Midi life crisis: Cycling the Canal du Midi

I was in France last week, cycling the Canal du Midi (picture).

The 240km long engineering marvel, linking Toulouse with Beziers via Carcassonne (and hence, with other watercourses, the Atlantic and the Med) offers a flat, traffic-free cyclable route through the south of France. What's not to like?

Well, er, quite a lot, actually. The 40km east out of Toulouse is superbly surfaced, and skatable-smooth. But the scenery is as dull as yesterday's croissants, and you don't go through any towns or villages. It's plain boring.

About the only noteworthy sight is this car sculpture in a farmyard near Gardouch (picture), which may be a comment on French driving.

Once the tarmac finishes, you're into the canalside lottery familiar to English towpath riders: a mishmash of smooth gravel, bumpy gravel and muddy, lavishly-puddled paths (picture).

Fine on a mountain bike, but what's the point of a mountain bike without mountains? I did it on a shopping bike, because at least there were some shops. And the front basket was big enough for a baguette, bottle of red and slab of pate.

Carcassonne, with its magnificent medieval walled town, is a highlight. You can cycle to it across the traffic-free old bridge (picture).

Its old town is magnificent, though some aspects, such as the towers' pointy roofs and the cycle parking by the entrance, are evidently inauthentic.

The Canal du Midi is, in sum, a bit dull; for me, exploring France by backroads is much more interesting.

But Toulouse itself is of interest to the real cyclist. It has a bike hire scheme (picture) along the same lines as that in London or Paris.

You wouldn't call it a Cycling City - it's not Cambridge, but then, where is? Oxford, perhaps - though Toulouse has a steady trickle of everyday cyclists (picture).

The flatness helps, but so does the permeability. In the centre, it seems every street, even if one-way for cars, is two-way for cyclists.

Often these lanes are startlingly narrow, but I had no problem with the salmon-thing, cycling against oncoming traffic (picture).

Indeed, French drivers seemed on this trip very good at overtaking me with plenty of space on rural roads, and driving safely and steadily on cramped city streets such as this (picture). I wish English cities were as flexible with bike contraflows.

Perhaps that farmyard sculpture in Gardouch isn't a comment on French driving after all.

Lost and found: Home Counties wilderness by bike

Lost Lanes – published today (see sample, or buy it online now) – is a fab cycling book by Jack Thurston, of Bike Show renown.

It’s a sort of routes-guidebook, describing 36 Home Counties rides; but it captures the real essence of cycle-exploring far better than the average cobbled-together routebook clone you see bookended in Waterstone’s.

Real cycling, as Jack knows, is not about cycling; it’s about what else it enables you to do. Those of a cake-stop or pub-destination mindset will know exactly what I mean.

And, indeed, the book’s routes – from marked ones such as the Crab and Winkle way to bespoke back-lane delights – are rated for, say, pub and good-food opportunities en route. But they also reveal the sort of mildly bohemian adventure you don’t usually associate with the posh South East: wild camping, wild swimming.

It’s possible to see wildlife in London, of course, though this is usually the sort that throws stones at you on the Walworth Road. Lost Lanes gives you a genuine taste of wilderness, a more metaphorical stone’s throw from the capital.

These routes don't require helmets, lycra longs, or a 4x4 with a bike rack (train access is listed for every route): only a sense of adventure. And, perhaps, a picnic, your trunks and tent. And your iPhone, to make your Facebook friends insanely jealous of your carefree, vibrant lifestyle.

So get this book and set out on your bike the next warm sunny day. Er, when the warm sunny days actually do arrive. Clearly, the photoshoots for the lovely images in the book must have been done on last year’s one rain-free weekend...

Aye, what a Grand Depart: 2014 Tour de France comes to York

On Sunday 6 July 2014, Day 2 of the Tour de France will start here in York.

