THE Col

10th Day
Thursday 07 Sept
Start Martigny
Destination Col de Grand St Bernard
Kilometres 43
Cumulative Kms 727
Ave speed (kph) 11.2
Max speed (kph) 31
Time taken 03:50
Max Height (m) 2469
Today climb (m) 2000

Cum.climb (m) 7510

The big one. The climb. Two thousand, five hundred metres up. One and a half miles above sea level. Five times higher than any climb I had done before. I had worked and prepared for this for a long time. I was looking forward to it.

I was also very nervous about the day. What else is new? I seem to be worried about something all the time. As you'll see it will be something else by tonight. The trip should teach me to relax and be confident. Learn from Séamus - be cool!

The day was enjoyable and scenery stunning. Séamus surpassed himself and was regularly on hand to encourage me. Not that I got it easy, in addition to the climb, I faced the first headwinds of the trip. I was on my way by 08:40, passing the huge signs proclaiming that the various passes were Ouvert. Then I resisted the temptation to put the bike of one of the cycle hooks on the back of the buses making their way up to the pass. Finally I rang home and Raheny to let them know we were on the move.

These calls had become a ritual and an essential part of the trip. Each morning I rang Raheny to report on progress and progress was tracked on a large map in An Dion spread, for the duration, on the dining table. In Palmerstown Deirdre assisted Sinéad or Andrew put a sticker on a wall map in the kitchen marking my route.

By 09:25 I was in Sembrancher and making steady progress. Along the way I noticed the workmen out in sunshine cheerfully preparing the wooden posts marking the edge of the road for another winter. The head wind was a nuisance but another half hour saw me negotiate the hairpin bends above Orsieres and the first stop of the day. Séamus and I stretched out on a park bench to enjoy the view and to snack on Snickers bars and coke. Very healthy. While stopped another cyclist passed, carrying his load in a rucksack on his back (crazy). We exchanged greetings and he continued on his way (to Croatia apparently).

I settled into a low (NB not lowest) gear and climbed inexorably upwards. Hardly broke a sweat! Noticed forest harvesting operations being carried out at amazing angles on the slopes. I wonder why the Irish foresters complain of difficult sites.

Just before Bourg St Pierre we came across an impressive new building that turned out to be a primary school. I was amazed that such a fine building would find sufficient students in this relatively remote location. In Bourg St Pierre itself we stopped for lunch. As we went into the restaurant I was conscious that it was getting cold and there was a hint of rain. We had massive cheese and ham sandwiches coated with mustard. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Initially we had a standard cup but it was lovely and creamy and Séamus insisted on having large mugs. The waitress seemed not to understand but a waiter gave the game away when he glanced up behind the counter and Séamus leaned in to follow his gaze and spotted mugs hanging on a rack. These were filled with hot milky coffee that was very welcome.

When we left I rang the usual locations and Cecilia's answer phone to report that we were now one mile high (1600 m).

Onwards and upwards, still not in the lowest gear, but glad of the avalanche galleries that provided cover from the headwind. I had no problem with the tunnel - another wasted worry. Most cyclists report difficulties in tunnels. The darkness results in a loss of orientation and increased chances of a fall. My friend in the cycling club, Pat Gallagher, had in fact come this far on his holiday, but could face no more tunnels and returned the way he had come. I was lucky in that this was my first tunnel and it was relatively bright, being open on one side for long stretches. The report was written in 1995 and I only change it margianlly as we go along. Little did I realise then that Pat and I would only make one more foreign cycling trip together before he succumbed at a very young age to leukemia. He was a great friend, may he rest in peace.

Eventually these galleries gave way to a junction. Straight on the tunnel thunders through the mountain to Italy but a gap lead out to the old road over the summit. The weather had deteriorated. I put on my wet gear and prepared for an assault on the mountain. The drizzle got heavier and combined with fog - low flying cloud. The road now rose very steeply - still not lowest gear - through hairpins. The real problem was the wind gusting from the left that blew me several feet across the road. So I kept to the middle lest I go over the unprotected side. I counted each kilometre that I climbed and paused for a moment.

Séamus was there regularly but discovered that to walk up the road took considerable effort. Even though giving him ten years I was not getting out of breath. May I take this opportunity to be pleased with myself?

Cows, all with bells, rambled calmly along the road as the weather raised the odds. Now in extremely poor visibility the rain lashed down. I sheltered under an outcrop for a while until the mist lifted. A river ran beneath my feet before I moved on. Around the corner I was amazed to see Séamus perched high on a rock in all the elements to get a vantage point for a photo.

The elements made one last savage attempt to stop my progress and turned the rain to snow. Quickly realising this was cheating it returned to lashing rain. And then suddenly, out of the mist, appeared the sign for the Col. I thought it must be a mistake but no, there was Séamus' car a few metres further on.

The Col lies in a northeast-southeast line and this together with the prevailing winds combine to make conditions very uncomfortable to say the least. In summer the temperature rarely rises above 20ºC, while in winter it drops as low as -30ºC and snowfall averages 20 metres deep. Snow covers the Col for 8 months of the year and the lake is frozen for 265 days annually.

I ran for shelter in a shop porch where motorcyclists had already congregated. My arrival was celebrated with a flash of lightning and the rain thundered down. The bikers with their powerful machines were apprehensive about setting off again and amazed that I was out in these conditions. Then Séamus came running back to his car to announce he had booked us into the hospice. The bikers fleeting hope of shelter was dashed when Séamus said he had initially been refused entry because he arrived by car and was only welcomed when he explained that I was following behind.

But once accepted as true travellers we got a great reception. The "monks" of St. Bernard are in fact Canons Regular of the Order of St. Augustine and they came to the door to welcome me in and to hear of my trip. They have been providing this service since the middle of the 11th Century when St. Bernard founded the Hospice to end the brigandage that prevailed in the mountains.

Augustus had initially built the road in 12 BC and the Romans had erected a refuge for Imperial envoys and legionaries and built a temple to Jupiter, from which the pass took the name Mons Iovis. During the 10th century hordes of Hungarians and Saracens invaded the area and brought terror and death to travellers on the mountain road. King Canute of Denmark, in front of the Pope in Rome, pleaded the cause of the travellers to Rudolf III, King of the Two Burgundies. Order was to be restored and this fell to Bernard, a man of noble birth who lived from 1020 to 1086.

The services provided by the hospice that he founded immediately attracted the attention and support of Popes, prices and faithful alike. In 1160, for example, Henry II of England was received with great hospitality and showed his appreciation by conferring property that became the priory of Hornchurch in England. In 1817 almost 35,000 meals were distributed to some 20,000 people. Until about 1900 the monks, accompanied by dogs, set out each morning for the Hospitalet lower down the road with food for anyone they met on the way. The St. Bernard dogs, of course, are as famous as the monks and appear to have been used since 1708. Modern developments like the mountain tunnels, telephones and skis made them redundant but not before they had saved more than 2,000 lives. Today they remain only as tourist attractions in kennels attached to a museum at the hospice.

