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COAST to CÔTE, A WALK OF 1,100 MILES from CAEN to CASSIS: THE DIARY - Britain has long had its Coast-to-Coast Walk, Wainwright’s great invention now firmly established as a National Trail. I had long dreamed of walking a French equivalent; a “Coast to Côte”. A glance at a map, however, will reveal one distinct problem, the sheer scale of France—a Channel to Med walk would, at the shortest, be 3 or 4 times the length of the British equivalent.The French Grande Randonnée (GR) network is very extensive and many potential routes offer themselves. For ease of access, a route starting at a Channel port is an obvious incentive. For the purist the route must also lead, wholly on GR.s, to the Mediterranean. My personal Coast to Côte route, designed using the French National GR route map, was to follow the GR 36 from the port of Ouistreham (Caen) to the Loire, then follow in succession the GR 3, GR 46, GR 4, GR 9 and finally the GR 98 to emerge on the coast of the Mediterranean at Cassis near Marseilles. This journey of 1,800 kilometres or 1,100 miles is clearly beyond the holidaying capabilities of even the most determined backpacker and would require an undreamed of understanding from your employer. To solve the problem requires the traditional problem-solving approach, chop it up into smaller sections, a week here, a fortnight there, then stitch it back together into a glorious mental whole. – Stephen E., England, 11 December '01 2nd INSTALLMENT, DAYS NINE TO SIXTEEN: Saint-Denis sur Sarthon to Mayet, 194 kilometers or 121 miles on the GR 36 Days One to Eight - Caen to Saint-Denis sur Sarthon on the GR 36, 205 kilometers or 127 miles Days Seventeen to Tenty-four - Mayet to Montbazon on the GRs 36, 3 and 46; 223 kilometers or 140 miles Days Twenty-five to Thirty-one - Montbazon to la Châtre, on the GR 46, 167 kilometers or 105 miles Day Nine - Saint-Denis sur Sarthon to Saint-Léonard des Bois. 19 kilometres. Saint-Denis was as bright as a new pin. We had returned 8 months after finishing stage one of the Coast to Côte to find the dull dank days of October replaced by a warm and fragrant May morning. The orchards, which had hung, dripping in the autumn mists, with rotting fruit glumly clinging to bare branches, were now humming with spring bees around the blossoms of the future new crop. We had endured all forms of public transport to get ourselves back to this small and insignificant village in southern Normandy. A journey of 3 trains, 2 taxis, the underground, a boat and a bus had dropped us, remarkably, right on schedule to the Mairie of the village we had left at the end of the first walk. Sadly the one thing that had not changed was the heavy traffic which thundered through Saint-Denis’s narrow streets along the N12. We clung to shop-fronts to avoid the roaring trucks as we headed back down the hill to rejoin the red & white flashes marking the GR36. A wistful glance northwards up the back road on which we had finished then we turned south off the N12 onto the next leg of the walk. Just as the previous leg, in October, had finished with a 8 kilometre tarmac stretch, so we started with a further 9 kilometres on the hard stuff, crossing a plain towards the Alpes Mancelles. Within 50 metres we reached a small, insignificant brook that exceeded its stature by marking the end of the département of Orne and also the end of the province of Normandy. The River Chandon held great significance for us! Whilst the surface was a bit firm, the day was very pleasant, a blue sky promised heat for later but the temperature at first was most equitable, newly arrived swallows and martins piloted around our heads busy with nest prospecting and every bush and tree greeted us with the cheery song of Chiffchaff and Willow Warbler. The first kilometre across water meadows brought us to Saint-Denis’s twin village of Ravigny clinging to the opposite slope of the Chandon’s diminutive valley. As we passed through the jumble of timbered farmhouses, our senses were assaulted by the heady aroma of strong alcohol. Behind a black painted wall the residents were industriously turning that autumn apple crop into Calvados. Heads reeling from the effects of the fumes we headed cheerfully out onto a plain of pastoral peace and plenty. For 5 kilometres we followed the D260 through these cow filled fields, our only sally into the départment of Mayenne. A broad main road took us back left to a southward flowing river (the Sarthon itself) and we crossed to the east bank, picking up a small back road, we had entered our fourth départment, Sarthe, one in which we would stay for the rest of the second leg of the walk. A further 4 kilometres of tarmac, along the minor road, intermittently sheltered from the, now, hot sun brought us to a late lunch at the picturesque village of Saint-Céneri-le-Gérei. This village, a regular winner of “most beautiful” village competitions, lies where the infant river Sarthe cuts through the higher ground of the Alpes Mancelles to create a series of mini-gorges similar to those we had seen in October in the Orne valley. Of more immediate concern, however, was food and the steeply pitched streets gave an excellent selection of restaurants to assuage our need for a break and some French cuisine. Refreshed, we emerged, dropped to the river where an ancient pack bridge crosses and with relief stepped off tarmac onto a very welcome footpath. The path climbed briskly (too briskly so soon after lunch!) to emerge on the edge of the Sarthe gorge. The afternoon passed in a pleasant haze as the lunch, the scenery and the heat combined to leave happy memories of a switch-back path, through rampant gorse, which led to a fine view-point where we admired Saint-Céneri and its tiny 13th Century church perched over the Sarthe. A short stretch south along the rim of the gorge was followed by a teetering descent through pines to the banks of the river and a meandering fisherman’s path. As the day drew to a close and Saint-Léonard approached, the path had the usual “final sting”. A rib of land forced the river westwards into a tight meander, the GR 36 chose, as usual, to head over the top by a 50 metre climb, rewarding us with views of Saint-Léonard. The hotel Du Bon Laboureur was simple and sufficient, the evening mild and pleasant and the ambience very rural French as we whiled away the evening over cold beers in the village square. A very pleasant start! back to top Day Ten - Saint-Léonard des Bois to Sillé-Plage. 