A very early start this morning, up before the walkers. I make myself a decent breakfast using the eggs I've brought; again none of the walkers wants more than tea (Celeste), broth (Faye), or coffee (Elisabeth) - not even bread for this group. Beats me how they expect to walk 20km without a decent breakfast, but obviously they manage. I am on the road before sunrise this morning. The thick mist - or perhaps I should I call it fog - and a chilly 10 degrees makes for a gorgeous ride along the cycle-way following an old railway line. The sun coming up through the mist highlights the scores of spiderwebs along the side of the path. A new smell - freshly cut pine trees - adds to the morning's sensory experiences. Lovely.
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| Early morning misty ride |
I'm noticing as I head north, and probably also because I am getting closer to Bordeaux, that the rural properties I pass are much neater and more well maintained than they have been. The grass is cut, there isn't the usual collection of rusty machinery scattered around, nor the collection of cars in various states of being reclaimed by the land. The shutters are painted and generally the houses look like someone cares about them. Whether it's more affluence or a different attitude I'm not sure, but the change is obvious.
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| The spiders have been busy overnight |
I meet several walkers on a section of the route which is a gravel path - I am riding along the walking route here - and I stop to chat with a few of them; a Belgian guy who's started in Belgium and has been on the road six weeks now, a Dutch girl, and a French couple. This route, which goes via Bordeaux, is clearly more popular with the walkers than the route slightly more to the east and via Angouleme, which I rode down. It's more popular with good reason as, so far at least, it seems to be easier terrain and there are more facilities. I suppose this is the route in the "official" walkers' guides to the Chemin de Compostelle.
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| My sprinkler is bigger than yours! |
My destination is the city of Bordeaux and arriving on the outskirts there's the usual challenge of navigating the streets, complete with tramways and a lot of bike paths which seem to come and go randomly. There's a lot of people riding bikes and none of them are obeying the traffic signals or rules; I can imagine the car drivers are frustrated with them. Riding into the city there's a new challenge, which is dealing with all the pedestrians on the shared sections. It's impressive - and depressing - how many pedestrians are totally focused on their smart phones as they walk; they are oblivious to their surroundings including my bell as I try to warn them of my approach.
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| Not what you expect to find on the road |
I find the hostel, knowing it won't be open for a few hours; at least I know where it is now. I've arranged to meet up with an old colleague who happens to be in town and we meet at the rather impressive cathedral, which is an obvious meeting point. He introduces me to his new wife (from New Zealand) and we spend the afternoon reminiscing about the 'good old days'. We're sitting outside the Hôtel de Ville, which is where he got married only a couple of days ago, when suddenly the square in front fills with people leaving the building as several fire engines arrive. There's no obvious cause for any of this although we can't help to start speculating. Since no police or other services arrive we assume (perhaps foolishly) that it's a false alarm. Nothing more exciting happens.
In the evening at the hostel the host, who is a volunteer like all the people manning this type of hostel, opens a bottle of local white and invites those of us there to have a pre-dinner drink. There's a couple from Quebec, whose French (both the accent as well as the choice of words) takes some getting used to. Eda, a German who's heading down for her third (fourth?) Camino is my cubicle mate for the night: she's in the upper bunk since I had first choice since I arrived before she did and chose the bottom bunk, as you do. She asks if we can have dinner together as she doesn't like eating alone. There's an area quite near the hostel - in an old part of town - which has streets and a square full restaurants with tables and chairs on the streets. It's busy and I can't help bring amazed at how many people are out drinking and eating on this mid-week day. So much for an economic downturn.
The table next to ours has a solo diner; a French woman who kindly asks if we mind if she smokes (this is the first time anyone has ever asked me this question in France). In the nicest way, thanking her for being so considerate, I tell her that yes I do mind and to my surprise (again) this is gracefully accepted. Later during the meal we start talking; I know what eating alone is like so it's not difficult to understand that she might appreciate some company, even if it is from a German and an Australian communicating in somewhat poor French. Later on, she's on the phone, probably telling her husband all about the unusual foreigners at the next table who wouldn't let her smoke and kept interrupting her trying to read her book.
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| Bordeaux by night |
Back at the hostel it's the usual darkness with people with torches and headlamps trying to quietly fund their way to their beds and the bathroom, before settling in for the night. Soon the dulcet tones of the mouth breathers and snorers will be permeating throughout the dormitory.
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