It is in Falaise that my ride diverges from the route taken by the young Ned Lawrence and his father in 1907. They went west to Coutances, from where Lawrence senior took the ferry to join the rest of the family on holiday in Jersey. (I shall be tracking south and west to St Malo, via Mont St Michel.) The moment he was released by his father, the young Lawrence of Arabia set off on his own, on a long and rigorous physical challenge, naturally. To the Loire, some 200 plus miles to the south. It was another foray into the freakish physical endeavour that became a hallmark of his later life. We know this from his letter from Evreux:
“I am thinking of leaving Father on the 20th or so, and going South to Fontrevault. The trip would take me about 8 days, and I would call for letters at P.R. [Poste Restante] St. Malo. These letters would tell me whether you were continuing in Jersey, and if it was worthwhile my coming to meet you there. I could then return to England direct, if inclined or wait a week in Jersey.”
But what of Falaise and its famous castle? They lie on the direct route between Chambois, whose castle he had photographed on this trip, and Coutances. So why on earth doesn’t he mention them in his letters? The idea of him NOT going there, to the birthplace of William the Conqueror and a fine medieval castle in itself, is preposterous. However, it’s also true that the last week of his trips are often left undocumented in his letters. Basically he was a diligent son, making sure to write to his mother each week while away, usually on a Sunday. (See more about the young TE Lawrence’s letters.) But we know from a later letter to his father that he found letter-writing a chore. So in this case his rationale was probably that because his father was about to rejoin the family in Jersey they could find out anything they were inclined to ask about their ride together from him. However, despite a map (drawn later showing that he passed through the town), he left no evidence that he visited Falaise on this trip.
I shall ride to the Loire later. For now, I pedal into Falaise. The sky is resolutely grey, a leaden blanket that makes the air humid. Before visiting the castle I am hoping to meet a local chef, but when I arrive at the restaurant a few moments before 10am, I can feel a current of confusion fizzing around the foyer. I announce myself. There is fluster, some quiet conferring, and a demurral. “Ah, bah, M’sieu…” 10 o’clock will be im-possible. “Desolée…”. Would I be pleased to come back that afternoon, after the lunch service, when the chef would be delighted to spend some time with me?
That seems rather a nice idea: I picture a glass of Armagnac and a congenial chat about regional culinary specialities. But… but… By 3pm I must be most of the way to Brittany... There are 75 miles to cycle to tonight’s accommodation. Sadly I must turn the offer down.
Instead (after a visit to Falaise Castle) I have the delights of the open road. Aaaaah! It’s easy to underestimate – particularly in writing after the event, and in the winter as opposed to summer – the sense of release and freedom, the raised spirits, of riding off into unknown country. There’s a flood of feelings - the excitement, curiosity and nervousness, of not quite knowing what lies ahead, underpinned by the sensations of the body working away, being used as it should. And all in a setting so different - the sights and smells of fresh grass and even farmyards, the boom of bees in hot pockets of air and the consistent, Pavlovian ticking of my derailleur. As I leave Falaise I laugh out loud at the very idea: this is energising, liberating, fist-shaking joy.
Until I arrive at the bottom of the first hill, that is, where I realise what this unknown country involves. No longer is there the easy progress of the Norman plain, with its elegant and gradual solutions. Here the land is cut and jumbled and steeper. The slopes are wooded, strangely dark in the absence of sun.
There is stone now too… replacing the timber-frame and brick houses. And it’s not even the creamy, easily-worked limestone of Caen. This has an orangey tint of iron, and it looks gritty, like sandstone. The ruddy colour and greenness in the lack of sunlight makes the whole countryside seem spooky, almost dark and satanic (well, it does feel a bit deepest Devon and Dorset, as I mentioned).
And the cloud cover refuses to break. The air is still and wet, making free-wheeling feel cold, particularly after a sweat to climb a hill. As I broach another eerie slope, it starts to rain. I struggle into a hamlet, Foret d’Auvray, and there, just as it begins to sheet, is a… well, I am not sure what it is. It looks like a double market building, open-sided and tile-roofed, but it is unnaturally low, laid out with benches and tables rather than stalls for selling things. Is it a market for midgets? Or are they fanatical backgammon players? Or is it a ‘sitting’ market, where negotiation is taken so seriously that they take a chair and settle in? Or perhaps it’s for community lunches… No idea. However, it is very convenient as a shelter for a cyclist avoiding the rain.
Thirty minutes later I find myself in flatter country soaking in the landscapes of rural Normandy once again: fields of tousled grass sectioned by hedges, an ancient pond with a small communal laundry building, cottages crouching in the folds of the land and in the villages ‘Mairies’ standing proud, breast-beating and neo-classical. Quite a few animals start as I pass: a fox, eyes darted over his shoulder as he lopes away, then a hare that races from a hedgerow, cantering in urgent curves. And as the sky seems to have disgorged itself of rain; the cloud finally breaks and the sun appears among high cumulus clouds.
And then a kestrel rises and flies alongside, tracking me for 150 yards, gliding above the hedge to my left. Oh, I know he’s hoping that I‘ll disturb a smaller field animal that can become his prey, but I enjoy it when a bird does this. And I know that my critical faculty becomes a little fanciful at moments like this - it’s one of the mental side-effects of prolonged exercise - but I love the idea that the bird heralds a presence of a different kind. In normal life I am not a superstitious person, but my father and then my mother, shortly after their deaths, did appear to me as crows (to get the full irony of this, you’ll have to read Christopher Moore’s Coyote Blue, a very fine and very silly novel). So might this small bird of prey flying alongside me be TE Lawrence himself, accompanying me for a while, to check me out or to offer some small companionship in our mutual journey…?