32 kilometres. The second stage of the walk had produced another series of accommodation problems, this time presenting us with a back-to-back weekend of two very long days between the only possible stopping points. We had arranged an early start with the proprietors and when we came down to a delightful spring Saturday morning there was still little life in the village save ourselves, le patron and a bunch of twittering martins already actively nest building under the eaves. The radio in the bar was abuzz with news of Monsieur Blair’s election victory - we had greatly enjoyed sailing away from all the hype after casting our votes. We were gravely enjoined to enjoy the warmth as today would be the last warm day for some time—how right this turned out to be! Refreshed, we slogged our way straight uphill from the hotel back door up a 100 metre climb to the western edge of the gorge. After skirting the fence of a wildlife park the path headed south along the edge of the gorge until it reached a high point with a spectacular view. Far below us Saint-Léonard slept on, the Sarthe curled protectively about the tightly packed streets, beyond reared up the opposite wall of the gorge a magnificent limestone scarp some 100 metres high. A nagging familiarity soon resolved itself, we were looking at the same view as depicted on the cover of our trusty topo-guide which we had been using since Ouistreham. To the south the Sarthe curved away eastwards in another tight meander, our route would take a longer and less straightforward journey before we met up again on Sunday evening. Our way to the south was barred by a steeply sided re-entrant valley and the GR was forced to head west for a couple of kilometres until the floor of this valley had risen sufficiently to make a practicable crossing. Still being very early and cool, the walking was pleasant, gently undulating through rocky knolls before entering yet another area of commercial woodland. Once across the blocking valley the GR turned due south with a determined air. Unfortunately this route decision led it directly across the grain of the countryside which was cut by a series of deep valleys draining eastwards to the Sarthe. Every 4 - 5 kilometre stretch was characterised by a steep climb from yet another stream, a short traverse of open plateau and a further steep descent to the next. The changing vista, albeit quite agricultural, was never boring and periodically a small village or hamlet broke up the tramp. The first of these, Saint-Paul-le-Gaultier, held a very pleasant riverside park complete with boules court and water mill—a most sublime spot for elevenses. The second, Saint-Georges-le-Gaultier, we had singled out for lunch and were rewarded with a splendid street corner village bar. The bar was packed and an overflow room already in service when we arrived. Cold beers and crusty bread rolls packed with rough country ham soon satisfied the inner needs and we relaxed for half-an-hour over a last beer to soak up the ambience of the place. The family, who clearly owned the bar and were the only staff, certainly earned their francs for that Saturday lunch-time session, carrying a succession of plats du jour to the customers despite the attentions of an over friendly poodle. As the bar emptied to the last handful of customers we realised that, despite the rural nature of the area, the majority of the clientele were speaking English! Tourism has certainly spread to the most remote spots in France. Prepared for a long hot afternoon, we stepped outside to discover the sunshine gone and a sultry overcast had arrived. With a further 19 kilometres to tackle we set off at a determined pace. As usual with GR paths the red & white markers set off in an intricate manner headed for the local beauty spot, an elegant disused aqueduct, before returning to a bridge about a kilometre south of the bar in which we had taken lunch. Our exasperation at walking 5 kilometres to cover 1 was, however, short-lived as we once more set off heading south. The climb across the next plateau was a long and open one, our path hedge-less and exposed to the heat of the afternoon. Not a breath of wind broke the stillness and the bird song sank to low murmurs in the heat. Eventually we reached the next valley and descended its steep flanks. From the topo-guide came the promise of refreshments at the next village and glimpses of its church hurried us uphill to Mont-Saint-Jean. During our search for accommodation Mont-Saint-Jean had held out promise of rooms which would have broken the hard two days into 3 comfortable ones, but sadly a similar intervening spot had not been located to split the following day. As the sultry afternoon had taken its toll, the welcoming arms of the Café des Amis had us beaming as we gulped a Perrier followed by a pression chaser! These rural bars are the life blood of villages such as Mont-Saint-Jean and the exploits of the village football team were amply