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We were now about to take a break from following the coastline and so would now be cutting the corner, following a straight[ish] line towards le Pont de Normandie to cross the estuary of the Seine. There was a possibility that we might have deviated from the diagonal: Our son, Patrick, accompanied by his friend Joe, had set off from London, by bike, [Patrick on my Calais-Nice machine] aiming for Redon in Southern Brittany, to meet up with friends for a short holiday. Barbara was hoping our paths would conveniently cross, so we could feed them and give them a bed for the night. I was more prepared to let them sleep under a tree, as I might have done at that age. As it turned out, they were disinclined to deviate from their adventure in order to schmooze with parents and chose to hammer on South towards their destination.

After day one we had been lucky with the weather and so it went on. We set out in hazy sunshine and now, away from the coast, little wind. A mixture of departmental roads took us to the pretty little town of Ducey, where we found an excellent little café-restaurant and a craftsman-baker on the other side of the street. I bought croissants aux amandes and yet another baguette de tradition and we sat down to café-au-lait. At an adjacent table was a bi-lingual family from London, French mother, English father and two young daughters. They were about to drop their hire car at St. Malo airport and fly back to Stansted that afternoon. We were about to look for the day's lunch. I made enquiries from la serveuse and we rode up the hill to the small supermarket, on the edge of the town, just before afternoon closing time.

There was another cyclist in the car park, Ludger from Aachen in Germany, already replete with provisions. We swapped itineraries. He was travelling in the same direction and intending to use the same minor road. We said we might see him along the way, after which I hurried on into the aisles, so we wouldn't go hungry that afternoon.

We dropped back down the hill and took the D48 eastwards out of town. This was a more attractive route than we'd seen so far, today. We were following a valley road with more woodland and none of the broader fields prevalent on the way from Pontorson. It was also very quiet, almost traffic free. Several kms along this road I passed a picnic area on the site of an old railway station. Round the corner, I stopped to wait for Barbara. She shortly caught me up. 'Didn't you see Ludger,' she asked. 'Where?' I was surprised. 'Just back there, round the bend, there are some picnic tables, he's eating his lunch.', I felt slightly ashamed, that I'd missed him and so rode back down the road to say 'hello' again. We passed the time of day and a bit more, before we left Ludger to his nourishment.

Eventually, we ourselves, ready to eat, found a shady picnic table under a tree by a still very quiet road junction just outside the village of Montigny. We unpacked the food from our panniers, but before eating we called Patrick to check on his progress. He was in Domfront about 30km to the East, coincidentally on a lunch break. I could hear church bells chiming the hour in the background. This was as close as we would get. About three-quarters of the way through a baguette, Ludger turned up. We offered him some fruit and he sat to talk for a while. He asked us if we would mind him riding with us. 'No problem.' We replied.

The three of us set off together, along D133. We were not used to having another rider tag along. I wondered how Ludger would take to us deliberately choosing the quietest roads, [now we were away from the coast, we could fill our boots] no matter that we would lose time. He didn't, in fact it seemed he would have made the same choice of route himself. The other minor difficulty, of course, could have been pace. Barbara and I have taken cycling holidays together since 1978 and our [almost] frictionless routine is that we each ride at our own pace. I wait for her to catch up at the top of hills, or at significant road junctions. Now an out and out city girl, she still immensely enjoys her time in the countryside. Her slower speed means that she sees more wildlife, of which there is not much variety in North-western Europe.*

'Did you see that wildebeest?' 'What??' 'Oh, alright, it was a rabbit.'

Ludger was carrying camping gear, so occasionally we would ride along together and at other times I would cruise ahead. Again there was no problem, while I stopped to wait for Barbara, Ludger would arrive soon after and we would talk, while we looked back down the road for the group naturalist.

There was a good reason why we ate our lunch in the shade. It was sunny and hot without the off-shore breeze to keep us cool. The landscape was prettier, but that usually means hillier and we were now struggling up some steep, back country hills until we reached Juvigny-le Tertre, which is situated on top of a ridge on the D5, east of Avranches. We were all hot, sweaty and thirsty and so, while Barbara and Ludger sat on the stone wall in the shade of the library, I took the short walk to the village store. I returned with a 1.5.l bottle of water and two ice cold 500ml. cans of beer. I handed one to Ludger, beads of condensation dripping off its metallic exterior, 'Here,' I said, 'A present for you.' Ludger looked at me in a slightly disapproving way. 'It's hot, you'll sweat it out.' I said. Against the rules, I know, but it was transcendentally delicious; Marcel Proust's madeleine in a can.

Michelin maps show river valleys but not contours, so we had not quite anticipated the high speed plunge into the Seé valley, the route, D911, along which, towards Sourdeval was shaded in picturesque green. The cartographic assessment was quite accurate, wooded, cool, wonderful on a bike, although against the flow of the river. The Seé valley was once a centre of cutlery production, but any comparison with Sheffield, great city though it is, ends there.

We stopped at a café-bar in Sourdeval. I had tea this time, not something I do often in France; back home I prefer strong, truck-drivers tea, not usually on offer here. It was close to five pm. We were now in a bit of a quandary. We were a bit short on mileage and as I said before, Ludger was camping, Barbara and I were keen on following the Logis de France guide. Here in Sourdeval was both a campsite and a suitable hotel. We convinced ourselves to call a halt and spend the night. I asked directions of the waiter to the Hotel Le Temps de Vivre and we set off again. Before we checked in, we arranged to meet Ludger for dinner in the restaurant, tonight he would treat himself.

We went through our usual routine, showers and for me, a trip to a bar across the street for a beer and a nose around. A delta blues CD was playing as I walked in. I read the local paper for a while, but I was tired now and afraid I would fall asleep over the news, went back to the hotel for a nap. The delta blues had been replaced by banlieu hip-hop.

We met Ludger in the restaurant at 8pm. Again, for the record, both Barbara and I had crevettes for starters, then steak, followed by a sweet treat, rhubarb crême brûlée. We ate a lively dinner accompanied, on the next table, by a family; parents, children and grandparents from Newcastle-on-Tyne. They own a partly renovated second home nearby. I was invited to cast a professional eye, but, as Ludger pointed out, this could cost some time and I was on holiday after all.

We finished eating, drinking and talking, possibly a little late for the proprietress, in very good humour. Ludger rode back to the camp site, Barbara and I went straight to bed.

*In all the years of my patchy touring history, apart from commonplace animals such as rabbits, grey squirrels and assorted small birds of prey I have seen: 1 Fallow Deer, Surrey, England. 1 Red Squirrel, Perthshire, Scotland. 1 Muntjac, Northamptonshire, England. 1 Coypu, Hertfordshire, England. 1 Weasel, Cantal, Massif Central, France. 1 Marmot, Alpes de Haute Provence, France.

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