Day 2. Calais – St. Quentin
200km
Up early and feeling pretty good considering the previous night’s activities and chronic lack of sleep. We quickly loaded onto the ferry, ate a massive breakfast and tried to sleep on the floor. It’s normally about this time that Tom or I remember we have forgotten something vital for a trip. Last year it was a waterproof jacket for a trip to the alps. This time we were both a bit better prepared and I didn’t have all that much to forget!
Calais had what I’d call standard northern France weather. Grey- chilly – the weather equivalent of a shrug. However once I got out of Calais I soon felt intrepid and inspired! I’ve never had a day like it. It felt like I was constantly riding slightly downhill and was covering miles really quickly with ease. Trying to take in the French countryside, as it flew by at 20+mph. There were many occasions where I felt slightly overwhelmed with excitement and exclaimed to no one in particular “J’adore le velo!”
Before I knew it I was at Arras with its incredible town square that was as bigger than a football pitch and lined with architectural delights. For some reason though, the town had speakers playing music all around. I took my cue to leave when Oasis came on and a tinny sounding manc voice started started talking about a wonderwall.
I sped on to Cambrai, which thinking back to draws a blank and then more directly south. I was humbled by the countless war cemeteries I rode past. These were just relatively small ones at the side of the road, but it really hit home when I stopped to pay respect and the first few headstones I looked at had the names of men from the Essex Regiment- the county I grew up in. Calling the vast fields I was riding past ‘home’ during the war through months and years must have been unimaginably horrific. I felt grateful to be part of a generation that had opportunities like this.
Late in the afternoon the sun had burnt away the ever thinning veil of cloud and I was basking in the warmth, having a baguette break when I heard the bell of a bike ring out along with a cheery hello. I eventually caught up to the owner and he was one of a couple of guys riding to Paris to catch the Tour de France finale. After a brief chat about touring etc I sped off again and arrived at Saint Quentin for a beer or two or three. It was now time to think about finding a place to stay so I jumped on my steed and carried on for a while, past all the fields with a definite lack of places to sleep. Eventually I pushed it up a farmers track beyond some trees and the gaze of the road and hunkered down in a field for my first night of the tour!
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