documented in cups and photos around the walls. As we left the village the final valley of the day opened before us, a shallow affair backed by the ramparts of high ground covered in forest. The Forêt Dominiale de Sillé covered the highest ground we would cross on this section of the walk—a mighty 240 metres above sea level! In no time we had gained the ridge and some respite from the sticky weather, the forest creating its own micro-climate of cool which magnified the inevitable cooling expected as the afternoon drew to a close. Our final 5 kilometres were picked through forest swarming with Saturday afternoon dog-walkers and mountain bikers. Eventually we emerged at the from the trees at Sillé-Plage and found our gîte d’étape on the lakeside. This was a splendid wardened gîte above a shop and nature interpretation centre. Our room was very adequate and carried a balcony over-looking the lake that would have added £5 to any hotel room. Grateful for the rest we lazed away the evening after sluicing the heat from our bodies. Once the afternoon strollers had gone there was a brief and blessed hiatus then the restaurants opened for the evening diners and a handful of people rolled in from the adjacent camp and caravan sites to join us alfresco. A pleasant day’s end made more pleasant by the satisfaction of the distance we had covered. back to top Day Eleven - Sillé-Plage to Beaumont-sur-Sarthe, 40 kilometres. When we had compiled the itinerary for the walk this was obviously a journey which we had planned to shorten, but sadly there was no choice, we were beaten by lack of accommodation. As the gîte d’étape was wardened, the proprietor had left instructions for us simply to post the keys through the letter box when we departed. Given the distance to cover we set alarms for early, we awoke to a changed world. The temperature had dropped overnight from 25ºC to a lowly 5ºC and the lake—previously peaceful with quacking ducks—was decorated with racing white-caps from a stiff and persistent north-westerly. Tee-shirts and shorts were packed to the bottom of the rucksack, they were to emerge for the wash back home! We gulped down a hearty breakfast, which lightened our loads and set off into the buffeting wind. Luckily the first hour took us in a loop around to the southern edge of the lake through sheltering pines, these kept the wind at bay but despite this we were kitted out in full winter-walking gear. Eventually we bade farewell to the lake and climbed determinedly towards the southern edge of the high-ground. We emerged to an extensive view as the land dropped away to the south revealing the great interior plain of Sarthe. Below us sat the small market town of Sillé-Guillaume; a broad traffic-filled Route Nationale dominated the near view but gave way to a patchwork of arable fields heading away into the distance across the plain towards the south. Overhead lowering dense grey clouds scurried towards the east with the promise of rain writ large upon their faces. Despite the restrictions caused by the low lying clouds a faint hint of higher ground far to the south marked a respite from the fields, we would walk for almost four full days before we reached those forests to the south of Le Mans and higher ground. The GR, reluctant to leave the plateau and the 200 metre contour, now wound back upon itself. The whole of the remainder of our Sunday would be spent heading back to the north-east and the banks of the river Sarthe itself. Indeed in a determinedly playful mood the path fell to the foot of the scarp, then climbed back to the ridge three times over the next two hours. Broad paths followed both ridge and vale, but the GR took great pleasure in crossing back & forth between the two on steeply sloping, stony trails through the undergrowth. Warmed by the exertions we eventually emerged back onto the ridge at a thickly wooded plantation where the path struck determinedly north-eastwards along a broad forestry track. Arrow-straight, the forest track never altered course for in excess of an hour’s walk! We had finally been joined on our hike, however, by normal-time risers and a few Sunday strollers and mountain-bikers started to appear which, at least, offered some distraction from the stolid course we were following. The track, so broad it was motorable, ended in complete contrast; cut by a steep sided ravine. The ankle turning descent followed by a swift pull back up through gorse and broom startled muscles lulled into familiarity by the level pace of the previous 5 kilometres. A final secretive path wound its way through birch scrub to emerge from the wood into an area of pastures, relief from the claustrophobia of dense plantations but an invitation to the rising wind to have a few laughs at our expense. Our early start had been part of a strategy to arrive at the only village en-route, Saint-Christophe-du-Jambet, in time to take advantage of its promised facilities (café, alimentation, depôt de pain) in time for lunch. As this village was 24 kilometres from Sillé-Plage, we had set a brisk pace in order to arrive during the traditional 12.00 till 13.00 session. As noon passed we breasted the last ridge separating us from the village and set off, with tongues hanging, across the last couple of kilometres towards the village, of grey stone houses, dominated by the tall spire of the 13th century church, perched on the brink of the scarp. Sadly the village was a complete disappointment, the café has ceased to exist, the shop was closed and the bakers firmly sealed. Glumly we took shelter from the first spots of rain, in a bus shelter and munched dejectedly on trail food while the villagers, in their finery, headed for church. The GR itself held little comfort as, finally