For almost 900 years the Hospice has remained faithful to its mission providing food and shelter for all travellers. In summer, when hotels on the Col are open, the monks welcome only groups such as schools; boy scouts pilgrims and the poor. In winter they provide shelter without restriction to travellers on the mountain.

That same care and hospitality was extended to us, and the monks quickly organised our accommodation - an unoccupied dormitory that on a busy night could hold eight - and offered us an immediate cup of coffee or chocolate. Comfortable, warm and sufficiently restored we went to an audiovisual presentation of the history of the hospice and then to the museum. The smell of the St. Bernard dogs was overpowering.

Then we joined the monks for mass, having waited patiently in the cold of the main chapel until we discovered mass was in a warm room in the basement. Afterwards we were treated to a piping hot meal and were joined by the other residents. These included the parents of a young man, who was thinking of joining the Order, and his brother who, on the contrary, was arrogant and selfish.

Outside I was horrified to see that snow was falling heavily. The monks confirmed that this had been threatening for some time and was heavier than usual for this time of year. They were prepared for the Col to be blocked to traffic for some days. I could not afford to be caught here for days. Certainly Séamus would have problems if he could not get back to work on Monday. Residents suggested that with chains on his wheels Séamus might get down earlier. Séamus cheerfully commented that he intended getting down although he had no chains. As usual I was sick with worry about tomorrow while Séamus was relaxed and cool. His philosophy? If its snows too much we stay, if not we go: nothing we can do, so just enjoy the evening!

The motto of the hospice is that 'Here Christ is adored and nourished’ and the monks aim to welcome, accompany and liberate the traveller. They seek to do so not only in the physical sense for those who, seeking the absolute, are motivated to risk their lives, but also spiritually in that the hospice while providing temporary shelter, is also witness of the other places towards which the pilgrim must set out. In this way the pilgrim is reminded that he cannot hide from the challenges and dangers of the world but must go forward to meet them.

It's late, I look out, and it’s still snowing.

Swiss lanes

9th Day
Wed
Date 06- Sept
Start Rolle
Destination Martigny
Kilometres 94
Cumulative Kms 681
Ave speed (kph) 20.5
Max speed (kph) 46.6
Time taken 05:35
Max Height (m) 530
Today climb (m) 440
Cum.climb (m) 5510

This morning I slept through until the alarm went off at 07:40. Then we had our best breakfast so far, as much food as we could eat, despite competition from a large business group at the next table. Leaving a message of appreciation for the owner, we got going a little after 09:00 on a fine warm day. And it remained warm and sunny all day.

A few kilometres down the road I came across the first cycle lanes. These were well designed and maintained, contrary to what we have in Ireland. Here they went from the outskirts of a town, through the town, complete with their own traffic lights, and left one safely on the open road on the other side of the town.

Ireland could learn from the Swiss example and in fairness, a major report - the Dublin Transport Initiative - issued in May 1994 is having a major impact on the development of the transport infrastructure for the City. As part of the study nearly 2,500 cyclists were interviewed and revealed typical Dublin cyclists to be young with over two thirds being aged between 17 to 34 and dominated by males - only one in four of those interviewed were female. Somewhat surprisingly nearly six in ten cyclists were involved in accidents - three quarters of which were with a vehicle, nevertheless less than a quarter owned a helmet and only two thirds of those always wore it. The Report includes a commitment to promoting cycling as a safer more comfortable and more convenient means of transport particularly through the establishment of an efficient and convenient network of cycle lanes, as distinct from the present disjointed patchwork of routes. Oh dear, Oh dear: was that really 1995 wehn I wrote that paragrahp: now 12 years on and still not a route like the Swiss.

In Switzerland the routes were well used and I met a lot of cyclists out and about that day. These included one couple, each of which had heavy front and rear panniers. Nothing unusual in that but the man was towing a dog in a trailer. The dog looked very pleased with himself as he surveyed the world from the comfort of his mobile kennel.

Nothing is ever perfect though and I found I had to constantly adjust to the fact that the green signs here indicate motorways and blue for ordinary roads. This is the reverse of the position at home or indeed in France.

We stopped for a snack at the edge of Lake Geneva to enjoy the scenery and decided to call Cecilia on the mobile phone and leave a message on her answer phone just to let her know we were having a great time and to hope she was not working too hard. But within minutes Frances got the upper hand by phoning from her holiday in Dingle using her mobile. Sure where would you be without them.

It really was a magnificent day. What more could you ask for. Good company. Great scenery. The wind at my back. The sun beaming down from a blue sky. The water lapping at the lake edge. Snow capped mountains rising majestically on all sides. We stopped for lunch at Villeneuve by the side of the lake and Séamus outdid himself again. While I was seated comfortably he wandered along the other restaurants that were all set up under canvas along the promenade and decided he liked the menu at the next one better. So we decamped; had a fine meal and then set off again.

Séamus drove ahead and sorted out a hotel and we met outside Martigny where he gave me directions. I though I had followed them correctly but the long straight road was heading out of town again so I was about to turn back when wolf whistles from a group of girls standing at the side of the road ensured I went on a bit further. And there was the hotel. On the television we watched the sad decline of our national soccer team as Austria beat Ireland.


Tomorrow would be a day to tackle the mountains head on!

Rolle on

8th Day
Tue

Date 05- Sept
Start Baume les Messieurs
Destination Rolle
Kilometres 104
Cumulative Kms 587
Ave speed (kph) 17.8
Max speed (kph) 50.3
Time taken 05:49
Max Height (m)1245
Today climb (m)1840
Cum.climb (m) 5070

A slower start this morning as we had to wait for our hosts to get the fresh bread but then we enjoyed as much as we could eat before I got packed up for the day. I was as apprehensive this morning as if doing an exam. As we had breakfast I recalled how I felt almost a quarter of a century previously when Dad pressed a few toffee sweets into my hand as I prepared to leave for the first exam for the Intermediate Certificate examinations. He is not here now and I miss him. His parting had left a sudden and unexpected void in my life and in some ways this trip was an attempt to fill that or at least help me over the pain. I had been cast adrift and the years of planning had provided a lifeline.

Séamus was fascinated that I should feel as if facing an examination. Easy for him - he had a car and did not face a challenge as soon as he left the refractory. Immediately outside the abbey gates the road turns right and rises from 292 m, through two hairpin bends, to 496 metres. That's 200 metres up over a distance of 2000 metres; a 1 in 10 climb. Not particularly bad but certainly one to get the body warmed up first thing in the morning.

It was a lovely morning as I headed off across the wooded countryside along quiet roads. I was not the only cyclist about though. I was passed by what seemed like overdressed cyclists who raced past on their lean machines as the road continued to climb gradually. It reached almost 600 metres before dropping rapidly to Chatillon - from where I made the by now obligatory calls home; this trip was certainly chewing up telephone cards - and then an even steeper descent to cross the river l'Ain. Then I realised why the locals were so well dressed. The descent was cold - but I put it down to the early hour and did not learn. I stopped on the bridge; Séamus caught up and we had a snack - it was great to have the company on the road.

