One More Croissant for the Road

Copyright

Mudlark

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First published by Mudlark 2019

FIRST EDITION

Text © Felicity Cloake 2019

Illustrations and cover illustration © Sara Mulvanny/Agency Rush 2019

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Felicity Cloake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008304935

Ebook Edition: June 2019 ISBN: 9780008304942

Version: 2020-03-02

Dedication

For my sausage-scoffing, plonk-sinking peloton – with whom the glass was always half full

Contents

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Dedication

5  Contents

6  Prologue

7  STAGE 1: The Grand Départ, London to Cherbourg

8  STAGE 2: Cherbourg to Avranches

9  STAGE 3: Avranches to Dol-de-Bretagne

10  STAGE 4: Dol-de-Bretagne to Saint-Malo

11  STAGE 5: Saint-Malo to Redon

12  STAGE 6: A Stage in Two Parts: Redon to Tours, Paris to Lamotte-Beuvron

13  STAGE 7: Limoges (Circuit)

14  STAGE 8: Limoges to Bayonne

15  STAGE 9: Bayonne to Pau

16  STAGE 10: Pau to Carcassonne

17  STAGE 11: Marseille

18  STAGE 12: Marseille to Nice

19  STAGE 13: The Col de Joux Plane

20  STAGE 14: Lyon

21  STAGE 15: Chalon-sur-Saône to Dijon

22  STAGE 16: Strasbourg to Meistratzheim

23  STAGE 17: Meistratzheim to Nancy

24  STAGE 18: Toul to Bar-le-Duc

25  STAGE 19: Bar-le-Duc to Reims

26  STAGE 20: Reims to Bondy

27  STAGE 21: Bondy to Paris

28  Vital Statistics

29  Acknowledgements

30  Praise for One More Croissant for the Road

31  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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Prologue

A green bike drunkenly weaves its way up a cratered hill in the late-morning sun, the gears grinding painfully, like a pepper mill running on empty. The rider crouched on top in a rictus of pain has slowed to a gravity-defying crawl when, from somewhere nearby, the whine of a nasal engine breaks through her ragged breathing.

A battered van appears behind her, the customary cigarette dangling from its driver’s-side window, and shakily she rears out of the saddle, grubby legs pumping in a surprising turn of speed. As he passes, she casually reaches down for some water, smiling broadly in the manner of someone having almost too much fun. ‘No sweat,’ she says jauntily to his retreating exhaust pipe. ‘Pas de problème, monsieur.’

The van disappears round the next hairpin. Abruptly our heroine dismounts, allowing the heavily laden bike to crash into a pile of brambles, describing an arc of chain grease across her bruised shins en route. Grumpily slapping away a thirsty horsefly, she reaches into the handlebar bag and pulls out a half-eaten croissant.

After peeling off a baby slug and flicking it expertly onto her own shoes, she sinks her teeth into the desiccated pastry, and squints at the map on her phone. Only another 40km to go before lunch.

In the distance, there’s a rumble of thunder.

It’s not like I wasn’t warned. I’d witnessed the danger of turning a hobby into a job first-hand at a magazine publisher I’d once worked for, who regularly offered a bonus for anyone willing to give up their weekend to help with photoshoots for some of their more niche titles. No one ever did it twice.

As the new IT manager wearily switched my computer off and then on again one Monday morning, I asked him how his first gig for Mega Boobs had gone – he’d been so excited about it on Friday. He shook his head: ‘Believe me, Felicity,’ he said in a small, sad voice, ‘you really can have too much of a good thing.’

Poor Hamid. Almost a decade later, I can still see the betrayal in his eyes – but those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and, hard as I tried, I just couldn’t shake the urge to eat my way around France. (I’ll be honest, I didn’t try that hard.)

The absurd notion of doing it on two wheels came later, in the summer of 2017, when I rode from the Channel coast to the Mediterranean with a friend who’d recently quit her job in London to move to Provence. In the interests of wringing maximum drama from her departure, Caroline decided to make the journey by bike. I went along on a whim and realised, somewhere around La Rochelle, that I’d never had so much fun in my life.

France, I found, is a place built for cycling and, happily, for eating, too – a country large enough to give any journey an epic quality, but with a bakery on every corner. Here, it seemed to me as I rode through shady forests and sun-baked vineyards, you could go from beach to mountain, Atlantic to Mediterranean, polder to Pyrenees, and taste the difference every time you stopped for lunch.

