves in the wheels, throwing me over the bars. Hopefully I don’t get my 5th flat tire of the trip in any all-of-sudden type way. But then, I saw the end of the descent. Before entering another roundabout, I heaved the bike onto the sidewalk to still my racing heart and to revisit the map on my phone to see if Chateau-Thierry was my final destination for the day. Considering the lack of road shoulder and the setting sun, I was not itching to carry on. If the previous night had taught me to stay off agricultural roads and unpaved bike paths, the traffic had thought me that one must be very trusting of fellow man to go riding French highways at night.
I found a hotel for €50. It would have to do. Unfortunately, my European adapter for my computer had broken in transit. This would not be such a big deal if I hadn’t been relying on the computer to charge the portable charger to charge the phone - all of which were close-to-dead if not dead-dead. The blog would have to wait. I put the phone on the portable charger for one last juice-up overnight.
At dawn on Saturday morning (a full 4 hours before even the boldest shops open), I headed out to make my way toward Reims. The morning air was crisp, but I resisted the urge to put on a jacket or gloves. Wearing a bag and pulling three, I’d warm up soon enough.
I arrived in Reims at noon, where I found a convenience store with chargers. Outside, while guarding the outlet, I took a lunch of chorizo and brie sandwiched between vanilla cookies, an apple, and a bottle of water. It would be another 120 km to get to the farm, but there weren’t any sizable towns in between without deviating significantly from the route. At the rate I’d been going, it was too far to try to make it one push. Fortunately, I found a bed and breakfast in the small village of Berzieux.
It was here that I met the most gracious and generous hosts in France: the Dutch. They set me up with a beer on the terrace and Hans and I chatted while other guests grilled hamburgers. I didn’t have the courage to ask for something to eat, so I talked over my growling stomach, complaining that 3 mandarin oranges and a raisin pastry was not a sufficient supper. I held out for a big breakfast and was not let down. Tess prepared a full spread in the morning of 4 different breads, fresh fruit, homemade prune jam, fried eggs, ham, cherry tomatoes wrapped in cheese w/mayo (?), homemade apple juice, and 3 cups of coffee. It was heaven. After Hans and I took a stroll around his property, stopping to say hello to the chickens, sheep, and ponies, it was time get moving. I waived good-bye to Hans and Tess with a full belly and a good attitude. It’s was great riding on quiet roads this morning. I had a chèvre-spinach quiche with a chocolate pastry and coke for lunch. Divine.
The surrounding country had moved from vineyards to wheat and mustard(?) fields. In every town now, I’d find some tribute to the men lost in WWI. I passed by American, Italian, and British cemeteries. I was now fully immersed birthplace of trench-warfare.
At about 3:30, I spotted Ecurey en Verdunois for the first time. I met, my host, Michel and watched him feed the goats, sheep, and pigs. We dug trenches for the new rabbit-enclosure and built up some new hügelkultur beds. I think. There wasn’t much communicating going on - not for Michel’s lack of trying, but because my French is primitive. We walked around the property to see the animals and the garden space. It was, a little surprising to see how many project were ongoing. Michel’s building strategies could be described as resourceful at best. Where was the fromagerie? Surely there must be a greenhouse somewhere? No. We met a few of the neighbors, and with each one I explained that I spoke very little French. Michel would clarify that I was American, and I watched eyes roll. Bien sur.
Sylvia, the other host and Michel’s companion, arrived from out of town this evening. Hers was a welcome arrival. A naturopath and astrologer, she seems to be a caring person. She also speaks English well. Hopefully a little translating will help to ease the work tomorrow.
I’m feeling quite overwhelmed with the idea of carrying on here for the next 4 weeks. I’m not sure it’s what I thought I was signing up for. Hopefully I will learn a lot, but time will tell.
More later. Maybe some pictures.
A bientôt,
Clayton