giving up with the high ground, it surrendered to a final descent and set off across the plain towards the distant bridge across to the eastern side of the Sarthe at Beaumont. Faced with a 10 kilometre tarmac stretch, we set a route march schedule of _ hour walking followed by _ hour rest, zipped up the waterproofs and hunched our shoulders against the rain. By the end of the first session we took respite from wind and rain in a barn, the second saw us crouching beneath a large oak, by the end of the third we were back on paths and skirting a large estate beneath a tall boundary wall. The last hour to Beaumont was easier under-foot but daunting as once more we ran into a stretch of re-routed path, our first but by no means last encounter on this section of the walk. Some well-meaning idiot had decided to take the path, for at least a couple of extra kilometres, on a scenic wander around the local beauty spots - we only wanted to reach Beaumont and the hotel! After what seemed an eternity we passed the welcome signs to the village and headed to the main cross-roads with the N138 where the welcoming doorway of the Hôtel de la Barque beckoned two wet & weary travellers. The hotel was just what was required. Warm and at last dry we emerged from steaming baths to a small bar for a cold beer. Later the restaurant restored the inner being whilst we watched the world go by. Our enjoyment was enhanced by a steady stream of elegant sports cars, heading determinedly towards the ports from the pre-qualification races at Le Mans. The only irritation was the obvious white road-sign opposite with its accusing message “Alençon 18 km”. We had covered 91 kilometres in three day’s walking to get from 20km north-west of Alençon to 18km south-east—there’s no logic to GR walking! back to top Day Twelve - Beaumont-sur-Sarthe to Sainte-Jamme-sur-Sarthe. 18 Kilometres. The sun streamed in through a gap in the curtains as I woke and hopes rose for a pleasant day ahead, less pleasing was the sudden drop in light levels followed by a stinging shower rattling against the window panes. Oh well, it’s only a short day. Departure was delayed partly because of short distance and partly to let yet another short, sharp shower pass by. We received a sympathetic look from the management as we headed off into the streaming back-streets of Beaumont. A run of cobbled, pedestrianised shopping streets brought us back to the Sarthe. Less youthful than we remembered from Saturday morning, the river surged ponderously over its last exuberance, a small weir, before surrendering to the meandering pleasures of middle age on the flat plains of Sarthe. The bridge in the heart of the town was ancient and marked the beginning of a Roman road an arrow-straight stretch of the N138 heading due south with military precision. The GR, however, scurried across the traffic and took refuge in an old droveway which climbed the same gentle rise, parallel but sufficiently distant to keep its peace. A steady 3 kilometre climb rose gently between tall hawthorn hedges, bursting with blossom and swarming with birds. We were taking the start very gently, taking time out to search for spring migrants, a search that became a full twitch when we heard the delicate glissades of a nightingale. Ten minutes of searching through foliage eventually revealed the drab brown source of the magical sounds. Our reverie was broken by the sight of another vast shower cloud sailing across the plain towards us, in truly perverse fashion it broke in a ten minute fury just after we had left the shelter of the hawthorns on to a broad open lane. Frantically waterproofs were donned by which time we were soaked and the shower was headed off eastwards chuckling to itself. This proved to be the pattern for the day, the showers being inversely proportionate in strength to the available shelter! The GR re-crossed the frantic N138 for the final time and headed into the grounds of another small manorial estate, massive oaks and hornbeams guarded the parkland and provided a second twitch of the day. Sadly the whooping calls of the golden orioles couldn’t help us to locate the brightly coloured but secretive creatures. Due to the short distance, we were fast approaching the designated lunch-stop far too early. An amble was called for so the pace dropped once more as we turned back westwards towards Saint-Marceau. This small village had been delivered from purgatory by a bypass and sat in peace and tranquillity, its high-street now devoid of heavy traffic. We dallied to window-shop the village store before considering the prospect of a restaurant set back from the road behind a large car-park. This oasis was closed but as it was not quite noon we took seats, once more, in the traditional bus shelter to wait its opening. Sadly, despite a number of intending customers arriving, trying the door and departing, the premises remained firmly shut. The lost business for the restaurant benefited the village store as we topped up with snacks and continued our rest into a full-blown lunch break; it later transpired that Monday was the closing day for the area. A well-meaning local stopped by, with the intention of pointing out changes to the bus time-table. When we explained what we were doing in the local bus-shelter and why, he was incredulous. He’d lived in Saint-Marceau all his life and was totally unaware of the presence of the GR 36. The topo-guide was brandished and the route through and around the village explained. A “bon voyage” and a handshake later we set off once more southerly along the old abandoned route of the highway. Just as the by-pass rejoined, the GR sought refuge once more in a quieter route, a couple of headland paths took us into a dirt lane which