Morlaix > Mur de Bretagne 98.6km
Today was the change of pace we have been looking for. After a breakfast of more pain et chocolat we got on the Voie Verte - an old railroad path that was taken apart sometime following the world wars and has been converted into a not paved but pretty smooth bike path. We rode it for the entire 98.6 km we rode today. We went slow and admired the scenery.
The rest of our day was pretty much like any other day. When discussing the repetitive nature of cycling with a WS host back in Leeds, UK - Peter said that cycling across the country is repetitive - that is why the word is called “cycling”. Before Peter’s ride from the UK to India he read many books detailing other’s similar journeys - it was obvious he had done more preparation and planning for his journey than we had for ours. As I am on our trip I have contemplated writing some of these travels into a book. So I asked Peter, of all the books you have read what makes one interesting? Surely nobody wants to hear about the mundane: packing our bags, cycling, looking at maps, which way to go, buying a baguette, fromage, et tomate pour dejeuner finding our campsite or WS host etc. So he suggested, to which I agreed, that the best part of these travels are the people you meet on the way (their personality and behavior often slightly exaggerated) and instead of the things that go according to plan - the things that don’t go according to plan are what proves to be interesting.
So I will just recount one (rather long) conversation from last night (it also happens to be the reason this post is happening a day late).
Katy and I were sitting on the cement path with our backs up against the small camping shop at La Point de Vue Camping ** (I’m not sure why they have the two asterisks in their name). We had just gotten out of the lake and were about to begin our daily online tasks - route planning, WS host finding, what is there to do on the way, emails, Instagram and weather. As I sat inpatient with the unfortunate circumstance of most public WiFi, a rounder man ambled down the path towards us. He was wearing a blue NY Yankees basketball hat, a dress shirt that was no longer tucked in, a pair of khakis and blue crocs. If you were to measure the length of his belt it would surely have been taller than he was, and he stood about 6 feet tall. He reminded me of a rather (much) larger gentleman who sat on the back bench of my church where I grew up in Salt Lake City. I don’t remember his name but I do remember that getting to our row in the chapel and then out of the chapel to sunday school required walking past him - and each time I passed I thought to myself - ugglhh. But the man in the NY hat had a pleasant smile on his face. And given our remote location in France I doubted he was a Yankee.
In a thick indiscernible accent, How are you doing there ma’am, he said to Katy. My head started spinning - he’s not from the US, he isn’t Australian, not English and not Scottish. Doing good, Katy was happy to be able to use her English. Where are ya from? Well I’m a Yankee - just like your hat (I always think the best way to people’s true personality is through humor). Well damn me, I’m not a Yankee, I’m from Ireland. And that was was the reason for his accent. The part of the UK we had unfortunately missed. He said, “Ireland is the best country in the world, well actually I believe Italy is the best country in the world, but nobody is better than the Irish.” I could tell he was Irish through and through and happy to let everybody know it. How are you liking France? he asked. We love it here, Katy answered. Not me, the French are too ignorant. It wasn’t exactly the answer I was expecting. I’m just traveling through France, coming back from Lourdes, a part of a Catholic pilgrimage, and I’ll be back in Ireland tomorrow. Where are you headed? When we get this question there are a number of answers we often give, depending on the length of conversation we desire at the moment. Having nowhere to go and recognizing this as maybe our only opportunity to have a nice chat with an Irish man we gave the quick answer that is often a shocker. We are riding our bike to Turkey. Then, pointing to his belly, and in a jovial mood of somewhat disbelief he says, between you and me brother, I would never go across Europe on a bike. I could never make it up those hills. But you would be able to make it down them, I quickly added (I could tell this man - Patrick was his name - would be great for some bantering). Be careful in Turkey, they will arrest a man for absolutely nothing. When he heard we would then go to India - India has the worst roads in the world, with 5 or 6 crashes on each road per day. I always find this type of conversation amusing. How does an Irish man know that Turkey is dangerous? Or driving in India is impossible? Similarly, how does an American claim Iran is dangerous? The conversation was great. He continued, are you sure you’re not crazy? You’re only 29 and your mom and your dad let you go? And you ma’am, how old are you? I’d never let me daughter away into Europe at your age. Do you know the movie Taken, it’s based on a true story ya know. If I were your parents I’d be lighting candles and holy water and looking for the best priest I know. You’re a plucky guy, you are, a plucky guy. The conversation then turned to religion. 99% of all of Ireland is Catholic, did you know that? And are you Catholic? Well, no, actually I am a Mormon. He stopped in his steps, face aghast. A Mormon. One of those people that doesn’t use electricity? No, those are the Amish. Oh right, Mormon. How many wives do you have? I always tell my wife I’m going to be a Mormon to run off with another wife, then she tries to stab me in the side with a knife. Well, I would have more wives but I can only manage to carry one on the back of our bike. He throws his head back in laughter and slaps his hand to his knee. Well I am going to the pub later, can I buy you a Guinness. I’d love to come to the pub, but I’m sorry, I don’t drink Guinness. Then, as he rubs his belly (which was really quite a bit more than a belly) he boasts, Guinness did this - 15 or 20 pints a day for too many years. And do you like to sing? Irish people love singing when they are drunk.
This morning Patrick called us into his camper for “good ole Irish tea”. As we sipped tea, had eggs and some bread he continued telling us what he thought of every country on our itinerary. Now Berlin, that’s one of the best cities in Europe, you know what I mean. After we had been offered more tea, eggs and bread for the 20th time, we reluctantly had to part ways and get back on the bike. Our WS host is riding out to meet us today (so that we can avoid traffic getting into Vannes) and we don’t want to be too late.
And this unfortunately might be the only conversation I’ll get to have with a true Irish man.
Voie Verte
Patrick
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