Following in Nancy Wake's Footsteps - Part B

Punctures, rain and another detour

The day looked promising when we set off the next morning, but it didn't last. My bike got a flat tyre just 30-minutes into the ride. My son's tyre started going flat soon after. He kept pumping it up but eventually had to stop when it went completely deflated. By this stage, the rain was, of course, torrential.

We took refuge in a rundown farm lean-to and changed the tyre. After many hills, with the sky darkening, we eventually found our Airbnb – a flat above a very typical French farmhouse.

We started the next day arguing. Tristan and Caoimhe wanted to take a taxi to our next destination. They found a taxi service with a van big enough to carry all three bikes. I was disappointed that we wouldn't be cycling the entire route, but had to go along with the majority vote.

We cycled to Mérinchal, where a young man in his Ford people-mover van picked us up and dropped us off in Ussel. We ate pizza and delicious cakes before setting off again, cycling along a hilly main road before turning onto a country road.

 We arrived at our accommodation at 4.30 pm. It was a Swiss-looking house overlooking a lake. After a walk and a swim in the freezing water for Tristan, we dressed in our best clothes and went downstairs for dinner. We were served crumbed schnitzel with a witloof salad, tomato and courgette soup, and apple sponge with cream and strawberries. It was our most expensive meal in France, but cooked to perfection.

 

 

The final leg

We set off at 9 am, crossing our fingers that our intended four-hour cycle ride would be exactly that. We had a train to catch at 4.40 pm in Laroquebrou.

Fortunately, there weren't many cars on the roads, so we could concentrate on climbing very steep hills and then whizzing down equally steep descents. The scenery consisted of sparse bush, creeks and rundown stone houses. We passed cows with bells around their necks, stone churches perched on hills and stopped at the roadside to eat local cheese in baguettes.

I hesitated when we reached the sign pointing towards Saint-Santin, where Nancy had hidden with her French Resistance group. Tristan and Caoimhe were reluctant to take another detour. We knew how that had played out on earlier days, so we cycled on towards an ancient town with a castle on its hill.

We eventually reached the railway station, pleased with ourselves that we'd arrived in time. An hour passed and our train still hadn't arrived. I looked at the grass growing on the tracks and wondered if it was trying to tell us something.

Laroquebrou train track

It was.

No trains came. A bus flew past, but didn't stop even though Tristan waved it down. We had no choice but to get back on our bikes.

Caoimhe and I overruled Tristan's chosen route, opting for what we thought was the shorter route via the motorway. After 30 minutes, we stopped. There was no cycle path and cars were whizzing past at 120 kilometres an hour. It was too scary.

We tried a path through a quarry, but the sandstone track was falling apart. Indecision stopped us. Should we venture further along this unknown track, which wasn't looking promising, or catch a taxi? We chose the latter.

The taxi driver arrived an hour later. He was a little scathing about our inability to speak French. I told him I'd practised for an hour every day for a year, but still wasn't confident enough to speak it. He wasn't impressed!

That night, a child cried for much of the night. But at least we were warm and dry, and had a late dinner nearby.

We woke late the next morning. I walked to the supermarché, ogling the rows of cheese and wine and the centrepiece of crab, lobster and king prawns. Croissants and yoghurt were more within our budget.

Back on the train

Perpignan

It was a struggle getting our bags and bikes onto the train in Aurillac. A kind woman helped us get everything on in time. At the end of the journey, after dropping off our bikes in Toulouse, we walked through the streets to our accommodation.

We said goodbye to Caoimhe the next day, as she had to return to her studies in England. Tristan and I continued to Perpignan, where we could see the Pyrenees in the distance. We also saw someone poop in the street!

Then we travelled to Marseille, where Nancy had lived with her husband, Henri Fiocca. The only reminder of her time there was a road named after him. The once-grand city seemed to have lost much of its glamour, with graffiti covering even its tallest buildings.

Tristan returned to his Navy duties in England the following day, while I continued north to research another true story I was writing, also set in France during the Second World War.

 Appreciating Nancy's journey

My son reminded me that Nancy had ridden more than 600 kilometres in just three days on her simple, no-gear pushbike because she had no choice. People depended on her and she had an urgent message to deliver.