headed south, two fields east but parallel to the N138 for the next hour and a half. The GR kept to the dirt track, sometimes hedged and intimate at other times open to the wind and showers, which avoided all villages and farm-houses. The trail, broken only by a couple of D roads, was flat and well surfaced and we quickly broke the back of the afternoon’s journey. Just a couple of kilometres short of Sainte-Jamme we emerged onto the D36 just 200 metres west of its cross-roads with the N138, it looked a likely spot for a bar and so it proved. The bar/transport café was tended by a fierce looking woman of ample proportions. Her ferocity proved illusionary, once the ice had been broken she even re-assured us that we would have no trouble in getting a meal at Sainte-Jamme that evening. Another couple of Kronenbourgs later we headed back to the path for the last hour’s stroll through fields to the market town on the banks of the Sarthe. We had booked what we had assumed was a very small gîte d’étape in Sainte-Jamme’s twin village of Montbizot, across on the east bank of the Sarthe, a short stroll along a plane-tree lined road. The gîte proved to be the administration building for the municipal camp site and reminiscent of a large village hall. We were fortunate in arriving whilst the gardeners were still at work as another ferocious shower struck just after we had been let in. The building proved to hold four dormitories, kitchen and common-room and could have easily slept 40 people comfortably. We shared the entire site, comprising the gîte and empty camp site, with only the care-taker/site-manager in his caravan. All this for a mere 45 francs. We had passed the restaurant in Sainte-Jamme on our way through. At seven we strolled back and were treated to an excellent value, three-course steak dinner for two with wine included, all for 100 francs. A great way to end the day, we made arrangements with the young couple running the restaurant to take breakfast the following day then strolled back, sated, to our solitary residence. back to top Day Thirteen - Sainte-Jamme-sur-Sarthe to Savigny L’Évêque. 18 kilometres. During the night I had woken several times to the sound of heavy rain on the windows, when we awoke to merely a grey & drippy start we were optimistic that the worst had passed. Having paid for the gîte the previous evening we were able to tidy up, sweep the place clean and head off for our breakfast appointment in Sainte-Jamme without waking the site manager. We had left early because the topo-guide indicated a 26 kilometre day, we were to be greatly surprised by the eventual outcome. The café in Sainte-Jamme was doing an excellent trade in croissants and coffee, a trade which we set out to help. Yet another short sharp shower swept through as we lingered over a second grande crème. Our expectations for the weather diminished still further as the radio forecast pronounced continued bad weather right through the week. Gloomily we splashed out the village, through the hordes on the school run, before turning south once more along an intricate series of earthen lanes. Despite the rain having temporarily stopped we were forced to walk in over-trousers simply because of the narrowness of the tracks and the rampant soaking vegetation which flanked them. The GR climbed a low hill with excellent views across the Sarthe valley then swept down again to cross the river at the next village to the south, La Guierche. Another threat of rain soon tempted us to sample just one more coffee at the village café, consumed whilst gloomily peering through condensation out at the unprepossessing view. For the third and final time on the walk we had crossed to the east bank of the Sarthe where we finally resumed our southward course grateful for a respite in the rain as we followed open farm tracks, peppered with daisies on a ridge of high ground paralleling both the river and the main railway line between Alençon and Le Mans. The next 13 kilometres were not going to very appealing as the guide indicated a long loop around a big meander in the river, largely on minor roads. The only respite was the prospect of lunch at Neuville-sur-Sarthe to encourage us. Confident in the book I announced a right turn 100 metres ahead of a junction to be dismayed by a way mark indicating a very definite left turn. Much scratching of heads later we came to the conclusion that a considerable chunk of the route, almost 8 kilometres, had been severed. Careful consultation of the guide, helpfully dissected over three non-adjacent pages, showed that a mere kilometre up the hill to our left we would intersect with the original afternoon’s route. Spirits lifted by this apparent bonus were soon dashed as we realised that all prospect of lunch had now disappeared along with the loop and were shattered as the spite of the weather was finally unleashed with a terrific downpour which caught us in the most exposed part of the climb. So heavy was the shower that we were forced into the imperfect shelter of an ancient stag-oak whilst we were thoroughly sluiced down. Even the prospect of 8 kilometres to go at 11.30 a.m. instead of the budgeted 16 didn’t lift our chins, as we finally slopped off into a lighter but steady deluge. Further re-routing of the path prevented us sinking into our cagoules and pacing off the remaining distance. Our increasingly limp and bedraggled topo-guide and 1:100,000 map were testament to many a hasty conference as yet again the route defied the printed path. I’m sure that the landscape, given a better day, would have proven quite pleasant, but on an afternoon which would not have normally dragged me from my fireside, it passed largely unnoticed. My recollection is of a series of lanes and