Day 2: Calais to Arras

After the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years, we’re up at 7.30 for a gigantic, carbohydrate-heavy breakfast, and then off into the (thankfully fairly flat) Northern French countryside. I’m relieved to find that the initial stiffness in my legs soon disappears and I’m sailing onwards with a stupid grin on my face, past luscious green farmland and sleepy French villages that are almost stereotypically Gallic. I half expect the cast of Allo Allo to wave from the roadside.

Lunch is held outside a village hall in glorious sunshine, and everyone chats animatedly about the postcard-pretty scenes they’ve seen en route. The only dark cloud on the horizon is the legendary “steep hill of Arras”, which someone who has cycled this route before says nearly killed them. It’s becoming our trip’s equivalent of Darth Vader: people hush their voices when they talk about it, eyes darting fearfully around.

In the event it turns out to be perfectly manageable: the Arras traffic is far more terrifying. A few of us celebrate in the beautiful medieval town square of Arras, drinking Ruby Leffe and exasperating the locals with our execrable French. We’re all beginning to realise this trip is a lot easier than we thought.