20261010. Gray to Dijon. RAIN. Bring on the mustard!

Patti here: Our route from Gray to Dijon was 55 kilometres according to Ride with GPS. John had – mercifully – shortened our original path or we would have been on the trails for an additional 7 kilometres. The forecast was for rain but there was nothing to be done about that, so…. we set up the bikes and (since we were in an apartment we had no restaurant to hit up for petit dejeuner – coffee and croissants, always coffee and croissants) we pedalled down the rue to a patisserie that we’d noticed on our walk around Gray, yesterday.

Traffic in and out of the patisserie was brisk: restaurant owners were walking out with bags of 50 baguettes. Fortified, we set out.

I’m not going to lie: weather forecasts are becoming increasing accurate and that forecast was spot on: it rained.

Oh boy, did it rain.

And then, while John was visiting a Green Door, I pedalled ahead like I usually do, missed noticing a critical turn off the trail onto a bridge, and we got separated . Gasp.

Feel free to skip this part: In my defence, at this point it was pouring rain, my sunglasses (which keep grit out of my eyes since we’re so close to the ground) were covered in raindrops so I couldn’t see well, the phone/GPS had its rain-deflection cover on it which makes it hard to read, and I had forgotten to turn up the volume on my phone so I missed hearing the GPS chime that told me that I was now off-route. But I was making excellent time, absolutely ripping along at 20 km/hour.. Without John.

Poor John. Not only was he was very, very wet, he was madly trying to reach me on the walkie-talkie. I could hear him – “Patti, where are you, I can’t see you” – “Patti, are you okay?” – but at that moment my raincoat – my ten year old, no longer waterproof raincoat, that is, – decided it would be a good time for its zipper to malfunction. My walkie talkie was inside my raincoat (to keep it dry!) A brief fight ensued – me and my zipper – and finally I was able to radio John back. “I’m okay, I missed a turn, I’m coming back!”

I got to where I had gone astray (thank you, Mum, she told me as a jeune fille to always return to your last meeting point) and there, there was a tres gentil French homme there, getting into his voiture with his chien whom he’d been walking.

We had a funny conversation. (Me, laughing quasi hysterically: “A tu vu mon mari? J’ai perdu mon mari”!!!! He, sweetly and with concern: “Il a un velo com ca? Non, je n’ai pas vu” – or something like that.) Finally I heard a shout from above, and there was John, up on the bridge. We three had a rainy chuckle, the tres gentil French homme rode off in his nice, dry voiture avec his very wet chien, and we popped up onto the bridge and on our way.

And then…. the rain stopped!

We saw patches of blue sky! There was a beautiful vista! I took the rain cover off my bike seat, my rainpants off my own seat, and the rain-deflection cover – a.k.a. “phone condom” – off of my phone. See how beautiful it was?

Malheuresement, that was not to last. (Apologies to, but… also, thanks to, Ms Allan, my Grade Six French teacher.)

People: we should have just pushed on, shields up against the rain. Let’s just say we pulled into Dijon, grateful that the hotel let us drag the bikes into a covered, secure garage – !!! – and that they let us into our room two hours ahead of the 3:00 official check-in time. (French hotels like their official check-in times….)

The fact that we were dripping water all over their lobby and we had blue lips may have helped.

By now you know the routine: hot shower. Plug in all chargers. Scrape mud off panniers. Rinse and hang (on the blessed heated towel rack) the wet clothes. Blowdry anything you need to wear right away, like coats. Get the drying process happening on cycling shoes because those things take their time.

Around 3:30 we took ourselves out for a reconnaissance stroll. Our hotel is about ten minutes from the very guts of Dijon. (Thus a million dollars cheaper than posh, upscale market downtown rates. We do love a bargain.)

Oh me oh my. This is what our souls have been craving: a truly beautiful city. Ancient architecture. Winding streets. A vibrant street culture. I cannot tell you how much I love pedestrians-only streets – Dijon has handled this with parking garages that are seven – SEVEN!!! – levels of parking, below street level. It boggles the mind.

We had a tour booked with a photographer for Sunday morning, so we weren’t trying to do everything all at once on Saturday. Still, I appreciate “getting the lay of the land” before a tour, so we covered most of the old city.

Found and visited the cathedral (the organist was, sadly, only doing a minor tuning of the pipes)

I wished I could visit the amazing statue of the Madonna but she is in a “protected” chapel i.e. do not visit unless you are praying”. #showsomerespect. Isn’t she wonderful?

Come on. We’re in Dijon. The mustard store (OMG the line-ups, forget it),

An enticing tasting opportunity for truffles/escargot/white wine. Can I even just tell you how much I love truffles? But… we’re going to Lyon in just a few days. And it’s October. I can wait.

We noticed lots of dining opportunities (the waitstaff enjoying a chat and a smoke),

There was a pro-Palestine protest happening. (Of course. It’s France, if it’s not the students it’s someone else. Completely justified.)

I appreciate the cheeky French sense of humour. (Squint: Shrek.)

And then we were done: kilometres + chill = fatigue.

Our best friend in reception recommended a restaurant that served unpretentious Bourguignonne (b.t.w. I spell that wrong every time) fare, so I had Boeuf Bourguignonne and John had a fabulous French hamburger with a flag on it (yay, viande hachee, love the texture and flavour) and frites.

Dijon: highly recommended. And we hadn’t even had our tour with “Tony” yet!

P.S. While I wrote this John was continuing with his French lessons. He’s muttering various phrases over and over in French. I could get used to this.