I quickly warmed up again on the next climb to Doucier where Séamus bought a box full of provisions. At this point we took a minor road to the right that my map showed to be a scenic route along a lake. When I came to a second lake I was aware that something was wrong. I should by now have come on a left turn to get me back on the main road. Séamus checked his map. It showed us to be on a dead end road. Damn. I had come 8 kilometres along this road. It would take 16 kilometres to retrace the route and regain my position on the main road. Séamus sped on ahead to see if there was any way out. No go. The Institute Géographique National maps had not let me down yet. They clearly showed a road rising steeply to meet the higher main road. Reluctantly we headed back but I told Séamus there must be a left hand turn we had missed. After a few kilometres we noticed an old sign for Menétrux that was our target. But it was little more than a track.

I read my map again. This time I noticed the dotted line along one edge which symbolised an Autre route, irrégulièrement entretenue. Now I realised that when the French say they maintain a road then they maintain it well; if not then it’s only suitable for a four-wheeled vehicle. Séamus assumed I'd accept my fate and add the extra miles so he was surprised when I interviewed a woodcutter who was coming down the track. He confirmed it was impassable for bikes. It was 1.5 km long and 33 metres of a climb. It got very rough and stony later. Would it be possible to walk with the bike? Yes. 1.5 kilometres was a lot shorter than 16 Kms; it was a new stretch of "road"; it was my intended route; it was a challenge. I decided to go for it. Séamus and the woodcutter watched in disbelief as I cycled up the hill. It was a beautiful track, any walker would have enjoyed it, it rose steeply but I hung on until the stones got so big I was afraid of catching a wheel and buckling it and I walked a short distance. I was back on the bike though for the final stretch and felt like cheering when I emerged in the middle of the village of Menétrux.

I marvelled at the wonderful mountain scenery of the Jura as I chased down the road (well maintained!!) to catch up on Séamus. This guy is some chancer. He had set up stall on the patio tables belonging to a roadside hotel while his car boot was open on the far side of the road in sunshine to facilitate the drying of a few of my socks. I wondered about the hotel owners. Not open yet, replied Séamus, relax! and he divided out the goodies he had bought earlier in the morning.

I was first to St Laurent en Grandvaux for lunch and this time we were regular customers at the restaurant tables for lunch. We chatted and laughed about the day so far as we enjoyed our sandwiches and coffees in the afternoon sun. We even pondered buying a pair of boots for Séamus in a local store but I had miles to go and a lot of climbing to do with a high point of 1229 metres to reach so I left him contemplating as I headed off up the road.

This was serious climbing. A hot sweltering climb but I got to almost 1000 metres at the Col de Savine. The map at this point is a confusion of different roads crossing one another at different levels; rivers; railways; railway stations and houses so I was unprepared for and was dismayed to find myself on a long descent down to Morez. Mind you the 6% decline seems to be perfect for cycling, I was going as quickly as I dared but only needed to touch the brakes infrequently as I swept along. To cap it all Morez is a picturesque town - the capital of spectacle making in France.

Now the serious climb to the Swiss border at La Cure began. For an hour I toiled over those 10 kilometres as the sun beat down - at one point I rushed to the shelter of some trees to escape the heat and drink my water in comfort. Otherwise I found it was risky to drink on the move, as this road was too busy to leave any wandering from a straight line unpunished. But I got to la Cure ahead of Séamus. He must not have read of the tortoise and the hare. While I worked he forced himself to do a quality check on the products of the local vineyards.

I cycled unchecked into Switzerland to make sure he was not there and then returned, equally unmolested, to France. I sat at the local café (closed) and watched the world go by for the next half an hour until the little white car made its appearance. Then I headed into Switzerland for the second time. Nobody cared. I waited for Séamus to cross but he was interviewed at length by the border official, who then took his passport, before escorting Séamus into the office. I thought that this treatment of an innocent motorist was a bit excessive but it turned out Séamus only wanted to have his passport stamped.

Once through the Swiss border I was relieved to find that I was quickly across the Col de la Givrine at 1229 m and then into a spectacular descent. A mountain train even chugged past to complete the scene. The descent was fast but COLD COLD COLD. I had not learned my lesson from earlier in the day and because it was sunny I set off down the mountain in light clothes. The cold rapidly pierced my clothing and penetrated to the marrow of my bones. Never have I felt so cold so quickly. My chest and legs all felt as if they had been deep-frozen. Putting on trousers and tops then did little, as I could not generate the heat on the descent to warm myself again. Now I appreciate why professional cyclists stuff newspapers up their jerseys on hot July days at mountain peaks.

Switzerland immediately seemed clean and prosperous and I met Séamus again at St Cerque, where we bought stamps and exchanged our currency before continuing into Rolle. There was still 20 Kms to go and I was cold and tired but the scenery was fantastic. I was weary by the time I got to Rolle, having done 104 kilometres and climbed over 1,800 metres in total.

The woman in the tourist officer seemed to have little interest in her job. She had no idea where we could buy phone cards and reluctantly identified a hotel that she said was only 200 metres away - it was more like 2000 metres.

Our reception in the Hotel Rive Rolle however made up for it. The owner was on reception and could not do enough for us. He made sure the bike was well secured and that we were well taken care of. There was a fitness centre in the hotel so Séamus had a swim, and met a Dubliner in the otherwise empty pool, while I had a massage that revived my legs.

The evening was topped off at the beginning of an excellent meal when the owner reappeared and, explaining that he had been a cyclist once, offered us a complimentary jug of the local wine to celebrate at our meal. Séamus was terrified I would refuse his generosity on the grounds of being a Pioneer, but I had more wit than that and was delighted to accept his gift. Séamus assured me it was a fine wine and heroically ensured none was returned lest we insult our host.

Monastic life

7th Day Mon
Date 04- Sept
Start Dijon
Destination Baume les Messieurs
Kilometres 117
Cumulative Kms 483
Ave speed (kph) 10.1
Max speed (kph) 42.4
Time taken 05:50
Max Height (m) 555
Today climb (m) 465
Cum.climb (m) 3220

Once again I was up and about early and checked out of the hotel, leaving Séamus asleep in the room with a note reminding him of our rendezvous point for later in the day. And what a difference Séamus' presence made - he had kept a lot of my gear so I was only carrying one lightly loaded pannier. The bike felt responsive as I made my way through the Dijon traffic and out of the city.

Moreover my injuries gave me no trouble. They were to continue to need bandages for another two weeks and walking was uncomfortable but they did not stop the tour. Probably I should have had the left knee stitched - it would have matched the right that I injured by kneeling on a rake as a child - and it carries a scar to this day but while I was careful to keep it clean it was only a nuisance for the remainder of the trip. And that the last I'll say of that.