This is astonishing and fantastic news. It means that, for once, bikes will have priority through the centre of town, unencumbered by vans delivering flatpack wardrobes to Argos, cars displaying disabled badges whose occupants miraculously walk unaided to Barnitts, and tourists stepping out backwards in front of you as they try to get the Minster frontage on their iPhone.

The press launch of Yorkshire's Grand Depart for 2014 - aye, grand indeed - was in Leeds Town Hall, last night (picture).

We learned brief details of the route: that Day 1 (good for sprinters, picture) will go from Leeds to Harrogate, and Day 2 (good for attackers) from York to Sheffield.

Perhaps wary of the links between drugs and past, now-forgotten, Tour winners, the launch involved no performance-enhancing chemicals. There wasn't a free glass of wine or canape to be had.

Well, this is Yorkshire. If you want a drink and a snack, there's a Wetherspoon round the corner, you know. We're here to work.

But it was still packed out, with standing room only (picture). When Welcome to Yorkshire announced they were bidding for the Tour it was something of a joke. Now it's happened.

To paraphrase Bob Monkhouse, when I told people I wanted to be a comic writer, everybody laughed. They're not laughing now.

If you'd said to me 20 years ago that in future people will pick up dog poo in plastic bags, pubs will be smoke-free, and people will show you videos of their cat on a mobile phone, I'd have just about believed you. Even, maybe, that we'd have a British Tour de France winner.

But the Tour de France itself going almost past my front door (picture)? No way.

Indeed there won't be a way. It'll be too crowded, especially as all my friends and relatives are now angling to come and stay.

Now, at least, we can enjoy the 2014 Tour in the same way as the French: stood in a bar, half-watching it on telly, complaining about the crowds, and moaning that today's cyclists are not a patch on the old guys.

The launch party finished outside, in the swirling snow, with flaming-jugglers and fireworks (picture).

Obviously I had to Facebook my snaps, and had to find a wifi opportunity. Luckily there was a Wetherspoon round the corner.

I've also blogged this morning about the Tour de France coming to York on the excellent York Mix website.

One way to avoid punctures: Ski-bikes in Germany

We've just got back from southern Germany, where it was too snowy and icy to cycle.

The Bavarians, though, see such weather as an opportunity rather than a threat. This was what we saw on the local BOB train out of Schliersee. Each carriage here has space for twelve bikes, and about as many snowboards or sets of skis.

Does this count as skis or a bike (picture)? Not sure, but it certainly isn't a wheelchair.

IJ spy: In Amsterdam, even the Erotic Museum involves bikes...

I've just got back from a few days in Amsterdam. Everyone cycles here of course, except stag-party Brits, so I took a bike (picture) to ensure I wasn't mistaken for one of them. It worked: the prostitutes ignored me.

Also, when I bumped into another cyclist, momentarily forgetting which side of the cycle path I should be on, he swore and threatened to kill me in Dutch. I was delighted, as I had been taken for a local.

Anyway, I took my folder, taking advantage of a five-quid Megabus each way - thus ticking two boxes much approved of by our Netherlands chums: 'bike use', and 'economy'.

It was snowy, blustery and cold, but Amsterdam's streets were still thronged with bikes. So were the pavements (picture), littered by fallen machines whose kickstands failed. Most parking is not Sheffield stands or racks, it's just a painted square of pavement where you stand and self-lock your town clunker.

The preferred luggage carrying option is the black plastic crate (picture). Wicker baskets are rare. Perhaps they've smoked them all.

Some baskets make a statement. My favourite was this beer crate (picture), though I'd have preferred Amstel, as that's the other river Amsterdam is on, apart from the IJ. Much English keg beer also celebrates a well-known river, the Piddle in Dorset.

Thanks to the amount of people on two wheels, cycling feels a normal and safe thing to do. High-visibility clothing is evidently unnecessary, and few people bother with lights. The only red lights I saw were in those prostitute booths I cycled past unacknowledged. In fact, most riders seemed to be listening to their iPod, texting, web surfing etc, with little negative impact on safety.