Three weeks away from a computer gives you a lot of time to think, and as our little peloton pedalled south, a book began to take shape, a Grand Tour of French gastronomy, visiting dishes in their terroir, picking up tips, putting on wisdom as well as weight. The idea marinated for the next 697km, becoming increasingly less ludicrous with every pichet of local wine we swallowed.

When I got home, I told everyone I was going to do a Tour de France.

The indefinite article is important. I’m no Geraint Thomas, but I’ve always ridden a bike, pootling round town on a beautiful but big-boned Pashley, often with a similarly built dog ensconced in its capacious wicker basket. To my own surprise, in recent years I’ve fallen in love with cycling for its own sake too, mostly, but certainly not only, because of the amount you can get away with eating under the flimsy pretext of refuelling.

It all started when I joined a group of friends on a trip from Calais to Brussels in 2014, simply because I’d just been dumped, and it seemed like a good time to do stupid things. Until then, with the exception of the odd flash of elation while careering down Highgate Hill after a glass of wine, I had never really realised that cycling could be fun. Efficient, yes; cheap, certainly! – but enjoyable? In London, a city of mad bus drivers and careless cabbies, where every second pedestrian is FaceTiming their mum in Melbourne rather than looking at the road, and the Boris Bikers are the worst of the lot? No.

That trip, however, was quite different. No one had told me of the quiet satisfaction of pumping your way up a hill, weaving over the saddle like Lance Armstrong on a blood bender, knowing you have just enough left in the tank to make it over the brow, or the eye-watering thrill of the open road on a fast bike with the wind behind you. No one mentioned how sometimes it feels like the bike is part of you, an extension of your limbs, and sometimes, when the sodding chain pops off for the fourth time it feels like you’re locked in noble mortal combat. And most of all, no one told me about the giddy camaraderie of the peloton … even when your only goal is getting somewhere in time for lunch.

From the frankly dreadful fry-up on the ferry, feeling like bold adventurers among the dull hordes of motorists, to the commemorative cream cakes we ate on the steps of a bakery after our first, modest ascent (who knew they had hills in Flanders?), it was a joy from start to greedy finish, and not just because of the ready supply of hot crispy frites.

Two-wheeled travel offered other pleasures, too. Coming up close and personal with big-eyed cows, and stopping to gaze at hot-air balloons as they drifted across the vast Belgian skies. Rounding a corner to find an immaculately tended Great War graveyard, the endless rows of neat white gravestones causing us to fall silent for the next few kilometres and feel glad to discover, mooching around a market the next morning, that life in Ypres hadn’t stopped in 1918. Scoffing cider and cake in an orchard outside Bruges, and making friends with an enormous slavering Bernese mountain dog as the owner lectured us on the folly of the British attitude to Europe (yes, even in 2014, that pot was already coming to the boil). Racing each other through the flat, gravelled trails of the Ardennes forest, and wandering, slightly bow-legged, through a misty Ghent at dusk, high on life after getting my tyres trapped in some tram tracks. Posing for photos by the sign to Asse, pointing saucily at our padded bottoms like Benny Hill’s backing band, as a couple of bemused locals clicked the shutter. And falling asleep in full gear on the Eurostar home with a tiny bottle of wine and a lingering sadness that it was over – and suddenly, I was a Cyclist.

Like all new cyclists, I celebrated by buying loads of kit – stupid clicky shoes that made me walk like a duck, and technical fleece-lined leggings entirely de trop for expeditions around Home Counties pubs, or the trip to Brighton where I made the mistake of eating fish and chips just before tackling Ditchling Beacon. I did a couple of 100-mile sportives, fuelled almost entirely by malt loaf, a glorious four days eating crêpes and drinking cider from teapots in Brittany – and then, summer 2017, came that ride down to the Mediterranean, the biggest and greediest yet, when I finally realised my destiny lay in pedalling round France, eating stuff.

Of course, cycling is a pleasure in itself – as an adult, there’s little as thrilling as freewheeling downhill, wind deafening in your ears, eyes streaming, mouth open in a silent scream of pure joy – but for me at least, there’s as much pleasure in a pint and a pie afterwards, to say nothing of the snacks en route. I firmly maintain that any ride over an hour and a half requires emergency rations; what are you supposed to put in all those pockets if not chocolate and a hip flask? Someone else will always have tyre levers, but not everyone, sad to say, knows the restorative powers of Cadbury’s Wholenut.