This was the longest scheduled day at over 110 kilometres but not the most difficult. I had skipped breakfast in the hotel because I was too mean to pay 80 Francs for breakfast and went as far as Couchey where I bought a selection of croissants. I then settled down in a bus shelter on the road along the Cote d'Or and enjoyed them as lorries rushed past. The road was very busy but it was a lovely sunny morning and all seemed fine with the world. The view from the windows of the shelter was magnificent with the famous vineyards all around. This was another of those great moments on the tour when a collection of simple elements combined to create a memory that will last a lifetime.


I was breaking one of the unwritten rules of cycle touring by staying on a main road but I was not bothered by the traffic and quickly came to Nuits St George. I believe the wine is excellent and certainly this is a lovely picturesque town. In a moment of exuberance I sent off postcards to my brothers-in-law promising them a bottle of wine from these vineyards if I got to Rome. I was planning to turn left here onto a minor road but a detour was in operation as the road was being resurfaced and this slowed me down a little. I walked the bike along the fresh tar on my intended road but wondered how Séamus would manage to get back on the route.

Meanwhile I was in Agencourt by 10:00 and rang home before continuing on a quiet road lined with trees and through forests to Citeaux. There is little to see there now, and nothing to evoke its past; but the name had drawn me there. On low marshy ground, close to the little river a powerful trio of churchmen founded Vouge, a monastery, in 1098. Their leader was Robert from Molesme, who had founded there some twenty years earlier a community which was intended to re-establish the rule of St Benedict in its pure and simple form reacting against the growing laxity and artistic freedom of the Benedictines of Cluny. Still not satisfied that their life of poverty, prayer and labour had been reduced to its absolute essentials, he led a party of twenty one monks to found a 'novum monasterium' near the site of the Roman town of Cistercium.

An Englishman, Stephen Harding, later to be canonised at St Etienne, became abbot in 1109. It was he who in 1112 took the momentous step of admitting to the community a group of thirty Burgundians led by a young man called Bernard. His restless energy allowed him to spend only three years at Citeaux before he left it with a few followers to found yet another 'pure' community at Clairvaux, just over the northern boundary of modern Burgundy in the department of Aube. Harding presided at Citeaux until his death in 1134, by which time it and its original four 'daughters' at La Ferte, Pontigny, Morimond and Clairvaux had multiplied to five hundred new abbeys founded in forty years. Within the next hundred years this number had doubled, and the 'Cistercian' rule was established throughout Christendom, from Ireland in the west to Syria and Palestine in the east.

The abbey church at Citeaux was built on the scale and on the impressively simple plan I had already noted at Pontigny and Fontenay, but unfortunately it was not so well preserved. It and practically the whole of the monastic complex, which grew up on the flat ground to the south, was finally destroyed by the anti-clerical fury of the French Revolution. The monks were forced to scatter, and it was not until 1898 that their successors in the white habit returned to follow the rule, which had been founded here 800 years before. The monks of the modern community are committed as strictly as their forerunners to a life of simplicity, work and prayer. In winter, for example, their day begins by waking for prayer at 03:30 and again at 06:15 for weekday Mass.

I turned right and faced into a slight headwind but it was a pleasant run to Jallanges where I stopped at a roadside café in glorious sunshine for a coffee and buttered bread. I thought Séamus would have caught up by now but there was no sign of him so I continued on. At the junction I was not quite sure of the turn so I took out my map. No sooner had I done so than a guy in orange cycling shorts and pink shirt rushed out of his cottage to show me the way. He looked a sight but was delighted to be able to help and I was on my way again.

I discovered when crossing the river Doubs that Limerick is not the only city with a singing bridge and this one was in a very tranquil setting with a fisherman out in his rowing boat surrounded by cranes (Herons).

I reached Pierre de Bresse at 12:45 where I had arranged to meet Séamus at the church. It was always more convenient to meet at churches because they were clearly marked on maps and easy to identify on the ground. Séamus was not there and I got cold quickly so put on an extra top and settled down to wait. He arrived a little later in a new Opel Corsa rented from Hertz. He had learnt his first lesson of the trip - a bike is not that slow after all!! We called Raheny on the mobile phone and confirmed that contact had been made with the boy wonder. We had Croque Monsieur and Pizza for lunch at a café/bar and then continued on along very straight roads in splendid sunshine to Bletterans. The town was bigger than I expected but the public loos were covered in graffiti.

Subtly the architecture changed and the character of the landscape hinted at the approaching, if unseen, Jura mountains. At Arlay a construction crew had a wonderful contraption for keeping the dust down on the road as they worked. The vehicle made it's way slowly along the road spraying water in all directions. I wondered how they would switch it off as I approached. They didn't. And they used recycled water. I was speckled with brown drops when I emerged.

That was soon forgotten as I cycled the 6 km from Voiture to Baume les Messieurs. Every book I read about Burgundy and indeed those describing the picturesque villages of France spoke of this place. I had had to alter the route many times to get to it and even then the daily mileage had had to be adjusted to make sure I could stay in the village itself. It did not let me down. These few miles lead into an enchanted world. The ordinary world was cut off physically and metaphorically as the gorge rose to surround me. The road was narrow and winding and the bells on cows grazing on the slopes tinkled in the still air. Each bend in the road unveiled more magnificent views.

The village of Baume-les-Messieurs is at the junction of three valleys that lead from the foot of the dramatic escarpment of the Cirque de Baume. The village evolved around an abbey founded in the sixth century by St. Colomban. In the tenth century St. Besson and a group of monks from Baume left it to found the illustrious abbey of Cluny in neighbouring Burgundy. After the Revolution, however, the name was changed from Baume les Moines to Baume-les-Messieurs. This was partly because the character of the establishment changed at the beginning of the sixteenth century, when the simple religious life of the monks gave way to a more worldly and noble existence. Jean de Watteville was a famous seventeenth century abbot of Baumes who made a reputation for himself more as a swashbuckling philanderer than a religious leader. His exploits included a duel to the death with a Spanish knight, which resulted in a period in Constantinople, where he became a Muslim. After many years as a soldier he finally returned to the abbey and died there in 1702 after 84 quite remarkable years.

While I was growing up I had had three aunts in the Columban Sisters so this abbey of their patron was special to me. Whatever about the other sacrifices he made in the life he led, Columban knew how to pick his locations. Fortunately Sr. Joan had only recently suggested I read Cardinal Tomás Ó Fiaich's book on the saint or otherwise I might have been tempted to follow his route around France and Italy to Bobbio that is outlined in the book.

But here I was at last in the abbey and Séamus was there to welcome me. The building is now in private ownership and I had booked months in advance for this night, as only three rooms are available for bed and breakfast. Or so I thought. There was no record of my booking. In desperation and in desperate French I pleaded that I had sent a letter and a cheque. A check among assorted papers revealed my letter and a booking for 5 September. Tomorrow night. Somehow I had mistakenly booked the day of departure as the night of arrival.

