La Belle France

As the taxi navigated its way across more rolling English hills to deliver us to the ferry port at Newhaven we congratulated ourselves on having made the right decision and saved our energies for La Belle France.
We reassembled our bikes and checked in with no hassle. The passport had dried properly after its initial soaking and all was in order with the ferry booking. Surprise, surprise it was drizzling so we were allowed to wait inside the terminal building as opposed to with the other "vehicles". We were soon joined by 15 or so other cyclists all bound for Paris along the Route Verte. They seemed uber organised with support vehicles and luggage forwarding facilities. We felt intrepid but luggage going ahead in a van was definitely something to covet. Bizarrely the most well organised bunch were from New Buckenham.
The cyclists were allowed on first and it was hard not to feel smug as we boldly and greenly negotiated the entry ramp. We were directed to a small area of the hold where it was designated that our bikes could perch. If a storm were in prospect a major rebuild would be needed en France.
The ferry was french, perfectly comfortable and half empty. We made base camp in the bar, caught up with our text traffic when near land and took it in turns to seek out rare treats like a dynamo torch to replace my missing front light. I had a potentially nasty encounter with a pensioner whose eyes I inadvertently sprayed with Pure Poison in the Shop.I was simply attempting to disguise my 3 days on the road distinctive odour. Meanwhile back in the bar we tried to ignore the death stares directed at us by the immaculately dressed Parisian pair who obviously thought that lycra was beyond the pale in public. The route , in theory , looked fine and should have been flattish as it followed a valley for much of the time.
Disembarcation was slightly chaotic particularly as I had , surprise, surprise, chosen the wrong moment to go to the loo...Jousting with large lorries on the wrong side of the road from the word go was certainly a wake up call. The fencing around the port of Dieppe was intimidating enough to put off legitimate travellers let alone anyone else.
We studied the sketch map of Dieppe Ville from the photocopy of the out of date Rough Guide to France , realised it was useless and followed our noses instead. Our noses were in good form and the good news was that we hit the outer ring road in good time. The bad news was that the only way forward involved a mountain style climb complete with hair pin bends and a french auto touring club overtaking on every blind corner. And it started to rain...just mizzle at first but as on this trip things only ever get better it was soon a full on downpour.
At least we found our valley road and made earnest conversation about the quality of the charolais cattle who had the decency to be getting as wet as us. By this time there was virtually no traffic and the potential get out option of the train line was ominously silent. By 6pm we made it to the first designated stop of Aufflay. At the planning stage this stop entailed sitting outside a vibrant local bar drinking in the still warm rays of summer sunshine. In reality the weather was so abominable it was nearly dark already. The only place with any lights on was a very basic front room style bar populated by the surly proprietor and his beret wearing squat and surly single customer. Lesley was desperate for a coffee and I was desperate for the loo so in we dripped.
Having placed our order, I enquired about the loo. I was politely shown behind the bar, through the adjacent living room where Madame Bar des Sports was enjoying the telly and her supper, into the courtyard and to the outhouse at the end of it wherein lay the loo. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for a squat job. My brief prayer whilst crossing the courtyard was answered - it was ok, clean and the door locked. One small god was still smiling on me.
It was very hard to venture forth into the pouring rain knowing we were only 1/3 way there and had no hope of making it in daylight and absolutely no chance of an alternative method of transport. We entertained each other by passing comment on the rural architecture. The road was undulating at first then more determinedly hilly. On a beautiful sunny day the scenery and villages would have been worth a further look but we didn't have that luxury. Note to future self - must revisit Cheres.
So like the Grand old Duke of York's soldiers we marched up and we marched down. The rain did not let up one iota. It was a bit dispiriting particularly as the light was fading fast. To keep cheerful I did my usual wildlife watch and was rewarded initially with one solitary soggy buzzard but later on a skiddy wooded descent of  a particularly steep hill I caught a glimpse of a real red squirrel. That gave me enough of a buzz to power my tired little legs up the next few hills I can assure you! In fact we had enough puff to make it up Mont Cauviare ( yes really) and thought it really must be downhill from there. Sadly , once again, we were wrong. There was one final, vicious uphill ( Saint Guillaume?) and very uncharacteristically all 4 legs gave up at the same time. We pushed for a bit then re-gritted teeth and , again, unusually wordlessly carried on.
Still no signs to Rouen but at last we hit what seemed to be the outer ring road of somewhere. We ascertained this from the presence of a huge and scary roundabout but thankfully it was equipped with a cycle overpass...
This time it really was downhill all the way to what we guessed was Rouen ( it didn't look like Paris and my map reading is not that bad). But still no signs. Once again we used a join the dots map, the signposts to Centre Ville and our noses to navigate the sens uniques and pedestrian zones and find our Hotel . It was called La Cathedrale and was literally touching it.  9.45pm. Another long day.
We had learned our lesson from Greenwich and had the entry code to hand. We parked the bikes inside as tidily as we could. Our elation at arriving safely overcame the leg ache as we climbed to our first floor room. It was palatial with a fab bathroom but we were starving and well aware that at 10pm in a provincil city our food choices might be limited. A quick boy shower and a change of kit then straight out of the door in such of grub. Again , someone was smiling on us as just around the corner was an open and welcoming Pakistani restaurant.I refuse to be criticised for not persevering to find the perfect Brasserie. Exactly what we needed and plenty of non meat options. The best spinach and prawn curry in the world ever. And very well deserved large amounts of red wine. Phew.
Back to shower properly, unpack the hottie and collapse to sleeplike a veritable foret.
Normally I would illustrate this issue with well chosen photos. Sadly there is a technical glitch on that front so I will include those when I can...