woodland paths full of evilly deep puddles and aggressive soggy brambles, I’m sure it’s really rather nice when the sun shines. With little to detain us we soon reached the end of our route for the day, Savigny l’Évêque was a good two kilometres east of the GR route but had been essential as the only potential accommodation for a great distance in either direction. To rub salt into our gaping depression, the rain stopped as we reached the main road and while the relief was tangible it didn’t stop us diving into the Hotel Floreal with some glee. Despite our early arrival the hotel made two soggy walkers very welcome. An hour later, we emerged bathed and dried from a room decorated with wet clothes dangling from every conceivable hanging point. The Floreal proved to be a real haven and a couple of beers soon revived our flagging morale. Later after an excellent dinner and in the glow of a large Calvados, we soon consigned the day to history. back to top Day Fourteen - Savigny L’Évêque to Le Mans. 22 kilometres. It was a relief to see a dry day. Though still overcast and windy we could start without our waterproofs. Our “prayer-flag” clothing decorations had worked and even the map and topo-guide had recovered a little from the drenching although the IGN map would never fold properly again! The walk back to the GR seemed like half the distance and time it had been the previous day and soon we were heading south-westerly through a series of hamlets dotted across a lightly wooded slope. The peace was quickly shattered, however, by a swathe cut for the autoroute from Paris to Le Mans, which was just as insensitively landscaped as that at Twyford Down. The autoroute, being newer than our topo-guide, also created yet another route diversion, on this occasion only minor. As we crossed the low hills to the east of Le Mans, the weather began to steadily improve, the wind fell away and eventually a fitful sun was finding sufficient holes in the cloud cover to raise the temperature and our spirits. We had planned for a short morning and by 11.00 we had finished the morning’s minor ups and downs and had descended the few metres into the valley of the river Huisne. This tributary of the Sarthe drains westwards to a confluence in the centre of Le Mans. A final loop up to and around a small wood and the path gratefully joined the riverside. The stream was limpid, lined with ancient drooping willows and bordered by wide damp water-meadows rather like Grantchester in Cambridge. A pleasant amble brought us to the small market town of Yvré-l’Evêque, very much a dormitory for Le Mans, now only eight kilometres to the west. Here we took a well-earned break by touring the market, visiting the local café and purchasing a tasty lunch from the patisserie. The view back across the meadows to the elegant gothic spire of Yvré’s 13th century church against a Constable-like tumbling sky, ducks quacking at our feet pestering for a peck of pizza, made a perfect back-drop for a pleasant picnic lunch. Over lunch we surveyed the route to come and from the description it sounded very straight-forward. A quick dash across the TGV line, a meander through a forest then a broad drove road across sandy heaths to the southern outskirts of Le Mans, right by the circuit for the 24 hour race—nothing could be simpler. Our plans were, however, to be totally destroyed. The first stages were as simple as suggested, the TGV was crossed by a tunnel and a light interlude followed as we rounded the grounds of a small chateau called Des Arches, a lovely white painted elegant little mansion set in grounds thick with flowering rhododendron. We left the minor road where it bore left and entered the darkness of yet another conifer plantation. I cheerfully announced a right turn when we emerged back into sunlight to be greeted with indications to go straight on. Here we go again, I thought, some minor re-routing. The sound of a nearby main road, missing from our maps, suggested that a new bypass had been constructed to the south of Le Mans and this could have resulted in some local re-routing. We set off, following our official policy, keeping strictly to the waymarks. However, minor consternation became major concern after 10 minutes when we came to a left turn in the waymarking. We were now a kilometre and a half south of the “simple drove road” and heading east rather than south-west, clearly this was going to be much more than a simple re-route. The GR crossed a wide dual-carriageway road and headed out of the forest to a minor road. This was followed, still south-easterly, to a cross-roads. I confidently expected to turn right towards a small village, Changé, where there was clear access back to the original route, but the route carried straight on towards the south-east. A hasty map reading conference could come up with no easy way back to Le Mans without a long diversion should we follow the waymarked route. Since we had accommodation booked along the original route, we had no alternative but to attempt to rejoin this as quickly as possible, and to follow it to Le Tertre Rouge and our hotel. We hoped that the diversion would rejoin us somewhere along the way and that there would be no obstacle preventing completion of the original route. With a heavy heart we turned away from the waymarks and headed up the hill to Changé and then back north from the village to where the drove-road crossed the Changé-Le Mans road. Here we found the original route, but the waymarks had been burnt off the trees or painted over. However, the path proved perfectly walkable and indeed in places was clearly used as part of local circular waymarked routes. With the loss of our GR it was difficult to enjoy what had become a pleasant afternoon. We