A few frantic prayers hastily forwarded in silence were promptly and efficiently answered when I was told that fortunately there were no other bookings for tonight. We were lead up ancient stone stairs to a unique room in the abbey building which dates from the fifteenth century. What a contrast from the modern chic of the night before to the basic arrangements in the abbot's room. But nobody could compete with the abbot for the view from the window. Nor indeed for the surroundings as Séamus and I discovered as we wandered the area. Near the village are caves, which looked spectacular but were unfortunately closed, and at the head of the valley, below the cliff, is a spectacular waterfall that yielded one of the best images of the trip.

Monsieur Ghislain Broulard and his wife who own the abbey are eccentric and how they manage to operate remains a mystery to me. There were the only restaurant open and we had dinner with them. It was like a family dinner and they ate with us in a refractory more than a dining room. We carried out a lively conversation in a mixture of French and English.

He regaled us with stories of how difficult it was to negotiate some of the local roads in a four-wheeled vehicle. Both felt it impossible to get out of the gorge on a bike never mind continue across the Jura into Switzerland. But that is what I hoped to do tomorrow.

Suddenly tomorrow looks difficult and long. Can I do it?

No mustard, free caterpillar!

6th Day
Sun
Date 03- Sept
Start Dijon
Destination Dijon
Kilometres 0
Cumulative Kms 305
Ave speed (kph) 0
Max speed (kph) 0
Time taken 0
Max Height (m) 0
Today climb (m) 0
Cum.climb (m) 1855

This was Sunday the first rest day of the trip and boy was I glad it was a rest day. I had slept poorly and woke with a headache. My legs, shoulder and head all ached.

Dijon, incorporated into the kingdom of France in 1477, is the largest city of the province and the capital of the Cote d'Or. It has been called the 'cradle and springboard' of the ducal dynasties of Burgundy. It is unmistakably a crossroads, busy and inevitably noisy. It owes its origins to its strategic position in Celtic times on the tin merchants route from Britain up the Seine and across the Alps to the Adriatic. It became capital of the dukes of Burgundy around 1000 AD, but its golden age occurred in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries under the auspices of Dukes Philippe le Hardi (the Bold), who as a boy fought the English at Poitiers and was taken prisoner, Jean sans Peur (the Fearless), Philippe le Bon (the Good), who sold Joan of Arc to the English, and Charles le Temeraire (the Rash). They used their tremendous wealth and power ‑ especially their control of Flanders, the dominant manufacturing region of the age ‑ to make Dijon one of the greatest centres of art, learning and science in Europe. Though it has lost its capital status, it has remained one of the country's pre‑eminent provincial cities, especially since the railway and industrial boom of the mid‑nineteenth century.

Once again, though, I had been drawn to Dijon principally by its cathedral. Looking out the hotel window that September morining I was surprised to see crowds streaming towards the cathedral and remarked to Séamus that people here seemed to take their religion very seriously.

We headed down for 10:00 Mass and were amazed to discover that the place was packed. It was a special mass for the festival and there were throngs of worshippers, many in traditional costumes. I was relieved when we found two chairs left in a side aisle and took our places. It was a little disappointing not to have a good view of the altar but I was glad not to have to stand. Séamus, though, was not so easily pleased and pointed out that there were spare seats in the cordoned off area in the centre aisle just in front of the altar. He marched off with me following sheepishly behind and we took our places as if honoured guests. Séamus – ten years have not changed you – fair play!

It was more than I could have hoped for. To be in a cathedral packed to capacity with the hymns played by various bands of differing nationalities while the prayers of the Mass were repeated in French, English and Japanese as well as other languages. The Offertory procession took almost 10 minutes to complete. At Communion time baskets of broken bread were passed around so that the non-Catholics could participate in the service. It was almost two hours before the ceremony was completed and a German band played recessional tunes.

We got breakfast in a nearby café and Séamus lead us on a walking tour of Dijon. I limped along. We regularly crossed paths with the Festival and its bands. The Musee des Beau Arts was impressive

We also visited the Musee de vie Bourg and sat in the courtyard as thunderstorms were followed quickly by sunshine.

Eventually we made our way back to the hotel where we decided to check the route for tomorrow only to discover that in all the maps and documents he had brought, Séamus had saved space by leaving behind the one he needed for the next few days. I went downtown and got another and again highlighted the route. Then we went for our evening meal, having taken the precaution of getting and translating a menu earlier.

The hotel restaurant certainly was high class and the waiters very formal. We, or at least I, felt a little out of place in informal wear. We ordered TARTE FINE A LA TOMATE Huile d'Olive et Basilic to start. When it arrived it looked appetising and I looked forward to a great meal. Séamus, though, was a little slow to start and I wondered why. Cautiously he asked me whether the green caterpillar stretching elegantly upwards from the topmost slice of tomato was a particular French delicacy. Deciding it was not we discreetly called the waiter. That took the wind out of his sails as he rushed to replace the dish. We had them on the run then as another offered a roll of bread but dropped it and was grateful that Séamus caught it before it rolled across the floor.

We relaxed then and enjoyed our second course even more. Séamus had SUPRÊME DE PINTADE AU SESAME Chou Vert et Beurre de Cidre while I had CROUSTILLANT DE THON AUX ALGUES Crème de Fois Gras. We would not have known what they were either but had taken the precaution of checking the menu against our French dictionary before we came down for the meal! Anyway they were excellent.

Our cheese course comprised BRIE MARBRÉ AUX NOIX and FAISSELLE DE FROMAGE BLANC A LA CREME and we finished with a selection from the CHARIOT DE DESSERTS and coffee. It cost us 190 Francs Service Compris and there was no surcharge for the caterpillar. (Now there’s one to stump the present generation – they probably don’t recognise Francs! - I’m a bit stumped myself : did that wonderful meal only cost us a little under €25 each??). Neither was there an apology or any compensation. We had enjoyed the meal and the evening and said nothing. Do please thy the Hostellerie du Chapeau Rouge website to get some idea of what the hotel, and its restaurant are like.

We watched the television for a while and went to bed ready to hit the road tomorrow.

Dijon: 12 years on!

5th Day
Saturday
Date 02- Sept 1995
Start Flavigny
Destination Dijon
Kilometres 61
Cumulative Kms 366
Ave speed (kph) 16.5
Max speed (kph) 53.3
Time taken 03:41
Max Height (m) 555
Today climb (m) 910
Cum.climb (m) 1855


I was looking forward to today. It was the day I would rendezvous with Séamus and also the first time I would get to test my knees over a number of climbs. The knees had given me trouble during the lead up to the trip. I had had difficulty in my teens with long runs that would leave my knees very sore - probably the result of trying to push too high a gear. When I came back to cycling the trouble reoccurred. After a long run the knee would be painful and it would be sore going down stairs. It got to the point where my cycling trips were limited by the pain in my knee rather than general fatigue. I went to Dr. O'Brien and he prescribed anti- inflammatory tablets that helped me get longer runs done. This seemed to be working well until the May 31 1995.

That was Sinéad's birthday and I had the day off work. After the children went to school I planned to go cycling for a few hours. The day was perfect and I headed off intending to do about 50 kilometres. But within the first few kilometres my knee was suddenly sore. By the time I had 10 Kms done I could take no more and had to limp home. Three years training and this happens with just three months to go. Foul.

