tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78537721542585977372024-02-02T11:16:45.194-08:00No matter where you go, that's where you areGeoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-69127692478834675142019-09-29T22:00:00.002-07:002021-08-29T05:21:52.313-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 12: Château-Renault to Chemillé<p dir="ltr">Last night my host asked me what time I planned to leave in the morning. This is a reasonable and common question that's hard to answer: while I'm pretty flexible with my departure time, it's always difficult to know what the host's expectations are. Were they planning on going somewhere early, so they are hoping you won't leave too late, or do they normally like to sleep in and they're hoping that you won't be wanting to leave early. I try not to put them out of I can help it. Guessing that perhaps she was not an early riser, I asked her if somewhere between 8 and 9 would be OK? You could see in her face that she had been hoping I'd say something like 11:00, but she recovered quickly and said not to worry, she could go back to bed after I'd left.</p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>In the morning at around 8:00, there she was, looking decidedly like she needed a lot more sleep. Definitely not a morning person I concluded. She'd made coffee and put a piece of supermarket sliced white bread in the toaster. Beats me why the French seem to like supermarket sliced bread (bought in a packet with the crust already cut off). After all, they have so many boulangeries making delicious fresh bread. They pride themselves in their famous crusty crunchy baguettes and then go to the supermarket and buy the exact opposite. We talked about this and that and then the conversation came around to the cat. She was very apologetic about the pee problem which to her credit she herself brought up, not me; her explanation was that this cat has been abandoned as a tiny kitten and raised by her instead of by a mother cat, so it hadn't learnt proper cat etiquette from its mother and as a result was in many respects a wild cat. Remembering the pissing-up-against-the-wall episode from yesterday, I could only concur.<p></p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jnV-hb-Kjvb4xqrvKptwFA6N1k3g_XVbYo2MfwKqAVde1S5vzEA1r2EuEL0sl3d91kSYyl74vtja1S10F1ibMGm3IaCyfq82h0mFPYnNC2_DMqvx_PSP77nrWDEThHuAyCGFivLwJho/s1672/toiletreading.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jnV-hb-Kjvb4xqrvKptwFA6N1k3g_XVbYo2MfwKqAVde1S5vzEA1r2EuEL0sl3d91kSYyl74vtja1S10F1ibMGm3IaCyfq82h0mFPYnNC2_DMqvx_PSP77nrWDEThHuAyCGFivLwJho/s320/toiletreading.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toilet reading</td></tr></tbody></table>Before leaving I visited the toilet (the one in the box between the kitchen and the lounge room). In the toilet cubicle were two baskets of books and magazines, presumably for those times when you just want - or need - to linger. Some interesting titles there: 365 Jokes, Pocket Edition Jokes - the Blonds, Culture for Dummies. This last one I can't see being sold a lot outside of France, but no doubt it makes for good toilet reading.</p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>I am on the road by 08:30, before the supermarkets have opened, so I give up on my thoughts of buying some supplies. Just as well I have my emergency bananas, bought yesterday after George's abortive wine-buying attempts. It's a short ride today anyway. There's blue sky when I leave, which is promising given the forecast was rain. But it doesn't take long for ominously black clouds to start forming ahead of me. The sun is still shining and the colours are gorgeous but after a few warning spots of rain, the heavens open about an hour into my ride. So the last hour of my journey I get to enjoy riding in the pouring rain. Although it's unpleasant, I don't mind so much since I won't need to be dealing with trying to dry everything out in time for the next days ride.<p></p>
<p dir="ltr"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9L-tbH3aUV2wxPyQGW9OyLE5Yg0XFuqYJGMQVV3qg5oOwDMS856obOW9xGTnpiXw3hdAKhzpxysPHHwihC2dTjyTpf3yn4AKu5U_nKjy-1hp-lqrknWnh0pSVBZYOeoy2G2K0qsDJ-Q/s1672/Le+Boulay+wires.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9L-tbH3aUV2wxPyQGW9OyLE5Yg0XFuqYJGMQVV3qg5oOwDMS856obOW9xGTnpiXw3hdAKhzpxysPHHwihC2dTjyTpf3yn4AKu5U_nKjy-1hp-lqrknWnh0pSVBZYOeoy2G2K0qsDJ-Q/w400-h300/Le+Boulay+wires.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gorgeous light before the storm</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p dir="ltr">As I ride up to the font door the rain conveniently stops. I wheel the bike into the front room. There and back again.<br /><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MvZ7OoTvEwvYJIO-lx2Z97QSvf-r2CYtelXvyqD3MGweA9qMMt-4n-RRVtR7d_qft-kYczKbtIHFMGbQ8iMFWJwVhEtwkeDw9mfwLgHvi9wobohYqcWWnV2TUNYPkO8jKORDS9Vh058/s1672/bike+near+Chemille.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MvZ7OoTvEwvYJIO-lx2Z97QSvf-r2CYtelXvyqD3MGweA9qMMt-4n-RRVtR7d_qft-kYczKbtIHFMGbQ8iMFWJwVhEtwkeDw9mfwLgHvi9wobohYqcWWnV2TUNYPkO8jKORDS9Vh058/w640-h480/bike+near+Chemille.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding in the rain - almost there!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-2612513449625970692019-09-28T11:41:00.001-07:002021-08-29T04:31:47.006-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 11: Blois to Château-Renault<p dir="ltr">In the morning when I look out my window onto the square below, I see that the outdoor live music marquee from last night has been replaced by the Saturday markets, which at 7:30 are already partly set up, even though it's still dark. A little later, just as it's getting light <i>Zwarte Piet</i> walks up the large stairs leading to the château. My window looks right into the enormous stone staircase that leads from the lower square (the one with the market) to the upper square in front of the château. It's only September, so a little early for the celebration of St Nicholas, which features his assistant, <i>Zwarte Piet</i>, and is in December, and in Holland. What's going on? A little later a couple of women in medieval period costume also go up the stairs, and a possible explanation for <i>Zwarte Piet</i> begins to form.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-S_rHXEnu6OecwjBlN6xstNHEJKT6wLYtmO_SRrxuRZe7X_tY5ZwScB5suBMOttTUWc5fXzwHP9Ja274cHgyiRGBN73CLsY8R0jiGQvLUE2IJmGHiHPv18Vk1eiQtShCYed80pWHj7o/s1672/bloismarket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-S_rHXEnu6OecwjBlN6xstNHEJKT6wLYtmO_SRrxuRZe7X_tY5ZwScB5suBMOttTUWc5fXzwHP9Ja274cHgyiRGBN73CLsY8R0jiGQvLUE2IJmGHiHPv18Vk1eiQtShCYed80pWHj7o/s320/bloismarket.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blois - The morning market mattress stall</td></tr></tbody></table>My host has promised me coffee this morning, and sure enough, right at the agreed time there's a little tray on the table outside my door with a Thermos of coffee and several little cakes in their own plastic wrappers. They are Madeleines, and they must be the standard Chambre d'hôtes breakfast offering because this is the third place where I've found them. The sort of thing you buy in a box in the supermarket. At least these are well within their use by date, unlike the ones in the place with abandoned campervan in Montargis which were well past their use by date (I had one of those anyway; it was not so bad, considering).</p>
<p dir="ltr">I've stopped at Chouzy-sur-Cisse for my 10km morning pause. This place has all the elements of a typical French country village. For starters it has a hyphenated name. Whoever invented all the place names in France clearly ran out of either enthusiasm or imagination, because there are many names that have been used multiple times. So to avoid confusing the Chouzy near Tours with the Chouzy near Orléans, for example, they have come up with the hyphen system. Each duplicate town gets a hyphenated classifier added to its name, in general making reference to the name of the river the town is on (this Chouzy is on - sur - the Cisse River). If there's no river, then you get a reference to the main town it is 'under' - sous. But when they later invented road signs they realised that this would make the signs much too cumbersome and long, so they came up with 's/' for 'sur' and 's/s' for 'sous'. So this town's sign board says: Chouzy s/ Cisse. All very logical, once you understand the code. And in this town, apart from the hyphenated name there are also other "standard" elements: The Rue de la Poste; the pharmacy with the flashing green cross showing the temperature in an animated display demonstrating the importance of the pharmacy; people walking along the street carrying their morning baguette from the boulangerie; la Place de la Mairie; the Mairie - Liberté Égalité Fraternité - complete with the orange scrolling information sign highlighting all the good things the <i>Maire </i>is doing for his town; the boucherie charcuterie (it's a larger village); the multiple signs advertising places for sale and the many closed shops that once were; the older centre which is surrounded by open fields that are being encroached by lotissements of what I call Monopoly houses; the Place du 11 Novembre 1918 with the war memorial listing the names of all the local inhabitants who lost their lives in the great wars; the coiffure, of course (usually several of these); rue de la gare and rue du Moulin; the Maison des Associations; the local Tabac and the Bar le Soleil d'Or; the rue de l'Église, place de l'Église and of course, the Église itself; and just out of town is the cemetery, which by convention is on a slight rise (if there is one), its neat gravestones and gravel pathways surrounded by a stone wall, topped with terracotta roofing tiles. Another typical French village then.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4cq6O-sZ-u0WmoZau8rpZv8rgE35arRWsOAMdu-16VB0kDeackzeIbb3m_-VWamjSBanil3RlUvkI8K4o9-mpsF717Mx9d3DiMnrhFOEcvkSMVTAZj8Ob-4Cce8UAmUlvAJznycfsFM/s1672/gnomes2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4cq6O-sZ-u0WmoZau8rpZv8rgE35arRWsOAMdu-16VB0kDeackzeIbb3m_-VWamjSBanil3RlUvkI8K4o9-mpsF717Mx9d3DiMnrhFOEcvkSMVTAZj8Ob-4Cce8UAmUlvAJznycfsFM/s320/gnomes2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garden decoration - Saint-Nicolas-des-Motets</td></tr></tbody></table></p>
<p dir="ltr">I ride on. The dark green bits on the map are generally good value; lovely shaded forests, the occasional squirrel, Bambi, or other wild animal, and also welcome relief from the incessant headwinds across the open fields. Luckily there several green bits on the map during today's ride, because the prevailing winds are still pretty much in the opposite direction to my route, even though I am zig-zagging across the map quite a bit in order to stay on little roads and avoid the main roads, except for crossing them from time to time.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Now I'm standing in front of the house where I'll be staying tonight. Nobody is answering the doorbell or my tapping on the door. In the end I call the owner and discover that her daughter is in fact in the house, but can't hear the front door because the doorbell isn't working. Not so practical when you're expecting someone. I'm let in, shown the main points of the rather interesting house: this is the kitchen - we made a space in the fridge for you, that's the cat, there's the toilet, that's the bathroom, and here's your room. There's a faint odour in the house which is slightly familiar and slightly unpleasant. A little later Naomi mentions "you'd better keep your door closed, otherwise the cat will go in. And, you know, he might do pee-pee." Well, that explains the odour then, I think to myself. A bit later, after Naomi has left and I've had a shower and something to eat, I go out to the little courtyard outside the kitchen to find the cat pissing on to a piece of furniture there. And it's not just a bit of a mark-my-territory spray either; it's a full on stream that creates a puddle that starts flowing downhill to a nearby drain. The cat looks at me, while pissing, with a haughty 'so what are you going to do about this then?' look. I'm glad I've closed the door to my room. </p>
<p dir="ltr">There's a little bit of voyeurism involved in staying in other people's houses, particularly people who you don't know and therefore have no idea what to expect when you arrive. Some people live in a similar way to what you do, and others not at all. Each to his own. This house is so full of simply random stuff it's hard to describe. The house layout itself is relatively conventional; there's a front door at the front and a back door at the back, for example. It's really only the toilet, which is in a sort of box in the middle of the ground floor, between the kitchen and the lounge and dining area which is a bit odd. And while there's a hand towel hanging in the toilet room, there's no washbasin or other means of washing your hands. Presumably if you want to wash your hands after going to the toilet you have to use the kitchen sink or go upstairs to the bathroom, which has no toilet. Or maybe just pretend and use the towel. The house in Saclas had mirrors everywhere. This place has lights everywhere, like Christmas decorations. Strings of coloured lights line the jars arranged on top of the kitchen cupboards. There's a large glass vase stuffed with another string of lights and so on. Everywhere you look there are motivational slogans and sayings: don't cry, be happy (in English), it's normal to make mistakes, make your own happiness, and so forth. The kitchen sinks are full of dirty dishes and there's a toothbrush and toothpaste in one of the kitchen cupboards (which I came across by chance when looking for a glass). Presumably the latter is in the interest of saving time going upstairs to the bathroom in the morning after breakfast and before going out to work.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3_3MTzC8EM0EtrGnALTundZxVMcuPS_WprJbZnIbrGWRQQunwQDhpxMNY0i-I7zCHPwuz3D7q-0lrF682Vbav126vxTBiRH4iiy9EJWLVxTH2QbbdiuOzByR0D6dSxfQ7EX2TG5HsucE/s1672/chateaurenault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3_3MTzC8EM0EtrGnALTundZxVMcuPS_WprJbZnIbrGWRQQunwQDhpxMNY0i-I7zCHPwuz3D7q-0lrF682Vbav126vxTBiRH4iiy9EJWLVxTH2QbbdiuOzByR0D6dSxfQ7EX2TG5HsucE/w400-h300/chateaurenault.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chateau-Renault</td></tr></tbody></table>I head into town to have a look around. Château-Renault is a town we've driven through more times than I can remember, but we've never really stopped to have a look around. The only place I really know is the supermarket where we've sometimes stocked up on supplies. The name of this town, by the way, is hyphenated for a completely different reason to what I've described above, and has to do with the history of the town. In this case it was apparently named after the son, Renaud, of one of the lords of the count of Blois. Why they spelt his name wrong when naming the town will have to remain a mystery. There's actually not a whole lot worthy of seeing if truth be told, although that may also be due to a bit of château-and-impressive-and-big-old-buildings overload on my part. The namesake Château is well located at the top of a hill (just below the ruins of its 12th century predecessor) and now serves as the Mairie (Town Hall).</p>
<p dir="ltr">So here I am at the checkout of the local Carrefour supermarket. I am holding my purchase, three bananas for the ride tomorrow, and am waiting in line behind all the people with trolley loads of stuff. In front of me is a little old man. He's holding a walking stick, which in this case is an actual stick and at first I think he might be a pilgrim on the Chemin de Compostelle (who often pick up suitable sticks on the way and use them as a sort of Nordic walking stick). He has a cap on and is dressed in pretty old and threadbare clothes. He turns to look at me a few times, with a look that I take to be something along the lines of 'all this waiting to buy something at these new-fangled shops, it wasn't like this in my day'. Then he says something to me, which is completely unintelligible mainly because he appears to have no teeth. Fortunately he does not appear to expect any response from me. He's holding a large plastic shopping bag and when it's almost his turn he takes out a 10 litre plastic 'barrel' of wine; this is the type of wine that's a couple of levels below cask wine and is essentially sold by the quantity and definitely not for its quality. "George" says the checkout lady, who's probably around 60 and has seen a thing or two in her time, and obviously knows this guy, "really George, do you need this?" "Mmpphh mrroph phrgh" mumbles George, looking uncomfortable. "Do you have money to pay for this George?" asks the woman. She knows better, I suspect. "Ouhhsm" nods George, in the affirmative. The woman looks doubtful but starts to scan the bottle. But it soon becomes apparent that George in fact is expecting credit and doesn't have any money. A discussion ensures, goodness knows how the woman can makes sense of anything George says, but I get the drift: George thinks it's unreasonable for the store not to give him credit and claims other stores do. "Well you'd better go try Intermarché [the other supermarket in town] George" says the woman who's running out of patience. She takes the bottle and puts it aside, out of reach from George and moves on to me, standing there with my bananas. I hand them to her and she looks at me with with clear disdain: "you haven't weighed these" and gives them back. Now I'm as annoyed as she is, because not only do I have to go and weigh the bananas, but I have to go all the way to the back of the line again. She mutters something about this not being her day. George leaves with his stick, but not his wine. I go and weigh my bananas.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I treat myself to a dinner to celebrate the penultimate day of my ride. The restaurant is reasonably good, which is just as well since it's effectively the only restaurant in town. Tomorrow I will ride home.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPtCP8uxmxEBbCvYA_vx6y4Nk4uzT2mncyuWn6OKLG6o6kBV89qG0JuRu-FYWkjSISd2wWI0GzQsNX6PiN4oRohg89_UbdXZHgHyvKcap9mvaQKWxmXz9KcQlMq61e7VOXBdMjznCI90/s1672/stnicholasdemotet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPtCP8uxmxEBbCvYA_vx6y4Nk4uzT2mncyuWn6OKLG6o6kBV89qG0JuRu-FYWkjSISd2wWI0GzQsNX6PiN4oRohg89_UbdXZHgHyvKcap9mvaQKWxmXz9KcQlMq61e7VOXBdMjznCI90/w640-h480/stnicholasdemotet.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #3c4043; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.1px; text-align: start;">Riding through wide open spaces near Saint-Nicolas-des-Motets</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-13284381899448545622019-09-27T13:15:00.001-07:002021-08-29T04:05:26.262-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 10: Meung to Blois<p dir="ltr">In the morning I walk to the local boulangerie and get a fresh baguette. I can see the racks of baguettes in the back of the shop, having just come out of the oven. Mine is still warm and of course it doesn't survive the walk back without a part of it being eaten. Although I'm not a fan of white bread, there's definitely something to be said for a crunchy crusty warm baguette.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ06J8x5UiOWWAB1tNn0VHofQOa7mYo30k70vwUmB5sMok76KZcPjtfRo9jOW0vREgFUZ2FdMnEEilc8v75XmNM3bmT2L42p_31fxhK89WTMgubyuCLhX8LW6GDe7VEzwwunCLOc9r4aU/s1672/moustachecups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ06J8x5UiOWWAB1tNn0VHofQOa7mYo30k70vwUmB5sMok76KZcPjtfRo9jOW0vREgFUZ2FdMnEEilc8v75XmNM3bmT2L42p_31fxhK89WTMgubyuCLhX8LW6GDe7VEzwwunCLOc9r4aU/s320/moustachecups.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cups with moustache rests (really!)</td></tr></tbody></table>I've planned a short day today and decide that it's time for a little bit of tourism. I'm staying in a town with a château; one that I didn't even know was there but which is well regarded. It doesn't open until 10:00 but that gives me the luxury of a lazy morning and I'll still have enough time for the day's ride. When I get to the château, a full minute's ride from where I'm staying, a bike riding couple I'd seen the evening before has just arrived. Both the guys are very slim and dressed in decidedly non bike riding outfits. No Lycra for them! It's more sequinned shirts, colourful scarves and tight pants.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The château is definitely worth the trip and must be one of the better ones in the region that we've visited over the years. I particularly like the very original attic and the fascinating underground spaces. There's also an "icebox" which is like a wide and very deep well in which they stored ice collected during the winter. According to the description, they managed to keep the ice frozen for at least a year in this way. All it needed was the manpower to cart 100 tonnes of ice from the river and dump it into the well every year. Not something that would be very economical nowadays I would imagine!</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYX1wKehZaezDq4l33wTtNNjUuCmfS-tpql2gTRr18_uUCClXLHR7bJQE6pkOvucxcVfdu-aqQGBgniMwsXwvsldpBb8d8iKCGfCa_kpFRthJX3i39bcn8poUmgVcl8_8pc6iS5hvhsA8/s1672/meungchateau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYX1wKehZaezDq4l33wTtNNjUuCmfS-tpql2gTRr18_uUCClXLHR7bJQE6pkOvucxcVfdu-aqQGBgniMwsXwvsldpBb8d8iKCGfCa_kpFRthJX3i39bcn8poUmgVcl8_8pc6iS5hvhsA8/w400-h300/meungchateau.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Château de Meung-sur-Loire (rear)</td></tr></tbody></table>When I leave the château there's another couple of bikes parked next to mine. A his and hers electric pair although they are very different. Hers is a Dutch style bike, his is a mountain bike (but electric) towing a single-wheeled trailer with an enormous pack on it. He's obviously towing both their luggage as her bike has no bags at all. The couple come out of the château just after me and it turns out they are French, despite the Dutch bike. They're riding the Loire from Nevers, the source, to where the river flows into the sea. I tell the woman she has a good deal, having her husband tow all her luggage. "Yes" she agrees with a grin, "it wasn't his decision." We say our goodbyes and I head off, but 15 minutes later I spot them coming up behind. "Excuse me for overtaking you" apologises the woman, "The electric bike makes it too easy."</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EodRCydfohMOhgck7HxN2r5-RL_oFCuEUt9SnEEytGHjwTNHk5jECe7B3yDv7O7iIoy8G141GdkXmwRg8TuKFCmye3VDGTF27RHUT0VoJHbTJiU21dLF6lLGRGonSV9VIHYonh2KSIk/s1672/powerstationblois.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EodRCydfohMOhgck7HxN2r5-RL_oFCuEUt9SnEEytGHjwTNHk5jECe7B3yDv7O7iIoy8G141GdkXmwRg8TuKFCmye3VDGTF27RHUT0VoJHbTJiU21dLF6lLGRGonSV9VIHYonh2KSIk/s320/powerstationblois.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Centrale Nucléaire de Saint-Laurent-Nouan</td></tr></tbody></table>The ride today is again into the wind, although it's not as relentless as it has been on previous days. I make several stops including a relatively leisurely lunch stop (I have the rest of the baguette and some cheese and paté to finish; all very French). Some of this route I've ridden before and of course the nuclear power station near Blois, which is just by the river, is an obvious landmark that's hard to forget.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Despite the forecast of rain for today, the ride is dry until I'm just 3km from my destination, when there's a shower that's enough for me to have to put my jacket on, but no more. At Blois, which I'm a bit familiar with from previous visits, I am met by the owner of the apartment I have a room in. The apartment is right in the centre of town and is an unexpectedly upmarket place - all high ceilings and parquetry floors. It turns out that Hervé, the owner, is a real estate agent, which probably goes some way to explaining the obviously expensive apartment. I do the usual chores and then remember that I need to get my stamp at the château, which closes soon. Luckily it's not exactly a long walk and in a few minutes I'm there, only to find the ticket office already closed. Of course, they stop allowing entries at least half an hour before it closes so there's some logic in the ticket office closing early. I walk into the main entrance area just as one of the staff members comes out, on her way home I tell her I'm here for my pilgrim stamp and to my surprise, instead of disinterest she says: "We're closed, but give me your credencial and I'll get it stamped for you." And sure enough, a minute later she's back with my stamped credencial. So acts of service and kindness are not quite dead yet here, thankfully.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As I walk back from the château, in the distance I see the blue flashing lights of some police cars parked at an intersection. Getting closer I see that there's a significant police presence and at the same time somewhere in the distance I hear the sounds of a protest. That's two large towns in two days and in each one a protest. As the marchers approach, the police block the intersection. They've done this before and have an air of nonchalance about them - protests like this one are not uncommon in France after all. I have no idea what the march is about, but the main chanted slogan is 'we are not content'. Whether this is a general statement of their attitude to life or whether there's something specific they are not content with isn't clear. From the look of some of the protesters I'd say it's just their general attitude, but I could be wrong.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogZb5sZuJn-LAV3eGdEn9z0vN8EApUAvXJV3A-0cvz34MlR_b314YQOvkbXo1_6IIirgiTMaSqYOZONRGRdS_bOe4wLvnSbxOmpnAzMsIimSAXNt6fRVQ0Hjk9PQJvc8XCC03NZHBdus/s1672/bloisescalier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogZb5sZuJn-LAV3eGdEn9z0vN8EApUAvXJV3A-0cvz34MlR_b314YQOvkbXo1_6IIirgiTMaSqYOZONRGRdS_bOe4wLvnSbxOmpnAzMsIimSAXNt6fRVQ0Hjk9PQJvc8XCC03NZHBdus/s320/bloisescalier.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blois - Escalier Denis-Papin & bike couple</td></tr></tbody></table>I've asked Hervé for a restaurant recommendation; he seems like the type to know his restaurants. I'm walking around until it's late enough to actually go to the restaurant, and there, riding up the street, is the French bike couple; the ones on the electric bikes with him towing a trailer with their luggage. They are late. I wave hello and although they acknowledge me, they ride on, probably looking for their accommodation for the night.<br /></p>
<p dir="ltr">At the restaurant I ask for a table for one. Given that the place is empty except for two guys having an obviously early dinner, I don't expect any issues getting a table. The girl makes a show of leading me to a table then, in an apparent admission that they are not exactly busy, gives up and says that I can sit where I like. So I choose the window table, looking out over the Loire as well as the people passing by. It's nice to have something to look at over dinner, especially when you're dining alone.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So here I am sitting at my window seat looking out to the Loire. There's too many interesting things for me to write about - like the guy in the black t-shirt who has walked back and forth several times now, or the guy with the dreads and colourful knitted jacket who looks at me looking at him. Then suddenly I see the two guys who were at the château this morning walk by (scarves and tight pants, riding bikes). Clearly all of us visiting the château in Meung-sur-Loire this morning had the same idea in terms of how far to ride that day.</p>
<p dir="ltr">There's live music at an outdoor bar set up in the square that my room overlooks. Luckily the windows are reasonably effective at blocking the sound.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy5jJg2JLxGw7bdANYrhO7M8O-5dfjmi6v6bxuVBYIC04JRungxySUv5vtI2z3CfldTHwS1_q6ongd9aLl2oLPEajibETogjpel1Z9iomccGH1SYBQyKC_FG-eUJHE3i3RstztAiUWd1Q/s1672/bloisview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy5jJg2JLxGw7bdANYrhO7M8O-5dfjmi6v6bxuVBYIC04JRungxySUv5vtI2z3CfldTHwS1_q6ongd9aLl2oLPEajibETogjpel1Z9iomccGH1SYBQyKC_FG-eUJHE3i3RstztAiUWd1Q/w640-h480/bloisview.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blois - Pont Jacques-Gabriel Blois</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br />
<p></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-54536504027356832152019-09-26T13:12:00.001-07:002021-08-28T04:43:48.679-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 9: St Denis-de-l'Hotel to Meung<p dir="ltr">I take my time this morning since I've planned a relatively short ride for today. By the end of the day I'll be glad that I did, because of my good friend, the wind. But more about that later. First I'm off to the local patisserie, which is conveniently across the road from my apartment, for a breakfast croissant. I have my croissant with a big bowl of coffee (this is France, breakfast coffee comes in bowls, not cups) <i>chez moi</i> in my apartment. The rain is holding off although the weather looks questionable. In addition to my normal morning chores, I also have the dishes to do; the downside of cooking your own dinner. So it's a late departure today.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIt9ac4s1ACWCHEgWO2-AkJGIbrqI20swFROOXp1AsfoL8f88sHiVbjFeVWc1A7pLbOBNtH_p_d6YalGUTqYHeA4_KfMU4nZjdM2UeYupX-b5WtUFbXz28yMy2KwpqehirEKZhz5odXjM/s1672/tools.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIt9ac4s1ACWCHEgWO2-AkJGIbrqI20swFROOXp1AsfoL8f88sHiVbjFeVWc1A7pLbOBNtH_p_d6YalGUTqYHeA4_KfMU4nZjdM2UeYupX-b5WtUFbXz28yMy2KwpqehirEKZhz5odXjM/s320/tools.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Workshop tools</td></tr></tbody></table>When I come down to leave, I find my host already at work in her workshop. She's making a bird bath in mosaics, complete with a little border of mirrors. So the birds can watch themselves take a bath I suppose. She shows me the garden decorations she's made, including an impressive ceramic snail. There's also a little bird house she's been restoring, "It was made by my father", she explains. I should note here that she is probably in her mid 70s, so it's an old bird house. The garden is all her work too as is the workshop where my bike is stored. I compliment her on the neatly arranged tool board which I'd admired yesterday when I parked my bike. "I like things to be organised" she explains, and it's obvious in her attention to detail in the apartment as well.</p>
<p dir="ltr">When you spend the day riding your bike you see a lot of interesting people. Today's selection:<br />
A tall slim man, wearing a hat and yellow trousers, with a long dark green overcoat. A 'gentleman' you might call him; he was perhaps a notary before he retired (I imagine). A short and rather large woman walking her tiny dog, probably taking it out for its morning shit on the footpath. The old tramp on his bicycle laden with his worldly possessions, checking out the rubbish bins. The kid following me on his bicycle as I ride through his village. The young mother at the supermarket checkout, holding a baby and trying to manage a toddler while paying for a frozen pizza for dinner tonight. The old man pottering in his veggie patch, and the old woman bent over tending her tomato plants. Two women walking along the path determinedly with their Nordic walking sticks, click, clack, click, clack. A weathered woman who's probably younger than she looks, walking her equally weathered bicycle along the path, probably because she can't ride into this wind (I don't really blame her; it's not easy). She doesn't look impressed with the whole thing. The group of bored policeman hanging around the big iron gates to the main police station on Orléans, one of whom sees me coming and pulls open the gate to let me through (the police station is in the same place as the place you get your pilgrim stamp). The Asian guy on his bike, who is standing straight up on the pedals, staring ahead, like he's holding a yoga pose, as the wind pushes him along. Not once, but twice I see a black guy, wearing jeans and a suit jacket striding purposefully along the path, a long way from anywhere. Where is he going? Where did he come from? Why is he wearing a suit jacket?</p>
<p dir="ltr">Two guys of a certain age (but younger than me!) are riding on the dyke into the blustery headwind. "It's blowy" says one. "We're not going to make it to Tours today". Tours is a long way away, I am thinking, you're not going to make it to Tours from here any day. The older of the two is carrying two panniers, a random bag, a rucksack on his back and a big beer belly. The other has lightened his load by taking off his helmet and trying it to the bike.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I come up behind a couple riding fairly lightly laden bikes. I pull up alongside the woman. By her calf muscles I can see that she's been doing this sort of thing for a long time. She's well weathered and probably older than me, or maybe she just looks that way. It's a bit blowy, I volunteer, staying with the theme of the day. "You could say that", she responds. "If this keeps up we're going to take the train at Orléans."</p>
