Calais to Dieppe via Albert

Over the last few years friends and I have been availing ourselves of the cycling opportunities made available by the cross channel ferries on the south east coast. Many, many years ago, every village, town and city on said coast had its own ferry to France. You could walk across the channel from boat to boat almost. Nowadays there are just two ports for bicyclists – Newhaven and the world famous Dover with its white cliffs and fish. Dover gets you to the north coast which has, over the years, seen many comings and goings. The original ferry services started from Calais in what was then known as Gaul*, by the Romans. Back in the days of Caesar Lines, inclement weather often meant occasional unscheduled stops in the Channel Islands and even northern Spain or Denmark. 

The 9.25am crossing running a little late

The cross channel ports had their heyday and most profitable time during the wars with lots goings but unfortunately less comings. With the discovery of a hole that was later widened to become the Channel Tunnel, the ferry business fell out of the sky to leave just Newhaven and Dover. 

Dunkerque is well placed for Belgium – if you are able to find a reason to go there - while Calais is gateway to Pas de Calais (Calais Country). More solemnly, Dunkerque is ideal for visiting the north end of WW1's Western Front and the sites of infamous butchery: Menin Road, Passendael. Calais provides a quicker route to Arras and surrounding areas down to the Somme, the southern end of the Front.

We had considered getting to Holland from Harwich via the Dutch Flyer Rail and Sail combo but that would have meant facing a 20mph headwind with the added delight of rain for 80 miles. So my colleagues and I, having already done a couple of trips to Flanders, headed to Calais. The railway journey to Dover is possibly the most expensive in the country. At just over 70 miles, the ticket costs 32.80 each way - that’s right: each way. Let’s have a look at what else £32.80 can get you these days:

Friday

P&O do a weird price – or there was a wee bit of user error – as taking a cycle seems to be cheaper than without. Piano’s ferries are more frequent than DFDS though, for Dunkerque, DFDS allow you to take a ferry either side the one you’re booked on if you are early or late. Piano mentioned stuff about admin fees etc. As it turned out we were allowed to get on the 8.25am O’clock hours crossing which was still filling up with coal. Unlike the out-of-town docks in Dunkerque, the boat parks up right in Calais. Like Dover, the French port has seen much better days - lots of people hanging around soup kitchens and not just to get the recipe. So, we were on the windy chilly road at 11.15. Head west to the D940 and go south. Before entering the back of beyond you can stop of at the cathedral of healthy outdoor pursuits – Decathlon – for vital supplies such as a head torch, a pair of chunky knit socks or a kayak if you fancy a spot of river fun.

The part of France immediately southe of Calais is quite poor. Guines is reminiscent of a Nottinghamshire mining town five years after the last ever shift clocked out. The wind, whipping up some after coming in off the sea a few miles to the west, toyed with us until, twenty miles further south, we dropped down into the charming and more fancy dan Course valley. Redbrick and white mortar walls under red tiled roofs through which wibbly wobbly chimneys poked; carpet lawns bound by sharply trimmed hedges and white fences of cutesy villages with miniature churches all resting cosily astride the river. The area is very much like the rather nice parts of Berkshire between Reading and Newbury. Montreuil, where the Course joins the Canche, is a very pretty town that clings to the side of a steep hill that supports a fortified citadel and a massive cobbled square with its bars and a nice supermercado. 

The pretty municipal campsite is at the bottom and northwest of the hill - to the right and signposted as you arrive from Neuville sous Montreuil though you might need a sledge hammer to get your tent pegs in.

Saturday

The weather the following day was out of the Truman Show: dulux blue sky, bright sun  - but not too hot - and a lazy breeze. We headed up the Canche valley towards Hedsin. There were occasional hills as the road cut corners but, again, it was a very pleasant riverside ride through more fairy tale villages. It was almost a step back in time with hamlets built around ten-ups-ten-downs (manor houses) possessing huge courtyards and lengthy walls to keep the unwashed and riff raff out . A peasant brandishing a turnip hailed us, asking if we were Prussians.

The roads were, in the main, quiet though we occasionally had our timbers shivered by the odd truck, the drivers of which would either wait patiently behind us until the road was clear or give us a very wide berth, which was most considerate. During this straightforward spin we passed no shops or cafes. Many French villages up to a certain size do not have any shops or bars and for the most part don’t seem to have any inhabitants either.

Hedsin was abuzz with weekend frivolity. As we waited for our morning coffees at a town square cafe, we watched sophisticated looking types sipping at their pastis and beers at neighbouring tables. It was a little after 10am O’clock hours and therefore sufficiently beyond petite dejuner not to be frowned upon. After coffee and the usual light snack of butter croissants and supersize pain au raisins, we continued up the Canche to Frevent and beyond through gentle hills to Somme.