were ever alert to the route rejoining but all clear waymarks proved simply to have been missed by the wipe-out team. The uncertainty also added to our speed and we paced off the kilometres very quickly to arrive at the end of our route. Here the first topo-guide, which we had carried and followed from Ouistreham finished and we had a small ceremony to thank it for its efforts. We headed a short half kilometre towards Le Mans on the main road and there was the clean modern lines of our hotel the Green Seven. Named and themed by the racing cars of the Le Mans 24 Hour’s race, each room was full of artistic pictures of racing cars, careering around the circuit. We quickly dumped our packs and raced to the nearby bus-stop heading for the town centre and the tourist office. We needed to know what to do about our loss of route. The tourist office was of little help, the bookshops only carried the same books and maps that we already had. Eventually we found the 1997 edition of the overall Randonnée map of France. From this map we were able to discern that the route was now taken way to the east of Le Mans and we would not have reached our accommodation had we stayed with the GR. We returned to the hotel with heavy hearts. Two sombre folk mused over plans and options at the only restaurant open near to our motel, an American style diner offering burgers, ribs and chicken char-grilled. Two clear plans emerged, to go back to Changé in the morning and follow the waymarks for an indeterminate distance until they re-joined the book route, hopefully before our next night’s accommodation, or to try to follow the book route even though it had been superseded. Much debate took place about whether the latter option could be said to have entirely followed GR routes from Channel to Mediterranean. Against this was the uncertainty over route directions and distance or even whether we would be close to the accommodation at the end of the day were we to rejoin the modified GR. Eventually we settled on the book route, prudence taking precedence over precision. back to top Day Fifteen - Le Mans to Marigné-Laillé. 31 kilometres. A brisk cold wind was amusing itself by re-organising the litter from the weekend’s motor racing, occasionally rattling the steel shutters on the grandstands and easing its way between our fleeces to produce the odd shiver. The former route of the GR 36 started by crossing through the interior of the 24 hour circuit, redolent with names from motor racing past—Tertre Rouge, Mulsanne, Arnage etc. The camp site at Houx, a riot of tents and funfairs during race day, was empty and desolate with few cars or people abroad. We had the distinct feeling that we shouldn’t have been there, although numerous Le Mans’ learner-drivers were out practising their skills on the deserted roads. Our route soon met with a problem as there had been a private industrial site built since the GR was diverted, but a new road around served to take us beyond the blockage. With the drone of karts practising on the club track ringing in our ears we gratefully rejoined the former route where it left the D92 and headed off into the forest which fills the southern half of the circuit. Despite the chill, numerous joggers and dog walkers kept us company during the next kilometre but these were left behind too as we crossed the crash barriers of the southern perimeter of the track and headed out into the countryside. We were pleased to see the route of the former GR was preserved as a Petit Randonnée with waymarks confidently heading our way. The morning’s route led initially through a large tract of state forest, broad sandy rides and tracks giving pleasant walking and shelter from the chill north-westerly wind. Later the route emerged into a more arable scene as we followed field edge tracks and lanes through an intensively farmed region. Despite the prairiefied nature of the landscape there were still little pleasant spots, a mini-bridge set deep in a copse or a pleasant bank of wildflowers rampant with campion. The route was not scheduled to pass through many villages and with an early start and easy walking we soon arrived at our planned lunch stop. As the bar-restaurant had yet to open we adopted yet another patisserie and indulged ourselves on fruit tarts and Pain au Chocolat. Once more the neighbourhood bus shelter served its purpose. The morning’s route had broadly paralleled the main road from Le Mans to Tours. After lunch a long road section took us east for a couple of kilometres as we crossed this road and headed towards the northward-facing escarpment which had been looming closer during the morning. Sadly we encountered several obstructions to the original route as former paths were now reclaimed by landowners and firmly marked "Privé." Finding road-based deviations past these obstacles was wearisome and took a toll on the morale. The low-point of the day was reached during the crossing of a broad field on an un-hedged track, the wind finally deposited a vicious horizontal shower. Too sudden for waterproofs to be donned, we battled on to reach the shelter of the wooded scarp soaked on our right-hand sides, the line demarking wet & dry forming a perfect vertical from head to foot. Soaked and despondent we plodded up the first serious slope in four days oblivious to the view back across the Sarthe plain behind us. Grateful for the passing of the rain we found ourselves back in state forest on the summit of the scarp. The former route appeared easier to find over this terrain as the old waymarks were simply scratched off the pines. However, at a cross-roads deep in the dark pine there were suddenly fresh painted red & white markers to our right - and to the left. After a gap of 30 