<p dir="ltr">Up ahead I see a couple of riders coming towards me, both decked out in matching brightly coloured tops, riding neat and matching bikes, wearing matching helmets. A young couple, probably not locals (French bike riders just look, somehow, French). I've seen more bike riders this morning than I've seen all week I realise.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Later in the day I see another young couple, also riding essentially matching bikes and wearing matching gear. But these bikes are more loaded than any I've ever seen: they both have panniers front and rear. I can also see sleeping mats and what's probably a tent tired to one of the bikes and there's probably a kitchen sink in there as well somewhere. I don't think they are here to ride the Loire a Vélo with the day trippers, they are more likely to be on the EV3 to Norway, or maybe the EV6 to Switzerland. Both these routes follow the Loire here.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I am entertained by a dogfight (or should that be birdfight) between what looks like a seagull and a bunch of crows in the blustery wind. Are they attacking each other, or just playing?</p>
<p dir="ltr">I've stopped for the usual break. It's blowing a furious gale; the forecast was for winds of up to 45km/h and it certainly feels like it. The bike is wobbling on its stand but I've got the angle right this time, so it stays upright. Now a word about tissues. Why is it that every time you stop at a likely spot to discreetly do whatever it is you have to do, the ground is littered with little white signs that people before you have had the same idea? There should be a campaign to stop people using those little packets of facial tissues, which don't degrade and so stay there marking their spot for ages, and instead use good old toilet paper which <i>does </i>degrade and won't hang around for years.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The sun comes out and it actually starts to get a bit warm, despite the wind. So I stop and take off a layer of clothing and put on some sunscreen. I sit a little while enjoying the sun and then set off again. Predictably, within a minute or two, the sun disappears behind thick grey clouds and stays there until I get to Orléans. I probably should have known better.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicbxvUuSrdvHZk6Xgau6NcdvVhrPF_D-7mJskNBMcdjX0uu-J8Jb-tB-WHGi8qPTLmTU-1WY4zalFie_5fc2XQOXAbyvxFOtWsmbFN6LDK4WGotZcrW4atSrxCRBinZYb3ZMtXHOKJ9xo/s1672/tractors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicbxvUuSrdvHZk6Xgau6NcdvVhrPF_D-7mJskNBMcdjX0uu-J8Jb-tB-WHGi8qPTLmTU-1WY4zalFie_5fc2XQOXAbyvxFOtWsmbFN6LDK4WGotZcrW4atSrxCRBinZYb3ZMtXHOKJ9xo/s320/tractors.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farmers protesting in Orléans</td></tr></tbody></table>I ride into the city centre, which is familiar from previous visits. It's amazing how you can go from riding all alone on a little path to riding through city streets full of cars and people, all with in the space of a few minutes. Reaching avenue Jeanne D'Arc I come up to a group of motorbike police standing at an intersection, looking rather disinterested. It's only when I enter the intersection and look right, towards the cathedral, that I realise what's going on. There's a huge farmers protest. The first thought that comes to my mind is along the lines of, only in France. This is of course not strictly speaking correct, but at the moment protests in France are certainly popular (as they have been in France various forms for centuries in fact. Since the French Revolution the French have a reputation to maintain, after all.) The whole length of the main avenue leading up to the cathedral is blocked by a seemingly endless line of tractors, many decorated with various protest signs. I ride past the line of tractors to the cathedral and then to the tourist information office, to get my stamp. When I arrive, thanks to the wonders of Google, my phone remembers that I've been here before (even though this phone hasn't) and automatically connects to the WiFi while I am standing outside. It's here that I go the main police station and the bored policeman opens the gate for me.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MJ08HpIXDS2Aa5M95S3hvjKTLmZYFwVHVGAiVX-AVXdVnIXtxZUJj7HTknpK4YlioRGnAS29PQKOFDiOSuMq73IjYsvm1xos92H0xg_ntAX-PYSl2cQJwfwyTPPJ7dAWnHRYUrUPorA/s1672/loireponteurope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MJ08HpIXDS2Aa5M95S3hvjKTLmZYFwVHVGAiVX-AVXdVnIXtxZUJj7HTknpK4YlioRGnAS29PQKOFDiOSuMq73IjYsvm1xos92H0xg_ntAX-PYSl2cQJwfwyTPPJ7dAWnHRYUrUPorA/s320/loireponteurope.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Loire from Pont de l'Europe</td></tr></tbody></table>A new experience: I'm riding across the Pont de l'Europe which crosses the Loire at Orléans, And the wind is so strong, blowing directly from the side, that I find I'm having to lean the bike into the wind to be able to ride straight ahead. It's a bit like a 'wing down' crosswind landing in a plane. Except that you'd never be able to land a plane with this much crosswind. Amazing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">"A bit blowy" says a woman with a grin, as she effortlessly glides past me on her electric bike.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Since Orléans I've been riding out of sight of the Loire. Near Meung, the path meets the river again. There are white caps on the waves on the water. I have not been imagining that it's very windy! </p>
<p dir="ltr">Despite the wind and the numerous stops, I arrive within 15 minutes of my planned time, not bad going! I find my little apartment for the night, all codes and key boxes to get in, and it works exactly as advertised. The apartment isn't quite what I'd expected but will be fine for the night. My thoughts of eating in tonight disappear however; after last night's cozy little place this place feels just too sad to be sitting here eating by myself. As it happens that will prove to be a blessing in disguise. I do my usual chores and then go for a quick ride to the local shops to buy some things for breakfast, which I will eat in my apartment, after going to the boulangerie in the morning for dinner fresh bread. Then I lock my bike inside my apartment (I'll sleep next to my bike tonight) before heading into the town to look around. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It turns out that, exceptionally, there's a concert on tonight at the château. It's at 19:30, which is dinner time. But I've seen a quirky looking little restaurant which caught my eye riding into the town, which has a board that says 'service continu', so I decide to give that a try. It is indeed a very quirky place, very casual with various handwritten signs listing their offerings (which seem to be mainly centred around drinking). There's a piano, some wind chimes, random pieces of furniture, some paintings, sculptures, shelves of books, games (two sets of Pictionary) and various other things. The woman at the, rather random, bar counter says: "You want to drink something?" I ask whether it's possible to eat this early (it's 18:00, much too early for dinner by French standards). "A dessert?" she proposes. No, actually I'm looking to have dinner, I respond. I'm not sure how it comes up in the conversation, but I mention that I am Australian. "Really?" says the guy with the red beard in the background in what is, presumably the kitchen area, although it's just in the area behind the bar. Up until now he hasn't participated in our conversation, "where?" This is an unexpected development since French people don't normally exhibit much knowledge of Australian geography, but I follow his lead and tell him Sydney, why does he ask? "I spent two years in Perth" he explains, and somehow, now that we have this bond, all doors open and my request to actually eat something is dealt with by him going out of his way to help. Ten minutes later I'm seated with a simple meal and a carafe of local wine and we're discussing the relative merits of Australia and France. It's that sort of restaurant. I ask him if he liked Australia so much, why did he come back to France? "You know, the culture" he explains, assuming, correctly, that this statement needs no further explanation. I'm thinking, this is so much better than sitting in my sad little apartment by myself.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2KPFpWKlBm7AHE6EdjfMzpC9dMmAFCeguZXORJtM1qOxYOzSWUJTKnPeB_F9rbfgiSwctBJRXRC57wyuzE6r4rCgX4y0ljpIvh4irBGjG5OeGKimVOIQYk8CUTUuqBTDyTHV7-mDwUw/s1672/concert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2KPFpWKlBm7AHE6EdjfMzpC9dMmAFCeguZXORJtM1qOxYOzSWUJTKnPeB_F9rbfgiSwctBJRXRC57wyuzE6r4rCgX4y0ljpIvh4irBGjG5OeGKimVOIQYk8CUTUuqBTDyTHV7-mDwUw/w320-h240/concert.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mozart in Meung</td></tr></tbody></table>I've finished dinner in good time for the concert, so I stroll over to the château (you can do that in this sort of village, just pop over to the local château) and am seated in plenty of time for the concert, which as it happens starts 15 minutes late anyway. It's a full house (it's not such a big house, it must be said) and everyone is enthusiastic. There's some welcome speeches, including thanking some local dignitaries for showing up (they stand and now to the rest of the audience), and then it's Mozart for the next hour or so. Not a bad way to finish the day.</p><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwwhynTQf3BA4MZwZ2vNKABCFmeJY4yMS_lqI-G5D68aZgrATvR-XIhlnNo9Z8udTuPkgBvhffl39e6hiN23kxexfP3b__895aExaf0mQcd6TsnatIDVYaqmsS7scnqd267-6kJgsheU/s1672/meung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwwhynTQf3BA4MZwZ2vNKABCFmeJY4yMS_lqI-G5D68aZgrATvR-XIhlnNo9Z8udTuPkgBvhffl39e6hiN23kxexfP3b__895aExaf0mQcd6TsnatIDVYaqmsS7scnqd267-6kJgsheU/w640-h480/meung.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meung-sur-Loire - Château by night</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-7036933729150736242019-09-25T12:37:00.001-07:002021-08-27T05:16:52.553-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 8: Briare to St-Denis-de-l'Hôtel<p dir="ltr">Yesterday when I was repairing my second puncture I was a little less organised than I might normally have been, given that I was out in the open with rain threatening, and so under a little bit of time pressure. So despite arranging all the bits I was working with in as orderly a fashion as I could manage, I still managed to lose the little valve dust cap. No big deal, it's just a dust cap, but somehow it was annoying. I looked everywhere for it, but of course a little black cap on a wet black path with lots a bits of gravel and so forth is hard to see. So no more dust cap. This morning as I am packing my things in the B&B, suddenly, there on the table next to my handlebar bag is the dust cap. It's almost as if during the night the dust cap fairy has come and put it there for me to find.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I've seen quite a few squirrels running across my path in the last few days. Today there's one on the side of the path, complete with an acorn in its mouth, a bit like a caricature. Just how you'd imagine a squirrel if you were going to draw one. Very cute.</p><p dir="ltr">My route will take me past Gien and I decide to stop here to visit the Musée de la Faïencerie de Gien (Ceramic Museum - really a factory outlet). I want to do something a little unusual - for me - which is buy a souvenir to take home. And this place has a few memories as well. Not that something ceramic is really a very practical souvenir to be taking on a bike ride! I buy a couple of small decorative plates, which I carefully pack into the panier bags.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgmnC7Z-KtdmFPkqINd3T07SR5z-Knw_CrmGil-Y2IJQy01HkBEXZtxHovaig55VKRuRh4OTyz5digOMe9ynfCzvq26_RTXFbv2igwb5NbKKBeHnhN12-TsURhZLCiO8VdrkcSRSlayQ/s1672/bikeflowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgmnC7Z-KtdmFPkqINd3T07SR5z-Knw_CrmGil-Y2IJQy01HkBEXZtxHovaig55VKRuRh4OTyz5digOMe9ynfCzvq26_RTXFbv2igwb5NbKKBeHnhN12-TsURhZLCiO8VdrkcSRSlayQ/s320/bikeflowers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bicycle Flowers</td></tr></tbody></table>The route goes past a little village called Saint Gondon. I make a short detour into the village, passing a house with an obviously avid gardener. He has big pots of roses along the footpath in front of his house, each with a little name tag. His (or maybe it's her) garden is a mix of flowers and vegetables, of all sorts. He also has some old bikes, complete with baskets of flowers. In fact that's a bit of a thing I've noticed in various places; people seem to take their old bicycles and put them out on display with plants and other decorations. In this village it's definitely a theme because it turns out there are lots of decorative old bikes on display.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So I've stopped for a pee break. I put the bike on its stand as usual and am standing a little way away doing what I have to do. The wind is quite windy, and then it becomes very gusty. I have a passing thought that with this much wind my bike could be blown over and just as I'm thinking this I turn around to see my bike topple over into a ditch, rather ignominiously. Somehow I must have known this was going to happen. And you can guess that this wind is not a helpful tailwind today, so the ride is hard.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Speaking about being clairvoyant and seeing things happen before they actually happen, the night before last I had a dream about riding my bike, as you do when you're riding a bike I suppose. I dreamt I was riding down a really steep gravely path and my rear wheel kept sliding and skidding as I tried to brake and I couldn't slow myself down. I looked down and realised the rear tyre was flat so I had to use the front brakes to try to stop myself from losing control going down the steep hill. And the next day I get two punctures (both on the rear wheel). Very strange.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOepFAt8eL7AXDNu5P0PJRK77mysB3R7C1pJ2M_-imgIJ9lPXBXRMCEDbqXU2_rmt_IHnV82hsVw7KJZaauNz469lEDroUCjNw_q66xPbYFMDgQO4M0qCZh7n0dBd3vxeQMtnuvu98p2A/s1672/chairtree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOepFAt8eL7AXDNu5P0PJRK77mysB3R7C1pJ2M_-imgIJ9lPXBXRMCEDbqXU2_rmt_IHnV82hsVw7KJZaauNz469lEDroUCjNw_q66xPbYFMDgQO4M0qCZh7n0dBd3vxeQMtnuvu98p2A/s320/chairtree.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forest chair</td></tr></tbody></table>I pass a chair tried to a signpost at a small side road. A bit odd I think, maybe the person that lives up that path has put it there it as a marker? You know, along the lines of: 'Turn right at the sign with the chair tied to it, you can't miss it'. A little later I pass another one. Definitely odd. Then another. This is not a coincidental hanging of chairs. There's plastic chairs, metal chairs, and now I've stopped at a signpost with a wicker chair. What's going on here? In the next town there are more chairs, some decorated with all sorts of interesting things. One with carved cats, several with flowers, one with a dummy sitting in it, chairs that are painted in bright colours. There's even chairs attached to trees in the forest as I leave the town. Like the dust cap fairy and the tin of fish, this is probably a mystery that will never be solved. [edit] A bit of Internet research shows that the council of the village of Lion-en-Sullias has encouraged the residents to brighten up their street frontage with an imaginatively-decorated chair - apparently in order to promote tourism.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm riding on the dyke that goes along the Loire River. So I have lovely views and am also ideally positioned to catch the full impact of the wind. The crows (there are a lot of crows) are enjoying playing in the wind, gliding, hovering and swooping. I am not enjoying it quite so much.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I ride into Châteauneuf-sur-Loire and just as I arrive at the church, right on queue, the bells toll the hour. It's four o'clock. This is another one of those dust cap fairy mysteries; how is it that so often I arrive in a town or village just as the bells chime?</p>
<p dir="ltr">In a field off to my left there's a tractor towing a shit spreader. He's a long way away but since the wind is blowing from that direction, I get the full olfactory benefit of his labours as I ride past. Lovely! It reminds me of the first day's ride when I saw a shit spreader in the distance heading at an angle towards the road I was riding on. Clearly our paths were going to cross, depending on who got there first. I had no chance of course and so was preparing myself for the worst, but luckily before he reached the road he turned off the shit dispenser and turned around for a return run. That day the prevailing wind was in my favour, at least insofar as me being exposed to the shit spreader; it was most definitely not in my favour for my rate of progress.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL7mCdrgVNc8-tHh33qEfHl9b0yxnsidz2HjWJvLvVHs1c51bAOw6QYMK7SBbmFv46GzjCrRfjUORt2r_QtqgWLomTHGHulsr-q-bY2yn0W3iGOKPOkT1a9tFmuU_XZFzDJ7W5jDIBH4/s1672/Sully-sur-Loire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL7mCdrgVNc8-tHh33qEfHl9b0yxnsidz2HjWJvLvVHs1c51bAOw6QYMK7SBbmFv46GzjCrRfjUORt2r_QtqgWLomTHGHulsr-q-bY2yn0W3iGOKPOkT1a9tFmuU_XZFzDJ7W5jDIBH4/s320/Sully-sur-Loire.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castell de Sully-sur-Loire</td></tr></tbody></table>I ride into a village - more a collection of farm buildings than anything else really - with the interesting name 'Lazy'. Of course in French this word has no other meaning, it's just a place name, but if you look at the name with English eyes, so to speak, it does seem a bit odd. 'Messy' is another place like that I've ridden through, although in that case the name of the place was a pretty good reflection of the condition of the town. In Lazy there is a pervasive sweet smell of beetroots in the air, and I soon discover why: there's an enormous sugar beet factory here (most of the sugar in Europe comes from Sugar Beets and not sugar cane). This is the destination of those huge tractors towing huge trailers laden with piles of beets that I've seen negotiating impossibly small and narrow streets in little villages.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I arrive at my destination 15 minutes before the time I'd estimated to my host yesterday. Not bad, considering it's been a long day's ride with multiple stops and lots of wind and my departure time was dictated by the size of the breakfast I was served this morning (it was enormous). It's also the longest ride so far on this trip. My home for tonight is a lovely little studio apartment above the host's house. She is also lovely and clearly wants to make sure everything is just right, which it seems to be. On a table there's a jar with a handwritten label: "Petits gâteaux de bienvenue" (Little welcome cookies). It's that sort of place. There's a supermarket within walking distance and rain is threatening and the restaurant choices seem pretty sad. Since I have an apartment with a little kitchen at my disposal I decide to eat in tonight and cook my own dinner. I manage to make it to the shop and back with my groceries before the rains finally come, and I can smugly sit inside and cook my own dinner knowing I won't have to get wet today after all.</p>
<p dir="ltr">My apartment comes with a little courtyard garden, with lots of flowering plants and - of course - an old bicycle with a basket of flowers growing from it.<br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIaSnmPX3x1x72OyoqhittbyjF4nfLdu2BgTvPc80UaC2MHolc8PCFB-NpJPVFFxWVBwPh0SYUYjHXuIwaV2Gwd84OX2YTWh4doUxgofZYbID-xkBQTDKFB47KXZrzTOlqmWDeBq7U50/s1672/Loire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIaSnmPX3x1x72OyoqhittbyjF4nfLdu2BgTvPc80UaC2MHolc8PCFB-NpJPVFFxWVBwPh0SYUYjHXuIwaV2Gwd84OX2YTWh4doUxgofZYbID-xkBQTDKFB47KXZrzTOlqmWDeBq7U50/w640-h480/Loire.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Loire near Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-70010436774899248472019-09-24T15:04:00.001-07:002021-08-26T04:43:46.774-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 7: Montargis to Briare<p dir="ltr">A dark morning with rain (as forecast). I get my wet weather gear on and set off. The first stop is at the tourist office to get a stamp for my credencial (pilgrim passport). I also ask about the condition of the route path along the Canal de Briare which I plan to follow. This morning is asked my host and she thought that some of it may have been sealed and also told me that they'd spoiled it by putting fences along it so you couldn't fall in anymore. We used to go swimming when we were kids, she added. True to form, both these pieces of information will prove to be less than accurate (the fences and the path surface, not the part about them swimming as kids). But back to the tourist office. The woman there tells me proudly that their region has sealed the whole length of the path, at least the past that's in their region. I don't know about the other regions, she adds unhelpfully. So far, the entire length (I've ridden about half) has been sealed and is in excellent condition.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Along the canal there have regularly been small platforms, like mini jetties. I had thought that these might be for boats to tie up to for short stops, although there are other obvious areas for that, equipped with bollards and often even picnic facilities. Then I discovered what they were for: fishing. I've seen lots of fishermen along the way. They are always men and almost always come in pairs, although you do see the occasional solitary one. Then I came across a pair sitting on one of this little platforms and it dawned on me that this might be their intended use. They've probably been installed by the French federation of fishermen. There seems to be a federation for just about everything in France; fishing, camping, caravanning, kayaking and so forth. So why is it that fishing is a predominantly male pastime? It's like cycling. You don't ever seen to see female cyclists decked out in their Lycra riding past in their pelotons. Actually I realise that I've made these observations before but there's still no good answer.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvqQ1YkcMcBUksEmzNXehhjcYeiSwrsi8trbX4dygM__fy0RuwQFHOtS45wubS6W-QCDpoGzcHqCLALcwDm8mVUg5ljNibVK-ADgqmtzZoNOS37DpGVZsgvQwf0e6Em4GMBJ3FjvlCAI/s1672/tin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvqQ1YkcMcBUksEmzNXehhjcYeiSwrsi8trbX4dygM__fy0RuwQFHOtS45wubS6W-QCDpoGzcHqCLALcwDm8mVUg5ljNibVK-ADgqmtzZoNOS37DpGVZsgvQwf0e6Em4GMBJ3FjvlCAI/s320/tin.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emergency reserves?</td></tr></tbody></table>The rain isn't very heavy and lasts less than an hour. I get brave enough to take off my wet weather gear and although there's the occasional drizzle it's not as bad as I had thought it would be. At Montbouy I ride into the little village (which has, like so many little villages in France, an impressively large church) and spot a boulangerie. Since I had only a banana for breakfast I convince myself I'm entitled to a morning croissant. Once inside I throw caution to the wind and buy a piece of the freshly made pizza for my lunch. Not very French, I know, even if they call it a 'fougasse' and not pizza. I eat my croissant under a little shelter tacked onto the side of the church; it's raining a little. Something in the wall of the church catches my eye. There's a small niche in the wall, nothing more than a couple of the stones that the wall is made of are missing. But what's caught my eye isn't the niche, it's the tin of mackerel (unopened) and plate which is in the niche. There must be a story there; is it some form of offering? Or maybe a cache left there by someone for later use? Just another one of those little mysteries that will never get solved.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I continue my ride and the rain gets a bit heavier. I stop under the shelter of a large tree and put on my jacket. I get back on the bike to ride off, but something's clearly not right. Sure enough, I have a puncture! My first puncture in 4,000km of riding, so really I can't complain. But I do anyway. It's raining; not the best conditions to be repairing my tyre. And it's the rear tyre, slightly more difficult to work with. Still, it could be worse. I'm near Dammarie-sur-Loing, a little town, so there's a backup if it turns out that I need it. And the next lock is just a short walk ahead, maybe I can find some shelter at one of the buildings there. So I walk the bike to the lock and as luck would have it one of the buildings there does indeed have a little bit of a sheltered spot, just enough for me to set up my bicycle repair workshop and stay relatively dry. I unpack the bike, take the wheel off, find the puncture, repair it and put everything back together again. Could be worse. Except now it's raining heavily so I decide it must be Pizza time. Anyway, I feel I've earned it. By the time I've finished my pizza then rain has eased if a bit and I continue my ride.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I've been riding along the canal for two days and have yet to see an actual boat. They appear to be doing maintenance work on one of the sections of the canal, so perhaps that explains the lack of traffic. I later hear that this is also related to the fact that there's not enough water available to 'run' the canal. Yesterday when I was riding along the Seine there were, of course, quite a lot of boats and a lot of barges. The barges tend to double as houseboats and often have a car parked on them, and often also have homely things like a BBQ and out plants on the decks. The other thing that I find interesting is they all seem to have Lace curtains, I guess perhaps this is the influence of the lady of the house(boat). I even passed what appeared to be an impromptu barge workshop, complete with a very derelict looking barge; it had lace curtains.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5qTc-VOCuxNNHtUUl8EZ0QUAO-r-Vfx_t2qWYbzywbYenKZDnZ4EEk-UJDOR7fw8slz0AhqfUIvTCR5irpIKRYIS-U86_A8UPw5gT0XXq9YBNguCnzNas08FzDpqpiss15Wnk4xFMGw/s1672/trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5qTc-VOCuxNNHtUUl8EZ0QUAO-r-Vfx_t2qWYbzywbYenKZDnZ4EEk-UJDOR7fw8slz0AhqfUIvTCR5irpIKRYIS-U86_A8UPw5gT0XXq9YBNguCnzNas08FzDpqpiss15Wnk4xFMGw/w400-h300/trees.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canal riding</td></tr></tbody></table>So my puncture is repaired and I'm on my way again, following the tow path, enjoying the new bitumen. Until it suddenly ends. There's a big sign saying end of the resurfacing works. Find your own way from here, or words to that effect. So I navigate along some local roads until I spot a bike route sign again, back to a sealed surface on the tow path. I stop at Rogny-les-sept-ecluses which is a little place that seems to exist because of the fact that the famous seven locks (now incorporated into the name of the town) were built here. A little bit of history: the canal de Briare, which I am following, was actually built in the 17th century, in the time of Henri IV. That in itself I find just astounding. The lock keeper's houses all have dates marked on them, mostly around 1888, which is already old enough. But the actual canal and its innovative system of locks, dates from 1642. The canal is a so-called 'summit level canal', meaning that it joins two rivers, but passes over terrain in between which is higher than both the rivers. There's 36 locks and the canal rises 41m and then falls back down 85m. Which explains why although I'm riding along a flat tow path I've also been gaining and then losing altitude. The 7 locks was an interesting system of directly connected locks, to change the level quickly. It turned out that this wasn't very practical once the amount of traffic on the canal increased and the height change was subsequently managed using more widely spaced locks.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Just after the 7 locks, the path abruptly ends again and becomes grass, but at least it's been mowed. I remember reading about this section, something along the lines of that it's an impassable forest unless it's just been mowed. I figure this should be ridable so we'll see how that goes. As it turns out, it doesn't go for long because as soon as I get back on the bike I sense that same 'deflated' feeling again. Sure enough, I have another puncture! This must be a sign that I should stay on the sealed path.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkBluMrbAP0J-a5pA9l7EUP8P67RN-N1Q7Zk17zHyKbm4LJQmAQGiuThKEMmePmEV-Q67Q2PDIv-2MDo-Jw2rsyELOYbJGwlfGs_IUJ1DWam6pDK8U06ptHBswe4IzKGtR_ZD021xgWc/s1672/repair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkBluMrbAP0J-a5pA9l7EUP8P67RN-N1Q7Zk17zHyKbm4LJQmAQGiuThKEMmePmEV-Q67Q2PDIv-2MDo-Jw2rsyELOYbJGwlfGs_IUJ1DWam6pDK8U06ptHBswe4IzKGtR_ZD021xgWc/s320/repair.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canal-side repairs</td></tr></tbody></table>So there I am with the bike in pieces and my bags arranged on the ground around it when a guy arrives in one of those mini cars you don't need a licence for (a rather odd concept, only in France.) He's friendly and helpful and explains that with the wet weather the rubber gets softer so it's obvious that I would get punctures. "If you want to cut rubber, you wet it first", he explains. "They use flint for the gravel paths here and it can be really sharp" he continues. I'm not sure whether this information is meant to reassure me, but it doesn't. My second puncture is right next to the first, meaning I either missed it the first time or there something still in the tyre which has re-punctured the tube. Neither should be the case since I was pretty thorough with the first repair. But I check the inside of the tyre again, obviously more carefully this time, and sure enough discover a tiny sliver of flint inside the tyre. I must have missed it the first time. The guy obviously has experience with these paths!</p>