We, on the other hand, were on holiday!

For me, though, it had been a research trip that allowed me to return to my edits with a much better understanding of the French countryside and a real appreciation of just how difficult that bike journey must have been.

Nancy Wake was an incredible heroine. I was proud to launch my book, A Flame in the Dark, at the end of April 2026. 

Thanks to One Tree House for publishing it and Fifi Colston for the gorgeous cover.

Following in Nancy Wake's Footsteps - Part A

The Toulouse train station

In April 2025, I flew to Paris, eager to follow in Nancy Wake's footsteps. I had one night to recover from the long journey before catching a train to Toulouse, where I would meet my son Tristan, a naval officer, and his Irish girlfriend, Caoimhe. They had agreed to join me on Nancy Wake's epic bike journey through the Auvergne region.

We picked up our hire bikes but, because of delays at the bike shop, missed the train we had hoped to catch. Instead, we caught the next one, which took twice as long and meant we wouldn't reach Châteauroux until dusk.

At one of the halfway stops, pickpockets targeted us, but we were onto them and managed to avoid their sleight of hand.

Tristan and Caoimhe at the Chateauroux cafe

We cycled to our accommodation and then headed out for dinner at a small café nearby. The food was superb and the wine was just what we needed after a long day of travelling.

The next morning, we cycled into town and followed the cobbled ring road around the ancient buildings. We were hoping to find the tavern where Nancy had tried to get an urgent radio message sent. Across the road, a hunchbacked radio operator was supposed to receive it, but Nancy had no luck.

Nor did we.

 

The long road through the Auvergne

Chateauroux ring road

What should have been a four-hour cycle journey turned into a ten-hour slog through torrential rain. The 'shortcut' took us through green meadows, muddy farm tracks and dirt roads. We often had to backtrack when we reached a dead end of blackberry bushes or tracks too muddy for our wheels. Nancy never mentioned these hardships. She had more to worry about: trucks filled with German soldiers and Nazi checkpoints.

Late that night, we finally found our accommodation. We stripped off our sodden clothes, ran a hot bath and drank hot Milos to revive ourselves. My son said, "I can't believe I'm spending my holidays doing this. It's not what I expected."

They had chosen pushbikes over electric bikes. I was twice their age and  reasonably cycle-fit after biking every day for a year, but I didn't want to slow them down on a pushbike. I chose an electric bike and wasn't particularly popular when I overtook them on steep hills!

The many paddocks we rode through

 The next day was a reprieve. The track followed a canal towards Montluçon, with no hills to contend with. We stopped for lunch at the café where Nancy had eaten dinner on the first night of her journey. I doubt much had changed over the years. It still had a wooden bar counter and a view over the canal. Nancy had listened for gossip about the surrounding towns and where it was safe to cycle. We listened to piped music from the bar.

 

 

Exploring Nancy's Resistance country

The lake where Nancy swam after a fight

For the next three days, we stayed in Montluçon and hired a car. This was the area where Nancy spent much of her time with the French Resistance.

We visited the forest where she had hidden, now a working forestry operation. We saw the lake she might have swum in after a nasty fight with the Germans, and stopped for a walk through the town where she first landed by parachute and later blew up a bridge. The townspeople cheered her.

By this stage, my son was becoming a little tired of my Nancy Wake touring, so he drove us to a winery to sample the wines!

The next day we drove to Vichy. We had hoped to swim in the mineral hot pools, but the town baths were now just a memorial, with the pools empty. The town square where Nancy had celebrated before hearing the terrible news from home was still there, although the Nazi flags were long gone. Instead, we sat beside the picturesque lake and ate our lunch.

On the way back, we took a detour, hoping to find the château where Nancy had worked from during the last two months of the war. We came to a driveway that looked as though it might be the place. My son opted to stay in the car while Caoimhe and I walked up the leafy driveway. And there it was!

We had reached the back of the château, the place where Nancy had stood on the steps to accept flowers from the Spanish fighters. Resistance fighters had saluted her as they marched around the château. I was thrilled to bits to find this chateau as there are hardly any photos of it anywhere. It felt like we were there with her and the Resistance fighters.

To be continued...