Our palace in Gisors gave us a good sleep, and a good breakfast. At last I had that strong black coffee I'd been hankering after the day before. Still full on the cheese from the night before we were all pretty happy and, seeing as it was raining, we were in no rush to leave. We would just wait 30 minutes for the rain to pass.
By about 10.30 the rain hadn't passed, and the lady who owned the hotel laughed at us when we asked if she thought it might clear up in a bit. So we decided to just head off.
Bags packed, padded shorts on saddles. Then - ah: Peter had puncture. Shit: so did I. That was my number 3 of the holiday. Tyres changed, padded shorts back on saddles and off we went into the grey. Puncture number 4 followed shortly, and of course Matyas was one to fix it for me. I was still a burden, and still not carrying any of my own bags.
A few hours of cycling and Peter started to get a bit grumpy, he was hungry for baked goods. Baked goods are a reoccurring love for Peter. It doesn't matter if the baked goods are savoury pies or sweet tarts, Peter needs his fix and he'd not indulged in days. Passing through a small town we came across a baked-goods store full of savoury and sweet treats of every kind. Happy and full, we set off again.
It didn't seem so long before we were on the home straight, following some directions from lovely old ladies we reached the Seine and then started to follow Stuart's military and precise directions into the centre of Paris. We zipped through the suburbs (and past a Decathlon, Peter's second love). Getting closer to Paris I got a final puncture - again fixed by Matyas - and later I became distracted by some local drunks.
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