Paddy the pedaller: From Crosshaven to Biarritz by bike

At 66, Padraig Healy took up work at his local supermarket but nothing scratched that itch like the epic bike journey he embarked on to raise money for Chernobyl

Padraig Healy, Crosshaven, before he set off on his 1,200 km cycle from Cork to Bayonne, raising money for the Children of Chernobyl, 30th March 2022. Photo: Siobhán Russell

“She carried me through Brittany, from Crosshaven down to the Pyrenees. O’er hills and rivers she bravely toiled, and all she asked was a squirt of oil.” 

These words came to me as I neared the end of my 1,000km cycle ride from Crosshaven (via Roscoff with Brittany Ferries) to Biarritz, raising funds for The Greater Chernobyl Cause as I went. Having retired from my job with the National Learning Network, Hollyhill three years previous, adjusting to the lack of routine that retirement inevitably entailed was proving to be a real challenge. It took the best part of a year to establish a new routine and to accept that, at the age of 66, I could still be of use in some way. I took up part-time work with a local supermarket, signed up as a volunteer with Alone, and decided to learn how to play the mandolin.

But none of this helped to keep at bay the restlessness that I still felt, let alone understood. Over the Christmas of 2021, I decided that this new routine needed to be set aside for a time, and announced to my family that I was going to cycle from one end of France to the other. I had cycled part of La Vélodyssée Cycle Route with my daughter Laura six years before that, and always harboured the idea of doing the whole thing.

Hilary, my wife, would meet me in Bordeaux during half-term, and we would then cycle together to Biarritz.

Roscoff to Morlaix 

Paddy the Pedaller en route to Biarritz from Roscoff

Disembarked at Roscoff. Force-six winds at my back. Rain. It felt like home. Struggled for much of the day, cycling with a 20kg load on the back. The bike felt at times like it was made of rubber rather than metal. Handlebars going one way and the back wobbling like a bowl of jelly. Three hours later coasted in under the viaduct and pulled into the first cafe I could find. Three espressos later, I decided that was enough, cancelled the campsite, and went in search of civilised accommodation. Hotel Melanie is the last of the old-style family-run hotels in this part of Brittany. Catherine, the owner, had one room left, on the second floor, shared bathroom across the corridor.

A 3km climb out of Morlaix brings you finally onto the Greenway, the start of a network of cycle routes that criss-cross France. For the next four hours, I was on a disused railway line, a good solid surface of packed sand and gravel, taking me through woodland and freshly cultivated farmland. I met three tractors, four cars, and two cyclists during the ride.

Halfway across Brittany and Bordeaux still doesn’t seem to be getting any closer on the GPS. If I don’t make that rendezvous in Bordeaux on Sunday, my life will be “merde”.

A few running repairs to the bike meant a late departure. The next scheduled stopover was to be Peillac (46km) along the canal path.

I stopped halfway at Malestroit for a feed of crepes, and then the heavens opened. Located a place to stay just 10 minutes away. Pushed the bike up and down a 500m stretch of the canal trying to find the Airbnb. Rain pouring down. Glasses steaming up, barely able to see where I was going, the wind howling. Then I notice a man on a barge waving to me. He beckons me over.

“Where are you going? It is here.” “What... the accommodation?” “Yes. You are Paddy? This is the accommodation you have booked.” “This? It’s a boat.” “You don’t like boats?” “No, I like boats.” At the same time thinking, “What am I in for here?” I dragged the bike into some shelter, unloaded the bags, and stepped on board.

“Please. Your shoes. Take them off.” He handed me a pair of slippers.

“Come inside.” Cool jazz coming out of the stereo. Settled down with Philippe for a fine evening talking about music, boats, my journey so far, and his.

Paddy the Pedaller: the inside of his Airbnb in Malestroit

Bike, bus and train 

To save my marriage, I decided I needed to put the bike on the train, if I was to get to Bordeaux on time to meet Hilary. You must book the bike in advance, otherwise, you won’t be allowed on the train. I rode out of Saint-Brevin-les-Pinstarget="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer"> at 9am under a clear, blue sky, washed of cloud by the torrents of rain during the previous 24 hours. The warm sun promised a good day ahead. I passed under the towering St Nazaire-Bridge that I had bussed across two days earlier, as the storm drove in from the Bay of Biscay, my bike hanging off the back of the bus. Some buses will take your bike if you book in advance, but you must unload all bags first. I learned this the hard way. The first driver drove off, as I started to unload the bike.The next driver wasn’t impressed with me, nor I with him. He was young, sassy, and in a hurry. I was an old guy with too many bags and a filthy bike. Still, I tipped him €2 for helping me get the gear on and off the bus. We parted amicably. The frugal lunches of chocolate, soggy bananas, and Jelly Babies up to now (mean cuisine, as Tom Waits would say), were eaten on the go. I made my way to a fine boeuf bourginon at a riverside cafe.

Six hours and 75km later I finally parked up at my hotel in Nantes. After that long on the saddle, there were no more words uttered other than those of Ms Google’s in her dreadful French accent. It’s the first round of the French presidential election tomorrow, but you wouldn’t know it by the look of the place. Not a poster or placard in sight. Telegraph poles serving the purpose for which they were intended — holding up wires. Easier on the eye, I thought, an undressed telephone pole.

Thursday 14 April 

I spent the night in an American caravan converted for Airbnb purposes outside Bicarosse. The American-style Roadstar caravan had been beautifully done up inside, obviously by someone with an artistic bent. The next night felt like we were in a tiny granny flat in the village of Leon. Hens pecking around the front door. Funny smell. ‘The thing about Airbnb,” I said to Hilary, “is that you’re putting your money directly into the local economy, not some hotel chain.” All very well. But do they not have some sort of minimum standards people have to provide? I’m not talking Sky TV or anything. But sheets on the bed, surely. The hens kept in a separate enclosure would be nice, only to be seen if they’re on the menu.

About 40km inland from Mimizan, which we passed through, lies the village of Marqu è ze. It sits in a clearing in the largest artificial forest in Europe. For a week we have been cycling through this forest. It’s mile after mile of pine — maritime pine, parasol pine, and further south, cork trees and some oak. Two centuries ago, this entire area was heathland, 2m acres of it.

The Home Strait 

Pádraig Healy, Crosshaven, with Olina & Lev, from Odessa, Ukraine, who are living with Pádraig & his wife Hilary, before he sets off on his 1,200 km cycle from Cork to Bayonne, raising money for the Children of Chernobyl, 30th March 2022. Photo Siobhán Russell

I covered the final leg of 30km or so into Bayonne on Easter Sunday. Beautiful sunny day. There was a Ham Festival underway, music on the streets, drink flowing freely and people strolling around chewing on lumps of ham. A man beside us collapsed. It was 2pm. The sun was beating down. He’d obviously had a tough day. People gathered round him, raised his legs in the air. Not a good sign. I decided to give the ham a miss.

When finally we reached Bayonne, "Paddy,” said she, "I’m nearly done. Those last few miles were mighty hard. I need a break. I’ll see you plus tard."