Central London CTC blog

What are the ingredients of a perfect cycling trip? A week of sunny days when your rain jacket lies unused in your panniers, congenial mates, trees bursting with pink and white as far as the eye can see, chateaux of course, and hearty regional cooking you’ll never forget. We had them all on our Loire Valley trip April 10-17.

Our group of 11, ranging in age from 11 to 70, started out with memorable coq au vin in the medieval town centre of Orleans, an auspicious start for a believer in the motto “Ride to eat; eat to ride.”

Chateau de Chambord

Our first full day of cycling took us to the magnificent Chateau of Chambord, the largest castle in the Loire, which we approached, as bicycles are wont to do, from a quiet back entrance like conquering heroes. There at a café in the sun I had my first tarte tatin of the trip, apples caramelised just perfectly. (Tarte tatin, was born in the Loire region after a lady inn-keeper left apples, butter and sugar cooking in a pan too long, then rescued the dish by covering it with a layer of pastry dough and sticking it in the oven.)

I spent the week testing tarte tatin at every possible stop and made several converts. Brian may have  grumped that all chateaux were simply an unpleasant reminder of  the ruling classes’ oppression of the masses. But he admitted to the assembled company that tarte tatin was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted—the first of several positive comments that won me points off this hardened Irish radical in a complicated tally totted up by Selwyn, counterbalance by deductions for chatter- cycling. (The technical term for wandering into the center of the road while chatting to your cycling companion.) What led to this violation? My seminar in  texting lexicon by sophisticated teenager George, tales of rioters from ex-policeman Roy, a history of mental asylums’ de-institutionalization from Michael and discussions of viola playing with Sue.

At one point our route navigated by the intrepid Richard Philpott took us for about 25km along a bike path which soon trickled (to our surprise) into a narrow dirt trail that made us feel as we had the Loire all to ourselves but required a certain amount of cyclo-cross to traverse before reaching Blois. In our traverse from path to village boulangerie, we somehow managed to lose one of our company, Derek, who enterprisingly found his way on his own to our next hotel.

Dinner in the gite farmhouse

Hard cycling against headwinds the next day (including a gorgeous view of Vendome from across the river) ended with my favourite overnight stay — on a farm (Les Pignons) near the village of St. Martin des Bois, where the farmer had turned an 1850 farm building into a charming gite with exposed beams and skylights. The highlight was a family-style dinner cooked by the farmer’s hospitable wife that we ate together with the farmer in their home — tabbouleh, lentils, homemade wine, local cheeses and plum clafoutis.

I showed our hosts photos of the bizarre giant-sized plaster Easter eggs and chickens that had invaded the front gardens of a near-by village on a scale that dwarfed the homes they adorned. The farmer’s wife knew the family that had initiated this folly and told me they installed similar life-sized decorations for what sounded like an unfamiliar French holiday “alla winne” (Halloween).

Bidding goodbye the next morning to the cattle enjoying their last meal before being turned into steak, we continued on to Tours, where we happily lodged around the corner from an excellent Lebanese restaurant. Our one cold morning was devoted to touring on foot the magnificent Tours cathedral with its 13th century stained glass, strolling past the half-timbered house where Joan of Arc’s armour was made in 1429 and wandering  the gardens of the former archbishops’ palace, where hedges are still trimmed with a plumb line for sheer exactitude.

The walled city of Loches

Reaching the perfect walled city of Loches, some of us opted for motorised transport to sightsee while the Rambos continued cycling up the hill to it.

The female contingent, all two of us, was by now lobbying for more chateau time.  We were rewarded with our visit to Chenonceau, which straddles the river Cher. Once inside, we were so charmed by the fresh flower arrangements incorporating everything from ostrich eggs to peacock feathers, that we took more photos of these than of the famous tapestries. Unfortunately by this time, two of our company had fallen ill, and had to spend the last day travelling by train. Our night at a chateau-turned-gite turned out to be less aristocratic and more youth hostelly than we had anticipated, with the men graciously doubling up so the ladies could have their own rooms.

The chateau at Chenonceau

Our last night we arrived in our final destination, the small town of Lamotte-Beauvron, to discover that the hotel where we’d made our reservations was closed. Thanks to the persuasive charm of Selwyn, the calm direction of Paul and the help of the local tourist office, our group found accommodation but was divided between those staying at motel out on the main road, and a hotel in the town centre. Name of the hotel? Tatin. You guessed it — the very one where that divine dessert was invented, before being discovered there by the owner of Maxim’s , brought back to Paris and introduced to the world. The tarte tatin was pretty good, too.

We also have a photo album of the tour, and a map of the route we took.