kilometres we had re-joined the diverted GR, a small ceremony to mark the event was staged! The rest of the afternoon was taken in a more relaxed mood as we had our faithful markers to remind us of the route and keep the constant poring over the map to a minimum. As if to help elevate the mood we were treated to a stunning display by a splendid pair of Honey Buzzards, passing prey from talon to talon above a clearing. The long day was starting to tire us as we strode down the final hill into Marigné-Laillé. We still had to locate our accommodation, a first for the walk—a chambres d’hôte. Fortunately the village was blessed with a small bar and directions were supplied whilst a very welcome beer helped to ease a little of the effort from our limbs. The kilometre walk out to the B & B seemed like ten times that distance but eventually we reached our first experience of French B & B. Our lodging was at an immense private house set in beautiful grounds and run by father and son. Despite our muddy dishevelled state we were made extremely welcome, not least by the large resident collie. Papa seemed incredulous about what we were doing and couldn’t get to grips with the idea of walking for pleasure. His home, however, provided an excellent end to a fraught day. back to top Day Sixteen - Marigné-Laillé to Mayet. 14 Kilometres. Our last morning burst through the curtains with a rare glimpse of sunshine. Overnight heavy rain had polished the countryside to its truest colours and puffy cumulus promised at least a dry morning. A sumptuous breakfast, presided over by an attentive host (and collie-dog) set us up for the day. We had to fend off suggestions of being ferried to our train as the B & B owner once more failed to grasp the idea of walking for pleasure. Marigné-Laillé is set in a bowl within a 2 kilometre wide clearing in the forest, a stiff morning climb soon had limbs protesting before we reached a plateau where the GR resumed its previous south-easterly heading. Within the hour we had reached deep into coniferous woodland and were splashing through the puddles left in a broad forestry access track. Luckily the woodland was interspersed with groves of deciduous forest, largely birches and beech, which housed a more diverse wildlife. We were soon seeking the source of elegant glissading trills, elusive Wood Warblers, which graced these sunny patches. A complicated meandering route took us gradually south-east and south until, using a deeply sunk forest path, we emerged at a broad picnic site surrounding the spring of Clos des Forges. Deserted in the early morning sunshine, this was obviously a well used site for weekend expeditions and it was difficult to pick up the exact route of the GR from the myriad paths trending off in every direction. A careful scout around was needed to locate the red & white markers before we headed off, now south-westerly, towards a prominent 5-way cross-roads set deep in the forest. On arrival at this cross-roads all navigation ceased for an hour as we picked up yet another broad straight forestry track which headed due south to meet up once more with the main Le Mans - Tours road. After a brief flurry of activity as we crossed this road we were soon headed off down a narrow winding lane which descended steeply to the banks of a small stream, from here a delightful path through chestnut woods paralleled the stream for the next 2 kilometres. Squirrels kept up a constant stream of abuse and the local Jays and magpies were soon pursuing us through the treetops. Our last few minutes through the woodland saw us heading determinedly west towards Mayet. The trees gradually thinned to open out to heathland, where a narrow inconspicuous path meandered across bracken-covered slopes. Care was needed to stay on the correct route as sheep-walks criss-crossed the hillside. Eventually the path plunged into a final strip of woodland before emerging onto a broad slope covered in orchards. The church spire of Mayet was visible long before we got there as we descended through a mass of blossom, largely plum and pear, to the village. Mayet is served by just three trains a day, but fortunately we were able to do some research and knew we had a bit of time to spare before the 13:30. Time to wander through the village to the main-square and enjoy a last meal of crusty bread and ham over a glass of beer before we joined the two-coach rattler back to Le Mans. Sad but satisfied we eased back into the public transport network and were whisked from the small market town back home. Our second expedition, largely through Sarthe, had seemingly moved us very little distance across the map, but a check revealed we had covered 194 kilometres to add to the 205 from our first hike. 399 kilometres down we were almost 25% of the way there. We were disappointed at the extensive re-routing of the path and the necessity to follow the older route caused by relying on the information available in the U.K. but we felt the spirit of the journey had not been broken by the changes and we would be back to continue in the following year. Days One to Eight - Caen to Saint-Denis sur Sarthon on the GR 36, 205 kilometers or 127 miles Days Seventeen to Tenty-four - Mayet to Montbazon on the GRs 36, 3 and 46; 223 kilometers or 140 miles Days Twenty-five to Thirty-one - Montbazon to la Châtre, on the GR 46, 167 kilometers or 105 miles e-mail your questions and comments to walk@franceonfoot.com back to top SITE CONTENTS * LINKS * ARCHIVE * UPDATES MAIN PAGE * HOME |
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The best, the most exquisite automobile is the walking stick; and one of the finest things in life is going a journey with it.
 – Robert Cortes Holiday, The Walking Stick Papers |