<p dir="ltr">Did I mention wind in an earlier post? That wind was from the NE when I was riding in that direction and so was a headwind. Now I'm riding to the SW, so that same wind would have been a nice tailwind now. But of course it doesn't work that way in real life: yesterday and today there has indeed been wind, and there's quite a lot of it, but it has turned and it's now from the SW bringing the rain with it and meaning that, yet again, I have a headwind.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm getting closer to my destination when I come to a bridge where two guys are working; they're replacing all the timber decking and the bridge is barricaded. I start a mental calculation of how far I am going to have to double back to detour and it's not a nice number. But then I realise they are packing up so I approach the guy and plead my case; can I cross? It's going to cost you, is his cheeky reply. Actually, we were just about to open it, you can be the first to cross, he continues. Just think, if I hadn't had those two punctures is have arrived her while they were still working on the bridge and probably would have had to detour around it. Funny how things work out sometimes.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFaUdpG0WdPWz3eSAO7bJCSos-1vvjo02fX0IlZKn3bErQ21vZawsj4T-NRe4CoYWwMYaRWCv8BypwJWw-AERheWgdIQhDL7aKJmXzQC9md60cqv5ORguwmDeEBNGQWkXDrAxv4lrfRk/s1672/briare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFaUdpG0WdPWz3eSAO7bJCSos-1vvjo02fX0IlZKn3bErQ21vZawsj4T-NRe4CoYWwMYaRWCv8BypwJWw-AERheWgdIQhDL7aKJmXzQC9md60cqv5ORguwmDeEBNGQWkXDrAxv4lrfRk/w400-h300/briare.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Briare after the rains</td></tr></tbody></table>I arrive at Briare, where the famous bridge is that takes the canal over the Loire river. The heavens open with an impressive downpour forcing me, and several others, to shelter with the rubbish bins under an awning until it passes. Then the sun comes out, there's an equally impressive rainbow and the bridge looks stunning, glistening in the bright sunlight.<br /></p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm staying at an old farm complex near a small town. According to my host, who does actually know something about the local amenities, there are three restaurants and two fast food takeaway pizza places. Not bad for a little town, although I suppose it's location on the Loire cycle route might have something to do with this. The first restaurant I know from my research, and it's highly rated. It's also closed tonight. The other two are both open. I ride into town and find both of the open restaurants closed. One has a little sign saying 'closed for renovation' and the other has a single light on inside but otherwise no indication of any activity nor why it isn't open. One of the pizza places is not doing table service tonight, only takeaway. The other looks decidedly dodgy. Given that I had a piece of pizza for lunch, pizza isn't at the top of my things-I-want-to-eat-tonight list. It's not looking good. I ride back to the restaurant that had a light on and notice that there are now some more lights on. There's a woman looking out the door. I ride up and, even though the place doesn't look very appealing, I am happy to discover that it's now actually open. So in I go. The woman, who obviously has seen me coming offers to go round the back and open up her courtyard for me so I can park the bike safely.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It turns out to be an unexpectedly good evening, with my low expectations being significantly exceeded. The woman is the owner, and she's running the show alone tonight. For a while it looks like it's going to be just her and me, but a bit later two other guys arrive, Parisians who are passing through for work. My entire meal, including the wine, is essentially custom designed according to my requests. She opens a bottle of the local wine for me, so I can have a small carafe of it instead of the standard carafe wine (even though this wine is technically only available by the bottle), she makes various changes to the meal based on our discussions and my requests, she prepares some cheese that's not on the menu and so forth. It's like eating at her place, which I suppose I am. A nice outcome after all.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It is, of course, pitch black during the ride along the bike path to my farm B&B. Again, I am glad to have good lights on the bike. Dinner has taken over 2 1/2 hours although it didn't seem like that long.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCXzp8YujaYoKwbzMn8ni16qOBZL3LGmKPDfMsAAYfogvQWCzeptb7p69wYwCU-WmmKfuVNs2CUgvkwLdjg98NCwnXs-4_tc3sIEe6FU44hsAXtlKmQ4gAX0wS_8MZNDXB0vFvVtm19Y/s1672/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCXzp8YujaYoKwbzMn8ni16qOBZL3LGmKPDfMsAAYfogvQWCzeptb7p69wYwCU-WmmKfuVNs2CUgvkwLdjg98NCwnXs-4_tc3sIEe6FU44hsAXtlKmQ4gAX0wS_8MZNDXB0vFvVtm19Y/w640-h480/farm.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Briare - sleeping at the farm</td></tr></tbody></table></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-79871618432287603432019-09-23T14:27:00.001-07:002021-08-26T04:17:05.610-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 6: Fontainebleau to Montargis<p dir="ltr">This morning I decide that maybe I've been eating too many croissants and baguettes and other nice things found in French boulangeries. So I decide that I'll have fruit today and buy an apple and a banana at the local Carrefour City, conveniently close to my apartment. Then on the way back to the apartment I pass a nice looking boulangerie and buy a pain aux raisins for morning tea. I justify this because the raisins are fruit after all.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Some time later I'm sitting on a bollard. That's less unusual than it might sound given that I'm riding along the Seine River and I've stopped at the first set of locks I've come to. And at locks you need something to tie the boats on to when they're waiting for the lock to open, hence the bollard. It's quiet. In fact that's something that you notice when you ride a bike through rural France - the place is so quiet and there's almost nobody around. </p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUSYmRJFKr_6HUAP9GhzZTyqQOSWZsCyRWWasEk0K6xUw5AMr38M8f6bOi08eKGaf-seUg_R9l2KVB4VfSTt9fZRN1aUDgpKRoN-uCgNZ5iBc06fa21RD6PAY9bfXdYwuQs0c9-ZBr2rY/s1672/boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUSYmRJFKr_6HUAP9GhzZTyqQOSWZsCyRWWasEk0K6xUw5AMr38M8f6bOi08eKGaf-seUg_R9l2KVB4VfSTt9fZRN1aUDgpKRoN-uCgNZ5iBc06fa21RD6PAY9bfXdYwuQs0c9-ZBr2rY/s320/boat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This barge is "rooted"</td></tr></tbody></table>Last night I was looking at various potential bike routes from Fontainebleau heading south when I discovered the Eurovelo 3 route. The Eurovelo routes are a whole network of bike routes throughout Europe, very well organised and covering some impressive distances. The EV3 is a pilgrim route that goes from Norway to Santiago and would be quite a ride if you did the whole thing. I discover that it passes close to Fontainebleau and then follows the river and canals south. Perfect! Bike paths along rivers are generally a nice choice: they are flat, and there's generally lots to see along the way. Easy choice.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The route makes a little detour through a small town (near the lock and the bollard). I'm riding along a narrow street and up ahead is a group (a gaggle?) of teenage schoolgirls. They are all, predictably, looking at their smartphones as they walk to school and are, of course, completely oblivious to their surroundings. I ding my little bell. No response. I ding it some more. Still no response. It's not until I am literally riding amongst them that they suddenly become aware of me. Just as well I'm a bike and not a car coming out of a side street.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Some time later, on a smooth gravel section of the path along the Canal du Loing, I hear the scrunch of tyres on gravel coming up behind and then a guy on a bike pulls up alongside. We chat; the usual stuff about where you're from and where are you heading and so on. He's not your normal French bike rider by a long shot. No Lycra to be seen, and an easygoing conversational attitude. Then he says: "I went to Santiago once, in a truck. I hated it." I'm thinking he might have been a truck driver or something (he is wearing work boots and orange work pants). "I hate them but my wife likes camping cars", he explains. His 'truck' is in fact his camping car. "This is my commute" he adds a bit later, now talking about the bike ride. "5 km along here every morning and afternoon, I love it." Sure beats sitting in traffic like other people, I add. "Yes I did that for three years, lost three hours every day and hated every minute. I'm a high school teacher", he adds by way of explanation; not that this really explains anything. "Four hours every day, that's enough", he adds with a grin.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOMWl3rW72hNCE7ucE4lyQgrvJSP1WM5sSoKrNP1V7wVcinlI_jrx0M7WUHA5FZ71GEIT_5FHLko3GjlPS5oaGexmfcelkVcGnMNQY_9LEpcEdcgENfuTxnP7sFhvLmla2Aolw1_tgLg/s1672/canal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOMWl3rW72hNCE7ucE4lyQgrvJSP1WM5sSoKrNP1V7wVcinlI_jrx0M7WUHA5FZ71GEIT_5FHLko3GjlPS5oaGexmfcelkVcGnMNQY_9LEpcEdcgENfuTxnP7sFhvLmla2Aolw1_tgLg/w400-h300/canal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canal riding</td></tr></tbody></table>I am serenely riding along the Chemin de halage - the canal tow path - I hear the 'ting' of a bicycle bell. That's odd I think - rather illogically - to myself, I didn't ring my bell. You don't normally hear bicycle bells here so the only one I am used to hearing is my own. I come to my senses and move over to the side of the path and seconds later a rather large woman zooms past on her electric bike, with no visible effort at all. No sign of recognition either, apart from the bell.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm staying at a couple's house just outside the centre of Montargis. I navigate to the address and find myself at what at first impression looks like a 'standard' French house of the suburbs, probably about 50 years old. Something is a bit odd, but I can't put my finger on it.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I push the doorbell on the gate and a little while later one of the windows at the front of the house opens and a woman pops her head out. Just open the gate she says, there's a little catch at the top. It's only then that I realise what it is that was odd about this house: there's no front door. In fact, as it turns out, the front door is at the back. Or perhaps more accurately, there is indeed no front door (an architectural oversight?) And the only way in and out of the house is around the back through the kitchen.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I have my own room, and they've gone to some effort to make it homely and there's some nice touches. Their house is shall we say, interesting. It's small and cluttered. The stairs to the second floor are extraordinarily steep. The shower is one of those modular units that's seen better days. They are a little alternative, in a 60's sort of way. In the back yard there's a campervan that's definitely seen better days. It's too polluting so it doesn't pass the roadworthy test anymore, the host explains. Never mind the broken headlights, the rust and the general air of being a wreck. Now it just serves us as a garden store she explains (a little redundantly).</p>
<p dir="ltr">I ask my hosts for restaurant recommendations for dinner tonight. I draw a blank: we don't go out much, I am told. Fair enough, but you'd think if you're going to have guests staying, it might be an idea to have some information for them. At least some idea of what's available in the town to see and maybe where to have a meal. There's an Asian place down the road he volunteers. We've never been there but we hear it's good. I consult the internet and find a place that's not only open on a Monday night, but also has a lot of good reviews and sounds a bit quirky. Even better, I can book it online, which as we'll see turns out to be a good strategy.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I walk into town for dinner. As is often the case, the approach to the city centre isn't a particularly nice area. It was the same when I arrived by bike earlier; the route led me though an area of HLM (social housing) and groups of idle men hanging around the local shops and halal butchery. Now, as I enter the town centre, I am greeted by Whitney Houston, or at least her voice. I will always love you, she sings. Maybe it's the Montargis theme song? Clearly this is one of those towns you find all over France that has a public address system wired throughout the town and they like playing music, presumably because it's more pleasant than announcements. Maybe they feel that they need to get value for their investment in the system. But silence would be better.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YRvLGQ2l9nBSzz6M3jpKjqAXy9eKESnalIA61wHWBY-9HjXwZ3WGUD7yf40KG3yx5iAlurLocrvKgCaQvQhBvDFMPDXGIOxihTwHEc1m3D5fAr43lYW6iqPXtzd0av-2WcA0LsexnuI/s1672/montargis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YRvLGQ2l9nBSzz6M3jpKjqAXy9eKESnalIA61wHWBY-9HjXwZ3WGUD7yf40KG3yx5iAlurLocrvKgCaQvQhBvDFMPDXGIOxihTwHEc1m3D5fAr43lYW6iqPXtzd0av-2WcA0LsexnuI/s320/montargis.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Montargis</td></tr></tbody></table>I'm walking the streets of the city centre, checking out the shops. Lots of them are empty, for rent, for sale, sold. There's Sushi Love, Kebab chez Unit (halal), la Maison de la Praline, the ubiquitous Tabac, la Chocoteque, Valege lingerie, Réparation Express (smartphones toutes marques), the French Coffee Shop (sic), La Coiffure a petits prix, Asia Délices (Traiteur Chinois), Système D e-cigarettes, Don Quixote bar à tapas, le Griffon (chasse, tir, armurerie, Glock self-action pistols), le Tonic (spécialités Turques) and finally Le Gambetta (Sushi). So we're back to sushi again. Really, this place has it all!</p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>Although they have clearly made some effort to make the place pretty, Montargis is not an attractive town. They bill themselves as the 'Venice of the Gâtinais' and there is some attempt to capitalise on the several canals through the town, together with their bridges. There's a way to go however. The pole with an empty dispenser of dog poo bags, together with a sign encouraging people to pick up after their dogs, placed in a small cleared area absolutely covered in dog shit is sort of emblematic of the problem facing this town.<p></p>
<p dir="ltr">The restaurant I've chosen is almost empty when I arrive and at first I think that perhaps I wasted my time booking. But within a half hour of my arrival, the place is packed and throughout the next hour or so the waiter is continually turning hopeful arrivals away. There's several larger groups who have all obviously booked. This is a popular place. I did well having booked after all. The decoration is eclectic and interesting. I particularly like the box graters used as lampshades in a couple of the hanging lamps. There's a Johnny Hallyday LP on the table as a placemat. It's from 1960 and one of the tracks is 'Itsy bitsy petit bikini'. Classic. Next to my table there's a little niche with amongst other things an old recipe book 'the real cuisine of the family' - 1000 recipes, all generous, healthy, economical and simple. Wonderful.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I step out of the restaurant to find everything is wet - rain! Well, at least it isn't raining right now or my walk home will be very wet. But I've left my washing, which was virtually dry before I left, still hanging on the line. It wasn't supposed to rain until tomorrow. Perhaps the fact that it's rained now might mean no rain tomorrow for my ride, I think wishfully. I arrive back to find my washing is no longer in the line, the host has taken it in for me. She greets me in her light blue fluffy dressing gown as I let myself into the house (I have a key). I get the impression they have been waiting up for me. She asks whether I found a place to eat, and when I tell her the name of the restaurant she says: "A yes, we had an anniversary dinner there once. One of the guests told us about it. It was nice." And I'm thinking; isn't it strange that this didn't come up when I asked her for a restaurant recommendation before I left?<br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yHSW9TiT-osNZfTgxfijLL069hLhQAql2KXLjR4BLQ1u6dHj7kQrbypNlOd-sbhdjL0PTavA5Tf8N4JThB5EFaRLlVrXj5QNZ4bnLoEAXV6liu20tgrsc_Tm6mjxTGA4vL8hDzwKATk/s1672/coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yHSW9TiT-osNZfTgxfijLL069hLhQAql2KXLjR4BLQ1u6dHj7kQrbypNlOd-sbhdjL0PTavA5Tf8N4JThB5EFaRLlVrXj5QNZ4bnLoEAXV6liu20tgrsc_Tm6mjxTGA4vL8hDzwKATk/w640-h480/coffee.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee and dessert</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><p></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-42928665993988930042019-09-22T14:25:00.001-07:002021-08-26T03:52:46.101-07:002019 Bike ride - Day 5: Saclas to Fontainebleau<p dir="ltr">Breakfast of coffee in a bowl, French style (despite there being lots of everything in the house, I can't find any cups) and yoghurt and bananas, all bought at the Arabe du coin last night. Enough to keep me riding for a while.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Just out of Roinvilliers, I almost get run over by a group of ten or so bike riders who come from the right at high speed. They are, of course, all males, and are, of course, all dressed in their colourful Lycra suits. They turn right, into the road ahead of me but one of them misses the turn and goes straight on. When the others realise what's happened they quickly shout to each other not to go back or wait, but to go faster and leave him behind. Team spirit and all that. The sole rider turns around and as he comes up beside me, by way of greeting, he says: The bastards left me behind! And he pushes on up the hill in pursuit of his mates.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Just after Prunay-Sur-Essonne I stop by the river at a nice spot near a bridge (probably in the grounds of the nearby château). A beautiful white swan swims up to me and I share my croissant with it.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ERZUXQMr8cDpbcoDEki0e-kNLGfbl8d5W-iReDrHOi_wR0oAI7r4Yg3G13vm3Ll6kwq5ptdvc9vbpFdHE6_WIPOQap59KL6m5POQwkF3I3ZSNjC9xm0-M8s366mx4F2bzvBqlsmovuQ/w400-h300/clouds.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rain coming</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr">All day long the rain threatens. The weather forecast has been for rain, and lots of it. It's nice riding with a bit of cloud cover, both because it makes the sky more interesting and also because it means I don't have to worry so much about getting sunburnt. And it's not nearly as hot as it was yesterday. I get a few spots of rain but nothing serious, although I do notice that in some areas the road is quite wet, so there have definitely been showers which luckily I have missed. The ride is pleasant and progress is quick. I don't know whether it's because I am getting fitter (probably not) or maybe it's me trying to stay ahead of the rain or perhaps it's just the road and countryside. </p>
<p dir="ltr">At one stage the route takes me on to a small path which becomes a pretty tough track. I hear gunfire not too far away and remember that Sunday is hunting day. You see occasional groups of cars parked in the middle of nowhere and every now and then you see groups of hunters with their rifles walking through the fields. I just hope that they don't mistake me for something they're hunting.</p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZlSpKDeko5_Zg5NPaQNoUBnE79mQJfm1bTHZUGaBlD3wVdzKycnVEglPNrsc6lg-jC6QLSl9iKowrerfqxQCtVPTY8i1iqqjr7CqJ9PS1atmgA67HXqXtbKub5qR9mXqd0k0LG-hWXQ/w400-h300/foret.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding through the Forêt de Fontainebleau</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr">I'm approaching the Forêt de Fontainebleau, part of the reason I came this way; to be able to ride though the forest. Now the rain is more than a few spots and I wonder whether I'm going to make it all the way without significant rain; it's looking questionable. I briefly stop in a bus shelter, which takes me back to my first ride along the Camino de Santiago when I hid from an absolute torrential downpour in a bus shelter near the Spanish coast. But for now the rain holds off and I continue into the forest, which is just gorgeous riding. There's an enormous number of paths through these forests, ranging from paved roads to little tracks. I've chosen a paved path which traverses a large part of the forest. It's lovely riding. A bit of road and then a little detour to an intersection of nine paths radiating out in a star pattern into the forest. Then, rather unexpectedly my chosen path becomes a rough little track, just as some more rain falls. It's not until I enter the city that the rain starts in earnest. I have only a couple of kilometres to go but it's enough for me to get wet. I arrive at the place which will be my apartment for the night, carry my bike down some narrow stairs into the cellar (were there is only just enough room for the bike) and then climb three flights of stairs up to the apartment, carrying my bags. The apartment is lovely and right in the centre of the city. It's been a good day's ride.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm in the restaurant I've selected for dinner. Being a Sunday, many restaurants are closed, so my choice is a bit limited. Tonight I'm going Italian and although I've been seated upstairs (often the area where the overflow and leftovers are seated) the food is good as is the (Italian) wine. When I am shown my place, the upstairs room is almost empty and I prepare for a lonely meal. But after about 10 minutes the room is almost full and throughout the evening each time a table is vacated it's almost immediately filled again. It's a popular place. The staff is all Italian, which I take as a good sign of authenticity. There is plenty to keep me occupied, apart from the food. There's the table of a family of four. All are wearing matching black plastic glasses; I guess the poor eyesight genes were strong in that family. The parents are talking to each other and kids are talking to each other. Not much interaction otherwise. I entertain myself during the (good!) meal by imagining the stories behind all the groups. Everyone's got a smartphone and it's impressive how many people are using theirs during dinner; sometimes everyone at the table is on their phone and not interacting with each other. The table of four black glasses has no phones; they are at least taking with each other.</p>
<p dir="ltr">At the table on my left, the (teenage) daughter has just got up in a huff and left in the middle of the meal. And I thought their conversation was going so well (no smartphones were involved). On my right and older couple both have their phones at hand, checking them often. The table on my left is occupied again, coincidentally by another family of three. Again, parents with a child, but this time it's a boy and he's quite a bit younger. He reads the menu to his parents. I suppose he won't get up and leave in a huff like his predecessor.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I walk back to the apartment, noticing how few people are in the other restaurants that are open.</p><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZlSpKDeko5_Zg5NPaQNoUBnE79mQJfm1bTHZUGaBlD3wVdzKycnVEglPNrsc6lg-jC6QLSl9iKowrerfqxQCtVPTY8i1iqqjr7CqJ9PS1atmgA67HXqXtbKub5qR9mXqd0k0LG-hWXQ/s1672/foret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ERZUXQMr8cDpbcoDEki0e-kNLGfbl8d5W-iReDrHOi_wR0oAI7r4Yg3G13vm3Ll6kwq5ptdvc9vbpFdHE6_WIPOQap59KL6m5POQwkF3I3ZSNjC9xm0-M8s366mx4F2bzvBqlsmovuQ/s1672/clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzBf_4j9_wBlO5YNAH_4Sj2F0EwgbIHPLLTNaLJffeBovkqBX2nhJunZDxbN6J9CkNdqW9BUnBMV2NzN2g5h1pw3e_MPM7QTqbPbXH8hffBnhpW-CYfSwMk0h7KgKIP1XWSxlBMfgTmUo/s1672/sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzBf_4j9_wBlO5YNAH_4Sj2F0EwgbIHPLLTNaLJffeBovkqBX2nhJunZDxbN6J9CkNdqW9BUnBMV2NzN2g5h1pw3e_MPM7QTqbPbXH8hffBnhpW-CYfSwMk0h7KgKIP1XWSxlBMfgTmUo/w640-h480/sky.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Fontainebleau</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ERZUXQMr8cDpbcoDEki0e-kNLGfbl8d5W-iReDrHOi_wR0oAI7r4Yg3G13vm3Ll6kwq5ptdvc9vbpFdHE6_WIPOQap59KL6m5POQwkF3I3ZSNjC9xm0-M8s366mx4F2bzvBqlsmovuQ/s1672/clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZlSpKDeko5_Zg5NPaQNoUBnE79mQJfm1bTHZUGaBlD3wVdzKycnVEglPNrsc6lg-jC6QLSl9iKowrerfqxQCtVPTY8i1iqqjr7CqJ9PS1atmgA67HXqXtbKub5qR9mXqd0k0LG-hWXQ/s1672/foret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-31591919473641970892019-09-22T14:17:00.001-07:002021-08-26T03:22:41.759-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 4: Chartres to Saclas<p dir="ltr">So I decide to head back into the old town of Chartres this morning and have a look around, rather than setting off early which I had planned to do. I also want to get a stamp for my <i>credencial</i>, since the one I got at the cathedral gift shop yesterday was not actually the correct one, and on top of that it was badly stamped. The tourist office doesn't open until 10:00 so I have a couple of hours to kill, although of course there's plenty to see. When I finally get to the tourist office, there's already a queue of people waiting for it to open. Finally it's my turn, only to be told that the pilgrim stamps are given at the Café Serpente opposite the south door of the cathedral, and not at the tourist office. Only in France. Of course this should be obvious: in one of the main pilgrim destinations in France, it's at a local café where you have to go for the stamp that proves that you, as a pilgrim, have passed through the town. And had I known, I could have come here earlier and been on my way hours ago. Very French.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35fmLCU-M0Am7NayokUjZyfMP6IYYruRLdpTOfiRhxtAM18C8gkwx7tGuxZN5jsTP2aFsLQr1nU5yQrqCvBggwM4yf8x_vPTcdhcZbFJmGXPYha6eCKG1w3eA0P4nWfatknphuVZ9Fn8/s1672/window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35fmLCU-M0Am7NayokUjZyfMP6IYYruRLdpTOfiRhxtAM18C8gkwx7tGuxZN5jsTP2aFsLQr1nU5yQrqCvBggwM4yf8x_vPTcdhcZbFJmGXPYha6eCKG1w3eA0P4nWfatknphuVZ9Fn8/s320/window.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chartres - Self Portrait</td></tr></tbody></table>Chartres is putting on a light show tonight. Perhaps if I'd known, I might have planned my trip differently and stayed another night. Perhaps not, since light shows are hardly the reason for my journey. Last night I'd already seen some of the installations set up, each one with a security guard. This morning the guards are all still there. For some reason, the security guards are all black. Whether this is by design or just coincidence is probably a politically incorrect train of thought. But there it is; they're all black.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm sitting on the grass on the Place de l'Eglise at Allainville having my lunch picnic. There's a stop sign on the road that passes the square. A pretty pointless one it must be said, since there's actually no side road, just the square. But all the cars passing are dutifully stopping, most impressive. Allainville is not a big town, in fact it's hardly a little village. But of course it has a church and so it has a Place de l'Église. It seems that in this part of France whoever invented the names of the towns must have had the idea that the name of each town should include the word 'town', perhaps just to emphasise the fact that it is indeed the name of a town. So we have Morainville, Roinville, Francourville, Houville-la-Blanche, and so it goes on.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEUCAjlKytaw9hfEdFJrdPL8vE4kVMrw7dZ8OrdB92j-45VYgzn-HJSo0st84YYbQbOEPdgfhfCAacmj776p3rakECN-2fI3Y-ve-YOkkann3TDt7952L_Ed6OZLmsSeUWVFHalXaNBdw/s1672/trompe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEUCAjlKytaw9hfEdFJrdPL8vE4kVMrw7dZ8OrdB92j-45VYgzn-HJSo0st84YYbQbOEPdgfhfCAacmj776p3rakECN-2fI3Y-ve-YOkkann3TDt7952L_Ed6OZLmsSeUWVFHalXaNBdw/s320/trompe.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chartres - Trompe l'Oeil</td></tr></tbody></table>The ride is longer than I'd planned, partly because it's rather hot today and I'm riding fully exposed through open fields for most of the day. And little roads, which I try to take to avoid the traffic and make life more interesting, tend not to follow the most direct route. I'm tired by the end of it. Near the end of the day's ride I pass by an airfield and am entertained by a couple of planes doing circuits over my head. The road I'm following meanders around enough for both planes to complete three circuits in the time I've ridden under their approach path.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Marthe, my host for the night, is a sprightly 90 years old. She's lost her husband 5 months ago but seems to be the sort of person who just gets on with life and although she mentions the loss it's more by way of explanation that she been a bit busy with arranging things "paperwork and so on" and hasn't really had time to keep the guest house on order. She doesn't normally take guests, but the owner of the B&B I had tried to book suggested I give her a call. His place was fully booked, but he said that his neighbour (using the term rather loosely as it turns out) might be able to help out, as a favour. And so she did; making a small house next to hers, essentially a two-story "granny flat", available to me for the night. Wonderful.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWQKjpHTZe1fYq-LmI_t6Z2gOqWUO-rVHhjFtH2dbDwuudVlam5gPZnsZLWaxuE29zymxcSvmSIu0YmiXdpokQXH6msqOVoVkafdYcMf7HWV-O_PLisH-_l3nck5zkXeH92cPanbILds/s1672/reflets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWQKjpHTZe1fYq-LmI_t6Z2gOqWUO-rVHhjFtH2dbDwuudVlam5gPZnsZLWaxuE29zymxcSvmSIu0YmiXdpokQXH6msqOVoVkafdYcMf7HWV-O_PLisH-_l3nck5zkXeH92cPanbILds/s320/reflets.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chartres - Cathedral reflection</td></tr></tbody></table>When I arrive we spend a while chatting and I admire her garden, which is obviously a labour of love and stretches up the hillside above her house. It reminds me a bit of Wendy Whitley's secret garden in Sydney: lots of little paths zig zag up the slope, unexpected little bits and pieces all over the place, and the whole thing at once ramshackle and planned. She takes me on a tour of the garden and we climb up the meandering pathway. I'm amazed at how she manages this since the path is steep, full of slippery bits, and the strong stones are all at odd angles.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The guest house is very lived in, being used by her granddaughters as well as herself (her artist studio is upstairs). It's full of all sorts of clutter and collections of things acquired over the decades. Shelves of books, paintings covering the walls, lots of large mirrors - she must have a thing for mirrors. I see myself walking throughout the house, climbing the stairs, getting into and out of the bed. There's multiples of lots of things, like people have brought something with them when they last visited forgetting that there was already one there; toasters, coffee makers, cleaning products, saucepans and so forth.</p><p dir="ltr">
After doing my chores, with the help of a rather recalcitrant washing machine, I head back into the village and the restaurant. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I had asked Marthe whether the restaurant in the village is any good (a rhetorical question, really, since there's only one so that's where I'm likely to have dinner, good or not.) I know there's a restaurant since I've both seen it in my research about this town, and I've ridden past it on the way to her house. Yet she says that as far as she knows, and she's lived here 35 years, there's no restaurant. Just the "Arabe du coin" which is a colloquial expression for the local corner store, which in this case proves accurate, since the shop is indeed on a corner, and the owners are Arabic.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Before I go to the restaurant I visit the Arabe du coin, to buy a couple of things for breakfast. At the restaurant I ask the owner how long they've been open; they've been there for 1 1/2 years having taken over from the previous owners. Marthe probably doesn't go out much, and I can imagine she's not someone to spend time in the local restaurant. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The restaurant is not a busy place; there's only one table occupied when I arrive. A younger couple and what might be the mother, or mother in law (probably both). And under the table is the dog. Only in France. It's a big dog, but it's well behaved it must be said and I only realise it's there when I see that what I at first thought was a large handbag or something, had paws. Still, I am sitting in the outside courtyard and they, complete with dog, are sitting inside, which seems a bit counter intuitive. Smokers are made to sit outside in France, but dogs still get to be inside. Both the woman and the man are on their phones. The mother and the dog just look bored.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Another young couple arrives, he's a smoker so they sit outside. Then an older foursome arrives, they have a dog so they sit inside. Theirs is a small dog and luckily neither dog seems interested in the other. Probably good restaurant training.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I appreciate my bike's good headlights during the ride back to my little house. It's pitch black and there's no street lights for much of the way.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfw2nzOfw6XESMSI44CvJ6gyWf8whQBQjTtxnMvIAyyNZaOaXpNOSPIYLPIW3Kwr_ZOScH2G0QeZ5c47qzoHmI6KSEZuDlNaULm0iO3eLOpsQKF7MVyaVZOwRSU3-wvh7vpLxuVKe-7M/s1672/yellow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfw2nzOfw6XESMSI44CvJ6gyWf8whQBQjTtxnMvIAyyNZaOaXpNOSPIYLPIW3Kwr_ZOScH2G0QeZ5c47qzoHmI6KSEZuDlNaULm0iO3eLOpsQKF7MVyaVZOwRSU3-wvh7vpLxuVKe-7M/w640-h480/yellow.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roinville - Yellow on Yellow</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-77250073514454013382019-09-22T14:06:00.001-07:002021-08-25T05:00:37.243-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 3: Châteaudun to Chartres<p dir="ltr">It's even colder this morning; 8 degrees. I decide to wear long pants for the beginning of the ride. In the sun it's ok but in the shade I can definitely feel that's it's 8 degrees. The plan is to head out via the local Intermarché, a large hypermarket on the outskirts of town to buy a lead for my phone battery. It doesn't open until 9:00 and when I get there at around 8:50 there's already a group of people waiting outside to get in. Interesting idea, queuing early to be at the shop when it opens. There's a McDonald's at the complex, so I throw caution to the winds and decide to go there for a coffee while I wait. I know this McDonald's since we've stopped here a couple of times in our drives to Versailles. The McDonald's is also closed; it opens at 09:00 as well. By the time I'm back at the supermarket I'm just in time to see the shutters open and the waiting crowd stream in. It's as if they are waiting for the Boxing Day sales! I buy some things for lunch while I'm here and then decide anyway to get that coffee from McDonald's. I go inside to the counter where there's a young woman stacking a machine with something. Order over there she says, nodding towards the automatic ordering machines that have largely replaced real people. Not even a hello or other greeting, I am clearly disturbing her first thing in the morning. I leave without my coffee, consoling myself that it would have been awful anyway.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegXbi2_9dSsWbIyC-ViLxXr2bDubwN8H-7z5NOrzdyhbbeR1n5F4Uz0TqxNA_0-wKepUcw9_Jbmx8S9rtwP8MIplKAkGcSM8hQgTXHAxdG-ZzUHlodHL_7IetAwkWyFjh5RJhnDoHjCM/s1672/selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegXbi2_9dSsWbIyC-ViLxXr2bDubwN8H-7z5NOrzdyhbbeR1n5F4Uz0TqxNA_0-wKepUcw9_Jbmx8S9rtwP8MIplKAkGcSM8hQgTXHAxdG-ZzUHlodHL_7IetAwkWyFjh5RJhnDoHjCM/s320/selfie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Self Portrait</td></tr></tbody></table>Later I approach a small village, Donnemain-Saint-Mamès, which my map claims has a café. By now I know better than to believe this - every village so far has only had boarded up shops - but to my surprise the Café de la Place is open. I go and have a coffee. I'm the only customer and the coffee is pretty bad; at least it meets my expectations. I sit on the square outside the local church and have my breakfast.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Bonneville is on my route. I know this town, but only from driving past it; the large buildings of some agricultural installation with rainbow colours were a landmark on our commute to Versailles. But we never actually made the effort to visit the town itself, so now I get to discover what it's like, and it's actually quite a nice place, with several old buildings including the old abbey which is now a psychiatric hospital.</p>
