We are staying in a typically French hotel, creaky staircase with swirly stair carpet, and miss our Austrian/German breakfast as all that is on offer is a basket of stale rolls and some black coffee. We soon pick up the mirror smooth cycle track next to the canal; you know the surface must be good for quite a while when cyclists on road bikes with pencil thin tyres zoom past. We make our way past 30 or so locks on this section and it's a beautiful sunny, windless day. The only place for coffee is a quintessentially French bar, full of elderly beret clad men drinking wine and beer at an early hour and the whole place thick with smoke. The owner comes round from the back of the bar to shake my hand - not sure why - I probably look an odd sight amongst present company. Clare is too frightened to come in so we sit outside and drink our tiny black coffees lapping up the sunshine. Our destination of Montbeliard is absolutely deserted, like ghost town, and finding somewhere to eat in the evening that isn't from a Doner kebab bar is a real challenge. Perhaps UK Sunday opening isn't so bad after all. (Mulhouse to Montbeliard - 39 miles)
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