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.