Camino v3 - Day 23: Tours to Chemillé (43km)

Bike parking

In the morning when I go to breakfast at the agreed time, I find my bike is all alone. The two other bikes which were keeping it company have disappeared; the Dutch couple has already gone, despite all the discussions of yesterday regarding breakfast times. They were planning to catch a train back to Holland; perhaps they have discovered that there was an early train to Paris that takes bikes (not all trains accept bikes) and they have decided to leave earlier than planned. Either way, it's just me for breakfast in the large dining hall and the two places that have been set for the Dutch couple will go unused.

Breakfast for one in a hall for eighty

The dining hall seats something like 80 people (I counted them, as you do when you're having breakfast alone.) I've only actually seen three nuns (or perhaps more correctly, they are "sisters".) Last night there were eight places set at another table, presumably for the permanent residents. It's a long way from the capacity of the dining hall - I wonder if they ever fill it?

I still have my little key for the Basilica, so after my breakfast I let myself in for a final private session. But to my surprise - I should have known - I am not alone, because the sisters are still singing the matins. It's a beautiful way to end my visit to the Basilica. Had the Dutch couple not insisted that we breakfast at exactly the time that the matins were being sung, I would have been able to hear the whole thing, but I digress.

The Basilique de Saint Martin, all to myself

There's a bike shop in the north of Tours which is sort of on my route - at least it's not a particularly long detour. It doesn't open until 10:00 (like much of France) so I have some time to kill. There are, of course, worse places to spend a couple of hours and I aimlessly ride around the almost-empty streets of Vieux Tours. The street cleaners have been through and the cobblestones are still glistening from the water they've used to wash away the previous day's accumulated dog shit and other detritus, and the whole place has a somewhat magical feel about it providing quite a few nice photo opportunities. I'm distracted by the gorgeous smell of freshly-baked bread from the many boulangeries I pass (it really is impressive how many bakeries you can fit into a square kilometre or so.) Of course I have to stop at one to stock up for the day's ride. I ride to the cathedral, thinking it will be nice to have a final stamp for my credencial. The cathedral is open, but the little kiosk that sells souvenirs and is the keeper of the stamp is still very much closed (it's not ten o'clock yet of course, I should know better.) Outside I meet a German couple who are walking the Chemin de Compostelle - they've started in Germany and are completing the entire route in annual pilgrimages; this year is the Voie de Tours (which I have just ridden). Last year was northern France and the year before that was Belgium. Next year they will finish.

Vieux Tours with a splash of colour

I arrive at the bike shop a couple of minutes before 10:00 and it is, of course, still closed. There's an older guy waiting as well - he has a very sad-looking bike in pieces strapped to the roof of his car. When I tell him I'm from Australia I get the same confused look that I got from the guy with the tractor; that "does not compute" look. And that even after I've clarified that I didn't actually ride my bike from Australia. The bike shop is particularly unhelpful. Unlike the optician yesterday, the bike shop clearly wants to live up to the French reputation for poor customer service. So I ride on, again letting my GPS find little country roads that I didn't even know existed (even though I've ridden and driven through this area many times over the years). It's nice to know you can still discover new things in "familiar" territory. I stop a few times, not so much because I have to, but probably more because I'm stretching out this last section. Besides, I have some things I bought at the boulangerie to eat after all.

As I approach my destination the cloudy sky turns ominously grey; it's almost a repeat of the weather when I left, although luckily the rain holds off. And then I'm there, letting myself in to the house, wheeling the bike through the front door (as you do) and the bike is parked in the front room again. 1,514 km in 23 days; there and back again as Tolkein would have said.

Almost home again; the final stretch.