Yet, spindly though the pros may be, cycling has always been a peculiarly epicurean pursuit. In the early days of the Tour de France, one wealthy competitor had his butler lay out lavish picnics by the side of the road, while Henri Cornet, winner of the second race in 1904, apparently achieved victory on daily rations that included a staggering 11 litres of hot chocolate, 4 litres of tea and 1.5 kilos of rice pudding. Bernard Hinault, who triumphed five times in the late Seventies and Eighties, glugged champagne on the last climb of the day, while the equally great Eddy Merckx refuelled with patisserie, on the basis that ‘It’s not the pastries that hurt, it’s the climbs’ (it is this quote that later moves me to name my beloved new bike after the great man).

Even in the 1990s, Dutch pro Tristan Hoffman recalls a fellow rider starting the day with that breakfast of champions, two Mars Bars and a litre of Coke. Now, of course, nutrition is taken much more seriously, which is why you no longer get brilliant stories like that of Abdel-Kader Zaaf, who is claimed (slightly dubiously) to have got so inadvertently drunk on wine offered by generous spectators on the blisteringly hot 1951 Tour that he passed out underneath a tree.

Modern pro teams travel with their own chef, whose job it is to keep the supply of low-salt, high-protein, easily digestible food and drink coming: as Sean Fowler of Cannondale-Drapac delicately put it in a 2017 interview, ‘intestinal stress’ is less than ideal in a tour situation. That means rice rather than glutinous pasta, lots of fish and white meat, and definitely no salty ingredients that might lead to water retention. Understandably, no one wants to carry a single extra ounce up an Alp.

Sickly energy gels and bars are handed out to riders en route, along with rice cakes, fizzy drinks (‘for a bit of pleasure’) and the odd ham sandwich, if they’re lucky. On particularly tough stages, however, competitors struggle to find the time to swallow all the calories they need and still keep up with the race – ‘You kind of have to force it down,’ according to current pro Joe Dombrowski. I literally cannot imagine burning 7,000kcal in a day, and not stopping for a bar of Milka. In fact, so much wasted opportunity for sugar makes me feel a little bit weepy.

As a result, I never watch the Tour on TV without a large box of chocolates; though I’m no sports fan, it has a nostalgic pull for me. The occasionally excitable, generally soporific commentary was the soundtrack to the summer holidays of my childhood, turned up loud in the campsite bar to compete with the thwack of plastic on rubber and the squealing ruckus around the babyfoot table. Those endless afternoons eating Mr Freeze lollies and waiting for a turn at ping-pong have left me with a lifelong weakness for men in Lycra and cycling’s most famous race.

The glorious backdrops are a part of it, of course: no one who spent every childhood summer somewhere in l’hexagone can be entirely immune to the attractions of a neat Norman village flashing by at speed, or indeed one of those endless straight routes départementales flanked with poplars and enormous billboards for thrillingly large hypermarchés ‘à gauche au feu’. I see France zip past behind the riders, and my heart aches for it – for the landscapes and people, the Orangina and bad pop music, and most of all, for its glorious, glorious food.

My tour will be in less of a hurry than the actual race – bad for the digestion, and if I’m going to do this properly, there will be a lot of digesting on the menu. When I sit down and try to make a list of my 21 favourite French foods (to match the number of stages in the real Tour), not only is it hard to whittle them down, but those that make the cut come from almost every corner of the country, with the exception of the far Nord, which, despite an admirable facility with the deep-fat fryer, did not particularly wow me with its cuisine on my previous visit.

And whereas a list of my most treasured British dishes would skew heavily towards stodge, this lot, though a little low on salad, is pleasingly varied: (almost*) anything we can do, France does better. They’ve even beaten us on our specialist subject, the spud – I like a baked potato as much as the next noted gourmand, but I think we can all agree that Alpine tartiflette takes it to the next level. (Mostly by adding more cheese.)

The dog and I make a trip to Stanfords in Covent Garden, home of every map under the sun, and pick up a massive road atlas that seems to list every hamlet and track I might possibly wish to traverse, as well as a map of national bike routes, which, it quickly becomes clear, will be of almost no use to me whatsoever. These purchases give me the pleasing sense, as I spread the map out on the floor at home and try to stop Wilf trampling muddy paws across the Bay of Biscay, of embarking on an expedition. They also make terrifyingly clear how large France is.

Taking a deep breath, I open the atlas. Dodging Calais and its horse-fat frites, it makes sense to start off with moules in Normandy, then curve round the coast to Brittany, which does such good crêpes and butter and, even better, crêpes with butter. From the wind-swept Atlantic coast I’ll start to head south, first to the Loire Valley, home of the tarte Tatin, as well as all those famous chateaux everyone goes on about, then down to Limousin to coo over some of its famous cattle, before zipping through Bordeaux towards the Spanish border and Bayonne, the French capital of chocolate.