<p dir="ltr">There I am in Bonneville, I've just come out of the boulangerie where I've bought my morning tea when I see out of the corner of my eye something run across the road just as a car is passing. Clunk clunk as the wheels run over what turns out to be a cat. The cat is now literally in its death throes, lying in the middle of the road with its back legs kicking spasmodically. A few people have noticed and are looking. I think it's going to die says one, rather unnecessarily. I really don't know what I can do, and any thought of sitting at the café and having a coffee have disappeared. So I ride on, preoccupied with the cat and its death. I find a nice spot by the river where I can sit, forget about the cat, and eat my croissant aux amandes.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiP1aW3RfomhOgrT_8AE-dhaQ_cz7s5rtHjwbmebn4QmD-PipsgMHgiJgmAgb_7rZUSjsKm_aOC-k49hvP7Ki-TEd1lM4_ZzO_KRwy8dIELI2uYx-dJF3JoAT6C0_lzt-A2S-02VicVRQ/s1672/lunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiP1aW3RfomhOgrT_8AE-dhaQ_cz7s5rtHjwbmebn4QmD-PipsgMHgiJgmAgb_7rZUSjsKm_aOC-k49hvP7Ki-TEd1lM4_ZzO_KRwy8dIELI2uYx-dJF3JoAT6C0_lzt-A2S-02VicVRQ/s320/lunch.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch</td></tr></tbody></table>There is some lovely riding along the Loir just out of Bonneville, the kind of ride that brings a smile to your face. The smile doesn't last however as I am soon back riding into the winds through exposed fields. And it will be like that for the next couple of hours or so. I stop during this part to have lunch: a picnic on the ground with a baguette, camembert and terrine de campagne. And a Côtes du Rhône to go with it all. This is France after all and I should get into the mood!</p>
<p dir="ltr">Close to Chartres I pass a large open area covered in fine gravel. There must be fifty or more people there, all engaged in games of boules. A very French way to spend your Friday afternoon. The path leaves the road and passes through a very pleasant park where there are lots of people out walking. I guess not many people work on Friday afternoon in Chartres.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The last part of the ride into Chartres takes me back again to an earlier ride; it reminds me of the approach to Burgos in Spain. The route follows a winding path through a forested park, along a stream. Very pleasant! Suddenly, up ahead, the famous cathedral pops out above the trees. I'm almost there.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhss9rfmxXHbfmNwDPSaTqi5X-jYekuvFv6UKMEYdMBKvFci7lSMN51RXx-K0JmhaY1rEItvuWqtPqzQBxd5J-rdEt1omlkE7mJcji1eUHt9_0mPz3EA4hLqfoNdO4bpFd1vcwvDSrgwMQ/s1672/gnomes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhss9rfmxXHbfmNwDPSaTqi5X-jYekuvFv6UKMEYdMBKvFci7lSMN51RXx-K0JmhaY1rEItvuWqtPqzQBxd5J-rdEt1omlkE7mJcji1eUHt9_0mPz3EA4hLqfoNdO4bpFd1vcwvDSrgwMQ/s320/gnomes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Self Portrait with gnomes</td></tr></tbody></table>I ride up to the cathedral (actually I walk the bike up a really steep part, I'm not up to riding that part anymore) and spend some time admiring the building and taking a photo of the bike next to the Chemin de Compostelle plaque. Memories of previous visits here come flooding back, including our first visit where we parked our campervan (with the kids on board) right in front of the cathedral for the night. You can't do that anymore! I head to the Auberge de Jeunesse and check in. It's a large but somewhat tired place, purpose built as a hostel with lots of good facilities which are now pretty run down. I almost have a heart attack when I get in the shower to discover only a single tap. A cold shower! Not even in Tamanrasset in the middle of the Sahara desert did I appreciate having a cold shower. And on top of that this shower has one of this press taps which gives you 5 seconds of water before turning itself off again. I press and press and press convinced that it's not possible that the shower could be cold. Sure enough, after what seems like a quarter of an hour (I am, of course, standing there naked and the windows are open - it is not pleasant) some lukewarm water finally appears.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUMgmAgYTBr_JF4Zflrp_g2tRtiIJDo_UFuwy3BJjBw2ScS9KHfvUFfbHKfmUM0B0Lu6MXWW2pUkd9o7DcwLutnbvSS48W8oXugK5CTSXAPAJUIWmKRs2rdXfSbLCr-Nh22Fh4YScwnw/s1672/cathedral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUMgmAgYTBr_JF4Zflrp_g2tRtiIJDo_UFuwy3BJjBw2ScS9KHfvUFfbHKfmUM0B0Lu6MXWW2pUkd9o7DcwLutnbvSS48W8oXugK5CTSXAPAJUIWmKRs2rdXfSbLCr-Nh22Fh4YScwnw/s320/cathedral.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Chartres Cathedral</td></tr></tbody></table>After doing my chores I head back into the old city to visit the cathedral. My timing is good since there's a service underway. The priest is African and I can't help bring taken back to my time in Africa. His accent is very African and I wonder how it must feel for some of the older people attending the service, who may well remember the African colonial times. Now the tables are turned, and it's an African preaching to them rather than the other way around. And in one of France's most famous cathedrals.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The restaurant I've selected for dinner turns out to look really appealing, until I spot the little note on the door: yes yes, we really are fully booked tonight. So I end up at my second choice, which is one of the restaurants right next to the cathedral. This type of place is normally worth avoiding, being tourist traps. But this one is recommended and I give it a go.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm sitting outside despite the cold. There are heaters. I try not to dwell on the environmental impact of having heaters outside. To my right is a table of Americans; two older couples. Not a word of French, not even a merci for the waiter. I ask them what wine they've chosen (they have a carafe, there are three different reds by carafe on the menu). I don't know, it's my wife who chose says the guy (his wife has just gone to the toilet). The other woman in the group helpfully tells me: it's the cheapest one.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The waitress takes orders without taking notes. She takes the orders for the table of four next to me, who complicate things, changing their minds, ordering multiple wines and she takes it all in her stride. She even stops by my table to ask if everything is going well, presumably having memorised the entire order. I am impressed. It reminds me how in French restaurants there are generally less waiters than, for example, in Australia. Yet they manage very well - they definitely have this well sorted and it's something that they could do better in Australia. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The French table of four next to me also consists of two older couples (just like the Americans on my other side). Actually, they are not all that different. At both tables the men are doing all the talking. And at both tables, one guy seems to be the one who's in charge, or rather has decided he's the one to take control. But on the French table that guy seems obsessed with reading the menu out to the others, telling then what they should order, particularly with the wine. Ironically, they end up ordering wine by the carafe.</p>
<p dir="ltr">There's a group of young guys, seven of them, who've just arrived. One of them is Leonardo DiCaprio. At least he looks just like young Leonardo when he was saving Kate Winslet on the Titanic. Three more guys arrive, so it's now a large table of ten. It turns out that it's Leonardo's birthday, at least he starts getting presents. A bottle of wine, a polo shirt... Lots of cheek kissing goes on - something you're not likely to see in a restaurant in Australia.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I navigate beck to my hostel, which is dark and empty.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ35yUo8n90O5ZOf7rAdTeYj4UXCgYYfQmevryJ4eclYrnNzymSUHjZQTyejPdb8aUOi37On6mOm0L4T7yd6rJYV-z5-1sTrRDaqGkJXGbzxU8BxySeTMUmr01E6dA4ikOCJB7yMi_oc0/s1672/chartres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ35yUo8n90O5ZOf7rAdTeYj4UXCgYYfQmevryJ4eclYrnNzymSUHjZQTyejPdb8aUOi37On6mOm0L4T7yd6rJYV-z5-1sTrRDaqGkJXGbzxU8BxySeTMUmr01E6dA4ikOCJB7yMi_oc0/w640-h480/chartres.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chartres Cathedral by night</td></tr></tbody></table></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-35410463092460494682019-09-22T13:50:00.001-07:002021-08-25T04:40:48.769-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 2: Vendôme to Châteaudun<p dir="ltr">I'm a bit curious to see what they serve the working youth of France for breakfast. Knowing that breakfast in France is normally not the highlight of the day my expectations are fairly low. And they're almost met: awful coffee from an automatic machine, a large basket of pieces of baguette (nice and fresh it must be said) and some trays with apricot jams, honey and butter. There's also another machine dispensing dubious orange juice. The surprise is the row of cereal dispensers, probably reflecting an Americanisation of the breakfast culture for the youth of France. I am shocked to discover that the choice of cereals consists of Coco Pops, chocolate flakes, Sugar Frosties and some other anonymous sugary confection. And they wonder why obesity rates are soaring! No muesli or any other even remotely healthy cereals are on offer. I spot a little sign next to a bell push: hostel guests (i.e. not the regular residents) push here for a viennoiserie (croissant or pain au chocolat). A special treat for the paying guests. The woman offers me a yoghurt as well.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's cold this morning - 10 degrees - and I can see the trees swaying in the stiff breeze. It looks like another hard ride.<br /></p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuM-yfo3aNmc5P8qaj3Ryr3w_KWJvG766QzPrOddTEF-ASHzsInPG49ad5aEbyIbVoOMdNfRH6Fn_u02bRy9hPwqZZFKNQrCsqgBSTfOsf9Hg_cwXObEtSdnabE_0wfZ1gncRZ0-nZpc/s1672/vendomegraffiti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuM-yfo3aNmc5P8qaj3Ryr3w_KWJvG766QzPrOddTEF-ASHzsInPG49ad5aEbyIbVoOMdNfRH6Fn_u02bRy9hPwqZZFKNQrCsqgBSTfOsf9Hg_cwXObEtSdnabE_0wfZ1gncRZ0-nZpc/s320/vendomegraffiti.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vendôme near the youth hostel</td></tr></tbody></table>I start the ride by going back into the town; a little out of my way, but I want to go to the Chapelle St Jacques. I am on the Chemin St Jacques after all. As I ride I am thinking maybe I should put another layer on (I'm already wearing three) because it's actually pretty chilly, particularly with the wind. I've stopped to take a photograph of the graffiti artwork and am passed by a guy on a bike wearing just a t-shirt and shorts. I guess the cold is relative.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As you ride you obviously have time to think about all sorts of things. Today's ride is reminding me of the first day setting off from Amsterdam a few years ago, riding along the dykes through the tulip fields. There's no tulips here on the path along the Loir River, but it's pretty flat and so should be easy going. Except, that is, when there's a strong blustery headwind. It was like that in Holland and it's like that now. You expect the riding to be easy and it's anything but. I'm also taken back to my first ride along the Camino in Spain. There, every little village had a café serving excellent café con léché. You could ride from coffee to coffee, never being more than a few kilometres - or so it seemed - from the next coffee. Here, in two days' riding I have yet to get a coffee. The villages I've gone through are either too small to have any shops or more commonly they used to have some but they're now all boarded up and abandoned. Lots of cafés du commerce and bars du coin, but none of them actually open anymore. And in any case, from my experience, even if they were open, the coffee they serve would be pretty dire. Somehow the French just don't seem to be able to make a decent coffee with milk.<br /><br /></p><p></p>
<p dir="ltr"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjxO29AK-lFS98S2Uh6B6xY7GPRW32iH_fXlFkvtxAbd0r0y4-4vAcqBatGvv0CC6pCcxjPEX-bU4yEl02y4BXiNQP3hc5DSPJgGnipv0Sb4wRUzzotqgzz1WY0aTt4Ch3YIdc0OxkNI/s1672/flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjxO29AK-lFS98S2Uh6B6xY7GPRW32iH_fXlFkvtxAbd0r0y4-4vAcqBatGvv0CC6pCcxjPEX-bU4yEl02y4BXiNQP3hc5DSPJgGnipv0Sb4wRUzzotqgzz1WY0aTt4Ch3YIdc0OxkNI/w400-h300/flowers.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Montigny-le-Gallenon</td></tr></tbody></table>I'm riding along the Loir and a local rider pulls up alongside. He's the typical French rider: all done up in his Lycra hear, complete with logos. He's on a Gitane racing bike, spare inner tube strapped to the frame. Normally these riders come in pairs or bigger groups but this one is solo and around my age. He slows down and rides alongside for a chat making him definitely not your typical French rider (I am normal ignored by French bike riders, obviously being not one of them). He rides a couple of times a week, 40 - 60 km in the morning; about what I ride in a day I tell him. But you're heavily loaded and have a lot of wind resistance he admits graciously. And then he takes the next side road which leads up the hill; much more challenging than the flat path along the river.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The ride along Loir is getting more pleasant as the wind subsides a bit. I ride into Cloyes-sur-Loir, bringing back a lot of memories of when we used to drive from Chemillé to Versailles, passing near or through this town, even though I am seeing a completely different part of it from the bike. We used to always stop at a rest area near this town. I ride into the town and up to the church, and as if on cue, the bells chime the hour. Amazing!</p>
<p dir="ltr">Riding a bike means you move slow enough to really notice and observe your surroundings. You see things you will never notice as you speed by in a car. You're more a part of the surroundings, something which I particularly appreciate when riding through forests and along rivers. I appreciate it a bit less when it's cold and raining, but that's not the case today. You also get to see people and their houses up close. The old man sitting in the sunshine in the kitchen. The workmen trimming a hedge. The kids playing with the dog in the front yard.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The path heads away from the river and into more exposed terrain and I am back battling headwinds for the final part of the ride.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__s2KnhVBLAsPHjbA1oFhXXNSO4lu1j4-bwS8GACjADIMLT9O5mWPF4Q5Ncp88Zi862pCzrVWfHMPqwEvPzbNMOsiOd76kiKvvmnu6P4f2OvUKj-pKlrgQsGmNzUAcPMH-2gSYn608KA/s1672/chemin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__s2KnhVBLAsPHjbA1oFhXXNSO4lu1j4-bwS8GACjADIMLT9O5mWPF4Q5Ncp88Zi862pCzrVWfHMPqwEvPzbNMOsiOd76kiKvvmnu6P4f2OvUKj-pKlrgQsGmNzUAcPMH-2gSYn608KA/s320/chemin.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gîte d'Etape</td></tr></tbody></table>I'm staying at the Gîte d'étape, which doesn't open until 16:00. So I have a look around the town and have some more of the baguette and cheese as afternoon tea. The rest of the baguette gets fed to the ducks who probably shouldn't be eating bread but don't complain; except to each other when they're not the first to grab the next bit of bread.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The Gîte is clean and neat and basic although it has everything you need, including as the woman running it is at pains to point out, individually allocated toilets, showers, and washbasins. No sheets but I have my own. Since I'm scrimping on the accommodation (both last night and tonight) I've decided to lash out for dinner, which will probably cost considerably more than my room. I discover a nice looking restaurant which turns out to be the number one rated restaurant according to TripAdvisor. I book a table for the night.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm the first to arrive - I've booked for 19:30, a half hour after they open. The guy assures me they will be full tonight. The menu looks promising but the service is a bit too obsequious for my liking. I get the impression they have been trained to perform in a certain way and they plan to stick to the script.</p>
<p dir="ltr">After about a half hour, there's a table of five women, and a bit later another table of two women. I realise that I'm the only male customer so far. A half hour later, the more people arrive and I no longer have to feel that my riding boots and gear would be out of place in such a pretentious establishment. Two older guys come in, both wearing rather grotty sneakers and generally looking like they didn't bother changing before coming to the restaurant. They are accompanied by a young woman who's most definitely got dressed for the occasion. Quite a contrast.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I've ordered the magret de canard, a dish which is very French, but which I wouldn't normally order since duck is not something I am a big fan of. But I throw caution to the wind, tempted by the description of it being slow cooked 6 hours. When it arrives, the waiter follows the script, and explains: this is the mashed potato, this is pureed carrot, and this is a tomato that's been roasted... While I'm eating the duck, which is impressively good, I think of the ducks I was feeding just a few hours earlier. I wonder if my slow-cooked duck ate bread?</p>
<p dir="ltr">The table set for nine arrives and now I am feeling overdressed. They are all in their very early twenties and there's no pretence there. Hoodies, exposed underpants, t-shirts and ripped jeans. The girls, on the other hand, are very nicely dressed for the evening, making quite a contrast with their male companions. I can't help thinking that when I was their age, there was no way I would ever have gone to a restaurant like this. Probably both because I would have had a completely different sort of place I would have gone to and also because I wouldn't have been able to afford it anyway.</p>
<p dir="ltr">During the meal, I realise that I am the only one in the place drinking wine. This comes as a bit of a shock given that I'm in France. Most tables have ordered an aperitif, but by they look of them, mostly non-alcoholic. And every table has a bottle, or bottles, of water, bubbly or not. The group of hoodies and torn jeans has a couple of beers. But that's it. I guess the drink driving laws have had an effect.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Finally, the remaining table arrives, a group of six. And so the restaurant is indeed full, as advertised. My dessert arrives, complete with an explanation by the waiter of its various components. And the table of six, a more conservative group than the rest, orders a bottle of wine, so I am not alone. Maybe they have a designated driver. All I have to do is negotiate the 200 steps down from the castle level to the river where my Gîte is.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And then, before I've left, the table of six (the ones who'd ordered wine) suddenly gets up and leaves, before they've eaten anything. Did they order? I ask the waiter and he explains that one of the group had recently had a stomach operation and couldn't eat onions. Since all the meals contain onions... So they all left. Just a little bit odd, to say the least.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I manage all 200 steps and am back at my Gîte for a well-earned sleep.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhd76NTn9hyKT9F1I0i3s4HNSXucPV27TlEMjdSOhhay6G-92Hjz2Y_MK-CS72BT221dhPS2_TkQF_kXzN2XymN3iDmtVR-B6SFLVpN_GpkQ_UZ1vz_dKgzSOTvBLudCqjR7cUoMRgGY/s1672/steps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhd76NTn9hyKT9F1I0i3s4HNSXucPV27TlEMjdSOhhay6G-92Hjz2Y_MK-CS72BT221dhPS2_TkQF_kXzN2XymN3iDmtVR-B6SFLVpN_GpkQ_UZ1vz_dKgzSOTvBLudCqjR7cUoMRgGY/w640-h480/steps.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After dinner steps - Châteaudun</td></tr></tbody></table></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-30900686572426665412019-09-22T13:36:00.001-07:002021-08-25T04:12:05.891-07:002019 Bike Ride - Day 1: Chemillé to Vendôme<p dir="ltr">Wind. Lots of it and all day long. A constant wind from the north- northeast, with blustery gusts, according to the weather report, of 50 km/hr. And of course my route today was to the northeast, so I had a headwind throughout the entire day's ride. So it was a slow and tiring ride for my first day, and I was glad to arrive at my destination, Vendôme.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Last year I wrote that it was uncanny how so often just at the time I rode into a town, the church bells chimed the hour. Well here I am, not even an hour into the first day of this year's ride and just as I ride into Les Hermites, the first town I am riding through, the church bells strike midday. Definitely uncanny.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTY0k7tgVEyxfXtT5flzET2tec8WbDvUOiMGCV9DTmOOXwRiiCJb67NuhxHEqhN20n0JQ-BifLIF8-ub7f4ykv8F-_p8oarDjjP8R8olWkO1pFs617k7V7ARXIDoJhw2JPEPkivEYxr8/s1672/Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTY0k7tgVEyxfXtT5flzET2tec8WbDvUOiMGCV9DTmOOXwRiiCJb67NuhxHEqhN20n0JQ-BifLIF8-ub7f4ykv8F-_p8oarDjjP8R8olWkO1pFs617k7V7ARXIDoJhw2JPEPkivEYxr8/w400-h300/Field.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Open fields all around</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKr_RTs4C0xqwOZRwcmNKe_5uVh-4uMeHwSPiwG37P8NyzbKGmLjBT3Ke6YZlsiKLvaQafPdXZMC7vEcel1ofYkorwNHg1FKoTeA2myZe2mtt8q22crazV0OYCwbj4Nd3GExOlud_kXY/s1672/cows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKr_RTs4C0xqwOZRwcmNKe_5uVh-4uMeHwSPiwG37P8NyzbKGmLjBT3Ke6YZlsiKLvaQafPdXZMC7vEcel1ofYkorwNHg1FKoTeA2myZe2mtt8q22crazV0OYCwbj4Nd3GExOlud_kXY/s320/cows.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's looking at you...</td></tr></tbody></table></p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm riding through wide open spaces with wheat and corn fields on either side stretching to the horizon. It's all been harvested and ploughed, ready for the next season. I'm very exposed and as I mentioned the winds are relentless. A small car, a Fiat Panda, passes me. As it passes I can't help noticing that on the passenger seat is a bale of hay. Not the sort of thing you'd be expecting, but perhaps in this region you shouldn't be surprised by this sort of thing.</p>
<p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt0mBkEqnnpLdY4JQm3GGZK8RXpMRdexYWMvT6MBMYY6U7Gj68yWVvgHuntkgeiKYdFikjO9OznH122IXXRfpa6eBCbFmfpF8u3oeTqGtmsc8yJ32YbQhgG0qiL0sYz9ywnDyebZ99UE/s1672/Vendome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt0mBkEqnnpLdY4JQm3GGZK8RXpMRdexYWMvT6MBMYY6U7Gj68yWVvgHuntkgeiKYdFikjO9OznH122IXXRfpa6eBCbFmfpF8u3oeTqGtmsc8yJ32YbQhgG0qiL0sYz9ywnDyebZ99UE/s320/Vendome.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In Vendôme I'm staying in the Auberge de Jeunesse, the youth hostel. It's a little out of town and in a decidedly seedy neighborhood. Not the sort of area you'd normally be coming to as a tourist. There's abandoned buildings with broken windows and signs saying "danger, asbestos". There's graffiti everywhere, which I have to admit is rather well done and adds a bit of welcome colour to the otherwise drab ambience.<br /><p></p>
<p dir="ltr">The hostel is actually more than what I would consider a normal youth hostel. True to its name, it's full of young people. But these people are living here on a longer term basis. The place caters for young people who are on work experience assignments and are in vocational training. They are overwhelmingly male and from obviously not privileged backgrounds. I've decided to have dinner here (I am too tired to venture back into town tonight) and it's an interesting experience. The canteen opens at 19:00 and closes again 45 minutes later. When I arrive at 19:15 the place is already mostly full, with many large groups eating together. There's a couple of older people, but I'd say the average age is probably closer to 17 or 18. By 19:30 the place is almost empty again. Clearly people are not here for a leisurely dinner, just to get fed.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm sitting at a table by myself and halfway through my meal (three courses plus wine, this might be a canteen but we are in France after all) another older guy, who I've spotted at the cashier with a tray loaded with pieces of bread, joins me. He's from Brittany and is here working with the young people. He's got a strong accent and speaks rapidly and in odd sentences and I can only catch a small fraction of what he's saying; he speaks so quickly, moving around constantly as he talks. He keeps repeating himself and asks me at least three times where I'm from and whether I'm riding a bike. He volunteers that there was a guy here last week with a backpack and a stick and he was walking on the Chemin de Compostelle. He says it like it was a completely new concept to him, which is a little odd given that France is a country where long distance walking "Randonner' is actually a pretty common thing and is quite popular and well established. And this type of hostel is exactly the sort of place you would find walkers.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Tomorrow I'll have breakfast in the same canteen; I suppose it will be a rushed affair as well.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmVlVWg66SlBG74-yo-sH-eevsO-3WP6nlWQ6jlMwP0241CdWshGr-t99VayekM8CxfI0jcrP895kNsR0CnEkgYebXOVcyVBQ32LCsxY8zHvA6y6kjiP_OFmct83NzMX7YM5W_hf7hlk/s1672/bikeinvendome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmVlVWg66SlBG74-yo-sH-eevsO-3WP6nlWQ6jlMwP0241CdWshGr-t99VayekM8CxfI0jcrP895kNsR0CnEkgYebXOVcyVBQ32LCsxY8zHvA6y6kjiP_OFmct83NzMX7YM5W_hf7hlk/w640-h480/bikeinvendome.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vendôme - at the Loir with a bit of colour</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p dir="ltr"><br /></p>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-64253481851816668672018-09-29T02:49:00.001-07:002021-08-25T03:46:44.761-07:00Bike rides - an updated analysis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After having completed the third (and final) stage of riding the Camino de Santiago (Chemin de Compostelle) by bike, I'll present here the updated analyses of my rides in Europe to date. The results are remarkably consistent and they are a useful tool for future trip planning.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlpdnstoDcCJArnLasyBsBtgh357g4knDx5V_f4VoyJnrqv7RoxECwyc2ZttKYAQY28pm-nCBwHj2z7WbxsNKRI6NYiyXOcboPL_Rt_xC1HziqYJLCL_CIM6txRal_c8unxEEKA5KKI0/s1600/IMG_20180908_082445.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlpdnstoDcCJArnLasyBsBtgh357g4knDx5V_f4VoyJnrqv7RoxECwyc2ZttKYAQY28pm-nCBwHj2z7WbxsNKRI6NYiyXOcboPL_Rt_xC1HziqYJLCL_CIM6txRal_c8unxEEKA5KKI0/s400/IMG_20180908_082445.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little extras you won't find in a pilgrim hostel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div><h3 style="text-align: left;">
The Financial Summary:</h3>
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr style="height: 27.35pt; mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0;">
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; height: 27.35pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 91.15pt;" width="122"></td>
<td style="border: 1pt solid windowtext; height: 27.35pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 84.95pt;" valign="top" width="113"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Camino part 3 (2018)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; height: 27.35pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 89pt;" valign="top" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Loire à Vélo<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(2016)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; height: 27.35pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 89.05pt;" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Camino part 2<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(2015)</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; height: 27.35pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 93.15pt;" valign="top" width="124"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Camino part 1<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(2014)</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1;">
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: 1pt solid windowtext; border-right: none; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 91.15pt;" width="122"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Food</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 84.95pt;" valign="top" width="113"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">666 (29/day)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 89pt;" valign="top" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">234
(33/day)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 89.05pt;" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">320
(29/day)</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 93.15pt;" valign="top" width="124"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">430
(21/day)</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 2;">
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: 1pt solid windowtext; border-right: none; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 91.15pt;" width="122"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Accommodation</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 84.95pt;" valign="top" width="113"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">552
(24/day)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 89pt;" valign="top" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">287
(41/day)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 89.05pt;" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">317
(29/day)</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 93.15pt;" valign="top" width="124"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">308
(10.50/day)</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 3;">
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: 1pt solid windowtext; border-right: none; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 91.15pt;" width="122"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Travel</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 84.95pt;" valign="top" width="113"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">6<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 89pt;" valign="top" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 89.05pt;" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">31</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 93.15pt;" valign="top" width="124"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">247</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 4;">
