SUNDAY, 27th August 2006 – Revin to nowhere

The campsite that time forgot.

We had a lie in until 8.30 – well late, for us. Annie’s shower scored an unheard-of 9, mainly because she got more than half-a-second’s worth of water for every push on the button. I think mine scored only 8, since it was highly powerful, and wet half of the shower block floor, which I then spent ages squeegeeing back into the shower. Good, though.

No new arrivals since we came yesterday. I asked the lady in the reception why there were so few people. She said the weather had been “catastrophique”, and everyone had stayed away. I can see why – the pitches are very grassy, and there were some signs of people getting stuck. But it’s a beautifully-kept site, the facilities are modern and clean, and the area is outstandingly beautiful. We think that the cleaner lives onsite, in a tent in the far corner of the site. There is one couple with a caravan further up from us, and a couple in an unfeasibly small tent halfway to the main entrance from us. There are a couple of other caravans in the site, with no one in attendance. I would guess they’re ‘moored’ here permanently, and the people come and go as they please.

After breakfast, we decided to explore a bit by bike. We cycled over the bridge and on to the other side of the river from us. There was a road, which became a track, which became muddy, but stayed OK for us to cycle. I took a photo across the river of our van, and noticed behind me was a wooden gate, and behind that, a tiny shack, set in the woods. It looked a bit like a permanent residence to me, with bottles outside and a rubbish bin, but I didn’t stay around to find out who lived there. I’ve seen too many spooky films, where innocent foreign cyclists and walkers have been eaten alive by ‘things’ that live in the woods.

We cycled to the next bridge, and then back through the council estate (well, it certainly looked like one) to the campsite. And we had another cup of tea.

Since getting the map from the tourist office yesterday, I’d seen that there was this track on the map, which obviously wound its way up a hill on the other side of town. Two little squiggles indicated there were two viewing platforms over the valley. It called for me, and kept calling for me. It was saying “I’m the biggest hill around. Wanna try me, big boy?” No, it was. Really. There’s something about the challenge of nature, man against the environment, that calls us time and again to pit ourselves against the best, and worst, that mother nature can throw at us. It’s the ‘because it’s there’ syndrome, and as mere mortals, we can no more deny the challenge than we can deny our very existence.

This, by and large, passes the female of the species by, who are more than happy to look at it from afar, say “it’s very nice, but I’ll stay here thank you”, and “don’t have a heart attack, will you, like that Geoff Hamilton.” I set off, having planned my route carefully, and then just as carefully left the map in the van. And my water bottle. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m really cut out for this adventuring lark.

I stopped in the village, to pick up some bread from what must have been the only baker’s open this side of Paris. It had big queues before I arrived, and after I left. From memory, I cycled along the route I’d planned. Then I turned round, and went the other way, which was I where I actually needed to go. I cheated, and followed the signs to the “vue d’interest”. Interesting view. Sounds just the ticket.

I cycled up, and up, and round the bend, and up. The road was quiet, and I could take to the outside of the bends, even on the wrong side of the road, which I did after tackling the first hairpin right. Tough. Four blokes on trails motorbikes passed me, and then cut through the woodland, going straight up the hill instead of round the bends like I was. I call that cheating, especially with an engine to take you up there.

I walked for a while – not because I was incapable of cycling any further, of course, merely so I could enjoy the views better. And so I could stop sounding like a leaky old set of bagpipes, and the sweat could stop dripping into my eyes. After a couple of bends, there was a memorial to the people of the city who died in the two world wars. A bit further up – half cycling, half walking – I came to the first viewing point. It was magnificent. I took photos, which will not be able to capture the amazing views if the city and down the valleys. I watched a heavily-laden barge fight its way upstream for a while, before continuing my quest. I figured that since I was so high up, the summit, and the pinnacle of my quest, of my challenge, must be close by. I continued, upward, ever upward.

I passed two signs, showing the footpath route to the viewing points. The one I wanted was 280 metres away, up a 45 degree muddy incline. I stuck to the road. Pedal, pedal, pedal. I rounded a bend, expecting to see the summit. Instead, I saw the road going straight up, steeper than before, and straight for around 100 metres, before the next bend. I said “soddit” and turned round. My ultimate quest could wait for another time, when … errr … I wasn’t in such a hurry. That’s it.

I stopped at the first viewing platform again, and saw the barge seemed to be making a turn. I followed its intended route, and saw that there was a lock underneath me, and a basin beyond, and the barge was headed that way. So was I.

My brakes didn’t fail me on my descent, and I would my way around through some back streets until I came to the track by the river, and I cycled up to the lock. The barge was halfway through rising from river level to basin level. I took some pictures. There was a sign, which said there was a yachting basin 150m ahead. But all I saw was a dead-end. I cycled over, and looked closer, and there was a brick-built tunnel under the city, dark, dripping, and no doubt smelly. Intrigued, I returned to the van, to look at the map. Annie was pleased I hadn’t had a heart attack halfway up the hill and died, and I consulted the town map. No sign of a lock, or a basin, or the tunnel, or a yachting basin. How peculiar! Was the tunnel really the entrance to Hades, and the basin the start of the River Styx? This needs further investigation.

Still no new campers on site, by the way.

After lunch, we returned to the lock, and cycled beyond, following the river. Nothing much happened, except we cycled a few miles, and still got nowhere. There’s always that thought, isn’t there, that there might be a beautiful auberge just around the corner, where we could sit in the sun, enjoy a few beers, and watch the limited river traffic. However, we called a stop to the ride (just around the corner from a beautiful auberge, ….) and we cycled back to the lock, where a river cruiser (about a 35 footer) was passing through. We watched it float up, pass through the gates, and then head for the Tunnel of Doom. I was determined to find out where it went, so we cycled up the hill and over the top.

I was anxious, that’s for sure. I couldn’t be certain that I would ever actually see the boat again. It might just disappear into the tunnel, green traffic light shining innocently, enticing the unwary into an uncertain future. There are times when we all face an uncertain future, and I wondered whether the nice man and woman on the boat really knew what they were heading into. Or whether they had decided that after a full and enjoyable life, they were ready to travel, with their boat, into another land – another world, if you like, a sort of ‘passing beyond’.

The tunnel actually went through to the next level of the river. No yachting basin to speak of, and certainly no yachts. I was pleased to see that the boat was happily chugging up the river, leaving small ripples in its wake. We cycled after it, and saw it enter yet another lock. Now the full truth was dawning on me. The lock and the tunnel just cut out the big loop of the river which went round the town. When we’d cycled over the rickety bridge earlier in the day, there had been a weir in the river, thus giving the two levels, and the necessity for a lock. Mystery solved. Back to the campsite for us.

And another happy camper had joined us! A happy-looking Dutch tugging couple, him with a very strange moustache which stretched beyond the boundaries of his face, and with a miniature pair of clogs hanging from an awning pole (just in case we hadn’t sussed where they were from). I said “hello”, since I had no idea what a friendly greeting is in Dutch. They said “hello” back. Once again, international boundaries had been broken, and entente cordiale was there for all to see.