Too bad, we decide. The kid has no choice. And so we bring his ball too. And buy an iPad.
We begin our journey at the Mediterranean port of Sete, a four-hour trip on the TGV from Paris. It's meant to be a short ride to the beach at Portiragnes but, contrary to our notes, the journey is not as straightforward as it looks. Twenty kilometres slowly stretches into over 40. We arrive as the hotel receptionist is locking up for the night. It is one of our first lessons about small-town France and its various accommodations - check-in time is seriously restricted.
Twelve hours later we make our way to the canal.
The 240km Canal du Midi was built in the late 17th Century as an extension of sorts to the Garonne river, and created a link between the French Atlantic coast and the Mediterranean sea.
Things were pretty busy for a few centuries until the railway came along in the 1850s. Commercial traffic ceased in 1980 and since then the canal has been used for more relaxing purposes - like slow-boating, kayaking, birdwatching, dog walking, people walking, running and, of course, cycling.
It's easy riding and we manage an average of 50km a day as we settle into a routine of early starts, "pause-cafe" and croissant breaks in villages along the way, ham and cheese on baguette for picnic lunches, and fabulously decadent dinners with lovely French wines at the end of the day. Yes, we eat heaps - but we eat guilt-free.
The town of Trebes, near the Canal du Midi. Photo / Creative Commons image by Wikimedia user Didier Descouens
Occasionally we go off piste and venture along the quiet roads nearby. When we come upon a hill, I plot my husband's murder and, on the way down, I plan his next birthday party. When we see a rugby field (and we do see quite a few), we stop so our son can have a bit of a run. It's fair to say he finds the long hours on the bike a bit tedious, so he's given the job of "GPS navigator" and relays our distance progress, calorie spend, maximum speed and overall speed, a job he takes to with enthusiasm.
One day, as a treat and going against one of my husband's cardinal rules in life - "never eat American fast food in France" - we take him to McDonalds for lunch.
I, in the meantime, fall in love with the canal and the magnificent 200-year-old plane trees that line its banks. I am saddened when I learn that many are diseased and, as a result, all 42,000 trees along the waterway are to be felled before they become a danger to the public.
If not contained, the culprit - a fungus traced to munition boxes used by American soldiers in World War II and made from North American plane trees - could further spread.
I try not to think about it as we come to the end of the road in Toulouse where we take in a local rugby game (the home side plays Montpellier) before setting off in a hire car for a two-day break in Andorra.
It turns out to be a mini-Hong Kong in the Pyrenees and I am gutted that I can't buy a single thing - I know that when we return to the bikes, every little purchase will only add to my load.
Be sure to take extra pannier bags if you want to stop and do some shopping in Andorra. Photo / Thinkstock
Pannier space is at a premium as it is. My husband and I have two each while our son is bag-free. We carry a few clothes, basic toiletries, a small first-aid kit, bicycle repair tools, a camera and the iPad. And my pillow. Which I promised to ditch on arrival in Paris, but found an impossible task given the French obsession with big, fat, neck spasm-inducing pillows. But as payment for carrying the pillow, I tell my husband, my wardrobe truly is pathetic - cycle shorts, a few undies, black pants, black jacket and three black tops. In the evenings, I resemble a middle-aged cat burglar.
Oddly, I'm surprised at how having so little leaves one with a sense of freedom.
What to wear? The same thing as yesterday. And the day before. And while I thought the weight and bulk of the panniers would be annoying, I barely notice them.
We are all glad to be back in the saddle and on Canal de Garonne, where we average 60km a day before making our way up to Saint-Emilion. Unfortunately, it rains hard the whole time we are there and I am in no mood to get wet.
I stay at the hotel with our son and take it easy. We also fight over the iPad - he has games, I have books. And in typical Tigger fashion, my husband's spirits are not dampened in the least by the downpour (which he reckons is just a drizzle) and he cycles all day in and about the famous wineries which surround us.
But the weather is fine(ish) once more when we set out on the final part of our journey, along the Roger Lapebie cycle trail - a 50km disused railway line which makes its way from near Saint-Emilion to just outside Bordeaux.
No, it's not as beautiful as the canals, but it too has its charms and we enjoy the ride through vineyards, forests and farm paddocks. We see several small, quaint train stations. We even see deer.
The vineyards of Saint-Emilion. Photo / Thinkstock
And we come across a pair of American girls on their way out of town as they too plan to cycle the canals. I feel envious that their journey is about to begin just as ours is ending.
Suddenly, I feel an urge to turn my bike around and go back.
CHECKLIST
Further information: See france.fr.