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: 1pt solid windowtext; border-right: none; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 91.15pt;" width="122"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Other</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 84.95pt;" valign="top" width="113"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">6<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 89pt;" valign="top" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 89.05pt;" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">21</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 93.15pt;" valign="top" width="124"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">87</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 5;">
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: 1pt solid windowtext; border-right: none; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 91.15pt;" width="122"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Total Cost</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 84.95pt;" valign="top" width="113"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">1,230<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 89pt;" valign="top" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">521<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 89.05pt;" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">689</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 93.15pt;" valign="top" width="124"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">1,072</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 6; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: 1pt solid windowtext; border-right: none; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 91.15pt;" width="122"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Daily Average</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 84.95pt;" valign="top" width="113"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">53<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 89pt;" valign="top" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">74<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 89.05pt;" width="119"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">58</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0.75pt; width: 93.15pt;" valign="top" width="124"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">33</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<i><span style="color: black; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 10pt;">(all figures in Euros, daily averages
exclude special days)</span></i><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
My most recent trip, the third and final part of the Chemin de Compostelle, was the most expensive. This is not really a surprise, because it was also the longest. Looking at the daily figures, which are rather more relevant, it's also not a surprise that this trip was the second-cheapest. This is mostly driven by the accommodation, and is because I tried to stay as much as possible in pilgrim hostels and refuges. The figure would have been considerably lower had it not been for a few nights spent in hotels or B&Bs (<i>Chambres d'hôtes</i>). The latter is a bit misleading in France, since the price can be - and usually is - quite a bit higher than a simple hotel, and they are often rather more than a simple room in someone's house. My most expensive night was, no surprise, in the rather touristy town of St. Emillion in a <i>Chambre d'Hôtes</i> which cost Eur121. On the other extreme, my cheapest night was <i>nil </i>(zero), the very next night in Cadillac where the pilgrim refuge is in an original pilgrim "cell" in a building which today is part of the psychiatric hospital. Most municipal pilgrim refuges were around eur8 which is, of course, amazingly cheap accommodation and is in line with the prices in Spain. For the Loire à Vélo trip there was obviously no pilgrim accommodation involved and this is reflected in the daily accommodation cost, mostly staying at basic Airbnb places (in effect, more the "traditional" B&B concept of a room in someone's house.) I never camped, but that would, of course, be a way to dramatically reduce your accommodation costs, particularly if you don't stay at formal campsites.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEwm8m2htKWwaujt5Z-ead1wZwot_JvsafLfVtqyjt3wX2RTnAQNqiZlFgcERdcgVnOsuBT9FgZRyRm82Gu_TQw6kGStz6uv3E4uwZh1_84NzhPB2OTTKUnifC4jalb_Wnx2sUNLs8Hc/s1600/IMG_20180903_145101.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEwm8m2htKWwaujt5Z-ead1wZwot_JvsafLfVtqyjt3wX2RTnAQNqiZlFgcERdcgVnOsuBT9FgZRyRm82Gu_TQw6kGStz6uv3E4uwZh1_84NzhPB2OTTKUnifC4jalb_Wnx2sUNLs8Hc/s400/IMG_20180903_145101.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleeping in a "cell" won't break the bank</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The food was comparable with my previous two trips, which again is not a complete surprise because my style of eating was about the same: a basic breakfast, some fruit and snacks along the way but no formal lunch as such, and a decent dinner, generally in a local restaurant (although sometimes self-catered when staying in hostels). I tended to treat myself to a reasonably decent meal for dinner, with prices generally around eur25 with some notable exceptions.<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
The Engineering Summary:</h3>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="border-collapse: collapse; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm; mso-table-layout-alt: fixed; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"></td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Camino part 3<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Loire à Vélo<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Camino part 2</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Camino part 1</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Total
number of days<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">23<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">8<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">14</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">18 *</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Total
distance ridden (km)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">1,514<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">572<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">1,110</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">1,031</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Total
time on the bike (hrs)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">95<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">34.2<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">75.8</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">66.8</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Average
speed for the trip (km/h)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">15.9<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">16.7<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">14.7</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">15.4</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"></td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"></td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Average
hours ridden / day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">4.1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">4.3<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">5.4</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">3.9</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Average
distance ridden / day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">65.8<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">71.5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">79.3</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">60.6</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"></td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"></td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Longest
distance ridden in one day (km)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">86.1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">85.3<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">105.7</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">84.5</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Shortest
distance ridden in one day (km)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">38.0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">63.2<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">49.7</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">34.0</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Most
hours ridden in one day (hrs)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">5.4<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">5.0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">7.1</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">6.2</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Least
hours ridden in one day (hrs)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">3.0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">3.8<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">3.5</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">2.1</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Highest
daily average speed (km/h)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">17.9<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">17.8<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">15.0</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">19.1</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 218.05pt;" valign="top" width="291"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Lowest daily
average speed (km/h)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">12.5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-right-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm; width: 49.6pt;" valign="top" width="66"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">15.6<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">13.5</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 2cm;" valign="top" width="76"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">12.4</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>* Includes one rest
day<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
Again, these numbers are pretty consistent, and probably reflect the fact that my riding style hasn't really changed much. Four hours a day on the bike is a pretty reasonable number if you want to be comfortable, see some stuff along the way, but also cover a bit of distance. The 5.4 hours I spent on average each day for the second Camino reflects the fact that this trip was a bit time-limited, forcing me to cover a minimum distance / time each day. It wasn't an unreasonable load, but if you're not time-driven, it's better to keep the on-bike time to a more realistic figure. You'll enjoy the ride a lot more! The average speed is again pretty similar to the other rides. The differences are essentially driven by terrain, with hills obviously reducing your averages. It's no surprise that the Loire à Vélo ride, which is essentially flat terrain the whole way, has the highest average speed. The differences in averages might not seem much, but in practice they are significant.<br />
<br />
So there you have it; some rough planning numbers would therefore be:<br />
<br />
Distance/day: 60 km<br />
Hours ridden/day: 4 hours<br />
Cost/day: eur55 - eur75 depending on your accommodation.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_w7aw9-quNPqU9J-uS2lhZSL2_v3wALPb7U2lOHPsJXP0BKAaSSEGSSpc27TgdZToMiIJ9FfCF-gnXb9TPw1cMJdLVmhyphenhyphenf9oi410H_OXUo8OIJ7Vuy4zGBHlPbWdTPhlxutdl6oQbhY/s1600/IMG_20180913_135815.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_w7aw9-quNPqU9J-uS2lhZSL2_v3wALPb7U2lOHPsJXP0BKAaSSEGSSpc27TgdZToMiIJ9FfCF-gnXb9TPw1cMJdLVmhyphenhyphenf9oi410H_OXUo8OIJ7Vuy4zGBHlPbWdTPhlxutdl6oQbhY/s640/IMG_20180913_135815.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some tracks are easier to ride than others</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-81389544072022453172018-09-18T05:46:00.000-07:002018-10-03T06:56:37.251-07:00Camino v3 - Day 23: Tours to Chemillé (43km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOPdIqW1vzaMNeT2bErCyTQ7zSSTj0892cx37pfgqH0y2WGjeaiR_PfpDV0T95Auin_rPvGl6RIRfMg4gOwUlgEy_5wvAxjH-XGFCVreJPMdacIHk38bYS3l6cI6HAnYpoN3mlnBnPGI/s1600/IMG_20180917_201721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOPdIqW1vzaMNeT2bErCyTQ7zSSTj0892cx37pfgqH0y2WGjeaiR_PfpDV0T95Auin_rPvGl6RIRfMg4gOwUlgEy_5wvAxjH-XGFCVreJPMdacIHk38bYS3l6cI6HAnYpoN3mlnBnPGI/s320/IMG_20180917_201721.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bike parking</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaOf0hfCwsjMoaHrx1mCGQDcriIqJO6fIQu7_CcoZ-BnkLnsc_4p3n0eYEV05LlLf5KVOYrvhPXMum1RPYa7rMp8PiJtYetY_V0ubiIswUlX8UtvZPv18fxdX52GOfSUqYlodGienSXo/s1600/IMG_20180918_072323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaOf0hfCwsjMoaHrx1mCGQDcriIqJO6fIQu7_CcoZ-BnkLnsc_4p3n0eYEV05LlLf5KVOYrvhPXMum1RPYa7rMp8PiJtYetY_V0ubiIswUlX8UtvZPv18fxdX52GOfSUqYlodGienSXo/s200/IMG_20180918_072323.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast for one in a hall for eighty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The dining hall seats something like 80 people (I counted them, as you do when you're having breakfast alone.) I've only actually <i>seen</i> 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?<br />
<br />
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 <i>matins</i>. 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.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnTheDdC8YnyucOZ7iFChVBDQQmy7l5Pzuw-7OY2FDgHqBUXuV3UiDk0QnUM6gFwZFRVw1LzQUUz9l3jSke32nrMu3s70e4juWBjdAu1iax-TuFWUxhO-To-96NFGyxWxlXn5TyA3RBU/s1600/IMG_20180918_082423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnTheDdC8YnyucOZ7iFChVBDQQmy7l5Pzuw-7OY2FDgHqBUXuV3UiDk0QnUM6gFwZFRVw1LzQUUz9l3jSke32nrMu3s70e4juWBjdAu1iax-TuFWUxhO-To-96NFGyxWxlXn5TyA3RBU/s400/IMG_20180918_082423.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Basilique de Saint Martin, all to myself</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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 V<i>ieux Tours</i>. 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 <i>boulangeries</i> 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 <i>credencial</i>. 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 <i>Chemin de Compostelle</i> - they've started in Germany and are completing the entire route in annual pilgrimages; this year is the <i>Voie de Tours</i> (which I have just ridden). Last year was northern France and the year before that was Belgium. Next year they will finish.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ6pWdJXm4msJb5pG7_dTyaSfJiZfK742X7kZRSisPGKTRaEYPn9lhr0adgV34sDFvWpC7kMUEMCO0COD2vAeBkQvW2sQnol7J2QNbxvfqIZlBK4CWGLhTd-q3z9weSyO_1KI5XkUOE34/s1600/IMG_20180918_083548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ6pWdJXm4msJb5pG7_dTyaSfJiZfK742X7kZRSisPGKTRaEYPn9lhr0adgV34sDFvWpC7kMUEMCO0COD2vAeBkQvW2sQnol7J2QNbxvfqIZlBK4CWGLhTd-q3z9weSyO_1KI5XkUOE34/s400/IMG_20180918_083548.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vieux Tours with a splash of colour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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 <i>boulangerie</i> to eat after all.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOv7gHs_rHfKh8bioxFEfZ5KAWhmKLD9TJYF_hgBu-OBOhfBUbdd_d9Mrq1fa3meM8uFuWKdhTyZBmvJ1l9JvznDNaLGAdh6lyDkXSc6wFUT64OIUe_X9W34RqPwKPiHcPlaiOh8dkz6U/s1600/IMG_20180918_110032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOv7gHs_rHfKh8bioxFEfZ5KAWhmKLD9TJYF_hgBu-OBOhfBUbdd_d9Mrq1fa3meM8uFuWKdhTyZBmvJ1l9JvznDNaLGAdh6lyDkXSc6wFUT64OIUe_X9W34RqPwKPiHcPlaiOh8dkz6U/s640/IMG_20180918_110032.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almost home again; the final stretch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com037370 Chemillé-sur-Dême, France47.659186 0.6491730000000188747.573631999999996 0.48781150000001888 47.74474 0.81053450000001881tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-47360485152090185692018-09-17T13:07:00.000-07:002018-10-06T08:27:43.088-07:00Camino v3 - Day 22: Châtellerault to Tours (83km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
In Lusignan there was a coffee maker but no filters or coffee. This morning I had coffee and filters (brought with me from Lusignan) but no coffee maker. But with a bit of improvisation I still managed to make myself some coffee to go with my (equally improvised) breakfast. Necessity is the mother of invention after all. I have the pilgrim refuge - the same one I stayed in on the journey southwards - all to myself, which means I can do what I want when I want, but also takes away from the idea of staying in a pilgrim hostel and sharing the experience with other people following the same route. I am on the road before sunrise, anticipating the longer ride today and wanting to get as much of the ride done in the cooler part of the day since the forecast is for a hot day, which it indeed turns out to be.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9s4QX8XsMsstrgNuAiZhf2InxOs2or72oHhtVPX7pxb1CbAcfs9x1x_1_4quIKqQKXi50IaCs84hF_kQwRRJksFkB852S4nMbjp8gj6aNY5fa94FrBHbGf6SLwMgfWK7bENXTFbkfn3M/s1600/IMG_20180917_095010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9s4QX8XsMsstrgNuAiZhf2InxOs2or72oHhtVPX7pxb1CbAcfs9x1x_1_4quIKqQKXi50IaCs84hF_kQwRRJksFkB852S4nMbjp8gj6aNY5fa94FrBHbGf6SLwMgfWK7bENXTFbkfn3M/s320/IMG_20180917_095010.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antogny - morning stop</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I am backtracking much of the route today, recognising things and places as I ride. At Antogny I stop at a nice little square opposite the church, which I completely missed on the way down. It's a nice spot for my morning coffee break, even though there's no coffee to be had in this tiny little village. I make do with water and the pastry that I brought with me. Although I'm riding the same route there's still some things it get to see for the first time, which is nice.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
At Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois, which is the town where the well-coiffed woman chatted with me from the window of her house, the <i>Maison du Dauphin</i>, I stop for lunch. I decide to take a different route from here back to Tours, so I'm not completely retracing my steps. I let my GPS app propose some options, since my map isn't detailed enough to show all the little roads. It's amazing that here in France even the tiniest little roads are sealed and perfectly suited for my purpose (for this final part I'm trying to avoid unsealed paths, wanting to complete the whole journey without any punctures if I can). I decide to be a bit lazy and follow a GPS route from here, which takes me quite a bit further west than the original route, but enters Tours via a much nicer area.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAishnjYsRY0hSy4IuXkEeixpzuxLk1GgeF1iR6YgsZ3cOrm9ddUgeu0dogTK74qeLp1jSXXaPuyOP0GuPmUEzuLD9oTQvDeEzFTzuzKsMvjXdsMN7PSyPSS88WXxEOwuYhfvQLdnVIPw/s1600/IMG_20180917_140230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAishnjYsRY0hSy4IuXkEeixpzuxLk1GgeF1iR6YgsZ3cOrm9ddUgeu0dogTK74qeLp1jSXXaPuyOP0GuPmUEzuLD9oTQvDeEzFTzuzKsMvjXdsMN7PSyPSS88WXxEOwuYhfvQLdnVIPw/s400/IMG_20180917_140230.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entering Tours with the tram</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It turns out to be quite a good ride, going through a couple of nice towns, in particular <i>Monts</i>, which I note for future reference. Once I get to the outskirts of Tours it turns out that my app is pretty good at finding bike paths, and even if at times the route seems a bit bizarre, it does actually make some sense. I cross the river, <i>Le Cher</i>, on a bike path that follows the tram line, which I would never have thought to do from the map, which shows the bridge as having no road, just the tram line.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
And then suddenly there I am, standing in front of the <i>Basilique Saint Martin</i> and I've reached my destination. I have a bit of the same 'and now what's next' feeling I had when I reached the cathedral in Santiago. In any case I have some time to kill, since the nuns running the pilgrim refuge associated with the basilica, where I plan to spend my last night of this journey, don't open for business until 18:00 and I've arrived at about 15:00. But I have a mission: I want to get my squashed glasses fixed if possible. I find a branch of the same optician chain that I bought the glasses from years ago and lucky for me I am served by a very helpful woman who knows about the Chemin de Compostelle and is very understanding of my situation. While I wait, my glasses are fixed, and at absolutely no cost. I even get a new case to protect them together with a well-intentioned lecture on taking better care of my glasses. Who says customer service is dead in France? Here's the exception. Not bad at all.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9IiE4ezDIBoiHzyi5J8H5FcMx5TNTovcQqLOw7jDMhHvgRlVsQZ9UlsvGa3HN6R_1eCKvpp1ZC9ySHj0s4m8noyDQhtZS75PuX2iSOhHTMinJAEspQKz4QwxCdCsruvlc0rq2NvKHQM/s1600/IMG_20180917_143926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9IiE4ezDIBoiHzyi5J8H5FcMx5TNTovcQqLOw7jDMhHvgRlVsQZ9UlsvGa3HN6R_1eCKvpp1ZC9ySHj0s4m8noyDQhtZS75PuX2iSOhHTMinJAEspQKz4QwxCdCsruvlc0rq2NvKHQM/s640/IMG_20180917_143926.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arrival at the Basilique de Saint Martin, Tours</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Tours has free WiFi in many parts of the city, so I sit in a park catching up on a few things while being 'entertained' by having to see a young couple with several dogs let their dog take a shit on the grass right where people are sitting with their lunches. Shortly thereafter two mounted police ride through the park and I am secretly hoping that they are the dog shit police but no such luck. To somehow enforce this point, one of the riders lets her horse liberally pee onto the grass. Knowing that the grass is used for dog shit and horse pee makes me glad I've chosen to sit on a bench.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM-2tnGc08nsgbnNe40WuEL4TE2Zw_GEbg2l-W5RhhrosbyP9HhvBGPv3JIskJ9w5CCPJyOsiHera5gmHHej4HXmamhydIrwzo3Lbvn0b0ulmfmgTCdk1exfjjnDP4y32np6eNXFD9q4/s1600/IMG_20180917_182650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM-2tnGc08nsgbnNe40WuEL4TE2Zw_GEbg2l-W5RhhrosbyP9HhvBGPv3JIskJ9w5CCPJyOsiHera5gmHHej4HXmamhydIrwzo3Lbvn0b0ulmfmgTCdk1exfjjnDP4y32np6eNXFD9q4/s400/IMG_20180917_182650.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basilica dormitory for one tonight</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At the appointed hour I am at the basilica and being shown around, together with two other cyclists (a Dutch couple, of course) by one of the nuns. The place is spotlessly clean and well equipped. It's not meant just for Santiago pilgrims, but mainly as a place for people looking for a spiritual retreat for whatever reason. Tonight there's just the three cyclists and the head nun clearly doesn't see us as "real" pilgrims, which, to be fair, by her definition we probably aren't. Although I had thought that perhaps the pilgrims shared their dinner with the nuns, the three of us eat alone in large (spotless) dining hall. The dinner is much less frugal than I had been lead to believe and although simple is copious and good. There's even dessert.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnVnkrShhtHaayU0bEDtXpgEdNKD0ok4JH6tX2QtAuphHpfkqUcPOcIkiAyoa8EPieBpb-pLfiCG9ZXyYFkxdjz_7vli3TXnTaPsh_AnrrNipZCMWtb-DoTzAR-l4L_jSWg_p_RJ2dXo/s1600/IMG_20180921_220342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1185" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnVnkrShhtHaayU0bEDtXpgEdNKD0ok4JH6tX2QtAuphHpfkqUcPOcIkiAyoa8EPieBpb-pLfiCG9ZXyYFkxdjz_7vli3TXnTaPsh_AnrrNipZCMWtb-DoTzAR-l4L_jSWg_p_RJ2dXo/s320/IMG_20180921_220342.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pilgrim Credencial - completed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The head nun comes after dinner to arrange breakfast and departure times, as well as take our payment since we will be leaving around the time of <i>matins</i>. "You can pay me now" she says, "The amount is up to you and it's €30 per person." I find this statement a little contradictory but don't press the point. I'm thinking that for Dutch bike riders, who are all using the same guide in which the refuge is mentioned, the sisters have realised that not many of them are actually on a spiritual pilgrimage and that they can afford to pay a reasonable amount. Walkers no doubt get a different treatment, which is probably not at all unreasonable. Arlette the Belgian walker I met in Lusignan had stayed here and when we talked about it confirmed that, for her at least, the payment was indeed 'donativo' meaning at the discretion of and according to the means of, the pilgrim. She had given €15, which probably gave her some extra pocket money for a couple of extra cans of beer for the walk the next day.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
We each get a set of keys with an explanation of which key is for what: "This key is for your room, this key is for the big gate and the little key is for the church." I check to make sure I've heard that correctly: I've just been given the key to let myself into the Basilica of Saint Martin in Tours. We are not taking about a little local church here; we're taking about a tourist destination basilica of serious proportions and importance. And I have the key. Of course I have to test this and so after dinner I let myself into the now empty church, which I have all to myself for as long as I like. How good is that?</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7JghbBqPk8Np0o52MBCQkjlGN6QV8zk1QoUMNA_pG-wnsxwyh4gal3kLGZxrrCU2lQ1H4z9S7GjvO4VQBjSkNftzkuZ06Zn0ZiP9JwfNfPYOuFmhCME2eVA1z8ewSiP0j20uTzSXHAs/s1600/IMG_20180917_114257.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7JghbBqPk8Np0o52MBCQkjlGN6QV8zk1QoUMNA_pG-wnsxwyh4gal3kLGZxrrCU2lQ1H4z9S7GjvO4VQBjSkNftzkuZ06Zn0ZiP9JwfNfPYOuFmhCME2eVA1z8ewSiP0j20uTzSXHAs/s640/IMG_20180917_114257.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ride this way</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-73378293998130669682018-09-16T23:14:00.001-07:002018-10-02T04:12:34.968-07:00Camino v3 - Day 21: Lusignan to Châtellerault (65km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
I'm in the kitchen of the apartment - it's not really a 'refuge' at all, but really a complete two-bedroom apartment - comparing maps with Arlette, the Belgian walker. She's trying to see where she might stop today and ironically she's asking me, a cyclist, for advice. I suggest a few places that might be big enough to have some accommodation, although having passed through the area yesterday I know that most of the places shown as villages on the map are not much more than hamlets, with nothing much in the way of shops or much else. The walking maps suffer from the problem that they don't show much of the area at any distance either side of the route, whereas my map gives more information about what's around. Then I realise that in this section the walking route is quite different to the cycling route, essentially because there's not much in the way of roads or paths to choose from. So what I've ridden through yesterday isn't going to be of much help to Arlette. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdq_iSJGUIUBuHy2LsQa7PQjtXfU4dA-EphbcXrwpb1f_60d8ItMVHT8UvK189b8qZ0R5TZsGfHDJMG0fLIFQtiHGkheYyq0UZlZgs1IbnNWw8LroDDCAgbOcTN93ya0Pxwn-q7ysu6OM/s1600/IMG_20180915_133532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdq_iSJGUIUBuHy2LsQa7PQjtXfU4dA-EphbcXrwpb1f_60d8ItMVHT8UvK189b8qZ0R5TZsGfHDJMG0fLIFQtiHGkheYyq0UZlZgs1IbnNWw8LroDDCAgbOcTN93ya0Pxwn-q7ysu6OM/s400/IMG_20180915_133532.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
And then I look more closely at my route: "climb 1km, climb 7-9%, climb 10%" and so it goes. I look at Arlette's map, which shows some of the relief, and realise that my route is crossing a long series of ridges. Do I <i>really</i> need this first thing this morning? It's Sunday and the roads will be quiet early in this cold morning. I convince myself - it doesn't take much - to take the main road for this part. It's straight, follows the railway line, and will be considerably shorter and the climbs will be less often and more gentle. After three weeks I give myself permission to take the bigger road for once. My grand plan will come slightly unstuck closer to Poitiers, where there's the dreaded 'cars only' sign up ahead and I have to plan a detour through little roads to rejoin my route. My detour involves a steep climb out of a deep valley (after <i>une belle déscente</i> down into the valley it must be said) so I don't get to escape the climbs entirely. In the early morning it's impressive how much and how quickly the temperature drops as I descend into the valley; something you'd miss entirely if you were in a car.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobeLdxkx1vuJQWTYcBSe7UAdagoiBVkmI8oMLJkYIUS7zRwV2jpPTd65mtx7dvGzqzPBSUu-2kVjY3gxTUT7vDN_UQCloECmVapRK8d1NcMEFhvJ3uAj_FSO3ETQkQzJzpbVHX-CQVrw/s1600/IMG_20180916_092201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobeLdxkx1vuJQWTYcBSe7UAdagoiBVkmI8oMLJkYIUS7zRwV2jpPTd65mtx7dvGzqzPBSUu-2kVjY3gxTUT7vDN_UQCloECmVapRK8d1NcMEFhvJ3uAj_FSO3ETQkQzJzpbVHX-CQVrw/s400/IMG_20180916_092201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"La Vienne, everything to seduce you" - follow the arrows</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Arlette still has two cans of beer left. When I met her yesterday in the little grocery store, amongst her purchases for the next day - bread, some sliced meat, a piece of quiche - I noticed she bought four cans of beer. Belgians are known for their beer, but I thought this was just a little odd for someone who's carrying everything in a backpack for thirty kilometres each day. And these are not your usual cans; they are the French 500ml cans, so here she was loading up with 2kg of beer! When we got back to the refuge, about the first thing she did was open one. "Would you like some beer?" she asked. I suggested we could split the can between us - after all one glass of beer before a dinner that would involve wine would be plenty I thought. She looked at me like I had suggested something unthinkable. No, it had to be a can each. And it didn't take her long to knock back a half litre of beer, something she was obviously used to doing. So this morning she still has her two remaining cans (1kg...) for the walk. When I commented on this she explained that the weight wasn't a problem; she put one can on either side of her pack, in the little external pockets. That way it would be balanced and she could easily get to them when she needed to.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QXSvXotpTFoD0KijiyLVaDl1eRoXZPYrkMhODbN3poA1jI8gGXsH-NZS-Q1e_MiJSED5weNBexkVFglxiyf84gwe9LlyIXxiN8I49QCIwLDQA9vguXENsumqNy8UsfYivhE0ahx3DKg/s1600/IMG_20180915_164608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QXSvXotpTFoD0KijiyLVaDl1eRoXZPYrkMhODbN3poA1jI8gGXsH-NZS-Q1e_MiJSED5weNBexkVFglxiyf84gwe9LlyIXxiN8I49QCIwLDQA9vguXENsumqNy8UsfYivhE0ahx3DKg/s320/IMG_20180915_164608.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps the roadside rest areas need signs similar to these</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