Somme, in the region of Picardie, is a Department through which the river Somme flows from Peronne to the sea. The eastern half of the department was host to three major battles in WW1. Unlike the bleak flatlands of Flanders, the Somme consists of luxuriant rolling hills and woods and the beautiful Somme Valley. French tourism tries to promote this neglected but justified feature of the The Somme alongside the area’s grim past. 

killing fields

The two cannot be separated as you will pass through the tranquil beauty only to find a WW1 cemetery. More about the war can be found at http://www.greatwar.co.uk/somme/index.htm.

Back roads took us to Miraumont at the head of L’Ancre valley, the border between the Pas de Calais and Somme departments. The valley was sunk into the chalk hills; church spires peeped out amongst elms and poplars. Half way to Albert is the Theipval Cemetery and its massive monument. We stopped to brew some tea in the afternoon sun in the peace that belied the river’s brutal history.

We’d been to Albert before with its magnificent church and the WW1 museum beneath and so we hurried on to Bray sur Somme and the Verger campsite. The pitch was very good but the facilities were limited and wee bit neglected. There is one shop in Bray – a bizarrely empty shelved 'Simply' and which may well have shut down since. There was a pokey municipal campsite which did not seem to have any tent pitches, though it sits right on the bank of one of the Somme’s many lakes. Bray is a gloomy, hardnosed place, perhaps befitting the town’s unfortunate frontline role in WW1 during which it changed hands between the allied and German armies several times, and was shelled heavily.

We joined the Somme River the next day but not before we visited the German cemetery on the hill out of the town. 

Unlike the BCWGC sites, which are clearly visible and often contain a monument and a large Portland stone cross, their German counterparts are often discreetly concealed by trees and are quite austere. Among the grey steel crucifixes were two Jewish headstones.

There was a cycle path along the Somme that was at times paved or closed for fishing competitions or lumpy and bumpy and so, after persevering between Corbie and Glis, we took the road in Amiens. Corbie had the croissants but no cafe, despite being more of a town than village. We considered that this part of the world just didn’t have a cafe society. It was a poor region similar to that of Bethune and Lens, further up what was the Western Front. There was the feel of Derby or Stoke about both areas. The rolling hills of this area were killing fields and on the day we passed through there were many farmers out shooting game amongst the crops of beet and corn. In one field, a lone shootist dressed in dull green, with his rifle pointing ahead of him, walked slowly across the freshly churned mud.

Thanks to plenty of stopping and starting, we were late getting in to Amiens and we had made the mistake of not stocking up on any food either for lunch or the evening as we were expecting to eat out.   

Amiens, scene of recent riots, seemed no better off than Corbie or Bray though it does possess a spectacular 900 year old Gothic cathedral whose gargoyle infested walls are pock marked by bullet holes. The interior – free to enter – was immense and lit by light filtered through huge stained glass windows.

There is little else to see in Amiens apart though we did get to see plenty of the northern surburbs while we spent an hour cycling around trying to find a Macdonalds. 

By the time we’d slurped our sprites and cokes and were moving along the Somme again it was gone three. The spectre of empty villages loomed after we managed to get a cup of tea at a cafe. We took a white road off the D3 at Mareuil Caubert to head for a campsite near Moyenneville at Bouillancourt. There was no-one to be seen for several miles let alone cosy little cafes. I’d checked the campsite before leaving home to find it had a shop and it so we would be able to eat something. However as we arrived the patron was leaving and he said the shop was shut. We were snookered. Dusk was falling heavily as the Truman set lights began to dim and the nearest large town, Abbeville, was an hour away. D volunteered to cycle there and back but sensibly withdrew the offer when faced with the prospect of trying to retrace his route in the dark. I was resigned to a drink and food free night when the patron returned and disappeared into his shop with the shutter down. We were offered food by other campers as we waited for him to reappear and, an hour after arriving, were able to get wine. During this time I confessed my lack of enjoyment at the day – 65 miles – when we should have stuck to the plot of stocking up – just in case. Indeed, however lucky we were in the end, I had had enough of long days in the saddle only to have to get a tent up on hard ground, shower, then cook – and wash up!

The final day started with low grey cloud and a light rain. Rather than furnish a breakfast from nettles, tree bark and left overs from the night before we stewed up the usual porridge with water. The bark looked good. We stuffed our damp tents away and hurried off towards Dieppe. All around us were shops open for business it was as if we had crawled out of a desert into Lakeside Thurrock.

The scenery, though grey and dank, was almost lovely as we crossed several broad valleys to get to the port. We bought lunch at an Intermarche in the odd little town of Gamaches, stopping off a while later at a football ground to eat. The weather didn’t get any better by the time we arrived in Dieppe to stand in the bleak and exposed check-in lane for the ferry. Once back, we got to Newhaven Town railway station which is actually nearer than the Newhaven Harbour. The ferry was on time which left us plenty of time to catch the 21.35.I’d bought £5 tickets online beforehand for the hour and quarter journey back to Victoria having changed at Lewes. 

217 miles