From 14 to 24 August, Jan Vandermeeren was away. Central France, somewhere between Boussac and Montluçon. He took the camper van, two bikes and a Kobo, and headed out alone. He came back with 211 photos and three rides on Strava. I sat down with him and asked how it went.
You left on 14 August. What did that departure look like?
I set off at half past six. Early enough. That way you beat the traffic and by midday you're already sitting at a table somewhere in France.
I stopped on the way for a club sandwich from one of those plastic boxes and an Orangina. Pure nostalgia for me, and honestly a guilty pleasure. I'd never eat that at home. On a French motorway service area it suddenly tastes great.
Where did you end up?
In the area around Boussac, in the Creuse. That's central France, bordering the Berry and the Bourbonnais. Few people, lots of forest and endless small roads. The landscape is a bit like the Ardennes, but on a larger scale. You can ride for kilometres without passing a single car. I stayed there with the camper van on a campsite, under the trees, with the awning out and a string of lights hanging from it. The same spot every evening, a different light every morning.
You went alone. Why?
To find some quiet, simple as that. In the shop I'm dealing with people all day long. Someone walks in while you're already with someone else, the phone rings, and that goes on until you close up. I enjoy it, otherwise I wouldn't do it. But there comes a point when your head is full.
So I went alone. There were days when I didn't say a word to anyone apart from bonjour to the baker. That's not a problem. After a few days you notice you stop going over things in your head.
And that part of France helps with that. The squares are empty, the church is locked, nobody gives you a second glance. At first you find that strange. After three days you go looking for it.
What did a typical day look like?
Simple. I got up, made an espresso, toasted some bread on the campsite and had a soft-boiled egg with a little salt from the grinder. Then I sat there at that folding table with my Kobo beside me. No rush.
And then I decided whether to go for a ride or not. That was the only decision of the day. I had days where I just stayed put and read, with my feet dangling in the swimming pool. Philip Kerr, and a book on leadership I'd been meaning to finish for a while.
Which bike did you bring?
The i:SY P12 Speed. For me it's the ideal bike for long rides on holiday, especially with a second battery along. The spare battery doesn't go on the bike, it goes in the bag. On a full charge I get about 54 kilometres, and that includes a fair amount of climbing. So for the longer rides the reserve always came with me. I usually describe it as a motorbike replacement. Same feel as heading out on a motorbike: you leave in the morning, you ride a loop, you stop wherever you feel like it, you come back in the evening. Only simpler. I do wear a helmet, but just a regular cycling helmet, not a heavy lid. No petrol, no noise. You can hear where you're riding.
There was a second bike on the rack.
My road bike. It stayed on there for eleven days. I never took it off, simply because riding the P12 was so much fun. I hadn't seen that coming. I thought: one for the sporty days, the other for the easy ones. But once you can do a hundred-kilometre loop with bags, bread and water on board, there's no reason to take anything else.
The first ride was on 17 August, "Boussac and surroundings". 74.8 kilometres and 1,058 metres of climbing, in 4 hours 55.
That was the reconnaissance ride. I didn't know yet what the area had to offer, so I took my time. Hence the nearly five hours: lots of stops, lots of looking around. The castle at Boussac, a few village squares where there was genuinely nobody about, a construction site by the river. That's the pleasure of a first day: you don't have to reach anywhere.
I stop at pretty much every village church and try to get inside. Often the door is locked, but when it isn't you find yourself standing there alone in the cool. You expect a grey box and then inside it's suddenly full of colour.
What struck me: those 1,058 metres of climbing don't feel like climbing. It's rolling terrain. You go up and down all day without ever seeing a proper col. By the end you've still got more than a thousand metres in your legs.
Two days later, La Châtre. 84.5 kilometres, 1,143 metres of climbing, but in 3 hours 10. Much faster.
Because by then I knew where I was going. You stop less when the area holds no more surprises. I was up and out early that day, quarter past six in the morning. That's also the best time to ride: cool, empty, and the sun still low over the fields. That morning I rode for an hour before I passed anyone.
At the end of that ride my display showed 89.5 kilometres, 969 metres of climbing and 14 kilometres of range left. That's cutting it fairly fine, even with the second battery. You do have to think about how you spread those kilometres.
And then the big one: 21 August, Montluçon. 100.7 kilometres, 1,437 metres of climbing, 3 hours 57. The Strava title is: "Montlucon. And back. And had a bite to eat. And went for a little walk."
That title sums it up. It was a day when everything fell into place. A hundred kilometres there and back, and in between I ate on a terrace in Montluçon and wandered into the old town. There's a spot up there where you look out over all the rooftops, red tiles everywhere. Lovely.
On the way I also crossed an old bridge, one of those long ones with red ironwork on both sides. And there was a shower on the horizon that looked more threatening than it turned out to be. I took a photo of it and rode straight through.
Together that's 260 kilometres and 3,638 metres of climbing. I rode every other day: one ride, then a day reading and doing nothing. That's why it doesn't feel like a lot. And with assistance it's simply a long day outside. It's not about the numbers. What stays with you is that you see that part of France differently than from a car. You hear the dogs barking in the villages, you can smell when someone is mowing, you stop at a flower by the roadside because it looks beautiful.
In almost every photo there's a yellow duck on your saddle.
That's our i:SY rider. He's been part of our social media for a while now, so he came along to France too. From Hoboken to Montluçon and back, always in the same spot. When you're alone for eleven days, that counts as company.
Tell us about the food.
At lunchtime I usually went somewhere to eat. For twenty euros you get a three-course menu there, with coffee and a glass of wine. Wonderful.
In the evenings it was simple. Crisps and a glass of rosé under the awning. Cassoulet from a tin heated up in the pan, with a chunk of bread and a glass of crémant alongside, and that tastes better there than it sounds. Once a pastis with crisps while I leafed through a local property magazine. On a terrace I had a coffee with a galette a couple of times, and a pint after a ride.
And salad. I ate a lot of salad there, with sardines, some cheese, and bread with tomato. That's camper van cooking: you make something from what you have, and with good sardines and fresh bread you really don't need anything more. When you're alone you don't have to cook for anyone else, so you just make whatever you feel like.
And the evenings?
That's where most of the peace was. I'd strung up a hammock and hung a string of lights under the awning. You lie there with your feet up, it gets dark between the trees, and nothing happens. Eleven days of not having to do anything. I needed that.
Was the weather always good?
No, and that's fine. There were brilliant days with a deep blue sky, but also a morning when it was 16.5 degrees inside the camper van and I was glad of a warm jumper. And that shower on the ride to Montluçon. Mixed weather is actually more pleasant than ten straight days of sun.
You got back on 24 August. How was that?
Slow. A bit of traffic on the périphérique around Paris, and there you are in your camper van queuing and thinking about those empty roads from three days earlier. And then further home the Kennedy Tunnel, obviously, because that one's always backed up. But then the signs come: Brussels, Liège, Breda, Antwerp-Centre. Then you're home.
What do you bring back to the shop?
The fact that the bike just did it. Three solid rides, sandy tracks, climbs, full bags, and not a single problem. If someone here asks whether a bike like that can really handle a holiday, I don't have to guess any more. And my road bike sat unused on the rack for eleven days. That says enough.
I also set off every day without a plan, and by evening I'd still had a day worth having. You don't need France for that. An afternoon heading towards the Schelde does pretty much the same thing, just shorter.
Do you want to share your story too? Let us know in the shop or at winkel@xtr-shop.be.