I've stopped at a roadside parking bay on the main road; it's time for a quick pee-and-drink break. I walk off the roadside towards the bushes and am confronted with the evidence that I am not the only one to take a break here. I should, of course, have known better on this main road. Walking any further would be seriously tempting fate as I survey the ground ahead of me dotted with with little piles of tissue paper, some of which are only partially hiding what's underneath. The joys of the main road. I step back from the brink and go back to the safety of my bike.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The last few days I've found myself looking at tractors, and especially the colour. Is it a Massey Ferguson? A John Deere? There's an impressive number of old or abandoned tractors around. When I was stopped at Annepont a couple of days ago, a guy came up to me and asked where I was from. Australia, I told him. He looked puzzled, and I got the impression that his worldview didn't quite extend that far, which it probably didn't. A little later, I heard a loud clattering mechanical sound of a vintage engine of some sort. It was the guy riding his ancient tractor through the village. And what did I notice about the tractor? That it was orange. And all this because of a Swiss woman who carried a photograph of her old family tractor with her.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I arrive in Châtellerault; familiar territory since I stayed here on my ride South. I've chosen to stop here since, apart being a good day's ride from Tours, it's Sunday and I figured that it makes sense to stay in a larger town with a lot of restaurants and places to buy food. I should have known better. After picking up my key for the pilgrim's refuge, I ride into town, to the restaurant I had dinner at last time I was here and which I know is good. Why not make a reservation to be sure of a table? The guy looks at me as if I'm from another planet. "It's Sunday" he states "We close for dinner on Sunday." Of course. So I ask him if he would be so kind as to suggest a place that's open. "You won't find anything, all the restaurants are closed on Sunday". This seems unlikely but I'm beginning to think it might be true. I ride back to the tourist office, which surprisingly <i>is</i> open on a Sunday (but only the afternoon). "There's a <i>crêperie </i>that's open every day, and there's one <i>boulangerie </i>still open until 16h00, that's about it" I'm told. As it happens, I know this crêperie and it's even quite close to my refuge, so I ride there. A crêpe for dinner would be fine. The sign on the door says 'open 7/7 every day' but the handwritten sign stuck underneath says: 'Exceptionally closed today, reopens Monday'. Just my luck. I go to the boulangerie and pick up some emergency supplies since things are not looking so good for dinner tonight.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyTomtrY_Aun6qOxZGJcox60TStaH_aLCTbHkLPB6goV8K5w-iauxS_HcRIDcBUJUganuRFa9PEKgf_r4VX7wd1J-fjt0w_hk5EjUPxqjIpMjh2cFXE5cXoCIBFBZmc9KQHxfJ5xsltc/s1600/IMG_20180916_171457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyTomtrY_Aun6qOxZGJcox60TStaH_aLCTbHkLPB6goV8K5w-iauxS_HcRIDcBUJUganuRFa9PEKgf_r4VX7wd1J-fjt0w_hk5EjUPxqjIpMjh2cFXE5cXoCIBFBZmc9KQHxfJ5xsltc/s320/IMG_20180916_171457.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1858 - the " Bone Shaker" vélocipède</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
As it happens, today is the <i>Journée du Patrimoine</i>, an annual event throughout France and in fact Europe. Various sites are opened to the public, some museums are free, concerts are held and so on. Châtellerault has a Motor Museum, which happens to be one of the ones open today. So I head there after having done my daily chores. Appropriately for me, the exhibition begins with examples of the first bicycle, complete with wooden tyres and pedals attached directly to the hub of the front wheel (and no brakes, but then early cars didn't have much in the way of brakes either). I'm glad I'm doing this trip now and not 150 years ago. After visiting the museum I stop at the nearby skate park and watch people tempt serious injury without so much as a helmet or even knee or elbow pads. Madness. There's also the usual dogs on leashes sniffing and playing with each other as their owners attempt to untangle the leads. And then along walks a woman pushing a stroller with, no surprise guessing, a dog in it. Dogs are definitely pampered here.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
While I'm admiring the dog-in-a-pram, I notice there's a free WiFi hotspot here so I connect. Then I have a brainwave; I search for grocery stores that are open on Sunday and lo and behold there's one not too far away! I'm in the 'suburbs' out of the town centre now. I'm thinking that a beer or maybe some wine would be nice to have with my ad-hoc emergency dinner. I navigate my way there, and sure enough, right there in the middle of a somewhat dodgy area is a little local grocery store that's open. As I walk in, the girl at the checkout greets me. She's wearing a head scarf and I realise I'm not going to find any alcohol in this place, which a quick look at what's on the shelves confirms. And it was looking so promising! The flip side of my disappointment is that I discover almost across the road a little hole-in-the-wall pizza place which <i>is </i>open. Dinner will be pizza then.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Looking at my search results I see there's another possibility for an open supermarket, a bit further out of town. I go back to the refuge and get the bike, ride out of town without expecting too much. As I ride the signs are not promising: there's a kebab place, I see quite a few women in head scarves and the area gets decidedly dodgy. Still, I persist and to my surprise, when I get there, not only is there a supermarket, it's open, <i>and</i> it has a decent selection of everything, including alcoholic drinks. When I enter the store, the guy at the checkout suggests I bring the bike inside so he can keep an eye on it for me. It's a nice gesture but it also confirms my feeling about the area. A bottle of beer to go with the pizza and some milk for morning coffee, a few other supplies and I'm set.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Back at the pizza place I order dinner while the cook lights up a cigarette (and continues making pizzas). One can't be worrying about little details like hygiene when it's Sunday evening and dinner calls. Back at the pilgrim refuge, I eat my pizza, which is good, accompanied by a nice beer and the sounds of the carillon of the Saint Jacques church, just next door, being played especially for the Journée du Patrimoine. Not so bad after all.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbEv_RCfuxpkmVqCOIptEOXXesWvbdG6nuL6AGNy7SzuGGv6kP6SEL3f1bo2WT6lIebwsJmDQ0tNo_JiXD_OR3WV8AL-IOgtOHji6IeLuiVRHBejrg3t0v5wRQHnewkeG6H2NkN4qAbE/s1600/IMG_20180916_191033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbEv_RCfuxpkmVqCOIptEOXXesWvbdG6nuL6AGNy7SzuGGv6kP6SEL3f1bo2WT6lIebwsJmDQ0tNo_JiXD_OR3WV8AL-IOgtOHji6IeLuiVRHBejrg3t0v5wRQHnewkeG6H2NkN4qAbE/s400/IMG_20180916_191033.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home delivered pizza</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Later, I sit on my glasses, completely bending them out of shape. Not the best way to end the day. I decide to have an early night.</div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-65239105039689166372018-09-15T01:57:00.000-07:002018-10-03T06:56:04.911-07:00Camino v3 - Day 20: Aulnay to Lusignan (72km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
The pilgrim refuge was dark and quiet when I returned after my meal last night, even though it was only just after 9 pm. The walkers must have been pretty tired and they were all in bed, presumably already asleep. Two of them, a mother and her son, had only just started the day before so they obviously had some adjusting to do. Nathalie and Christine are seasoned walkers but perhaps yesterday's walk had been difficult. Either way, I was the only one still up. And in the morning I am the first up, feeling my way around the place in the dark to avoid disturbing the still-sleeping walkers. Breakfast of scrambled eggs but without the fresh bread I had hoped to get since the local <i>boulangerie</i> isn't even open yet. The walkers have bits of stale bread from yesterday and with a cup of coffee that's their breakfast, even though I offer to make everyone scrambled eggs. I have the brilliant idea to boil the eggs I still have left from the six I've had to buy and take them with me for snacking on the way.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFdgr-Q0VP78YN6rhvSz2xGMQSnLm_cMp9Qo4IZynyBg_SH2W46zEp0_rS8-xAwMQ5Ol4wTtsE5p25Mezt_oXSWeQx6J2C4_MFjB7CknNd-bGyxGZ3RGYd1xQEFH0TL9DhbiXaCcQEwo/s1600/IMG_20180915_075332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFdgr-Q0VP78YN6rhvSz2xGMQSnLm_cMp9Qo4IZynyBg_SH2W46zEp0_rS8-xAwMQ5Ol4wTtsE5p25Mezt_oXSWeQx6J2C4_MFjB7CknNd-bGyxGZ3RGYd1xQEFH0TL9DhbiXaCcQEwo/s640/IMG_20180915_075332.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning starts have their rewards</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
Clear skies overnight make for a cold start to today's ride, with the sun coming up in a gorgeous sunrise about half an hour into the ride. Gorgeous, but also awkward since my route is almost due east for the first part and so I'm looking straight into the rising sun as I ride.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLS8UQ0mLRUbESAMdodi6sXUovMaKmnHgiTjb0EHmBC34mm61SLUB3dkBl1UembpoekBMGTQHPIgoPAgW4V2hbz9kmcHTUEog1qBMc5Q8SPLQR2PKEyN8tcJe4g3syWC_9sTNiPM4WEe8/s1600/IMG_20180915_075111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLS8UQ0mLRUbESAMdodi6sXUovMaKmnHgiTjb0EHmBC34mm61SLUB3dkBl1UembpoekBMGTQHPIgoPAgW4V2hbz9kmcHTUEog1qBMc5Q8SPLQR2PKEyN8tcJe4g3syWC_9sTNiPM4WEe8/s400/IMG_20180915_075111.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Self portrait with bike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJcYo_QTVMx58w3G6QYxbHqNSw8LDC-RqzQmM1Mak8ch5Vg-Mjw6juwWHL6d8AP9PceEack-lXQrV6N6z8-Blkbo_2T1GZkYb89VLmdOwXmMD47k_cqMAa6imj8XQWvwrjJFnt6Gzv84/s1600/IMG_20180915_093721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="758" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJcYo_QTVMx58w3G6QYxbHqNSw8LDC-RqzQmM1Mak8ch5Vg-Mjw6juwWHL6d8AP9PceEack-lXQrV6N6z8-Blkbo_2T1GZkYb89VLmdOwXmMD47k_cqMAa6imj8XQWvwrjJFnt6Gzv84/s400/IMG_20180915_093721.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They're bigger than you think</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
At Lusseray there's a field of enormous windmills, clearly recently installed. So conveniently for me there's no fences or gates to prevent me getting close. It's difficult to imagine how enormous, and noisy, those windmills are unless you're standing directly underneath one of them, thinking 'if one of those blades comes adrift now...' A good photo opportunity nonetheless.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Most of the wildlife I encounter today is two-dimensional; flattened birds, including a kestrel (or is it a hawk?), a flattened hedgehog, and various other anonymous mammals. The only non-flattened animals I see are a baby bird that runs across the road just in front of me (almost becoming two-dimensional in the process) and a cat waiting by the side of the road for me to pass so it can deliver the little mouse in its mouth to wherever it is taking it.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The wind that had been making those windmills turn so fast is also with me most of the day. Or rather, it is <i>against</i> me most of the day, making the hills that much harder to climb and the flat parts seem like they are hills.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KUdiwCLtpIbMwc48rS40Y2sxqSv9CqZ8sJJiwpnhUhd-jfJY68P4j2CkxbhgNUQE_xoEPlVvOStil-ZFvktm988BW4I4XFxxDJI3ajrjZpT_JXnybnuroUEEupx01xZmc7KsTIxSLrE/s1600/IMG_20180915_113456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KUdiwCLtpIbMwc48rS40Y2sxqSv9CqZ8sJJiwpnhUhd-jfJY68P4j2CkxbhgNUQE_xoEPlVvOStil-ZFvktm988BW4I4XFxxDJI3ajrjZpT_JXnybnuroUEEupx01xZmc7KsTIxSLrE/s400/IMG_20180915_113456.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another way to deal with the wildlife</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Today being Saturday, the <i>Mairie</i> of the town I'm staying at, Lusignan, is of course closed. Normally you get the key to the pilgrim refuge from the <i>Mairie </i>but now I have to collect it from the local camping ground. The town is, of course, on top of a steep hill. The campground is, of course, at the bottom of the hill where there's a river and forests. So I get to ride up the hill to the town, then down to the camp ground, and then all the way back up again. The guy running the campground, which is surprisingly quiet, tells me that I won't have the refuge to myself; there's a Belgian woman who's also booked for the night. The track from the campground to the pilgrim refuge is a walking track that's so steep I end up have to walk the bike (fully loaded of course) back up to the top of town. I ride some of the way, but give up and walk the rest. At least it's a decent shortcut and despite having to walk, is much quicker than the ride would have been. The pilgrim refuge turns out to be in part of the old castle and is essentially a two bedroom apartment complete with panoramic views (this is, after all, a fortified town on the top of a hill). There's even a washing machine. Luxury!</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSp6SgvmZTVOgwdgxhyphenhyphen1eaifhVWfnU5pNvvg1m2VicilLoA3tZT247QTgtPyMz8NSHCxcT3kq50w0bLycsaIkqB-IOBzqs9WdHB488VHoWj_WJWR_TpW5lWCGs9IcVjTfAHq1GwurYaV4/s1600/IMG_20180915_150201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSp6SgvmZTVOgwdgxhyphenhyphen1eaifhVWfnU5pNvvg1m2VicilLoA3tZT247QTgtPyMz8NSHCxcT3kq50w0bLycsaIkqB-IOBzqs9WdHB488VHoWj_WJWR_TpW5lWCGs9IcVjTfAHq1GwurYaV4/s320/IMG_20180915_150201.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from my castle refuge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Once I've settled in, chosen my room (not just which bed, but tonight I get to choose which <i>room</i>) I head into town to buy some supplies for tomorrow's breakfast. I know there's a little <i>charcuterie</i> that also doubles as the local mini-market so I head there to buy some coffee and other critical supplies. Back at the refuge I search in vain for filters for the coffee machine but there are, rather surprisingly, none. Since I've just gone to the trouble to buy coffee, I'll need some filters, so it's back to the shop again. And there's my Belgian flatmate. We haven't met yet, but the walker's clothes, the backpack, not to mention the scallop shell are all giveaways that this person is walking the <i>Chemin de Compostelle</i>. So I introduce myself to Arlette, who is my Belgian flatmate for the night. At least she speaks French, unlike her compatriot, Nico. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Rather than cook ourselves dinner we decide to go to the restaurant (not 'a' restaurant, it's 'the' as in <i>only </i>restaurant) for dinner. It's almost empty but shortly after we arrive an entire busload (56 as I find out later) of people turn up and invade the place. They are all of a certain age, and all wearing light blue scarves. They're a walking group on a four- day walking and cycling organised tour. It's somehow ironic that this group is on the one hand doing what Arlette and I are doing (walking and cycling) but on the other hand doing the complete opposite; they are in a huge organised group with everything planned and we are going alone taking things one day at a time. I'm glad I'm not on the bus.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-3305101592799665202018-09-14T11:42:00.001-07:002018-10-02T06:17:59.555-07:00Camino v3 - Day 19: Saintes to Aulnay (52 km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZOCymTJUSccajkgLOrtO8K_GeUBFEyDZRnXlkNCxATvs7Yqxk4f61yyeam8JJUBrCTbkhCkGW9XQVRB6R5L1uU2uzqbFP0t1xoJ9D_SRvdIA1truBJ2pLzpow93esFqcyBRdU-LiOkY/s1600/IMG_20180914_091020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZOCymTJUSccajkgLOrtO8K_GeUBFEyDZRnXlkNCxATvs7Yqxk4f61yyeam8JJUBrCTbkhCkGW9XQVRB6R5L1uU2uzqbFP0t1xoJ9D_SRvdIA1truBJ2pLzpow93esFqcyBRdU-LiOkY/s400/IMG_20180914_091020.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saintes - with a bit of colour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yesterday we revisited dogs in prams and restaurants. This morning I am riding out of the town and a sports car pulls up beside me in the traffic. Sitting up straight, on the passenger seat, enjoying the view, is an enormous dog (a Great Dane perhaps). If it had been wearing sunglasses and had a bow in its hair I wouldn't have been surprised.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Nico, my roommate last night, announces he's going to have a special breakfast. He's going to have corn flakes. He brings out the box he's bought, opens it and looks a little confused. "Strange corn flakes they have here" he observes. I look at the packet; it's <i>flocons d'avoine</i> - rolled oats, not corn flakes at all. I tell him what it is. "But it was with the breakfast cereals" he says, still confused. I don't think Nico spends much time in the kitchen, or possibly in supermarkets for that matter. I show him how to make porridge and he has that for his breakfast. He'll be lugging around a half kilogram of oats for a while I think.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwTB9Q5Y1DqckXiZ0TKhII172-COVO87rNEuNAXuXauRUw6JxyPBt4QNVpMsvtyGy3ou4zjeCFXZ61-t0UElAvLPfLjXhx_bFGYBk09GtbJyMA1oC28xmBe68fEdq7AMj9chj2-mwBODw/s1600/IMG_20180914_083948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwTB9Q5Y1DqckXiZ0TKhII172-COVO87rNEuNAXuXauRUw6JxyPBt4QNVpMsvtyGy3ou4zjeCFXZ61-t0UElAvLPfLjXhx_bFGYBk09GtbJyMA1oC28xmBe68fEdq7AMj9chj2-mwBODw/s320/IMG_20180914_083948.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and wait until 10:00 for the site to open</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Nico and I decide to visit the local Roman amphitheatre before we each head off (he's heading south; I am heading north). Neither of us had visited the site yesterday, both probably thinking the same thing: "I'll go there in the morning". What both of us had forgotten, of course, is that nothing like this in France opens before 10:00. When we arrive at the site, we discover that not only is this a fenced-off and pay-to-enter site, but it's closed. So we have to content ourselves with a few pictures through the fence and walk back to the refuge. On my ride out of town I detour past a couple of other landmarks and sites I had not yet visited; fortunately these are all things you can see without having to wait for them to open.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm doing something I haven't done yet on this ride; I've stopped for lunch. I'm in Saint-Jean-d'Angély, yet another hyphenated town. It's the sort of place that invites you to stop rather than just ride through; narrow cobbled streets, medieval houses leaning into the road, a nice little square with shady trees and cafés with lots of outdoor seating. I had been thinking of a rest day today anyway, so why not take some time to take a break. As I'm eating my sandwich I'm looking at all the people come and go, as you do. It's the sort of town where people know each other and there's a lot of hand shaking and cheek kissing going on. There's one woman sitting near me who seems to know a <i>lot</i> of people, there's almost a queue forming of the people who pass by and stop to say hello, kiss, chat. The young guys here seem to do the same head-touching greeting (as opposed to the more traditional cheek-touching kiss) that I first saw in Châtellerault. The place is filling up. Beer and wine is flowing freely on this Friday afternoon. I suspect not much work gets done in Saint-Jean-d'Angély on a Friday afternoon.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5k_jD1F1akS3_fi3-A18DtlEkxS2maslYL8MKvhlYddgVakTpY4UTGTiLWIXuhlTOLfKHfzrI0aD79Drf5b0Qx0BSsUkfIFr2FZFzIjSd64GcVI_VBuy3_INusVr2Wu0qT_bCSEnr8VI/s1600/IMG_20180914_121954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5k_jD1F1akS3_fi3-A18DtlEkxS2maslYL8MKvhlYddgVakTpY4UTGTiLWIXuhlTOLfKHfzrI0aD79Drf5b0Qx0BSsUkfIFr2FZFzIjSd64GcVI_VBuy3_INusVr2Wu0qT_bCSEnr8VI/s400/IMG_20180914_121954.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch break and people watching</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYux3FD7I3gcBoa8sMLfHibSR4i2k5MDeEYh05aIPUcXsyU69VkE7vu5AuyoXnell11Ve7EwmbpuR75e6EbZri-RaKS-dz98mC2f1nHvAUoSIHMuYP5psEKHTcyFeITO_mRO844AguPs/s1600/IMG_20180914_140714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYux3FD7I3gcBoa8sMLfHibSR4i2k5MDeEYh05aIPUcXsyU69VkE7vu5AuyoXnell11Ve7EwmbpuR75e6EbZri-RaKS-dz98mC2f1nHvAUoSIHMuYP5psEKHTcyFeITO_mRO844AguPs/s320/IMG_20180914_140714.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helping to keep the cats out of the church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I decide to ride on to the next town, partly because I'm not used to not riding and partly because I want to make the next day's ride a bit shorter. It's a relatively benign ride so it's a bit like a rest - at least that's what I tell myself. In fact it is a pretty relaxed ride with some nice spots along a river. I stop in a little place called Nuaillé-sur-Boutonne to have a look at the little 12th century church there. The door is open, but there's a chicken-wire frame blocking the doorway; a little sign asks the visitor to please replace the mesh to stop errant cats from getting into the church.<br />
<br />
I'm staying in a town called Aulnay on my map, but which turns out to be yet another hyphenated town: <i>Aulnay-de-Saintonge. </i>I'm here not only because the town is at a reasonable distance for today's ride, but also because there's a pilgrim refuge here. Like all the others, this one is run by a volunteer, although this place is run by the local council so the volunteer is a local resident, rather than being a member of a pilgrim association. She's probably in her eighties, widowed, and still living in the same house she's lived since she was married, right on the main village square. I'm in her house to sort out the paperwork; the place is a time warp of the 1950s. The building itself is much older of course. She's chatty and clearly likes to meet someone to distract her from being home alone. In fact, in another example of synchronicity, as I ride up to the house she's just stepped outside, as if she knew I was coming, and we meet on the footpath. But as she explains, she's just stepped outside to warm up a bit. She sees my bike and says: "You didn't tell me you had a bike, there won't be room in the refuge since there's four others staying." Before I even have a chance to think that this is not a good thing, she's already saying: "But don't worry, I'll ask the neighbour to put your bike in her garage." And sure enough, as we walk to the refuge, we stop by the neighbour, who of course comes out for a chat, and the bike finds a place for the night next to her car. Lovely.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9FDLfb7x60T4tHP3Jg5tyNK1cIl8W87ngY8ASmCJoWs0qxbdsJpDXLrOyUWPw45X36iQaBV5ttJYuDu4nj2PQRxMhbB-N_X4dMqbmp7MBPXMCDOqLUpJ5F_OO2Io7ju_8tNu-Z5A3f8/s1600/IMG_20180914_190829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9FDLfb7x60T4tHP3Jg5tyNK1cIl8W87ngY8ASmCJoWs0qxbdsJpDXLrOyUWPw45X36iQaBV5ttJYuDu4nj2PQRxMhbB-N_X4dMqbmp7MBPXMCDOqLUpJ5F_OO2Io7ju_8tNu-Z5A3f8/s320/IMG_20180914_190829.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The complex evacuation plan of the pilgrim refuge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm the first to arrive at the refuge so I get to choose which bed will be mine (a benefit of being on a bike, but which doesn't work on the Spanish Camino where the walkers leave and arrive much earlier than the cyclists). There's not only a washing machine (luxury!) but also a dryer (no need to worry whether the clothes will be dry by the morning!) This refuge is well equipped, and I make good use of both facilities; why not?</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I am the only non-French person and it's the first time I've stayed at a hostel where everyone takes care of their own dinner; there's no question of everyone contributing to a shared meal. Strange. Since I don't really feel like cooking for myself, I end up going to a local restaurant which I'd spotted earlier on during my walk around town. When I arrive, the place is still empty but I'm greeted with worried looks and told the place is fully booked. As I'm thinking "I've heard this before" the man and woman - the owners perhaps - have a quick discussion and checking with the chef, decide that they can fit in one more person. The place turns out to be really good, clearly well above the standards of the local competition. It must be on some list somewhere, because not only is it full, the outside area I'm seated in has half the tables occupied by English (tourists?) Next to me is a table of a French couple with an English couple who are probably their guests. The French woman explains the menu to the English speakers and then asks if anyone wants an aperitif. "A drink before we have a drink" pipes up the English guy happily. Brilliant! He has a pre-wine beer. My meal is very good; I should thank my French roommates for not wanting to make a shared meal. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The entire restaurant, some 40 diners perhaps, is being handled by a single waiter, with occasional help from the woman who is otherwise running the bar. It continues to impress me, how in France restaurants are handled (efficiently it must be said) by so few staff. And now back to my bunk bed; I hope there's no snorers tonight.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDiPmX4-IghpXGXQtKvYQG59UAk1jzTUMXiJhGuKbgN8A0_x5LqIJ3C6EXEm9PIjjne8qGbc8qW0D_ZdwfIHiXrNmZ70FhJDXNmOFJFV0Zoa1MHO3m5gLnJV9uUk_EkOfYWEDwtv6UyI/s1600/IMG_20180914_175228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDiPmX4-IghpXGXQtKvYQG59UAk1jzTUMXiJhGuKbgN8A0_x5LqIJ3C6EXEm9PIjjne8qGbc8qW0D_ZdwfIHiXrNmZ70FhJDXNmOFJFV0Zoa1MHO3m5gLnJV9uUk_EkOfYWEDwtv6UyI/s400/IMG_20180914_175228.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unusual gravestones at Aulnay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-32242507497392480232018-09-13T09:00:00.000-07:002018-10-03T06:55:45.672-07:00Camino v3 - Day 18: Boisredon to Saintes (66 km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
I'm up early. Dominic and Danielle are already at the breakfast table with the usual bowls of coffee and some bread. Except Dominic's bowl is <i>enormous </i>even by French standards. I get to try one of Danielle's home-made yoghurts and some of Dominic's home-made bread, both of which are very good. Last night during the dinner conversation I made the observation that I didn't understand how people on the Chemin de Compostelle - riders and walkers - could consider coffee and yesterday's baguette (sometimes toasted) a substantial or balanced breakfast to sustain them for the morning. Dominic is having coffee and a piece of baguette and I wonder if he remembers last night's conversation.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQ5JKDqd3E-ER_l4zcWQD-pFzoaxboOhA8mih3_4eS_ko94G7yGucEHzWqkRAQ3alSGGJe0fX8L9q75WdKzT5vfYJs5xh8V6imNOlGLgeueboezqQRzpZ2HbxfU6u0fZY3QRHQ23kfI8/s1600/IMG_20180913_092053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQ5JKDqd3E-ER_l4zcWQD-pFzoaxboOhA8mih3_4eS_ko94G7yGucEHzWqkRAQ3alSGGJe0fX8L9q75WdKzT5vfYJs5xh8V6imNOlGLgeueboezqQRzpZ2HbxfU6u0fZY3QRHQ23kfI8/s640/IMG_20180913_092053.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sun making an appearance near Saint-Genis-de-Saintonge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Just after I've set off, I spot a jogger up ahead; it's the guy from the other number 11 who of course remembers me (how many bike riders with bright yellow panniers is he likely to encounter in a week). He asks whether I found the <i>other</i> number 11.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Soon after, I'm faced with an ongoing series of descents and steep climbs as the road crosses a series of ridges. For only the second or third time in the entire ride so far I am down to my lowest gear and my legs are just not wanting to cooperate. This is the problem with the coffee and bread breakfast; the hills are really not that steep, it's the lack of energy that's the issue. I stop and take out my emergency banana, which I have for just such an occasion. It helps a little, but not much.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vJ0KAdWuCc-6E0uACmSxdcz9w5dg67jv0ps8vwmsAQKug9fgXsXMyjZaMsrwSt5SS-ZbaxW3tVpYgKvGjWjGaIwKpJomK4b4QlBGZzRqpVZiPlXg26rubGwvWxSBTWsAhAUdFK_OhTE/s1600/IMG_20180913_095417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vJ0KAdWuCc-6E0uACmSxdcz9w5dg67jv0ps8vwmsAQKug9fgXsXMyjZaMsrwSt5SS-ZbaxW3tVpYgKvGjWjGaIwKpJomK4b4QlBGZzRqpVZiPlXg26rubGwvWxSBTWsAhAUdFK_OhTE/s400/IMG_20180913_095417.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 'hide' for the local hunters</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
At Mirambeau I stop at the village square and have look at my GPS. The map of the town is liberally sprinkled with little icons; the must be twenty or thirty in the space of a few hundred square metres. It looks like some mapping artefact. Checking the legend I discover that they are water wells. I'm curious to know whether this is real or indeed just a mapping error, so I ride to one nearby (I have plenty to choose from). Sure enough, there in a little fenced off yard is an old water well. I wonder why this village in particular has so many water wells. Or perhaps it's more a case of whoever entered the mapping data was more thorough in this village; I would think most old villages in France would have a lot of water wells. This sort of thing occupies you during your bike ride.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Morning coffee at the <i>Café du Centre</i> at Saint-Genis-de-Sainfonge, another long hyphenated village. The café is the sort of place where the older and younger men of the village, with nothing more productive to do, hang out all day, alternating beer and coffee. Across the road on the square the market is full swing, but it's not a big affair: just a few vans of the mobile f<i>romager, charcutier, </i>and <i>boucher</i>. The church clock strikes 11:00. A bit later it rings the time again; in this part of France the bells seem to sound the time twice each hour, just like they do in Spain.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUC7BIVoro8ugIr82zyQujR0fk3QkB0oLNCfPQV0V9RZwZn3AFpoQ6RI1Ie0iuYWMresSKTeNfuPnqbctt6wnEKAwpdZRXBEA_dyipti3Oyc-U9RKutN9O6G5fyETEuFKDWxJ26VYrN0Y/s1600/IMG_20180913_123019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUC7BIVoro8ugIr82zyQujR0fk3QkB0oLNCfPQV0V9RZwZn3AFpoQ6RI1Ie0iuYWMresSKTeNfuPnqbctt6wnEKAwpdZRXBEA_dyipti3Oyc-U9RKutN9O6G5fyETEuFKDWxJ26VYrN0Y/s400/IMG_20180913_123019.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pons - Streets lined with derelict shops</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At Pons I stop at the (former) pilgrim hospital, an impressive building from 1160 which, of course, is closed today. I note that, presumably for convenience, the cemetery is located right next door to the hospital, making it a sort of "one-stop-shop" for some of the unfortunate pilgrims who have passed this way before. Pons is a nice town, but as I ride through the narrow streets I am struck, yet again, by how these small (and some not-so-small) towns are slowly dying. I ride past countless boarded-up and closed shops, witness to the decline of the small business in the face of the relentless onslaught from the larger and more convenient hypermarkets.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hTPqejjstZcE4q3E3nnXbEfEj7yaJapntE52BIY9WpowRuwbX8RfHBTPEc_WttGNNqLF3IPA3je6_p1dAJa9HyJZQRbtXwO0AEFohHBVRHSipx9Knu0ToIkD29fdomD0imRttP0rNy8/s1600/IMG_20180913_130151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hTPqejjstZcE4q3E3nnXbEfEj7yaJapntE52BIY9WpowRuwbX8RfHBTPEc_WttGNNqLF3IPA3je6_p1dAJa9HyJZQRbtXwO0AEFohHBVRHSipx9Knu0ToIkD29fdomD0imRttP0rNy8/s320/IMG_20180913_130151.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grapes again - but these are not destined to become wine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's been a bit of a wildlife ride today: a pheasant flying along the road in front of me, until it finally decided to head into the trees; a squirrel crossing just in front of the bike, straight up a tree on the other side; Bambi made an appearance; and as I was walking through the tall grass around an ancient Roman arena (just the sort of thing you stumble across in Europe) a hare jumped out of nowhere and hightailed it (literally) across the arena and into the nearby cornfields. I've also been riding through vineyards again; this time with white grapes that will be turned into the local <i>Pineau </i>and Cognac.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I arrive at the pilgrim refuge, which is tucked away in a little square behind the Église Saint Eutrope, an hour before it opens. I expected this, but today my legs are tired and I'm happy to sit and wait rather than go and ride or walk around the town. I take the time to do some of my daily paperwork. Luckily the woman who's on duty today arrives early, so my wait isn't so long in the end. We chat a while; the people who man the pilgrim refuges are all volunteers who rotate duty at different places throughout the year. Virtually all of them have walked at least some of the <i>Chemin </i>themselves. It's quiet, and by the time I've had my shower and done my washing - a daily routine - nobody else has arrived; I may well be alone tonight. My legs have recovered a bit and I head out to explore. Given that I'm virtually sleeping there, the church is the obvious place to start (the internal walls of the refuge are actually the external walls of the church). But I find the crypt, which is freely open and is essentially the same size as the entire church above it, much more interesting. When I get back to the refuge, there's another bike parked outside. It's Nico, a Belgian guy, who doesn't speak a word of French. So there's me, a Dutch Australian, being the interpreter in French for someone from Belgium, a country where French is one of the two official languages. Slightly bizarre. Nico's wife is following him in their camper-van (with a friend of hers) so she's having a camper-van holiday while he's riding the Camino. Once a week they meet and he gets to spend a night in the camper-van. Sounds like a pretty good arrangement.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLU4AzriSbtyy_KQ4RHmW2m4oRYm9nxLek2-dcKt9LgsHslwzCNyjLygSaYacfuN-OLLM4Q3AlW_CgIBvyUeKucrrKq_Sby9KR4UPy0Z5-VPk0OvT76bsUNFZWWgTWhHzc5GkhKLRzCU/s1600/IMG_20180913_173447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLU4AzriSbtyy_KQ4RHmW2m4oRYm9nxLek2-dcKt9LgsHslwzCNyjLygSaYacfuN-OLLM4Q3AlW_CgIBvyUeKucrrKq_Sby9KR4UPy0Z5-VPk0OvT76bsUNFZWWgTWhHzc5GkhKLRzCU/s400/IMG_20180913_173447.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crypt of the Eglise Saint Eutrope, Saintes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtsYEb71I2s5FR3nmLef1eP5kIG7mZKQB9m01c3l6XIxSCgFz9-iAhqJgYYHbPA5IsifYFjfsKMzFjXQ8XFX_zIGGQ48gRrfTpi-nXF-94wrN7pITiMbNrg_qcBPhe2rxMvYMUI1XE5o/s1600/IMG_20180913_175023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtsYEb71I2s5FR3nmLef1eP5kIG7mZKQB9m01c3l6XIxSCgFz9-iAhqJgYYHbPA5IsifYFjfsKMzFjXQ8XFX_zIGGQ48gRrfTpi-nXF-94wrN7pITiMbNrg_qcBPhe2rxMvYMUI1XE5o/s400/IMG_20180913_175023.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <i>other </i>side of Saintes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I have the idea to have dinner in a restaurant right near "my" church; both because it's a nice-looking place with interesting food on their menu, and because I don't feel like walking down the steep hill to the lower part of town where all the other restaurants are. I turn up at the completely empty restaurant. I walk in to ask for a table and two of the staff immediately approach me, with what is a "what are you doing here" look on their faces. Admittedly I am dressed like someone on the Chemin de Compostelle and this is a relatively fancy place, however I do not expect them to tell me that the restaurant is full and there are no tables free. The place is, after all, completely empty. It is, of course, possible that all the other guests will turn up soon, but my cynical mind can't help thinking that they simply don't want me spoiling the look of their restaurant. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQNdBgI8Cvlay1joOUvoXlAxx5Xe-ZnafbJu0jiv7Kdtn-hF2oL2XP6zgij6pDGHLqHwrJIrdRJ7tV0pPDj0kM05cuXs2pgl4vOSEscf7UURhgzHU8uyti9xitH58MUmdkztr27dLKK0/s1600/IMG_20180913_200156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQNdBgI8Cvlay1joOUvoXlAxx5Xe-ZnafbJu0jiv7Kdtn-hF2oL2XP6zgij6pDGHLqHwrJIrdRJ7tV0pPDj0kM05cuXs2pgl4vOSEscf7UURhgzHU8uyti9xitH58MUmdkztr27dLKK0/s320/IMG_20180913_200156.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smile - you're on camera</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
