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45 miles, Tuesday, August 9
We bucked a strong headwind for most of the day, rolling up
and down the ubiquitous farmland we’d come to love. Andy and I comfortably
draft one another; we are attuned to each other’s riding styles and moods, and
weather the hot blasts from oncoming trucks. Wistfully, we move on captivated
by the farm machinery in the golden fields. Haying is underway. Old style
balers tie string around the bundles and shoot the cubes into a towed trailer. It
was a mesmerizing process and the miles passed by with ease. I’d nearly
forgotten about the problem with my bicycle and, in fact, the noise had
miraculously lessened.
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| Boulangerie assortrment. Photo credit: Travelpod |
Of special note: Andy had a boulangerie attack during the morning and abruptly stopped, maneuvering
his bike onto the sidewalk. I nearly ran into him, but halted just in time. “I
gotta have something,” he said. We each gobbled a thick square of bread pudding
and in addition Andy devoured an apple turnover. Sometimes these cravings catch
us unaware, until the sight of a bakery unabashedly pulls us to their doorstep.
We called an old friend, Hugo, in the Netherlands and made
arrangements to meet by the weekend at his home in The Hague. A bed and nice
companionship were thoughts that buoyed our spirits. After 6 weeks on the road
we needed a break. I longed to make food in a kitchen, maybe homemade pizza.
But we needed kinder weather to propel us onward.
We’re fifteen miles short of the Belgium border. I’ve grown
accustomed to camembert and baguettes at lunch; I wonder how much will change.
And just when I’ve learned enough French to get by we’re moving on. I presume
this will be a common thread as we perpetually rove eastward.
80 miles, Wednesday, August 10
A whopper of a tailwind propelled us for most of the day. We
purchase two baguettes before entering the borderlands of Belgium. With the European
Community in transition, the crossing went unrecognized; we observed license
plates and signage colors changing, though we still pedal through the French
speaking Belgian farmland.
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| Annie on her bike. Note the red marked lanes for cycling in Belgium cities. |
In Mons we switched currency to Belgian francs – only enough
for one day as we expect to be in the Netherlands soon. There is something satisfying
about this task–it means another country, and I’ll search for a Belgian cloth
patch to add to the growing collection on my panniers.
A mishap with directions waylaid us by an hour, as we
struggled with crossing two canals in Mons, before frantically pushing our
loads up an embankment onto a busy road. A driver honked and yelled that bikes
weren’t allowed. Baffled, we carried the bikes over a pedestrian walkway – the effort
breaking my body into a sweat. All the while the putrid canals smell like dirty
socks soaking in water.
Belgian farm country is more populated than northern France.
We find little privacy and relieve ourselves in cornfields, near a train
trestle, or on the curve of a road. The miles flew by and we pledged to make it
to a further campground, even with another calamity costing an additional five miles.
The clouds moved in, obscuring use of the sun for position. It further endorsed
the value of a compass. But still encouraged by the tailwind we are obsessed with
forward motion and eat our evening meal on the road.
The traffic intensified as we skirted west of Brussels.
Flemish signs are as foreign as the Welsh language in Great Britain. The popularity
of bicycles is uplifting. We fit in, riding the red tinged assortment of cobbled,
paved, and sidewalks specifically designated for bikes. We were thankful for
their assistance through the dinner hour congestion. It was on such a path that
I picked up a black Casio watch. Later, in the tent, I discovered it still
worked while my current timepiece had recently lost battery power. It was
serendipitous.
Rain starts to fall ten kilometers from the campground. By 8
p.m. inner resolve silences the evening, spinning wheels our only companions. The
unmistakable hissing sound of a flat tire interrupts our thoughts. And it’s on
my bike. It’s times like this that despite groaning and a long day in the
saddle, there is nothing to do but deal with patching the tube while rain drips
off the brim of my yellow slicker. The patch didn’t hold and I soon replaced the
tube. We had to keep moving. Fortunately, the rain stops as a wrinkled elderly
gentlemen came out of his house. His blue eyes vibrant, he spoke to us in Flemish
until he understood we couldn’t communicate. He lifted his hand and
disappeared, but returned a few minutes later with a younger man who spoke French.
It turns out to be his son. We swapped a few words about America then learned
that the apple orchard nearby belonged to them. This sweet encounter propels us
onward.
At 9:30 p.m. we pulled into the campground. We’ve learned to
ask directions as we near the town that displays a camping symbol on the map.
There is no indication within the village either. But after such a long day we
are thankful to have made the comfort and security of our home for the night. Huddled
in the tent, the flashlight glow is like candlelight as we consume bread and
cheese; dinner on the road had long since worn off.
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