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A 12-Speed Perspective on the Playground of Kings
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13455 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
9 / 1987 |
2,167 Words |
| Author
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Judy Wade
Judy Wade reports on adventure travel for Shape, Braniff
Destinations, and Caribbean Travel and Life, and is the
touring editor of Cyclist magazine. She packs and unpacks in
Van Nuys, California. |
"Please keep bikes out of the moat."
I reread my route slip to make sure I understood it correctly. I'd just covered forty-seven kilometers on a 12-speed Bertin and I was approaching the Chateau des Reaux where our group of twenty-four cyclists would spend the next two nights. The Chateau's fourteenth-century turrets were reflected, alongside the image of my bike, in what was indeed a moat.
Cycling and self-indulgence - two seemingly mutually exclusive activities - are combined in the Butterfield & Robinson tour of the legendary Loire Valley. The Toronto-based company has perfected the art of the luxury bicycle tour. The notion of Spartan austerity doesn't hold any Perrier here. Days are stressless stretches of amiable cycling. Evenings, while not grand enough to warrant lengths of lame, definitely require one to dress.
This particular trip holds additional fascination because it offers ample opportunity for a wallow in spicy historical tidbits. After all, this was the place where French kings brought their mistresses for a bit of unfettered frolicking. And the fascinating French seem to have no inclination to sweep the dirt under the rug. Along with the historical hearsay, I wanted to sample the best of the famed Loire wines. The valley's flat terrain appealed to my non-competitive cycling sensibilities.
Our group of grubby cyclists was welcomed at Chateau des Reaux by its mistress, Mme. de Bouilles, whose charm and enthusiasm made up for her less-than-perfect English. Florence, as she unpretentiously introduced herself, bubbled with good-natured authority as she and her husband, Jean-Luc, assigned us to our rooms. We were the chateau's only guests. Dinner would be served at eight. Until then we were invited to stroll the grounds, help ourselves from the bar, or relax in our rooms.
An elegant dinner was served at two large oval tables, with Florence presiding over one and Jean-Luc the other. Florence had somehow managed to devise a seating plan so that everyone, English-speaking or not, had someone to talk to. She'd placed me at her husband's right, in the hope that my limited French and Jean-Luc's fledgling English would merge into some sort of compatible communication. Happily, we formulated a kind of Franglais that allowed us to chat about cycling and about the restoration of the chateau, which has been in Florence's family for more than a century. We did get into a bit of a bind, however, as I tried to
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