Loire à Vélo - day 2

Follow the signs

The day starts with breakfast with my hosts, discussing the various places we've traveled to. He has spent some time in India and relates all sorts of stories, mostly centred on the consequences of drinking the water, which is perhaps not the best subject to discuss over breakfast. I had earlier admired his BMW bike and now I find that he'd bought a Lee Enfield motorbike while he was in India and brought it back to France. Later on I am given a tour of the bike and a demonstration of how it still runs, after 20 years. An old Indian (originally English of course) motorbike in a remote farmhouse in France; not exactly what you'd expect to find.

"Are you going all the way to the coast?", he asks. "It's really beautiful!" I explain that this time I'm only going as far as Nantes. "You really should go and see the coast, it's wonderful", he insists. "I've never been myself", he adds, somewhat casting doubt on his recommendation.

Chinon Nuclear Power Station

The route follows some smaller dedicated bike paths and is quite pleasant. Soon however the cooling towers and billowing steam clouds of the Chinon nuclear power station loom on the horizon, changing the bucolic atmosphere somewhat. Then the route leads into Avoine which is a nice little town with a square in front of the church; several cyclists are already sitting at some tables there: morning coffee time!

I go to the local  Carrefour mini-market to buy my emergency banana (it's still a bit early for coffee for me). At the checkout there are a couple of cyclists buying some sandwiches and one has bought a can of beer. I keep forgetting that you can buy alcohol at supermarkets here. I look at my  banana and suddenly that can of beer looks like it would have been a very good idea.

At a tiny village a little further on, there's an enormous picnic area set up with tables, play equipment and other amenities. Just for the Loire à Vélo. Just the spot to have my little tartelette aux fruits bought at the local patisserie. I have the place to myself and try to imagine what it might be like in peak season, full of bikes and families. I'm glad I'm not here in peak season. There's a tall pole with height markings on it indicating the levels of the various floods over the years. The highest is well over 3m, a sobering thought.

I'm stopped at a small rest area, having a look at the information sign. An older couple pull up on what are very obviously Dutch bikes (Gazelle brand, enormously high handlebars...). "Hello", I say in Dutch, "Those look like Dutch bikes", I add by way of starting a conversation. The lady looks at me like I'm from another planet. Her husband says something to her in Dutch (not having heard me) confirming to me that they are indeed from the Netherlands. "We're trying to find the way to Candes Saint Martin", she volunteers. "We've been around in circles twice and each time we come back here. There must be something wrong with the signs."

I digest this. The signage is almost too frequent on the route; it's very hard to miss. But what is most difficult for me to understand is the fact that we are, literally, about 200m from Candes Saint Martin. And they still don't know which way to go. How did they get here in the first place I wonder? I point in the direction to go. "We've just come from that way" says the woman. The guy is a little odd; he doesn't want my directions and starts pedaling away (in the wrong direction) leaving his wife in his wake. She looks at me, then at her departing husband, and with a look of resignation follows her husband.

At Candes Saint Martin (about 5 minutes after my discussion with the odd Dutch couple) I stop for what turns out to be yet another cup of awful French coffee. I'm a sucker for punishment; I should know by now that expecting to find a good cup of coffee (with milk) in France is a lost cause. I still don't understand that in a country that (justifiably) prides itself in the excellent food and wine it produces, they cannot  seem to make decent coffee (or tea, for that matter). I should stick to cold drinks I suppose. Beer for example.

Candes Saint Martin is one of the Plus Beaux Villages de France. I've been here a couple of times before and never quite understood how it made the grade. It's attractive but not particularly pretty, nor especially remarkable compared to so many other nice villages. Its neighbour, Montsoreau, is also on the list and I think justifies its position more. The castle dominating the Loire is imposing and attractive and the village is pretty.

Crossing the Greenwich Meridian

At Pernay the route deviates inland slightly for no reason other than to take you through the commercial or touristic areas. Since this involves going uphill I wimp out and stay by the river. A bit further on I pass a series of troglodyte houses which I would otherwise have ridden over the top of, so I feel justified in my choice of deviating from the track. There's even an upmarket troglodyte restaurant and an art gallery; it's amazing what they can build into the rock. I also unexpectedly cross the Greenwich Meridian, something which I've no doubt done quite a few times, but here's a sign to inform me of the fact.