I was back to Dr. O'Brien like a shot and he sent me to a specialist. My concern was that I might be doing permanent damage if I continued to push under cover of medication. The specialist was very helpful - as he twisted and turned my leg he said he had seen this sort of thing before; he mentioned having treated one Stephen Roche. Suddenly he stopped and confirmed a minor old injury that was the cause of the difficulty. This could become inflamed and cause the pain but no damage would result. If I was prepared to go and use anti-inflammatory tablets and painkillers then I should do so. Great.

Dr. O'Brien gave me a longer course of tablets; I continued to train, got better and longer distances done but was always careful not to overdo it.

Today though there would be no avoiding the hills. Breakfast was served from 08:00. The staff are all very pleasant and friendly. The owner's little girl (4) regularly asked me oú est votre dame? and was not impressed to hear she was in Ireland. I started off at 08:40 in 2 Santini jerseys but I had still not gauged the cold of the mornings correctly. This was made worse by the steep descent back into the valley and I soon had to stop to put on the fleece.

Over the previous few days I had regularly seen yellow signs in the distance that I thought were way marks for long distance walks. In fact these were marking the line of Gaz de France pipelines. In Ireland we have gone to great trouble to avoid the gas pipeline being a visible scar on the countryside but here its line was proudly proclaimed.

It was an ideal day for cycling. Cool and fresh on a smooth and quiet road in a beautiful tree lined valley with cows grazing on the lower pastures. I was in no hurry and gently made my way along savouring the day.

At Jailly I stopped and prepared for the first climb of the day. This would take me to a height of 477 metres, just short of the highest point I had climbed at home (the Sally Gap at 500 m). This certainly warmed me up as I worked the low gears to move smoothly and not too slowly up the gradient through long gentle hairpin bends. Breaks in the trees afforded me wonderful views across the valley from which I was ascending. At the peak was a lovely silent plateau set out in fields - a far cry from the bleak beauty of the Sally Gap bog.

A roadside cross - shown clearly on the map - marked the summit. And the descent was even better. I was delighted with myself at having crested this climb with a heavy bike and without any trauma. The surface was perfect and I sailed down, sweeping around the bends. Oh, it was great to be on a bike. I was travelling at about 50 Kph when I came out of the final hairpin and headed for the village of Boux sous Salmaise.

As I did so two cats chased one another across the road. The pursuer stopped in the middle of the road delighted with himself for having chased off his rival. He preened himself as I approached. Then, just as I reached him, he became aware of this yellow missile coming rapidly in his direction. He did an impression of a hedgehog - every strand of fur standing at rigid right angles to his body as he stood frozen in the road. Then, disastrously, he thawed out and bolted for the hedge from which he had come. Too late. In that instant I knew I was in trouble. I hit him full force and was catapulted off the bike.

I took so long to fly through the air that I had time to think of all those who had warned me not to travel without a helmet. I was determined not to prove them right. I was determined not to let my head hit the ground. But hit the ground I did and with some force. One roll left me on the left hand side of the road. Blood was pouring from both legs and the bike was in a crumpled heap on the other side of the road.

Everything was quiet. The cat was gone. I struggled to my feet, relieved that nothing was broken. I made my way across to the bike. The handlebars were obviously bent and the bar tape torn. I lifted it up and checked the wheel - it seemed OK. The forks had survived the impact. So too has the top tube. I remounted and rolled the short distance to the village.

It was deserted. Nobody seemed to be about. I continued on to a bridge just outside and stopped. I can remember getting off the bike and my legs shaking so much I could hardly stand. I realised now I had stupidly not brought any first aid gear with me. To this day I cannot remember how I cleaned up my legs but I did at least take the worst of the dirt and blood off.

I tried cycling the bike and found it was OK so I decided to head for the next village. On the outskirts I met two elderly women walking down the hill. I asked if there was a Pharmacy in the village. No they answered. A supermarket? No. But, they volunteered, there was a Patisserie. But then the blood running down my leg caught their attention and they realised I was in difficulty. They took charge. Ushering me back to one of their houses they took me into the garden and sat me on a chair while they went to get a first aid kit. What happened, they asked. I hit a cat. He hit a dog, one explained to the other, correcting my poor French. No, I said, a cat. A cat? Well well, cats don't usually attack cyclists.

But they went to work on my legs. Gently cleaning the wounds with alcohol. When they washed the left knee they asked Il ne pique pas? Piquer, piquer, what did that mean. I shrugged my shoulders and they carried on. C'est un trou said one in explanation of the fact that the wound did not piquer. I knew too well what trou meant and dared not look. Dressings were applied and that finished one leg.

They had better luck with the other which piqued so much it nearly leapt out of the chair. Now I know that piquer means to sting. They were very pleased, and I think a little relieved, with this result and enthusiastically but gently continued to clean and bandage my right leg.

We chatted as best we could while they worked. Both were grandmothers, neither had been to Ireland, but one insisted the care they were giving me was no trouble; her daughter had been to Ireland and had been treated wonderfully. When they were finished they offered me a drink or coffee, which I declined. Commenting one to the other that I was in shock they kept me seated and tried an offer of water. This I accepted gratefully. Then they released me into the wild again, insisting that I go to a doctor in Dijon. I never asked their names. I regret that. Somehow I have to contact them and thank them properly.

I made my way gingerly up the hill through the village and nearly fell off the bike again when I came to a sign that urged Attention nos CHATS above a painting of a cat curled asleep on the pavement. I saw a few more along the way and could only smile ruefully and wish the warnings had appeared before Boux.

Cycling was not painful but I was very shaken. I had to ask directions several times just to find my way out of this small village. When I crested the climb I came to a junction and could not figure out the turn. There was nobody around and I forgot that in my handlebar bag I had an even more detailed map of this area. It was one of only two at 1:25000 that I had and I forgot all about it in my shock even though I had been careful to pack it in a handy spot when I left that morning. But the morning was a different trip. For the second time that day I was at 500m but now my old knee worries were the least of my problem.

I guessed right and descended to Bligny. I knew M would be expecting a call so I braced myself and greeted her cheerfully. Her notes for the day record how upbeat I sounded. I should get an Oscar. She reported that Séamus had left at dawn and was on his way. I was looking forward to meeting him.

I headed out of the village in the wrong direction but had the wit to check with a child on a bike who corrected me. He seemed surprised that an idiot would not know the way to the next village only a few miles away.

I was heading for St‑Seine I'Abbaye and was climbing once more. At 550 metres a small park marked the watershed between rivers bound for the Atlantic and those on their way to the Mediterranean. Below me I could see among the trees the single tower of the abbey church of Ste‑Marie‑des­ Cestres, one of the oldest monastic foundations in Burgundy.