Many even walk their dog (picture). Some American viewers may be surprised to see that the dog is not wearing a helmet.

The bakfiets is a common way of transporting children around, such as this group in Albert Cuyp market (picture). The box is so big, it can accommodate two children, or one cheese.

Of course, I cycled gleefully round to some of the city's must-sees: cosy Jordaan cafes, snowy Vondelpark, quirky canalsides, the Rijksmuseum's Rembrandts, the Hermitage's van Goghs, the newly extended Stedelijk. Anyone who thinks the Stedelijk's art collection is a load of old rubbish is quite wrong. It's all modern.

I didn't actually go into the Erotic Museum, but I was intrigued by the blowup doll riding a bike in the foyer (picture). The sign clearly states Dutch priorities: DON'T TOUCH THE BIKE. If we want a cycling culture in the UK, this is the sort of thing we have to emulate. I can see council groups excitedly lining up factfinding trips now.

Trust me, I'm a cyclist: Honesty boxes on Route 65

Cyclists are honest people. I certainly am. Like when that Addison Lee cab cut me up in London last Saturday. I told him honestly what I thought of him. And I sincerely meant every word.

Further proof of cyclists' integrity came today, when I was cycling past Naburn Station (picture), now a cafe/B&B sort of place on the railtrail south of York that is Route 65. (I blogged last year about the entertaining sculptures on the bridge just up from here.)

Because there's a 'Trust Hut' (picture), permanently open for passers-by on bikes (and walking dogs) to help themselves to coffee and tea, paying in an honesty box (actually a tube).

My honesty wasn't tested in the event, as Patrick and then the owner Ann came out to chat, telling me lots of interesting stuff about the place.

(Like the fact that, in addition to the scale model of Saturn there that's part of the Planets Trail, there's also a one-third scale model of the Cassini Space Probe that's currently investigating Saturn. I'd mistakenly thought it was a rather fussy satellite dish.)

It's not the only Trust Hut on Route 65. In Blacktoft, a small village on the banks of the Ouse a few miles west of Hull, there's a church hall (picture; see Google map) that's also open for help-yourself tea and coffee with an honesty box, plus a small book stall.

Cycle rides that go through farming areas offer you plenty of produce - usually eggs, often vegetables - laid out on a table with a dish for your change. This rhubarb (picture) was just outside Ambleside. At first I thought no, but then I thought, it's rhubarb: force yourself.

The most lavish honesty stall I've ever seen was on the Wainwright Coast to Coast in the village of Brompton on Swale (picture), which had a range of cold drinks and sandwiches, so maybe walkers are even more honest than cyclists. Or perhaps they just can't get away as fast.

Anyway, honesty boxes are a good thing, and a sign of a decent society. I bet that Addison Lee driver would like them, too. He'd take all the rhubarb, sod off without paying, and swear blind to his employers that it was the cyclist's fault.

Naked in Marrakech: Orange juice and wine in tandem

I was in Marrakech the other week. Its central square, Djemaa el Fna (picture), is a good example of a naked street, in much the same way as London's Exhibition Road isn't.

There are no road markings at all, just a wide expanse of pavement. Bikes, horses, mopeds, taxis, buses and cars mingle with sidestepping pedestrians. I was there a week and saw nobody coming to grief, except for some tourists being royally ripped off by the snake charmers.

The narrow cobbled side-streets that curl off the square into souks (picture), so intimate they defeat Google Maps as well as most visitors, are a more linear mayhem.

Not too many bikes there - outnumbered nine to one by hurtling mopeds, I'd say, but matched by horses and the odd delivery-van - but there are enough to count (picture).

And - while fresh orange juice, not beer, is the drink of choice for people-watching in the square, and only thirty pee per glass - you can find Moroccan wine (picture) if you look hard enough.

Not sure you'd get a tandem down those side-streets, though.