Having run out of France to the south, and skirting a furry tail currently draped over the Pyrenees, my route turns east for poule au pot, and the cassoulet country of the Languedoc, before hitting the Côte d’Azur, with its rust-red fish soups and deliciously oily ratatouille. Tempting as it is to head for Provence proper at this point, that herb-scented heaven-on-earth where I spent every rosé-soaked summer of my twenties, I fear I’d never tear myself away in mid-June and I cannot ignore the siren call of tartiflette from my second-favourite place in France, the Haute Savoie. I wish I could say that it’s the thrill of the physical challenge that attracts me to the mountains, but it isn’t, it’s the cheese.

From there, the map suggests I’m quite close (i.e. a-whole-day-on-a-train close, due to aforementioned size of country) to Lyon, often touted as the culinary capital of France. Though I’ve only driven past it, my reading suggests it specialises in an extraordinary array of animal parts, and oddly, one of France’s best salads, the lyonnaise, with its bitter leaves dressed with salty bacon fat and rich, runny egg yolk.

The logical next stop on my way north is Burgundy, for all sorts of things cooked in its perfect wine, but particularly beef, sticky, soft and intensely savoury, and then, looking at the route I’ve traced thus far, which flirts with the Spanish, Italian and Swiss borders, it feels like a dereliction of duty not to go and make eyes at the Germans in Strasbourg, too.

It’s a long way to go for some fermented cabbage and faggots, and yet I have a lot of time for fermented things and sausages, especially washed down with cold beer. Also, I note with satisfaction that this puts me in the ideal place to knock off a wobbly quiche Lorraine in Lorraine, and the fluffy little madeleines that occupy such a central place in the national psyche, before making a triumphant entry into Paris via Champagne, which may or may not have invented French onion soup (and God, who doesn’t love French onion soup, all cheesy and oozy and glorious?), but which does, happily, have an awful lot of fizzy wine going for it.

Paris, of course, like any cosmopolitan capital city, is a place where you can eat yourself around the globe, but my ambitions are more modest. I’m hoping, as a crescendo of my trip, to achieve croissant nirvana in the city of light. Certainly, I’ll have eaten enough of the things by then to judge what’s good and what’s not – I’m intending to put away at least one a day, barring any more interesting offers.

PAUSE-CAFÉ – The Croissant Rating System

Pay attention, because you’re going to be seeing a lot more of this. I started rating croissants on the coast-to-coast trip of 2017, for no better reason than they’re reliably found throughout France, I enjoy over-thinking food and most importantly I like them. The perfect croissant is, of course, entirely a matter of taste – professional pâtissières put a lot of store by the lamination of the dough, or how skilfully the pastry and butter have been folded together to create hundreds of distinct layers: according to one equation I find online, the average croissant has 649. Me, I’m less concerned with looks; some of the most disappointing pastries I’ve eaten in London are the ones flaunting their perfect strata of dough all over social media, but which turn out to have very little in the way of flavour. What I look for in a good croissant is:

1 butteriness (no margarine-based croissants for me)

2 a good balance of caramelised sweetness and bready savoury notes

3 a crisp base

4 a slightly damp middle – squidgy but not doughy

In the text that follows, all scores are out of 10: 1–4 denotes a poor croissant not even worth finishing (a croissant contains about 260kcal); 5–7 as a mediocre-to-decent example not worth complaining about and 8+ as a good croissant worth repeating immediately if time permits.

It’s a satisfyingly neat loop around the country, but one, I note, that covers an awful lot of ground. A cursory google turns up the terrifying fact that France is the largest country in Western Europe, a whopping 27 times the size of Wales. Distances are vast – it looks like it might take me at least three days to cycle across Brittany alone.

Unfortunately, I have a day job as a weekly columnist, and a mortgage to pay, to say nothing of a terrier with a truly prodigious appetite; I can’t afford to dawdle around this place like a tourist – I need to be a Tourist. So like the boys in Lycra,† I’ll need the odd lift. Until quite recently I’d assumed the Tour de France actually rode around France, but they don’t; they get on team coaches and doze their way to the next starting line. Me, I’m going to let the train take the strain.

To add to the fun, I’ve hit a summer of rail strikes: two days out of every seven are to be given over to industrial action in a dispute over President Macron’s attempts to open the passenger network up to competition. On the plus side, the dates have been announced in advance. On the minus side, the actual services affected won’t be decided until the night before, which makes the whole thing a bit of a Russian roulette.