Steak Tartare and tail-wind
So; returning to the hotel at 2.30pm, we had planned to leave Chartres by 3, to make slow and gentle progress East to Christophe's where we would stay the night. By 4 we had finished our shopping, had a drink etc.. We left finally at about 4.15 down the steep fortified hill on which the city is founded!
200m down the hill, the first genuine mechanical incident occurred: a bungee rope attaching the odd thing onto the bike had somehow tied itself completely round the rear wheel, snapping off at one end, and firmly wedging the other hook in between the spokes. But I suppose 200m is better than none.
It was found that one of his front panniers wasn't terribly well either and that the bike pump was missing. A trip to a bike shop was called for. I performed a rapid "Heath Robinson" style repair on the pannier (using nail clippers and string) during which a small french child started out on an a new career path by stealing James newly bought cap.
Returning back up the hil we had just descended, we passed the rotting carcass of James' sunglasses, mercilessly mown-down by a car. Intriguingly, a shop perporting to sell "tout pour la vie active" and which had a bicycle in the window was unable to sell us a bike pump. The first assistant, who turned out not to be from Chartres at all, assured us that there was absolutely no bike shop in the city (which is about the size of Cambridge) so we'd never find a pump!
We found the bike shop. One of three it turned out. Finally, after talking to a priest in long neoprene biking cassock who was having his motorbike checked over, we actually managed to get out of the city by 5.30pm.
We made good progress helped by a fairly strong tail wind and arrived at 9.15 chez Chistophe, after travelling past some of the most beautiful farmland, villages and forests one can imagine: the evening light was spectacular, for it was sunset by now, and the temperature perfect.
Christophe greeted us with a broad smile and a large Boxer dog which attemped to be really bouncy and fierce but turned out to be an old softie called Penelope with a penchant for Foie Gras. Christophe was a traditionalist at heart, and I felt slightly sorry for him since his wife had taken the kids off on holiday and as a result he couldn't find anything in the house!
Nonetheless he took great pride in demonstrating and getting us to taste various French and local delicacies. Amongst them was a small quantity of steak tartare, the very antithesis to English grey, overcooked meat, and the nemesis of the squeamish. James "couldn't help thinking it looked like gut - it just wound around": however, whatever may be levelled by the English qt this mixture of raw mince with mustard, spices, herbs, guerkin, and God knows what else, the fact remains that it is utterly delicious: and regarding the safety of eating it - the French have been eating it for years (and look what happened to them... one might say!).
Other entrées included some foie gras, pâte de volailles, local cured ham... all utterly delicious. This was also a man greatly proud of his cellar, and over the course of the meal we drank a 1997 Chateauneuf du Pape, a stunning Bourgogne and something "un peu plus léger", (by now a beer and 2/3 of a bottle each!)... By the end of the meal, we had tried at least 10 completely new things; Normand sausages were particularly good, and a Brie to die for.
Christophe, a doctor, chain smoked until 1am as we talked, setting the world to rights as one does at that time of the night.
We got up a 7 this morning, bidding him a good day at work, and cycle the gorgeous 40km through the forests to Fontainebleau, from where I write now. The palace of Fontainebleau is beyond believing if you haven't seen it; beyond believing for that matter even if you have seen it!
So all in all a super day yesterday; the legs are holding up, the tartare is staying down and we have a pleasant and very helpful northwest wind. It's all good.
200m down the hill, the first genuine mechanical incident occurred: a bungee rope attaching the odd thing onto the bike had somehow tied itself completely round the rear wheel, snapping off at one end, and firmly wedging the other hook in between the spokes. But I suppose 200m is better than none.
It was found that one of his front panniers wasn't terribly well either and that the bike pump was missing. A trip to a bike shop was called for. I performed a rapid "Heath Robinson" style repair on the pannier (using nail clippers and string) during which a small french child started out on an a new career path by stealing James newly bought cap.
Returning back up the hil we had just descended, we passed the rotting carcass of James' sunglasses, mercilessly mown-down by a car. Intriguingly, a shop perporting to sell "tout pour la vie active" and which had a bicycle in the window was unable to sell us a bike pump. The first assistant, who turned out not to be from Chartres at all, assured us that there was absolutely no bike shop in the city (which is about the size of Cambridge) so we'd never find a pump!
We found the bike shop. One of three it turned out. Finally, after talking to a priest in long neoprene biking cassock who was having his motorbike checked over, we actually managed to get out of the city by 5.30pm.
We made good progress helped by a fairly strong tail wind and arrived at 9.15 chez Chistophe, after travelling past some of the most beautiful farmland, villages and forests one can imagine: the evening light was spectacular, for it was sunset by now, and the temperature perfect.
Christophe greeted us with a broad smile and a large Boxer dog which attemped to be really bouncy and fierce but turned out to be an old softie called Penelope with a penchant for Foie Gras. Christophe was a traditionalist at heart, and I felt slightly sorry for him since his wife had taken the kids off on holiday and as a result he couldn't find anything in the house!
Nonetheless he took great pride in demonstrating and getting us to taste various French and local delicacies. Amongst them was a small quantity of steak tartare, the very antithesis to English grey, overcooked meat, and the nemesis of the squeamish. James "couldn't help thinking it looked like gut - it just wound around": however, whatever may be levelled by the English qt this mixture of raw mince with mustard, spices, herbs, guerkin, and God knows what else, the fact remains that it is utterly delicious: and regarding the safety of eating it - the French have been eating it for years (and look what happened to them... one might say!).
Other entrées included some foie gras, pâte de volailles, local cured ham... all utterly delicious. This was also a man greatly proud of his cellar, and over the course of the meal we drank a 1997 Chateauneuf du Pape, a stunning Bourgogne and something "un peu plus léger", (by now a beer and 2/3 of a bottle each!)... By the end of the meal, we had tried at least 10 completely new things; Normand sausages were particularly good, and a Brie to die for.
Christophe, a doctor, chain smoked until 1am as we talked, setting the world to rights as one does at that time of the night.
We got up a 7 this morning, bidding him a good day at work, and cycle the gorgeous 40km through the forests to Fontainebleau, from where I write now. The palace of Fontainebleau is beyond believing if you haven't seen it; beyond believing for that matter even if you have seen it!
So all in all a super day yesterday; the legs are holding up, the tartare is staying down and we have a pleasant and very helpful northwest wind. It's all good.
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