Saumur is an attractive and welcoming town which has cleverly deviated the route to pass right through the rather attractive town centre (while not involving any hills). I find a nice little shaded square with a fountain and treat myself to an ice cream - it's getting quite hot in the afternoon. A German couple is giving their two large dogs water from the fountain; I can't imagine traveling with two large dogs, especially not in a camper van as some people I met earlier were doing. At Saumur I deviate again from the track and cross the Loire to the north bank, which I follow until my destination at Les Rosiers-sur-Loire.

Saumur Castle looming over the town

Here I am staying in a house with a woman who has joined Airbnb as a way to meet people and avoid becoming isolated since becoming a widow. She's good company and a considerate host. She mentions that she had a couple of Tasmanians on bikes stay recently, which is an impressive coincidence: yesterday the hosts had also mentioned the Tasmanians, so they had obviously chosen the same two places to stay as I have. It's also interesting that these people referred to themselves as Tasmanians and not Australians. In fact my host of last night was somehow under the impression that Tasmania was one of the islands of New Zealand. I wonder what the Tasmanians would have thought of that?

Dinner is at a place recommended by my host. I must look like I need feeding because one of the first things she asked when I arrived was where I planned to eat tonight. She's been concerned that I wouldn't find a suitable place that's open (see discussion on this subject in yesterday's blog). The place she recommended, and called to check they were open, turns out to be a small hotel. Normally I would avoid hotel restaurants, but I think this will turn out OK. I'm having the menu du marché, which has as a main course "confident chicken". That's my translation of course, but that's what it says. Menu-speak is a foreign language in any country, usually in an attempt to make a plain dish sound appealing. I'm curious what my confident chicken will be. Are they confident you'll like the chicken? Or maybe they select only chickens that were confident for this dish? Or perhaps the chef is confident that it's chicken?

I can't help myself. Here I am dining alone in a restaurant, so of course I am occupying myself by observing my fellow diners. There's the couple at the table next to me; they are speaking something that sounds like a mix of German and French. Alsatian perhaps? Actually, it's the woman who is doing all the talking; her companion doesn't have to say much. She keeps blowing her nose; loudly, fruitily, and often. "Superb" she says, " I've never eaten so well" , she adds, when the waitress asks how the meal was. They are not having the simple market menu - for them it's the multi-course full- blown menu. Pretentious is the word that comes to mind. She blows her nose again.

Then there's the older French couple. He's in sandals (although thankfully not with socks). She looks like she'd rather be having her hair done than have dinner with her husband. So far they haven't said a word to each other and neither looks particularly pleased to be here.

Behind me is a young couple; out on a date? They are obviously confused and a bit worried about something on the menu, perhaps they are also thinking about confident chickens. Then the waitress comes and the problem is revealed: the guy is concerned whether it's OK to have red wine with the duck, or should they have white? I feel for the guy, it's a serious dilemma and he clearly needs to impress his dining companion.

Across the way are a couple of guys: they must be on a business trip. Perhaps they are out here to sell something, or maybe they are setting up the local branch of their business. Notes are compared, plans for the next day are discussed. My confident chicken arrives: it's a chicken that's confidently turned itself into a type of sausage and it's rather good. The sandals couple still hasn't said a word to each other.

Final restaurant observations: the (suitably surly) waitress serves me from the cheese trolley. The selection is impressive. While cutting some cheese, she knocks one of the cheeses (admittedly a wrapped piece) onto the floor. She picks it up and puts it to the side on the trolley. She serves the next table their cheese. Then, as she heads back to the kitchen, she surreptitiously takes the dropped piece of cheese and puts it back into the covered part of the trolley with all the

other cheeses. The next diners will be none the wiser. The Alsatian woman blows her nose and the older couple says their first words to each other; he's had a half bottle of red and she's finished the best part of whole bottle of white. It was about time they said something. The young couple is having red wine with their duck. The waitress, although surly, knows her trade; her knowledge of the food, the cheeses, and the wines is comprehensive and impressive. My coffee (espresso, which the French do know how to make) arrives accompanied by a macaroon and a mini almond cake. Not a bad way to end a day's riding.

Distance today: 63 km, 3.8 hours riding