No wine in Chablis

3rd Day Thurs
Date 31-Aug
Start Sens
Destination Chablis
Kilometres 84
Cumulative Kms 213
Ave speed (kph) 20.1
Max speed (kph) 43.6
Time taken 04:09
Max Height (m) 180
Today climb (m) 215
Cum.climb (m) 810

I enjoyed this day. It started early and I was first in the dining room for breakfast. The staff were only just getting ready and the businessmen gradually filtered in. I revelled in being in casual clothes and preparing for another day on the bike. The breakfast was top class. The coffee had the consistency of tar and was so strong it should have been certified. There was an abundance of plump warm fresh bread, which I smothered in butter and strawberry jam.

I set out into the early morning mist and rode gently through the deserted streets of Sens and crossed under the railway line before stopping to fix the panniers. Everything was quiet and peaceful and when it started to drizzle it did not seem to matter. I put on my jacket and continued on the road to Joigny. On the horizon I could see a balloonist silhouetted against the morning sun as he settled slowly down onto a distant hillside.

My route ran between the hills and was mainly flat - I must say at times this seemed boring but I suspected even then that I would change my mind next week. Up on the hillside to my right a small church rose magnificently against the skyline, a defiant testimony to a proud tradition. The railway was a constant companion at my side. Passenger trains flashed quickly past while freight trains rumbled along at little more than my pace - one train of over 20 wagons carried about 120 cars.

The first stop of the day was in the prosperous little town of Joigny. I arrived on the outskirts and propped my bike against the railings of an immaculately kept house while I rang Deirdre from the public phone. She seemed none too pleased to be roused from her sleep despite the fact that it was 08:45 Irish time and she should have been on her way to work! Fortunately the children were not yet back in school.

I then made my way to the impressive tourist office on the banks of the river and collected maps and guides to the town. Unfortunately the Tourist Office was too new for them to be keen to mind my bike while I went for a walk around its medieval streets. I could have chained my bike to the railings outside but decided instead to bring it with me. It was some climb up through Rue Gabriel Cortel, which rose steeply from the river to the centre of the old town. A small section of the town has been rebuilt after an explosion in 1981 and looked disconcertingly modern in such an ancient setting. I made my way to the Eglise Saint Thibault and was stunned when I entered its dark interior. The stained glass, although of reasonably modern vintage -1876- was stunning. I simply had to stay and enjoy the spectacular depictions of the lives of the saints.

By the time I left, the drizzle had turned to heavy rain but I was enjoying myself so much I pushed on undaunted up and down several more of the narrow streets. I even ventured into an old bookshop to buy a photograph of the stained glass windows before making my way back to a bar in the restored section. I would do the same again in ths Place de Gaz 10 years later when Brendan and I cycled the road from Sens to Joigny as part of a shorter trip. I ordered coffee and filled rolls and settled down to watch the world go by in the hope that the torrential rain would stop.

It didn't. Eventually, for the first time on the trip I unrolled my cape and struggled to get on my overshoes. I pulled a cap down over my ears and, checking that everything was properly protected in plastic bags, headed off into the rain. Cycling in the rain is a nuisance if you wear glasses because they fog up quickly and it’s hard to see where you are going. Also the cape covered the map that I had clipped to the handlebars. And of course each time I stopped to read the map it gets wet and starts to disintegrate. Normally I hate cycling in the rain but now it seemed to be acceptable - just one more variation to be enjoyed. I whizzed along.