So I get to walk down to the lower end of town anyway. Near the floodlit cathedral is a painted mark on the ground; it says "<i>Point Selfie</i>". Later I discover that there are several of these around the town. Is this Australia's contribution to French culture? Somehow I find the whole concept a little sad; the town (presumably) has spent their funds on painting marks on the ground to identify good places for tourists to take their own picture. Afterwards I discover a <a href="https://www.sudouest.fr/2016/07/20/points-selfie-a-saintes-mais-de-quoi-s-agit-il-exactement-2441026-1531.php" target="_blank">website </a>that discusses and explains these "points selfie" which have cost the town 1,600 euros to install.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm having dinner, in what turns out to be a simple casual restaurant that serves excellent food - I should thank the other restaurant for not letting me in. Behind me is a Belgian couple, speaking Belgian Dutch (they probably wouldn't appreciate me calling it that). That's three Flemish-speaking Belgians I've encountered in the space of a couple of hours. I notice that they have a baby stroller at the table, but the baby must be asleep because I don't hear a thing during dinner. When they leave, I glance at the stroller as it is pushed past my table; there's a <i>dog</i> in it! That explains the lack of baby noises but it makes me wonder - this is the second time in a few weeks that I see someone pushing a dog in a stroller. Is this <i>really</i> something that is considered normal here? The guy follows; <i>his</i> dog, which is quite a bit bigger than hers, is on a more traditional leash.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
There's a couple across the other side of the outside courtyard where I am eating. It's almost too much, the way they are besotted with each other. I'm not sure they've noticed what they are eating, and in between courses they are playing with each other's hands as they stare into each other's eyes. There's two women at the table next to mine; one is rather large and the other is not. They've both ordered large meals, and while one of them - you can guess which one - has no trouble dealing with her meal, the other is only picking at hers. Rather strangely, she's picking at her meal with her knife, picking pieces from the plate with the point of the (steak) knife and eating them off the end of the knife. I have to stop myself following her movements. I'm distracted from this by the arrival of a group of five who no sooner have they sat down but they get up in pairs (the odd one out is left behind), probably an important toilet break. One of the guys has a vaper (is that what is called?) on a cord around his neck. He sucks on it from time to time as is the fashion. Although I'm in a restaurant, I'm sitting outside and this is France, so smoking and vaping are still allowed. I'm probably biased because I'm not a smoker, but vaping seems a bit bizarre. Then again, smoking is pretty bizarre as well when you think about it.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The town is deserted as I walk through the little cobbled streets back up the hill to my church retreat. The floodlit cathedral makes a nice backdrop from the selfie point.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoGeUU0oOURAic5Jfl3yOCXn9Z1EqOAX-8se1KBQISxZT7GrT22TmIPUy0DfYKDt6osD9fxSSo6HQJZ-F0JOAXobVI-bIkErWpJNtJvXwxrIn1KIT2SzYMMF209MHkSvr46RCDKbPrcU/s1600/IMG_20180913_134640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoGeUU0oOURAic5Jfl3yOCXn9Z1EqOAX-8se1KBQISxZT7GrT22TmIPUy0DfYKDt6osD9fxSSo6HQJZ-F0JOAXobVI-bIkErWpJNtJvXwxrIn1KIT2SzYMMF209MHkSvr46RCDKbPrcU/s640/IMG_20180913_134640.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Follow the signs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-29366587522624068462018-09-12T13:17:00.001-07:002018-10-02T10:14:22.790-07:00Camino v3 - Day 17: Bordeaux to Boisredon (71km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
There's always one. The breakfast table has been set by the hosts, supplies have been bought, the hostess had gone out this morning to get fresh bread from the bakery. All this based on those of us who said we'd have breakfast when we were asked last night. Then a French woman appears, sees the breakfast laid out and says: "We didn't tell you yesterday that we'd want breakfast, but now we've decided we'll have it anyway, that's OK isn't it." She doesn't say it as if it's a question. "Here's the money" before she's even had an answer. She then, with her husband, proceeds to help herself to various things from the table. There's a piece of fruit for everyone. She take the only two oranges, no question of sharing our even acknowledging the fact that the quantity has been based on the number of people who actually had done the right thing. Then poof! Two yoghurts gone so two of the original group will go without. Suddenly the butter has found its way next to her along with the juice. Nobody else seems to exist for them. Everyone seems too taken aback (or is too polite, unlike this woman) to say anything.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMLppkUvYAoDV-QdcNrJjf0EtC3E-5mS2CN3Z5TmvOwPKKvDPaICJm1Rd5Cyqw2IyI8kOtbkbqn5HD5w4YUjGrim6B98g_aSuiL0TuVUgGQZ9z3aWcDXmSwhdrGLJwJXjbkNitmhVFvA/s1600/IMG_20180912_074243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMLppkUvYAoDV-QdcNrJjf0EtC3E-5mS2CN3Z5TmvOwPKKvDPaICJm1Rd5Cyqw2IyI8kOtbkbqn5HD5w4YUjGrim6B98g_aSuiL0TuVUgGQZ9z3aWcDXmSwhdrGLJwJXjbkNitmhVFvA/s400/IMG_20180912_074243.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast with oranges</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I've noticed during the ride in through the streets near the hostel that there's a lot of broken glass on the road - it's an area full of bars, cafes and restaurants with street seating in the evenings, so it's not really a surprise. It makes riding a bike a bit of a fraught experience if you're trying to avoid a puncture. This morning as I ride out I'm looking down more than up, doing my best to avoid the worst of the glass. And then I get to the place where there are containers for recycling glass and all bets are off; there's glass all over the place of course. I give up and carry the bike, which fully loaded is not so light. Luckily it's only a few tens of metres until I am past this hazard and I'm on my way again.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I navigate my way through the maze of one way streets, getting stuck in the botanic gardens for a while when I find my planned exit fenced off. The are worse places to be stuck. Eventually I'm on the road out of town and am soon riding amongst the vineyards of the Medoc.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOU57IDSS3QMHwuc9RmHH2YW7z7nRiI8zLyKJSD4rtbTaGLjGJdoVmNj2do_R6tDExSflERYI0C8bUHWV0hXtKFay4Z3Yiq7391J52CUsP3VpwJcCUjfSMBrd5eO_LyfVDB9WS_WmudSw/s1600/IMG_20180912_102409.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOU57IDSS3QMHwuc9RmHH2YW7z7nRiI8zLyKJSD4rtbTaGLjGJdoVmNj2do_R6tDExSflERYI0C8bUHWV0hXtKFay4Z3Yiq7391J52CUsP3VpwJcCUjfSMBrd5eO_LyfVDB9WS_WmudSw/s400/IMG_20180912_102409.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvest time in Margaux</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lkWSyCCJ330zLv3QvxOjPIjmSQZsoJjvYPfanhvl73jqorwkU0RJ0Yi2hQw09dKHGGYws-xdsQ2sGIJDarG9dRKoblhYyw4yZLTM4JFHmWfxT0UO8Txre7Fu49LCgreN8v3I3OLDnh8/s1600/IMG_20180912_104004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lkWSyCCJ330zLv3QvxOjPIjmSQZsoJjvYPfanhvl73jqorwkU0RJ0Yi2hQw09dKHGGYws-xdsQ2sGIJDarG9dRKoblhYyw4yZLTM4JFHmWfxT0UO8Txre7Fu49LCgreN8v3I3OLDnh8/s320/IMG_20180912_104004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Château Cantenac Brown - in the flesh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
Serendipity. I'm riding through the vineyards of Bordeaux, Margaux to be more precise. I'm enjoying this so much I miss a turn and am riding off the route, but for the moment that's fine, I'm in an area with beautifully maintained vines stretching to the horizon. I ride past a classic <i>Château</i>, impeccably maintained in large grounds and I stop to take a picture. There's no sign, so this is, for the moment, an anonymous Château. I take the picture, and just as I'm about to ride off again I see a sign, relatively discreet considering; this is Château Cantenac Brown, <i>grand cru classé</i> en <a href="tel:1855">1855</a>. It is probably my favourite Bordeaux. The wine has a history for me; I was introduced to it in the most unlikely place: Cotonou in Bénin, West Africa. I was with a colleague from Bordeaux, who knew a thing or two about wine, which I at that stage did not. It was, of course, seriously expensive but in those days of almost unchecked expense accounts it wasn't a difficult decision to have a bottle with our (business) dinner. And here I am, at the Château itself, purely by chance. How good is that?</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeqH8ceCVRzFn5-Pi6IVBlhbubfWIruCfHJdjasB4iH1gXY5J9fHwd9XSF_isudmE1ECAqwStT7S7ppR5TrUmzir77O1-MPjw-54GUGTCoaBcVBcw9wdFogCOx-kk20JvQAx0Yvv4WGM/s1600/IMG_20180912_113623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="758" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeqH8ceCVRzFn5-Pi6IVBlhbubfWIruCfHJdjasB4iH1gXY5J9fHwd9XSF_isudmE1ECAqwStT7S7ppR5TrUmzir77O1-MPjw-54GUGTCoaBcVBcw9wdFogCOx-kk20JvQAx0Yvv4WGM/s320/IMG_20180912_113623.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the ferry (only just)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm approaching the little port where the <i>Bac de Blaye</i> sails from. This is the ferry crossing the Gironde, and I will be catching this ferry to continue my ride. Coming in the other direction I see one bike, then another two, then a bike towing a trailer. 'The ferry must have just arrived' I think to myself. What I <i>should</i> have been thinking was 'the ferry is just about to leave'. I get to the port and there's no queue of waiting cars, I can see the ferry is there and at about the same time I notice that the ferry master is waving wildly at me "Hurry up, it's already past time!" And I didn't even know that there <i>was</i> a time. I make it just as he's starting to raise the ramp. A good example of 'just in time' management except it was purely by chance - no management was involved at all. On the ferry there's a couple in bike gear; the woman approaches me and in hesitating French with a clear American accent asks me where I'm heading. I answer in English and the rest of the crossing is spent taking about our respective rides. Kelly and Jim have booked a cycling holiday, with everything provided, planned and booked. All they have to do is ride from one place to the next. Sort of the complete opposite to what I'm doing (apart from the riding part).</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
At Blaye I have a coffee stop, choosing a place that claims to specialise in good coffee and tea. The coffee arrives, looking vaguely promising but is scalding hot and partly as a result tastes like the usual bad French coffee. An older couple, who turn out to be English, stop to admire my bike. He's done some long rides in the UK, including from the north to the south, John O'Groats to Lands End (or is that the other way around?) He can't believe how clean my bike is after having ridden so far; it's probably something to do with the weather he's used to riding in.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4zFZnuykLjmpByCF4mB7w4L2BPwDcrVfQvRvlqiuv2Yb_LLzAJccEwtEozF_Jd8xZyvqPgGxqTRzDHKP_2LrtSG34Eo0Hu00Gph9o2fXAqXy5C-69H25MaZEv4CN5PbIfcMXwuInup0/s1600/IMG_20180912_104049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4zFZnuykLjmpByCF4mB7w4L2BPwDcrVfQvRvlqiuv2Yb_LLzAJccEwtEozF_Jd8xZyvqPgGxqTRzDHKP_2LrtSG34Eo0Hu00Gph9o2fXAqXy5C-69H25MaZEv4CN5PbIfcMXwuInup0/s640/IMG_20180912_104049.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margaux (as in the wine) in the making</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Leaving Blaye there's a bike path along an old railway line, which makes for nice riding until it exits the shaded area and continues in the full sun, which today is <i>hot</i>. I'm stopped briefly off the track, still at the shaded section, and when I turn to start up again the bike decides to have a rest and falls down, with me underneath of course. There's no damage except to my pride and the whole thing was completed in private with no audience. I ride on, annoyed with myself for a few km.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I have planned to stop at a pilgrim stop which is off my route, but obviously close to the walking route. I have an address which is really only partially correct as it turns out. I arrive at the village only to find that the place is actually something like 4 km out in the countryside, in a little hamlet. To add insult to injury, I've actually ridden quite near it on my way to the village. And it's all uphill from the village (it was a nice downhill run into the village, I should have known better). I arrive at the hamlet (according to the directions I've received) and I'm looking for number 11. Strangely, the numbers seem to go logically down to 13 and then the next house is number 9. Rather annoying. It's only a small hamlet and I double back, eventually finding number 11 around a corner on what I had assumed was another street. There's even a little sign on the corner telephone pole pointing in this direction "<i>Halte Jacquaire</i>" with a scallop shell, the symbol of the Chemin de Compostelle, so I know I've found the right place. But the gate is locked. I decide to swallow my pride and call the place, telling them I'm outside; the guy tells me "Yes, that gate is always locked but the one a little further on is open. I'll meet you at the other gate." I walk my bike through other gate, but sense that something isn't quite as it should be. For starters, the guy I've just spoken to is not there. The door of house opens and a guy comes out with a look that's a mixture of "go away intruder" and curiosity. He's followed by two elderly people (his parents?) who look like they are not quite all there; this is getting interesting. By now I've realised this is <i>not</i> the number 11 I'm looking for, and this <i>isn't </i>the guy I was just talking to. I explain my situation and he, rather unhelpfully it must be said, tells me that there are quite a lot of number 11s in hamlets in France and that it might take me rather a long time to the right one. I ride to the <i>next</i> hamlet, where the very first house, with an open gate and a guy with a phone in his hand, is number 11.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfK-wWK4hOIbpFqUQgVHipzlk2ROgQuajpqmWgvW5lJeRJtrNWc6Oi0lSzPi8coakBw4LIJplPLSLQp_IsW1Tdns4C2nQN8jxViS1N1q1gsz1DcEUKmeJq0zcad6CiftbLrfrSspLzv0c/s1600/IMG_20180912_155600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfK-wWK4hOIbpFqUQgVHipzlk2ROgQuajpqmWgvW5lJeRJtrNWc6Oi0lSzPi8coakBw4LIJplPLSLQp_IsW1Tdns4C2nQN8jxViS1N1q1gsz1DcEUKmeJq0zcad6CiftbLrfrSspLzv0c/s320/IMG_20180912_155600.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Time to boil the water for a cuppa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Danielle and Dominic are great hosts and the place has quite a few things that Dominic has made in a way that I might have done, or have liked to have done. When I discover that Dominic is a retired engineer - electrical, no less, it makes sense. Somehow this gives me an immediate good feeling for the place. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
We have dinner together outside; it's a lovely evening after a hot day.</div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-73953909641236502692018-09-11T13:53:00.001-07:002018-10-03T07:55:59.459-07:00Camino v3 - Day 16: Mons to Bordeaux (65 km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
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.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQVrb0G5B8bcJjQ2Ue1SIYK85IP2Zuk55yw_b4OOOMXNNGZGsHRg6bsUJPvIuW7TOvF8eiSEYcd78x47Iv2WBxiJfQTdnY3L1PP9rwxxxlpSynPiEmcipMrlSCM8ZQnGuxq9ASYKUNMs/s1600/IMG_20180911_073525.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQVrb0G5B8bcJjQ2Ue1SIYK85IP2Zuk55yw_b4OOOMXNNGZGsHRg6bsUJPvIuW7TOvF8eiSEYcd78x47Iv2WBxiJfQTdnY3L1PP9rwxxxlpSynPiEmcipMrlSCM8ZQnGuxq9ASYKUNMs/s640/IMG_20180911_073525.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning misty ride</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOXl95fLlOIOxlvtI8bge73v66qGNlFmE08yRuQ2gP5rqY4gCQ_XEcQVbgLJgKBEsE0SJjzU1yQYr10xQCLyas6VF9y1R9P56Bvn5p9kt6snRRMc7H9mFjWyvxVaoO0ZZLYCYUlxq1fc/s1600/IMG_20180911_081237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOXl95fLlOIOxlvtI8bge73v66qGNlFmE08yRuQ2gP5rqY4gCQ_XEcQVbgLJgKBEsE0SJjzU1yQYr10xQCLyas6VF9y1R9P56Bvn5p9kt6snRRMc7H9mFjWyvxVaoO0ZZLYCYUlxq1fc/s320/IMG_20180911_081237.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The spiders have been busy overnight</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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 <i>Chemin de Compostelle</i>.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbS3pFIO6wQJyY4SfQ4LMfM5LqyqXClp911BvSekl9LirI_0FZT4jkK8UTOZhZ3vm7o-CwHhWypifJ86jNZt9IJq23w71SO-WI-7ToB_1N9oSCsjt0OAP1JBNy4RGUhHNK-Iq96WoM1yk/s1600/IMG_20180911_100001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbS3pFIO6wQJyY4SfQ4LMfM5LqyqXClp911BvSekl9LirI_0FZT4jkK8UTOZhZ3vm7o-CwHhWypifJ86jNZt9IJq23w71SO-WI-7ToB_1N9oSCsjt0OAP1JBNy4RGUhHNK-Iq96WoM1yk/s320/IMG_20180911_100001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sprinkler is bigger than yours!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSjeCzblwBxMasC6q2uof3CiAXOqhdYANwaEF6yJFlgD9zcr_veh686Gi2MQMACyqDN5t-d5tk1Irb4cjnAcX2u-jhPseR-u2L_xxYcbVfPgVA8IwbnOx1KH0Mc-N_IBRb-l3gVxCfTU/s1600/IMG_20180911_104151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSjeCzblwBxMasC6q2uof3CiAXOqhdYANwaEF6yJFlgD9zcr_veh686Gi2MQMACyqDN5t-d5tk1Irb4cjnAcX2u-jhPseR-u2L_xxYcbVfPgVA8IwbnOx1KH0Mc-N_IBRb-l3gVxCfTU/s320/IMG_20180911_104151.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not what you expect to find on the road</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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 <i>Hôtel de Ville</i>, 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.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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 <i>ever</i> 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.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibfB9koQv_42fIJci6666qYFHAsJFl1ECPoqISiWjn1vrTluuQkNdwMqkGsgXmuMXfAoZzhFgkIWEkDfgOYxJhDZ_M5p3xd9Rh0SunssiwIF39Px_0f4FxNYvlqrpJ68rcYGDxZQam_tI/s1600/IMG_20180911_211731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibfB9koQv_42fIJci6666qYFHAsJFl1ECPoqISiWjn1vrTluuQkNdwMqkGsgXmuMXfAoZzhFgkIWEkDfgOYxJhDZ_M5p3xd9Rh0SunssiwIF39Px_0f4FxNYvlqrpJ68rcYGDxZQam_tI/s640/IMG_20180911_211731.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bordeaux by night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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.</div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0Bordeaux, France44.837789 -0.5791799999999511844.6577155 -0.90190349999995112 45.0178625 -0.25645649999995118tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-23080163898147204902018-09-10T23:02:00.000-07:002018-10-03T08:31:02.040-07:00Camino v3 - Day 15: Onesse to Mons (76km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
For breakfast, my piece of baguette is rock hard as expected (it's probably already two days old) but once toasted it's edible, and it goes well with the black coffee I have (there's no milk, of course).<br />
<br />
On the road out of Onesse I see a guy who clearly wants me to stop; he wants to talk. Turns out he and three of his ex-Fireman friends are planning to ride to Santiago and they plan to leave in a couple of days. They haven't done anything like this before and he's looking for reassurance and advice, and when he sees me approach I suppose it's too good an opportunity for him to miss. He asks where I stayed last night and when I tell him his response is "It's not very clean, is it?" Which I find somehow hilarious, because that is exactly what the two Frenchmen said yesterday when we had talked about the gite in Onessa. A bit later in the conversation he says: "The woman that runs it is a bit, uh, <i>special</i>, isn't she?" So it's not just me.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4s-X9QLdkFnZNPhWR5wbsEI7_sO44VbuZWrEJhYYgCXiiAzc9lsZZVkdv1xmB7SVhT9gHFCWAcjl7l1WhfN5_sRPfu81brP6Bzlh0_xppZHpRHSrsHaNYEVBOC6390k6ORnUwP_w4hk/s1600/IMG_20180910_090826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4s-X9QLdkFnZNPhWR5wbsEI7_sO44VbuZWrEJhYYgCXiiAzc9lsZZVkdv1xmB7SVhT9gHFCWAcjl7l1WhfN5_sRPfu81brP6Bzlh0_xppZHpRHSrsHaNYEVBOC6390k6ORnUwP_w4hk/s400/IMG_20180910_090826.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eclectic decoration in the pilgrim gîte</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I reach Escource, which is about at my usual 10km rest point. It's the town where I saw the older couple riding folding bikes with their dog-in-a-basket. So I plan to get something more substantial to eat at the <i>boulangerie </i>whichI know is there (it was the couple's destination, you may recall). When I get there however, I find that the boulangerie is closed. Of course; it's Monday so I should have expected that. It's going to have to be an emergency muesli bar this morning.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm on the (round) square in the middle of the village. There's the boulangerie (closed), the bar tabac (closed), a little café restaurant (closed) and a hairdressing salon (also closed) and the church, which isn't open. It's a good example of a typical small village in rural France. The key businesses are all here, and on this Monday morning (it's actually after 10:00 already) they are all closed. It never ceases to amaze me how even tiny places will have a hairdressing salon. That and a bar tabac, the latter often playing the role of <i>dépot de pain</i> when there's no boulangerie. So there you have it; the priorities in life: coffee and wine to drink, having your hair done, and bread to eat. Seemingly in that order. Actually, there's one more business to add to the list of places even small villages have to have, and that the pharmacy.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBqeUx6HYUBSl1BKuvyDzo006F8luleWGqfZ6lCgyPwBSgPq2I_KOiEsfvgql76SYk7wNRS-NTbA5Jwz6uPA8Y511Q2CRUrWaTU6phNN8Sy8ajMjkCnxo0VbeMaTKrdLdjobyl1ljv4k/s1600/IMG_20180910_114915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBqeUx6HYUBSl1BKuvyDzo006F8luleWGqfZ6lCgyPwBSgPq2I_KOiEsfvgql76SYk7wNRS-NTbA5Jwz6uPA8Y511Q2CRUrWaTU6phNN8Sy8ajMjkCnxo0VbeMaTKrdLdjobyl1ljv4k/s400/IMG_20180910_114915.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well-trained trees form an overhead green canopy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
At Labouheyre I know there an Intermarché supermarket so I head there to buy a few provisions for breakfast/lunch and I have my 'breakfast' in the impressive main square underneath the pruned and trained trees. These are old trees that have been trained in such a way as to form a continuous green canopy overhead. Exactly how they maintain that is a bit of a mystery, but it's impressive nonetheless.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
From Labouheyre I am deviating from the route to avoid what I knows is a boring and rough forestry track. My chosen route turns out to be a beautiful tree-lined, but rather busy, road. At least it is until Commensacq after which the road becomes rather less beautiful and more like the other boring paths through the pine plantations.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
At Pissos there's an almost certainly Dutch couple riding a tandem (nobody seems to ride tandems except the Dutch) who are coming the other way. I slow down and say hello with the idea that we might stop and chat but they ignore me and ride on. Not a good look for the Dutch.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The route passes around Pissos and along an essentially abandoned large camping ground complete with chalets and a large swimming complex. From a distance it all looks impressive but when you get a bit closer it's clear that this project was too ambitious. Everything is empty, including the pools (there's even a children's pool). What an amazing waste of resources. Time for another break.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjacYSu_xkQgn-Z5RhK5Ld8NkbR6IpADVTTjla3wqnK44-llkDUYsfUtyef5HwNJkuEh82sHBfzGjM4zezWnkyUKrRvrvEOYTU4nlR4_Vil_E856I6LTvM3CpOthpPv4-_nd7EdgTXM674/s1600/IMG_20180910_134849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjacYSu_xkQgn-Z5RhK5Ld8NkbR6IpADVTTjla3wqnK44-llkDUYsfUtyef5HwNJkuEh82sHBfzGjM4zezWnkyUKrRvrvEOYTU4nlR4_Vil_E856I6LTvM3CpOthpPv4-_nd7EdgTXM674/s320/IMG_20180910_134849.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moustey <i>Telegraph </i>Office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
Out of Pissos there's a bike path to Moustey, where I plan to buy some provisions for the evening since I'll be staying in a pilgrim gîte with no restaurant anywhere nearby. No anything nearby in fact. This is one of the few places where I've called ahead and the woman told me that Moustey would be the last place to stock up on groceries. She also mentioned there would be three others staying at the gîte (there are only four places) so it's just as well I called. When I arrive in Moustey I find not only the <i>boulangerie </i>but also the <i>épicerie </i>(grocery store) are closed (of course). I've arrived at 14:00, the town is effectively shut from 13:00 to 16:00. This is unusually late, even for France. I can't afford to wait until 16:00, so I'll have to ride to the town past my destination, where I know there's a larger supermarket which <i>should </i>be open, and then backtrack. It will add maybe 8 km to my trip today, but luckily on a bike that's not really an issue. Just as well I'm not walking.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNmNTZeDcuZoR4Ikms6kromvi-Mn_KFdc7tgFUqMRFaAtAc6tmcYHAzGqQMlvAj_xQ-7YgJEqd7-e1CebEIWTjLXvzTvHCqjwvfDJpFP8cWOsMDgPonu7GM-bR8_Qnv5bb1dPCc2NS7I/s1600/IMG_20180910_140232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNmNTZeDcuZoR4Ikms6kromvi-Mn_KFdc7tgFUqMRFaAtAc6tmcYHAzGqQMlvAj_xQ-7YgJEqd7-e1CebEIWTjLXvzTvHCqjwvfDJpFP8cWOsMDgPonu7GM-bR8_Qnv5bb1dPCc2NS7I/s320/IMG_20180910_140232.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freshly-cut grass aromas ahead</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
At one point I stop for a break, only to instantly have clouds of mosquitoes hovering around my head; it makes me think of the hardships the early pilgrims must have faced when this area, <i>Les Landes</i>, was considered a dangerous mosquito-infested place and malaria was rife. I ride on. A little later I pass a sign; <i>Fauchage</i>. Grass cutting. Up ahead the tractor is at work cutting the roadside grass; it will mean a bit of noise and dust as I ride past, but then I'll be rewarded with the lovely smell of freshly cut grass as I ride along the already-cut verges.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The last part of the ride is getting a little tiring; partly because I know I'm getting close and partly because the route is over rough and slightly undulating little back roads that have the advantage of no traffic, but the disadvantage of having to concentrate a lot on where I'm riding.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
At the supermarket (which, as expected, is open) I stock up on supplies for dinner, getting a few things I figure that walkers won't be bringing, like eggs, tomatoes and onion and, why not, a bottle of wine to share.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I arrive at the gîte to find the first walker already there. It's Celeste from Germany (now living in France) who has arrived <i>very </i>early. The other two walkers arrive quite a bit later and are Elisabeth from Switzerland and Faye from Melbourne, the first Australian I've encountered on this trip. We are an interesting group, each with a different story and reason for being there. There are some interesting conversations, including one about tractors which is rather unexpected. I don't recall exactly how the conversation starts, but at one point Celeste mentions that her husband had a tractor and Elisabeth immediately demands "which brand?" This is not a question I had been expecting anyone to ask at this point in the conversation. Elisabeth is from a small farming community and is a fan - it runs in the family apparently - of tractors, in particular Massey Ferguson. She shows me an old photo of the original family tractor, a Massey Ferguson. "See, this is the green one" she explains, even though it's an old black and white photograph. Apparently up until <a href="tel:1953">1953</a> (?) the tractors were green and then they changed to red. Most people have photos of their spouses or children with them; Elisabeth has a photo of the tractor.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The walkers unpack the supplies they have brought. Celeste, who is returning from Santiago and so has followed the same route I have, passed through Moustey while the shops were still open, but all she seems to have bought is some dark brown bread from the artisanal boulangerie and some dried sausage. It's virtually all she eats for dinner and breakfast; no wonder she's as skinny as a rake. Elisabeth, who is heading south, has shopped at the same supermarket that I did, and has bought a pre-made salad. Faye, who has also stopped at the supermarket, has bought an assortment of salads and, to my surprise, a bottle of red wine. Which she's had to carry the four km to the gîte. What each person has brought says a lot about their personality I conclude as the evening progresses.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
