Along the Orne River

On more than one occasion I have waxed semi-poetic about the joys of slow, backroads travel. Rushing from one place to the next only to stand in line to see what everyone else wants to see seldom has any appeal for me.

There are times that my wandering preference has bitten me on the backside, like on a motorcycle trip six years ago when I wound up in the middle of nowhere on the Wyoming-Colorado border with no cell signal and no way of knowing if the dirt road I had been following actually led somewhere.

The vast majority of times, however, my fondness for picking a place on the map to see what’s there has paid off. I’ve come across places that will never be listed in any popular guidebook and, more times than not, enjoyed a conversation or two along the way.

That was the case this past week when I loaded up R2 for a day trip to Thury-Harcourt, a two-hour bicycle ride along the Orne River from Caen.

By car, one can easily reach Thury-Harcourt in about a half hour. But thanks to France’s well-thought-out system of trails, saving an hour and a half would come at the expense of a quiet roll through forests and farmland, passing through picturesque villages that give the passage of time an indifferent shrug.

The leg from Caen to Thury-Harcourt is part of a larger 370-mile route, La Vélo Francette, that connects the English Channel at Ouistreham with the Atlantic Coast at La Rochelle, a trip that I’m hoping to take later this year when I have the lungs and legs to handle 11 days on a bicycle packed with camping gear.

After leaving Caen, the route to Thury-Harcourt follows a converted railroad line, passing under several brick bridges now overgrown with vines. I wasn’t the only one who felt the pull of a cloudless springlike day that afternoon, as the trail is popular with joggers, bicyclists, and walkers. To my surprise, I was in the minority of people when it came to wearing earphones. As much as I enjoy my playlists, there’s not a song I know of that can compare to a symphony of chatty birds against a backdrop of water flowing over rocks. It’s a soundtrack I’ll never find boring.

Further away from the city, it’s easy to convince yourself you’re out in the middle of nowhere, a remote landscape where the blossoms on fruit trees welcome the change of seasons. Nearing each village, benches and picnic tables provide the weary pedaler with places to stop, enjoy the sun’s warmth, and listen to the water.

Nearing Thury-Harcourt, the trail enters a tunnel where a sign asks travelers to please be quiet and not frighten the sleeping bats. The nocturnal fliers must have found a different tunnel for their day’s sleep, however, since I didn’t spot a single one.

Leaving the tunnel, the trail enters Thury-Harcourt’s old train yard. The tracks are gone, replaced by well-manicured grass, and the former train depot is now a gift shop and tourist information center.

The woman running the gift shop that afternoon offered to speak English with me, something that happens with less frequency as my French is gradually becoming more understandable. I asked how she learned English and was treated to a short tale of her year of slow, backroad travels in Australia.

Outside, a man about my age was locking his bicycle. My pronunciation of bonjour would not make me eligible for spycraft, and the man immediately knew I’m American. He unfolded his neck gaiter to reveal a pattern of stars and stripes, excitedly telling me that he considers himself to be more American than French and can see himself spending every day on the back of a horse, riding the open spaces of the West while wearing his favorite cowboy hat.

We wished each other a pleasant ride before I continued to Thury-Harcourt’s most popular site, the 17^th-century Château d'Harcourt. Once described as the Versailles of Normandy, the estate was destroyed near the end of World War II when a retreating German Panzer division set the castle on fire to create a smoke screen. Today, the château’s façade, along with two guard towers and a restored chapel hint at the estate’s pre-war grandeur.

On the ride back home, I smiled thinking of how gleeful the woman was talking about her travels through Australia and how animated the man was as he shared his dream of days on the back of a horse. If there’s one thing that unites our species, it’s the dream of living a different life somewhere else. Once again, I was reminded that four hours on a quiet river trail feed the senses more than the fastest route every time.