In Migennes I stopped to take off the cape and a woman came over to see if I needed directions. I told here where I was from and what I was about. She was thrilled to meet someone from Ireland - she had a pen pal in Ireland and she mentioned her name in the hope that I would know her. Sadly I did not! As she made her way back across the wet street I folded up the first of my eight maps that cover the route. This one I had bought on 31 October 1994 and over the Winter I had marked my route on it in highlighter. I had poured over each contour and unknown crossroad and village speculating on many minor variations until finally a thin red line snaked across the sheet. Now on the last day of August 1995 I felt the cartographer's art had finally been brought to life. Many times during this trip I would marvel at the beauty of the sheets I was using and promise that I would try to pass to my children an interest in reading maps. (Looking back now form 2007 I think this is one promise I failed to keep, not for want of trying over the last 12 years but without much success. And now there is GPS and as you will see from the Arctic Blog, we wonder whether the next generation will have any use of these paper maps.)

Back on the road, and under a cape again, I was heading for Pontigny as the heavy drizzle returned. This restricted the view, which was a shame because I was going along the sort of Poplar lined roads depicted so often in posters of the French countryside. Just outside Pontigny I stopped for lunch at Les Routiers. I had read that these famous truckers stops served good food at very reasonable prices. The food was terrible - a very black Boeuf Bourguignon which I only picked at. Added to that I was out of sight of the bike and convinced myself that it was going to be stolen. Not a pleasant meal at all.

The Abbey at Pontigny made up for any disappointment. The beautifully preserved twelfth century abbey church lies on the edge of Pontigny village, where its functional mass rises from the meadows.

Nothing - none of my reading - prepared me for the stark whiteness of its cream‑coloured stone flooded with light. Pure and simple. Great. There is no tower, no stained glass and no statuary to distract from its austere, harmonious lines. The effect was only slightly marred by the nine­teenth‑century choir screen that cuts the nave in two. Surprisingly, three Englishmen played a major role in the abbey's early history, all of them archbishops of Canterbury: Thomas‑a‑Becket took refuge in the abbey from Henry II in 1164, Stephen Langton similarly lay low here during an argument over his eligibility for the primacy, and Edmund Rich died here; his tomb in the church is a destination for pilgrimages to this day. The abbey was also the origin of a tourist attraction with which a nearby village is more often associated: the famous Chablis wine. It was the monks of Pontigny who originally developed and refined the variety.

I spent ages here. I walked slowly around the abbey soaking up its spirituality. I know that sounds corny but there is no other way to describe it. The powerful messages of the Catholic faith are somehow captured here in stone. The Cistercian monks, working between 1137 and 1155 to the principles of austerity, poverty and simplicity set out in the Rule of St. Benedict, have passed on the strength of their belief through the ages. More than any of the major shrines like Lourdes or even the Vatican itself, this place - completed 800 years before I was born - communicated its message to me across the centuries. What matter now 40 short years?

When I emerged the rain had stopped and the skies had brightened so I decided to continue on to Chablis as it was still early. I took the high road out of Pontigny by mistake and passed the last of the sunflowers in bloom and came across the first vines. I was on minor roads now - D131 is as small and quiet a road as you'll get - passing through undulating countryside. It seemed odd that this less travelled route was my road to Rome. The peacefulness of the countryside was emphasised by the sudden occasional roar of military jets as they shot overhead. The entrance to the village of Villy was like an entrance to a formal garden. The weather continued to improve and I was dry by the time I arrived in Chablis.

This too was a pleasant and friendly town, contrary to what the tourist guides, which variously described it as snobbish, stuffy and expensive, had lead me to believe. The town lies in the valley of the river Serein between the wide and mainly treeless upland wheat fields typical of this corner of Burgundy. The neatly stacked vineyards, originally planted by the monks of Pontigny, cover the sunny, well‑drained, stony slopes on both sides of the valley. The grape is the chardonnay, which is to white wine, what the pinot noir is to red: raw material of all the greatest Burgundies.

I had an excellent meal at the Vieux Moulin restaurant. I was first in the restaurant and got excellent service but others were not so lucky. The waiter and waitress got tied up in discussion of wine stocks and forgot their customers. One man waved his bread basket for ages to get attention. Another was furious with his partner for offering to share a slice of her terrine with someone at the next table. Great entertainment with which to end a wonderful day.