Next morning a short ride along a main road took us to our turning for the climb out of the valley of the Marne. The weather was much cooler than the day before, in fact it almost rained on us. There was water on the road in places, but we never caught up with the showers. Nevertheless we had to repay yesterday's exhilarating [for me anyway] descent into Chateau Thierry, which by now I was finding difficult not to refer to, as Chateau Thierry Henri. Up we went and on the way noticed the first commercial vineyards of the trip. We were 50km due west of Épernay, the centre of Champagne production. The cool weather stayed with us all morning and we were pushed along by a slight tail wind. This was the last of any coolness we would experience anywhere else on the journey as France's June heatwave kicked in the next day. About 10km out of the small town of Montmirail in the department of Marne (52) [remember], my front derailleur snapped. I left the chain on the small ring for the next 15 or so km into Sézanne. We bought and ate lunch in the town square after which I removed the tortured front changer and stuck it in a bin. I mentioned earlier, the big northern rivers, whose valleys we had to cross, well, having crossed them, we would soon be in the valley of another, the Seine, but this time we would be following it to the source. We had an easy day and a half ahead.

Out of Sézanne we were in prairie country, the landscape dominated by grain silos. We detoured onto white roads to avoid the main road south. This of course explained why we weren't benefiting from the northerly wind, so when we turned south ourselves, there must have been another explanation as to why the wind was in our faces. You may be ahead of me here. We crossed the Seine at Méry-sur Seine and followed the course of the river, along a minor road on the left bank, to the city of Troyes. That last sentence was very easy to write. It does what it says on the tin. The last, thirty, flat kilometres were painful. The wind, though not strong, was against us, we were tired, and I had the first, major sore arse day. The passage from each small village to the next was a minor triumph. It would be easy to say that we made it to Troyes through sheer willpower, but it wasn't that; because there was nowhere to stay, it was out of our hands. We were encouraged, perhaps, by the promise of the next day off. .

Saturday afternoon and Troyes was lively, there was a temporary polyester climbing wall in the square opposite the town hall, up which harnessed children were eagerly scrambling. The cafes were busy. From the square, is a view of the brown and ochre half timbering of the mediaeval city centre. We discovered that the TI office is in that direction and after a wrong turning or two, Chris booked us into a hotel nearby. Accommodation taken care of, I inquired after a bike shop. There's one just beyond the town hall, a few minutes ride away. The shop is big and well stocked with all manner of cycles as well as motorbikes and scooters. It was Saturday afternoon busy. I was ready to pick out a front mech. from a display case and fit it myself later, but the helpful shop manager more or less insisted on fitting it for me. I removed the panniers and bar-bag and my bike was wheeled away into the clean and spacious workshop at the rear. After half an hour spent drooling over the road racing machines at the front of the shop, my more prosaic mount was returned to me for 20 euros.

We set off back past the TI office to the hotel.. Still in the old city, the hotel had all the features of old buildings converted for modern use: uneven plasterwork, floors which would merit a percentage gradient sign and awkwardly placed steps. It was also clean and spacious and the owners friendly and helpful. Our room was, well, roomy with a small balcony overlooking the narrow street below. We were feeling a lot perkier now. Chris showered, I went to a bar and quickly swallowed two small beers. It was Saturday night. We went out. The old centre was very lively, all the restaurants in the pedestrianised areas had tables in the street. We eventually settled for a Morroccan restaurant and ate Cous-cous Royale outside. We fell into conversation with a middle-aged couple at the next table. From Sens, a town 60 km away in the direction of Paris, they told us that they had been regularly visiting that restaurant for 25 years. Nothing unusual about that, they said, French people have cars and they use them. This and observations of the countryside to come and gone set me contemplating life and the motor car. The Sunday sermon perhaps. We left the restaurant, drank some more and went to bed.

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