I propped the camera on a picnic table and took a picture of my bandaged legs and then got back on the bike and swept down into St‑Seine I'Abbaye. Situated about six miles from the source of the Seine, this town gets it's name from a man, who founded the Benedictine abbey in the 6C on his own land. A beautiful early 13C abbey church, restored in the 14C after a fire, remains and marks the transition from the Burgundian‑Romanesque style to the Gothic style. It was begun between 1205 and 1209 under the abbot Olivier‑whose predecessor Nivard was a great‑nephew of St Bernard.

The principal attractions of the church are the paintings that decorate the walls. On the north side are two rows of panels depicting events in the life of St Seine. On the South wall is a Tree of Jesse, which establishes the descent of the Virgin. I was more impressed by the formidable double doors and by the murals of St Christopher.

By now it was lunchtime and I would have welcomed a meal but there were no cafés or shops open so I kept going. A little further out I ran out of water and regretted having set out without filling both bottles - never again!

A pile of wrecked cars on the way out of town served as a reminder that not everyone makes the bends on these roads. Again I was climbing, and slowly enough to hear a cow sustain a prolonged emission of methane.

The road dropped into Val Suzon where I looked for lunch. There was only one restaurant and there appeared to be no service so I continued on. I had intended going on a loop around by Messigny et Vantoux but the edge had gone off the day and so I continued on directly for Dijon.

I passed by an airfield at Darois and could not resist the temptation to go in and have my altimeter, which depends on having a correct barometer reading, checked. A pilot was happy to meet this strange request and took me into the cockpit of his plane and confirmed barometric pressure of 1016 and a temperature of 12°C.

Back on the road I passed 475 m, ate my emergency rations and started my final descent to Dijon. It started to rain.

In Dijon the girl in the Tourist Office discreetly tried to point out the expense of the Hotel Chapeau Rouge, but I had booked in there months ago to give Séamus a good first night in France. I checked in and the rooms were excellent; perfect really.

Having stocked up in the nearest chemist I changed the dressings on my legs and hauled myself down to the station to meet Séamus. I was sore and it was difficult to walk, I discovered. And Séamus was not on the train. I hauled myself back to the town centre and collapsed into McDonalds for lunch. No decisions, no difficulty, no surprises, just food.

I finished just in time to see and hear massed brass bands march through town in traditional dress from countries all over the world. There was a festival on over the weekend - just as well I had booked early. I enjoyed the parade and then made my way back to the hotel.

I was delighted to see Séamus there. He had had a list of trains going to Dijon and told me he would be on the one he had marked in his diary. Only later he realised he had marked the non-direct train to be sure it was the one he would not get!

Vivienne had returned to Paris and rang us in the hotel. She was bright and bubbly and full of good spirits on this bleak day. She insisted that, whatever the cost, we simply had to dine in the Chapeau Rouge - it had top marks in every book she had checked.

Then Séamus and I went to walk around town but Séamus realised I was struggling and so we went to see the film Lancelot. Great film but during it my left leg felt wet and sticky. I put my hand up the leg of my trousers and confirmed my worst fears. The wound had opened and was bleeding again.

I said nothing to Séamus. I really regret not being in the best of form on his first day. I prayed that the injuries would not stop me. Looking at map which Séamus brought I realised how long there was left to go.

This was my lowest point. The dream, so wonderful, so robust this morning, now looked fragile.

Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres

4th Day Fri
Date 01- Sept 1995
Start Chablis
Destination Flavigny
Kilometres 92
Cumulative Kms 305
Ave speed (kph) 18.1
Max speed (kph) 56.6
Time taken 05:05
Max Height (m) 440
Today climb (m) 1045
Cum.climb (m) 1855

Was up and about before the hotel staff this morning but the wait was worth it for the breakfast - the sort of breakfast I had expected in France - a great big cup of milky coffee and lots of fresh bread.

I set out at 08:22 and it was cold and very misty. I wore the green T-shirt; the long Santini and the Polartec and was tempted to put on the coat!! I have no idea what the scenery was like from Chablis. I could just see the road. I put on the rear light which works on LEDS and although it was very handy because it is weighs little I was not sure how effective it was. I was a little apprehensive that cars coming up behind me could not see me in the mist. I had trouble enough myself seeing the road ahead. The map slowly got limp with the moisture and fine dew spread over my fleece. I enjoyed the route to Noyers nevertheless.

This beautiful little town is sealed from the modern world in a medieval time warp. Its half‑timbered and arcaded houses, ornamented with rustic carvings are corralled inside a loop of the river and the irregular walls with their robust towers. I rang Deirdre from outside the walls at 08:00 and wished the kids the best of luck on their first day back in school.

Then I made my way in through one of the two gates that mark the fortifications of the town. The walls enclose a little network of narrow cobbled streets and squares, some with names that recall the sources of the town’s prosperity from 15C to the 18C. Many old houses survive, some with ground floor arcades, steep gables and richly carved half timbering. None of the shops had new signs and the town was remarkably well preserved. I wandered through its streets watching the little knots of people collecting on the cobbled streets to exchange a few words before going gently about their business.

I stopped for coffee and toast while waiting for the mist to clear. Great. While I was stopped a dog wandered over and checked out the bike before piddling on it and heading off about his business.

I could have stayed in this town all day but there was a long way to go so I set off again. At Censy I took the road through the village rather than the by-pass. It was lovely and quieter too nothing stirred in the village as I passed through. I continued on over the climb to where the route crosses the TGV line. I could hear a train coming and hurried up to catch a glimpse of it. I need not have bothered - trains rushed past every few minutes. This was a busy line and I was conscious that this was the point where Séamus' route from Paris and mine to Dijon first cross. I doubt if Séamus will even notice the bridge.

I finally descended into Aisy in sunshine and followed a minor road under and then alongside the railway track before joining the busy D905 beside the river Armancon. I cycled on to the remains of one of the most influential eighteenth century foun­dries, the Forges de Buffon. These were built in 1768 by Georges‑Louis Buffon, distinguished scientist, landowner and lord of Montbard. Production was never more than 400 tons a year, but Buffon's main interest was experimental. The site, now owned by an Englishman and being restored as part of the growing French interest in industrial archaeology, comprises model dwellings for workers as well as the foundry workshops These are situ­ated on the banks of the river, designed in a most unindustrial classical style, with special viewing galleries for royal visitors and a grand staircase. The foundry's most nota­ble product was the railings, still in place, of the Jardin des Plantes in Paris.

I had read of the Forge for years and was delighted to have reached it at last. It was just 12:00 and the signs said Ouvert but I could find no way in. I wandered around to where tables were being brought in for some sort of event. I was assured the place was open and so made my way to the front again - in time to see the cashiers heading off to lunch. They had closed up early that day, I suppose because there were few other tourists around. They told me they were now closed until 14:30. Two and a half hours was too long to wait. I left.

I then cycled along the towpath of the Canal de Bourgogne, to Buffon itself. The weather was great. I continued on to Montbard - the planned evening stop - but it was not very nice so I kept going and had a most enjoyable lunch at a roadside café in Marmagne. I was certainly eating well on this trip. It never seemed to be a suitable time for a sandwich and there were lots of roadside cafes that sold a three-course meal for a few Francs. I sat outside on a crowded patio on the main street basking in the sun. Well, not really- I made sure I was in the shade.

Then I rolled into Fontenay along a recently paved road in plenty of time for the tour, which the guidebooks said started at 14:30. I just made it for the 14:00 start.

The privately owned abbey, founded in 1118, is the only Burgundian monastery to survive intact, despite conversion to a paper mill in the early nineteenth century. It was restored earlier this century and is one of the most complete monastic complexes anywhere, comprising caretaker's lodge, guest house and chapel, dormitory, hospital, prison, writing and warming rooms, bakery, kennels, dovecote, abbot's house, as well as church, cloister, chapter house and even a forge. There's not much to be seen in the forge, but at least I got in and it is interesting that there should have been such a large one here, in the same countryside where France's industrial iron masters set up shop 500 years later.

On top of all this, the abbey's setting is superb, at the head of a quiet stream‑filled valley enclosed by woods of pine, fir, sycamore and beech. Back onto the D905 then and I bowled along at 35 kph into Vernray. The number of roadside war memorials struck me but I was intent on reaching my next target Alise‑Ste‑Reine.

Alise‑Ste-Reine, which stands between the valleys of the Oze and the Ozerain and overlooks the vast plain of Les Laumes, takes part of its name from a young Christian woman who is said to have been martyred here in the 3C. The feast day of Saint Reina draws many pilgrims on the first weekend of September when her martyrdom is celebrated in a costume procession through the village. This custom goes back to the year 866 and the posters proclaimed that it was to be held next weekend. St. Reine was a young Christian girl who was put to death in 262 for refusing to marry the proconsul of the Gauls, Olibrius. This martyrdom was the occasion for the conversion of Alesia.

But it was the first part- the reference to the famous camp of Alesia - that drew me here. It was here in 52 BC that Julius Caesar and his legions overcame the heroic resistance of the men of Gaul commanded by Vercingetorix. For years I had had the Latin of Caesar's Gallic Wars literally beaten into me. I had hated Latin as a result but could always remember that Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres. In researching thistrip I realised I could redirect the route to pass by the site of the closing battle. After all these years I could get some value from the miserable lessons. So to Alesia I came.

And once again Latin beat me. The camp was sited on Mount Auxois, a hill of 407m with very steep slopes. I nearly blew a gasket (Cecilia knows all about that now) climbing into Alise but was determined to keep going. An old woman came out of one of the houses lining the road and commented that it was a difficult climb, before she proceeded up the hill faster than me. Then I came to a sign that I thought said no entry but on correct translation said no entry for cars. Too late. The bike was too heavy and the road too steep to get going again. I pushed it the rest of the way to the top where there is a great bronze statue of Vercingetorix.

Erected by Napoleon III, whose influence popularised the rediscovery of France's pre‑Roman roots, the statue represents Vercingetorix as a romantic Celt, half virginal Christ, half long‑haired 1970s pop star. On the plinth is inscribed a quotation from Vercingetorix's address to the Gauls as imagined by Julius Caesar: "United and form­ing a single nation inspired by a single ideal, Gaul can defy the world". Napoleon signs his dedication, "Emperor of the French", inspired by a vain desire to gain legitimacy by linking his own name to that of a "legendary" Celt.

It was an impressive site and I asked a couple to take my photo; they were delighted to do so and went to great lengths to make sure it was right once they heard the background to my trip. It was getting very hot in the mid afternoon and I could feel the sun beating down as I pondered the battle that had taken place here.

In the spring of 52 BC, Caesar retreated towards the north to join forces, near Sens, with the legions of his lieutenant, Labienus. Then, on his way towards the Roman bases, he was met and attacked by the army under Vercingetorix. Despite the surprise of the attack and their numerical advantage, the Gauls suffered a crushing defeat and Vercingetorix, fleeing from Caesar, decided to take the rest of his troops into the camp at Alesia.

Then began the memorable siege. Working with pick and shovel, Caesar's legions surrounded the camp with a double line of works, comprising trenches, walls, palisades of stakes and towers. The first line of works faced Alesia to prevent any attempts to escape on the part of the besieged; the second blocked the way of a relieving army that Caesar knew was already on the way. When it arrived, about 250,000 strong, it was unable to penetrate the Roman defences. Its cavalry was neutralised by the fresh German squadrons Caesar had remounted on his spare horses, and which operated outside the defences. The crisis came when Vercingetorix led his troops out of town in a last throw for victory; like Waterloo it was a close run thing, with many changes of fortune.

The discipline of the Roman army and the tactical skill of its commanders prevailed. The attackers faltered, the Romans counter-attacked successfully, and Vercingetorix surrendered to save his people from the threat of starvation and massacre. Caesar paraded him in triumph through the streets of Rome, kept him in prison for six years, and finally had him put to death‑ the first and only leader of a united Gaul. It is interesting to read that among Caesar's senior officers in this engagement were Marcus Antonius (Shakespeare's Mark Anthony) and the young Marcus Brutus, his eventual assassin.

I descended the hill to find the local museum but must have gone too far because I could not find it and there was no way I was going to tackle that climb back into the village again so I headed off. Anyway it was getting late and although the minor road was excellent I was cycling along a valley in hilly country. I was concerned that there were relatively few villages along the route and that there was no guarantee of accommodation at my next stop - Flavigny.

Or Flavigny-sur-Ozerain to give it its full title. This fortified miniature city is one of the loveliest medieval hill towns in Burgundy, even if the view of it perched on its rocky summit does not live up to Lamartine's extravagant comparison with Jerusalem. After another exhausting climb I reached the 15C Porte du Bour which belonged to the defences of the Benedictine abbey of St-Pierre. The abbey now houses a factory making the aniseed sweets on sale in gift and souvenir shops in Burgundy. Its buildings are largely 17C but keep some fragments of the Romanesque abbey church whose nave is marked by the lane running along the side of the factory. Medieval and Renaissance houses line the streets along Rue Voltaire and Rue Lacordaire to the Porte du Val. This gate is really a 13C and a 15C gate joined together. Next to it is the building, once the bailiff's house, where Henri Lacordaire founded a religious community in 1848 as part of his campaign to revive the Dominican Order in France.

But exploring the town had to wait. My first priority was to get somewhere to stay. The first Gite (Bed and Breakfast) I called to was booked out. But I was relieved to hear there was also a hotel in the town. When I got there I saw hikers leaving and I feared the worst but I was lucky in that they had a single room left. It was very basic accommodation but I was delighted to be able to stay in this charming town. Once again I was lost in the Middle Ages but I did manage to phone Raheny from a telephone hidden away in one of the main gates to the town.

I was very tired by the time I got back to the hotel for an evening meal. There were three English women at the table next to me and I was tempted to join them to avoid the difficulty of making conversation in French. But they were too grand for me altogether - all talk of fancy weddings and wine tasting and linguistics. I preferred to struggle with the locals.

Another great day if a long one.