There's no coffee in the gîte, which is an unusual omission considering we're in France. No oil of any sort either, as I later discover when I start to make dinner. While we are sitting chatting at the dining table, a women appears at the door, walking in and beginning to explain that they have a camper-van and their planned campsite is closed and do we mind if they set up their van here tonight. Naturally it's OK with us, there's lots of room and there's already a van in the area anyway. Besides, it's not really up to us, but it's nice of her to ask. I take the chance to ask her if she would be able to help us out with a bit of coffee, which is no problem of course. I go round to their van later with my cup (borrowing a cup of coffee from the new neighbours and not the more traditional sugar). I meet the husband, who rather disconcertingly has a nose which is sideways on his face. It's very distracting (although I can't begin to imagine what it must be like for him). Birth defect? Industrial accident? The result of over-enthusiastic boxing? I'll never know.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Faye seems to have had rather a lot of adventures and from her tales has certainly done more than most people would in their lifetime. For example it turns out that both Faye and Celeste are into spinning and wool-related things. But Faye has gone one step further and had learned how to shear a sheep; not something most people who spin or do other things with wool are likely to have done.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I make a dinner of fresh pasta with a tomato and onion sauce (dry fried due to the lack of oil, I am putting the non-stuck coating to the test). Faye contributes her salads and her bottle of wine. Both Elisabeth and Celeste join in although there's an impression it's a bit reluctantly. We all drink the wine though.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYYqhyV0uGLT9_coPWSAgtV56w4I33W87ge2WOuTtIrDdwwCaPMUp0e7zioy6RZo3jBwC696dT70r1SwBISpFD0Dhu7JzyEasY_ASmJ68s7cW4i4yx2z-0jW84v1C0rQr31IhUxBrGM4/s1600/IMG_20180910_181615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYYqhyV0uGLT9_coPWSAgtV56w4I33W87ge2WOuTtIrDdwwCaPMUp0e7zioy6RZo3jBwC696dT70r1SwBISpFD0Dhu7JzyEasY_ASmJ68s7cW4i4yx2z-0jW84v1C0rQr31IhUxBrGM4/s400/IMG_20180910_181615.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Discussing tractors</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
After dinner, Faye immediately insists on doing the dishes, not unreasonable since I cooked, the others don't offer to do anything, most un-pilgrim-like.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I am the last one up, even though I want to leave early in the morning.</div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-90007252249642535432018-09-09T23:02:00.000-07:002018-10-03T08:52:14.710-07:00Camino v3 - Day 14: Sorde l'Abbaye to Onesse (73km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
Interestingly, I am the first up this morning and all the cyclists are up and about before either of the walkers has made an appearance. From my experience with dormitories on the Spanish Camino, it's always the walkers who are up early, often setting off before daylight to ensure they arrive early enough to get a bed for the night. I guess these two walkers have yet to experience this and adjust their schedules accordingly.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Despite a lengthy discussion over dinner of the merits of various types of foods and the need for a balanced diet to sustain you for the walk or ride, the French (and the Belgian) just have their usual toasted yesterday's baguette with coffee (black). The Belgian has chocolate rather than coffee. Since there are eggs, I make some scrambled eggs to have a little protein to go with my carbs and despite everyone agreeing that this was a good thing, nobody is convinced enough to change their usual routine.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2wANWIYMIHPnnb_5sjzGOdape4uYLCoFYLNq32WIdzN73fq7mqBheNi1_A4hh81Vqm8zYCqoNFYzuvpnpzN22KPgLZMYQg7l2dwft_KMtkbeFnidHq2-0dA6qjAsUGkKmYqmkk4fcWg/s1600/IMG_20180909_090154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2wANWIYMIHPnnb_5sjzGOdape4uYLCoFYLNq32WIdzN73fq7mqBheNi1_A4hh81Vqm8zYCqoNFYzuvpnpzN22KPgLZMYQg7l2dwft_KMtkbeFnidHq2-0dA6qjAsUGkKmYqmkk4fcWg/s400/IMG_20180909_090154.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning messaging</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm on the road by 8 o'clock for a very pleasant morning ride in the cool air; even the long climb out of Peyrehorade seems relatively painless. In fact it is a very pleasant morning ride until it starts raining. It continues to rain for almost all the rest of the ride although luckily the rain is light enough to simply ride through without having to resort to wet weather gear. As long as I generate enough body heat by riding, I manage to stay reasonably dry (or at least, I don't get too wet).<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_Ipj2m5GO42SwBbjwYwjkUWevH6BRVp2iVBMR46pK5JF8_SzQhJfeScxTc_3_jMSn6WHSzTK9EyDDlNbBEExynMutI9g7r8PiBT6fkFKPFDEyjHsAAKyV0Z8zgD0wh_Xaj7_4grtQIw/s1600/IMG_20180909_105438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_Ipj2m5GO42SwBbjwYwjkUWevH6BRVp2iVBMR46pK5JF8_SzQhJfeScxTc_3_jMSn6WHSzTK9EyDDlNbBEExynMutI9g7r8PiBT6fkFKPFDEyjHsAAKyV0Z8zgD0wh_Xaj7_4grtQIw/s320/IMG_20180909_105438.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pine plantation with skies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I stop and talk with two pairs of walkers heading south; both are pleased to interact with someone else on this quiet Sunday on these long stretches of walking along the bitumen road, which really can't be that much fun after the first few kilometres. The second pair is a couple of French guys, who've stayed at the <i>gîte </i>in Onesse where I am thinking of stopping. "Ah, Rosy" the guys says, "she's the owner. She's about this tall" indicating somewhere around his chest "and she's just as wide. In fact she's big in every direction." Interesting. The older guy towing a trolley I had met earlier on in my journey had mentioned he'd stayed in Onesse with 'my' two Dutch cyclists, and that they'd eaten in the restaurant next door. So I ask these two whether they'd eaten there. "That place is also run by Rosy. You might want to buy some provisions and cook for yourself. It's not very, uh, <i>clean</i>." Clearly they had been put off by both Rosy and her restaurant.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiED61cD0LbgJzy8CDhpG_8ztx7oZw1qcRnLJF-cUfzF-70YPTQcXp-rQRd6KqJ0XnQ7a3yYy9bjERraZjAMrwXWn-J6bdQ0ZVJyKJ5hN8ZzElbsqdjBpCxAGhzFJfvT60fnG-bV_cWzOw/s1600/IMG_20180909_093201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiED61cD0LbgJzy8CDhpG_8ztx7oZw1qcRnLJF-cUfzF-70YPTQcXp-rQRd6KqJ0XnQ7a3yYy9bjERraZjAMrwXWn-J6bdQ0ZVJyKJ5hN8ZzElbsqdjBpCxAGhzFJfvT60fnG-bV_cWzOw/s320/IMG_20180909_093201.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pig trotters and veal heads - tempting, but perhaps not</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
In Lesperon, which is the other place I'd considered stopping at, but where I really arrived too early to stop for the day, there is an annual <i>vide grenier</i> (bric-à-brac market) on today, with the whole centre of the village closed and full of people and stalls. As I approach I spot two cyclists, almost certainly Dutch (the enormous bikes and their tall stature are a bit of a giveaway). I stop and sure enough they are Dutch and we compare notes; they've stayed at many of the same places I have and are of course interested to know what's coming. By the time I find the local <i>épicerie </i>with the idea of getting some supplies for tonight (heeding the French guys' warning) the shop is, of course, closed. It's Sunday afternoon after all. So much for making my own dinner tonight.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I ride around amongst the stalls and people. There's a brass band playing that nobody is paying the least attention to. Then I smell a BBQ and find that there's a sausage sizzle. This is, of course, a <i>French</i> sausage sizzle so it involves red wine (€1 a glass) and beer (€2 a glass) and the sausages come with chips (being freshly made on the spot), bread, without which no meal is complete, and the regional <i>viperade</i>, which is a sort of finely chopped ratatouille. A plate with the lot, including the wine, is €6 and I figure that since this could be my dinner, why not? I sit at a bench table opposite an older German couple who look like they'd rather be somewhere else. 'We're on vacation" they volunteer, and that's about the extent of our conversation. If this couple and the young guy at the <i>refuge</i> last night are anything to go by, Germans are not great conversationalists.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmM1WpAWage0dWBIO-T_yQeRIZs3CFLVuJBe136ktEv8W43fBh4hOMOzUlzDnbHl_OpUyngiyOI5pib9-peoH7jqW204Ad_A-E-Og3hyphenhyphenE_WGsk-wanMXqvwpMLQFWqz0d1faM7PbcY0w/s1600/IMG_20180909_124853.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmM1WpAWage0dWBIO-T_yQeRIZs3CFLVuJBe136ktEv8W43fBh4hOMOzUlzDnbHl_OpUyngiyOI5pib9-peoH7jqW204Ad_A-E-Og3hyphenhyphenE_WGsk-wanMXqvwpMLQFWqz0d1faM7PbcY0w/s400/IMG_20180909_124853.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French sausage sizzle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I arrive in Onesse and find the pilgrim gite, which is empty. Next door is a bar / restaurant where I find several people sitting a table outside, having a few drinking. Remembering my conversation with the French guys, it's not hard to figure out which one of the drinkers is Rosy. Rosy is indeed short and wide. She is dressed in the 'I no longer care what I look like' style and she has a bit of a beard which sort of completes the picture. Still, although she gives an initial impression that I am seriously interrupting her Sunday afternoon - which I probably am - I'm given the usual disposable mattress cover and she explains: "There's some water and some leftover juice in the fridge and there's probably some coffee left in the coffee maker, so help yourself." There is indeed a cm or so of coffee left in the coffee pot, obviously left there by the people who left this morning. Or maybe it's from the people who stayed last week - I decide that perhaps I'll make my own coffee, and I pour the leftovers down the sink.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTbLhNhNIqjcu_N1fjMTjmd31jd7hhEZe3lWldtoVn420pIYIgV1WIpXPs6PbblY2w5Is8Ev4qyBF1hPyRTx8yPgbzIDcTGdZWWd9lBy2l87UOomaevf4q6EPD7qibCehD8XkV37XlcU/s1600/IMG_20180909_145244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTbLhNhNIqjcu_N1fjMTjmd31jd7hhEZe3lWldtoVn420pIYIgV1WIpXPs6PbblY2w5Is8Ev4qyBF1hPyRTx8yPgbzIDcTGdZWWd9lBy2l87UOomaevf4q6EPD7qibCehD8XkV37XlcU/s400/IMG_20180909_145244.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rosy's gite</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYITwVK3z_TJPEA59PaqjMSvqjnNsKZ5Fe23b8AomtYkPq005wGXgB4psY85Ovf-kEInPsOlFOyP0Ttu0Zfcdftiwagc1W2-yoOf3kUPd3ueCeJhjhUmweqXAwJpMlD4BsvqIg8QVJz6k/s1600/IMG_20180909_154030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYITwVK3z_TJPEA59PaqjMSvqjnNsKZ5Fe23b8AomtYkPq005wGXgB4psY85Ovf-kEInPsOlFOyP0Ttu0Zfcdftiwagc1W2-yoOf3kUPd3ueCeJhjhUmweqXAwJpMlD4BsvqIg8QVJz6k/s320/IMG_20180909_154030.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salt for the feet (and not for cooking)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The gîte looks like it has been nicely created in a restored little cottage several years ago (2008 as I later discover from an explanatory note on the wall) and it contains an impressive collection of useful and also random things. But it's in need of some (rather a lot, really) TLC and a thorough clean. There's a sort of chandelier with five globes, of which only one is working. An impressive sculpture of a man carrying a basket stands on a sideboard; it's a lamp which, of course, doesn't work. There's two fridges which both do work, and there are some interesting things inside, which I decide are probably best left alone. There's a handwritten sign, in three languages, on the door of the freezer which says: "The peas in the freezer are <u>not </u>for eating; they are meant for your feet and knees." Naturally I have to confirm this and indeed there is a large packet of frozen peas in the freezer, unopened. The cook-top has two ancient hotplates, of which only one has a knob on the on off control: a little handwritten note above explains that the host without the knob is '<i>hors service</i>' (not working). There are a lot of random bottles of cleaning products scattered throughout the place, but it looks like they are not used that often. Perhaps they are left out on purpose in the hope that one of the guests might take it upon themselves to do some cleaning. Several of the beds look like they have just been left by the previous occupant. Of course they have, but they also <i>look</i> that way, which is a bit disconcerting. Rosy's casual approach to her appearance is also reflected in the cleaning and maintenance. Nevertheless, when she offers to make me something for dinner - she is running a café restaurant after all - I throw caution to the wind and accept. If nothing else, it will be interesting.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
When I arrive at the appointed time, there's a fairly, how to put it, motley-looking group sitting outside. Everyone knows everyone else. I have an assigned place at a table inside; I am the only diner. The table next to mine has an iron, a can of ironing spray (irons 3 times faster!), some notebooks, the pilgrim credential stamp, and a few old newspapers on it. Another table is groaning under the weight of a whole assortment of random things including pot plants, cleaning products, books, and a straw hat. The only other table has been pushed into the corner, underneath a gorgeous old grandfather clock which confirms that time has indeed stood still at Rosy's.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Rosy appears with a glass of water and a glass of red wine. Neither of which I have asked for and both of which are welcome. The red wine is a good sign.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
There's a guy leaning on - not standing at - the bar. He looks like he's been in better shape. As Rosy serves my entree, the melon falling off the plate onto the table as she puts the plate down, he asks her "At what time do we leave tomorrow?" Standing in front of my table, she looks at him and says "Do you <i>really</i> think we're going <i>anywhere</i> tomorrow? Look at you, you've been drinking, you've been smoking" (we shall have to leave it up to our imagination as to <i>what </i>he's been smoking). She walks into the next room (perhaps the kitchen is out there) and he follows her. At his first attempt he misses the doorway and walks into the wall next to the door, but to his credit he realises his mistake and on the second try makes it into the next room. There's an argument, or rather, the guy is getting an earbashing; he doesn't seem to be contributing to the discussion.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmw7sUY3-E2YL6yGFB-KtsqC68ppNYXc17XAJ2ZZ00cn8taH1G79aWRAYkhi0rCOkBoskuyw2Zcea4PF99ViD8aRNyyOUMl3kBeSgRN3U0DWDq_VMzvvPbyGjt1vVTtB4BSsr8OgvFWlU/s1600/IMG_20180909_200108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmw7sUY3-E2YL6yGFB-KtsqC68ppNYXc17XAJ2ZZ00cn8taH1G79aWRAYkhi0rCOkBoskuyw2Zcea4PF99ViD8aRNyyOUMl3kBeSgRN3U0DWDq_VMzvvPbyGjt1vVTtB4BSsr8OgvFWlU/s400/IMG_20180909_200108.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rosy's restaurant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Rosy reappears a bit later carrying what is probably the main course. I have only just started with my entree and she realises that her timing is a bit off (probably she is a little out out by her recent discussion with the guy), so takes it away again, probably into the oven.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I've finished my entree and Rosy reappears carrying the main course. "It looks good" I say, hoping to myself that it will taste that way too. It looks a little like <i>bœuf bourguignon</i>, which is indeed a good sign. "I'll tell to what it is after you've eaten it" Rosy says, somewhat ominously.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
It looks and tastes like beef. It's a bit peppery and doesn't appear to have anything in it that I'd rather not know the origin of. As I eat, I admire the collection of things on the bar: a half bottle of water, a half-used packet of light globes, various (used) glasses and cups, old paperwork (bills?), one of those perpetual calendars where you have to change the numbers each day, which now shows the correct date (earlier, when I arrived, Rosy had to fill in the date on my pilgrim passport and noticed that her calendar was four days out of date), an enormous dispenser for cans of various nuts and nibbles (€1 each), two ceramic chickens, a (used?) ceramic gravy boat, a (used) ashtray, two upside down flower pots (their purpose will remain a bit of a mystery, as will the role of the chickens). Behind the bar are various plaques with sayings such as: 'Those who drink to forget are requested to pay in advance' and 'The future belongs to those who get up early, and then go back to bed straight away'.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Rosy comes in from outside, where she's been chatting with her friends, and announces that the dish is a <i>Daube de </i><i>Toro</i> ( from Cordoba, she adds by way of explanation). I'm not sure I've understood all this correctly, and perhaps we're talking about<i> rabo de toro </i>(Oxtail). Whatever the case, it's a beef stew essentially. And it is good. I've eaten all of it and Rosy is happy. There's even dessert, a gateau Basque with crème anglaise. Given that I'm the only diner, and she would have had no idea whether I would be having dinner or not, Rosy had done a fine job of dealing with the situation.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Later, Rosy comes and sits at the table next to mine (the one with the iron, which looks like it also serves as her office) and prepares the bill. We then start to talk and I discover a whole different side of her; she's actually, despite the initial impression she gave that I was interrupting her Sunday evening, quite interested in the pilgrims who pass through. I have already noticed that there is a pin board in the gîte with postcards sent from Santiago and other places by various pilgrims who had, presumably, stayed here and had a good contact with Rosy. We talk about the various motivations that people had to make the journey, what was the best memory, and so on. Reading through some of the comments in the visitor's book also shows that Rosy has made a positive impression on many pilgrims who have passed through. Her own notes in the beginning of the book perhaps capture it well: 'For me simplicity and authenticity are my guiding values'. She's also written that she's honouring a promise to her mother before she died to always welcome pilgrims, presumably carrying on a family tradition. 'Authentic' probably captures her well; she's definitely not pretentious.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITpyEjMqC3q-_QP0pyxsxRGmANGW4IQDM3sr79DFXxZZViT8V8CsZy4uIUDTIKrnqWgUQ4QmJ8ukQomVA_7xQeOQf34OSmqYX2Yo98hQOfaD1ifEMWCV4ZIXaxnoLwU_iHBCqRQatzaM/s1600/IMG_20180909_081620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITpyEjMqC3q-_QP0pyxsxRGmANGW4IQDM3sr79DFXxZZViT8V8CsZy4uIUDTIKrnqWgUQ4QmJ8ukQomVA_7xQeOQf34OSmqYX2Yo98hQOfaD1ifEMWCV4ZIXaxnoLwU_iHBCqRQatzaM/s640/IMG_20180909_081620.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A busy stretch of road near <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Peyrehorade (just before the hill-climb)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Before I leave the bar, Rosy comes in with a plastic bag with a croissant and a piece of baguette in it: "For your breakfast" she explains. "There's a toaster in the gîte, coffee and juice in the fridge." I had already discovered the toaster and decide not to tell her that I have already thrown out the two almost empty bottles of (dubious) juice and the virtually empty packet of coffee. The baguette will be rock hard in the morning, but still edible after toasting. I will have my coffee black - there is no milk (of course).</div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-16125773151361926882018-09-08T04:25:00.000-07:002018-10-04T06:23:04.677-07:00Camino v3 - Day 13: St Jean to Sorde de l' Abbaye (63km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
I'm stopped on the side of the road - I've given myself permission to take the main road for the first part of today's ride, making the hills a little easier. I've stopped for a drink and sunscreen break. As I tilt my head back to drink from my water bottle I look up to the sky to see a large flock of vultures circling in the thermals above me. I assume that's what they are doing and that they are not circling over me with some other intention.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLpMKUciQCfAqrVrj8I7Jng2hqdjk4vraOWKREW-m2C2cTXWmaEZcBsAFKz-YA8CkvClxSrmgR6S6JfIcUKjmFhyphenhyphen7Zle6qrE2cZesGcyp2WWhxs8jkkGod0kctZm7w19i7Fzpc-XNue0/s1600/IMG_20180908_105012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLpMKUciQCfAqrVrj8I7Jng2hqdjk4vraOWKREW-m2C2cTXWmaEZcBsAFKz-YA8CkvClxSrmgR6S6JfIcUKjmFhyphenhyphen7Zle6qrE2cZesGcyp2WWhxs8jkkGod0kctZm7w19i7Fzpc-XNue0/s640/IMG_20180908_105012.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slow down - time to stop and smell the flowers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH42KIbjCqfSk52SsjbMRfBP4Wh6-0OA07ABjKWhM-kyqae-XkgPs2mzP6y5K0otUPyaPqrAJrkU12xnza7olBfAALCo-rmlWZDyBWj_ESHuern6FF4PFNjVfXsjIB-xy_KI-hh2hlVwM/s1600/IMG_20180908_082445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH42KIbjCqfSk52SsjbMRfBP4Wh6-0OA07ABjKWhM-kyqae-XkgPs2mzP6y5K0otUPyaPqrAJrkU12xnza7olBfAALCo-rmlWZDyBWj_ESHuern6FF4PFNjVfXsjIB-xy_KI-hh2hlVwM/s320/IMG_20180908_082445.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vegemite in the Basque country</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a late departure this morning; an enormous breakfast and some interesting conversations, including a discussion about the merits of electric bikes with a Franco-Canadian-Brazilian couple. Jean-François, the host, comes in and with a triumphant flourish, produces a jar of Vegemite he's acquired for me. A really nice touch, considering four years have passed since I was last here, and I've never expressed any interest in Vegemite. Still, I am Australian and so must like Vegemite. The Brazilian expresses an interest and gets to try some, which he actually claims to like. A convert perhaps?<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
One of the advantages of riding on a larger road - there are not many, but there are some - is roadside rest areas: shade, table and chairs, maybe even a rubbish bin. As it happens, as I spot a nice-looking rest area it's exactly twelve o'clock, so it's officially lunch time, even though I haven't normally been stopping for lunch. Jean-François has insisted that I take some food from the heavily-laden breakfast table with me for lunch, so now's the time to have some. Shortly after I've arrived, two almost identical camper-vans (motor homes) pull into the rest area, neatly parking next to each other. Doors open, a table and chairs appear and within a minute or so the table has been set complete with a table cloth. Bottles of water and, of course, wine appear and lunch is served. Grey nomads French style. There are a <i>lot</i> of camper-vans in France, huge numbers. As I've been riding through the country it has struck me how many houses have a camper-van parked outside, often under a purpose-built shelter next to the house. Perhaps I should do my next Camino by camper-van. Later on in my journey I will meet someone who is sort-of doing just that.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
So here I am, riding back to Tours. Normally I try to avoid driving or riding back the same way I've come, so that I get to see something new. Then again, riding back means a whole new perspective (180 degrees different in fact) than the ride down. And there's also something to be said for recognising certain key spots: there's the bench seat under the tree where I had a banana stop, there's the place I had a pee break, and so forth. You get to re-live the highlights of the outward bound trip this way.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKO-owpdDKddKu1Vf3hp13S3CbzxpgCdw6YAXsMTlO1_lZCeDXHHhhSUobevhAIFurWNYMa3Dmhv-QMhWbt0KLYNuYno79rkLyApAINclJ1lTJEq2pQtbwPabVfgVc7jjDECXxnDzZJo/s1600/IMG_20180908_125951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKO-owpdDKddKu1Vf3hp13S3CbzxpgCdw6YAXsMTlO1_lZCeDXHHhhSUobevhAIFurWNYMa3Dmhv-QMhWbt0KLYNuYno79rkLyApAINclJ1lTJEq2pQtbwPabVfgVc7jjDECXxnDzZJo/s320/IMG_20180908_125951.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old gravestones of pilgrims who didn't make it</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On the way down I had to make a detour, in the rain, for the bridge which wasn't there. Armed with this knowledge, I can plan my return route a little better and I head cross-country instead of following the route, finding a nice <i>piste cyclable</i> that follows an old railway line and which crosses the river using the old railway bridge, the same one I used on the way down. But I come undone at the point where according to my map my nice piste crosses the road - where I had planned to rejoin the route. When I arrive at what I expect to be an intersection my mistake is clear; the old railway line I'm following goes <i>under</i> the road, and there's nothing for it but to retrace my steps for a kilometre or so to find another track which does meet the road.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
It's hot, I'm riding in the full sun and I've had about enough, so Sorde de l'Abbaye, where there's a pilgrim refuge, becomes my destination. I remember there's also a little restaurant in the town so dinner should be taken care of too. I arrive at the hostel just after another bike rider; the caretaker greets me with "Have you booked?" This is not a good sign, but it turns out there are enough beds. The restaurant, however, is closed for dinner (of course). All is not lost though and the hostel turns out to have quite a few provisions to prepare a meal with, and the whole thing, accommodation and food is '<i>donativo</i>' which essentially means there's an honour system and you give as much as you are able. There's going to be the other bike rider and me, plus four walkers (who <i>have</i> booked) so it could be an interesting evening. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCtmtU58PXzAhVktKhxrMvgEhyBfqBuaO4bybFW2UPxsoJ3CUTn6YmR0EodVCRr0Hhibxf3c_evdmyYuHdCYBmDsbntQzNJ3Fj3RQaCS1t72Ot__B87M24sK8w_q6w6NCnoI1JD2l-TzI/s1600/IMG_20180908_165703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCtmtU58PXzAhVktKhxrMvgEhyBfqBuaO4bybFW2UPxsoJ3CUTn6YmR0EodVCRr0Hhibxf3c_evdmyYuHdCYBmDsbntQzNJ3Fj3RQaCS1t72Ot__B87M24sK8w_q6w6NCnoI1JD2l-TzI/s640/IMG_20180908_165703.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Postcard from Sorde l'Abbaye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
In fact it turns out there's only two other walkers; the other two who booked are also bike riders. And when I return to the hostel after visiting the abbey and church I'm greeted by a familiar face: Sophie, the girl who I accompanied for the last part of her walk in <i>Les Landes</i>, is one of the two walkers. She is already expecting me since she's seen my bike. She's obviously recovered and is in good spirits which is nice to see; when I last saw her she was in a bit of a slump. So by retracing my steps I've caught up with the walkers.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgliuVTeK8f2nkPsNzcU6bx7ZtjECBbjl1-kjFfIPDpJuBPNd7VPRqq90Rc57n6fl-2zvzOiqyI2nh1pIxp_1nLfv4-KFTe6J2U6Tkxo7nnRMfcRgO5UF08h1ac-yLJ2reDZmqeCW9qZ0Y/s1600/IMG_20180908_170445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgliuVTeK8f2nkPsNzcU6bx7ZtjECBbjl1-kjFfIPDpJuBPNd7VPRqq90Rc57n6fl-2zvzOiqyI2nh1pIxp_1nLfv4-KFTe6J2U6Tkxo7nnRMfcRgO5UF08h1ac-yLJ2reDZmqeCW9qZ0Y/s400/IMG_20180908_170445.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins of the old Abbey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I realise that this is my first night in a dormitory on this part of the Camino. With all the advantages and disadvantages. It's great to have a group of people who've never met before, or if they have it's been on the Camino. Everyone has the Camino in common and there's generally a great ambience; everybody pitches in and contributes. The two French bike riders have taken it upon themselves to cook, which will probably mean that the others (including me) will be doing dishes. And then there's always one, in this case a young German, who doesn't quite fit in or is the one whose body odour and smelly feet permeate the dormitory. Let's hope he's not also the snorer.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The two French riders are recently retired policemen; this is their first long bike ride together. After dinner we compare notes and since I've just ridden the route they are planning to ride they are looking for tips. Also, they've just ridden 130 km today when they should have ridden less than 100. "We followed the GPS" they explain. "We were on a really nice bike path and then the GPS told us to turn left, so we did. We ended up near the coast." The coast is, of course, in completely the opposite direction to where they should have been heading. Quite a detour. I suggest that perhaps they should get a map and it turns out they have not only a map, but also a guide, neither of which they were in fact using. We look at the map for their route tomorrow and then also for the route through Spain, which I think they have underestimated. They expect to cover a lot more ground than they are likely to; they were (blissfully) unaware that the route in Spain goes right over the <i>Picos de Europa</i> with some very high passes and steep grades.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRdy9mB849aOYgj7uiuXksWAC6hRHMqhfOAi_kNYSdpq5qZ0LUoKAbmAlsoarm9ORXxf0V2es5xGxbbZvd_IbuQ35795JS6oMZ1ScG6kOd9m_DTsPoXbKNLK71x7K39DOznpgt3kssuE/s1600/IMG_20180908_172357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRdy9mB849aOYgj7uiuXksWAC6hRHMqhfOAi_kNYSdpq5qZ0LUoKAbmAlsoarm9ORXxf0V2es5xGxbbZvd_IbuQ35795JS6oMZ1ScG6kOd9m_DTsPoXbKNLK71x7K39DOznpgt3kssuE/s640/IMG_20180908_172357.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mosaics in the Church at Sorde l'Abbaye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am the last to go to the dormitory and I have to open the window; the stink of the young German's unwashed body and feet is overpowering. Luckily it's not too cold and the window stays open all night.</div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7853772154258597737.post-84380967920926777842018-09-07T13:37:00.001-07:002018-10-04T06:52:57.589-07:00Camino v3 - Day 12: Saint Palais to Saint Jean Pied de Port (38 km)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
So the day starts with (yet another) steep 2 km climb straight out from the hostel. But it's not the last climb of the day, and not even the steepest. The climb up to the <i>Croix de Galzetaburu</i> is 100 m in a little over one km; one long continuous climb of about 9%. And then there is the "little" climb right at the end of the ride which, although short, is <i>very</i> steep. And then all of a sudden I have arrived in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, my final destination, and my journey to complete the whole Camino de Santiago is over. Done. Here I am riding around the village I started out from four years ago; it's a little like I was here just a few days ago - it certainly doesn't feel like four years.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCjYZCySnXE-8gsRTFOFLuIp1WJSd9SwrKKhh16P0fIyprQAW6wvZoqFq2DOTaE3diycZ3l4QLPfV2y10KLl5oauk8QzJ6tVB_MUduo44KlKbhj1JSv9CV9_6SpCt6sCEuKCKDv3WoX4/s1600/IMG_20180908_101319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCjYZCySnXE-8gsRTFOFLuIp1WJSd9SwrKKhh16P0fIyprQAW6wvZoqFq2DOTaE3diycZ3l4QLPfV2y10KLl5oauk8QzJ6tVB_MUduo44KlKbhj1JSv9CV9_6SpCt6sCEuKCKDv3WoX4/s320/IMG_20180908_101319.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2018 - Arrival in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPok480aeRg_ce1Q9iukB3_W6fRlS6BOrR1SB0ZY-VOT4eHbFZ1EWhHRo6Z3AACpE2_j411rF2HsWuM3nX9RuwEcuDmVofvUWkzkOi0TUkp96BrzgW-8kf3eOwX5SzCiI3-ySJrOMp0io/s1600/IMG_20140520_140419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPok480aeRg_ce1Q9iukB3_W6fRlS6BOrR1SB0ZY-VOT4eHbFZ1EWhHRo6Z3AACpE2_j411rF2HsWuM3nX9RuwEcuDmVofvUWkzkOi0TUkp96BrzgW-8kf3eOwX5SzCiI3-ySJrOMp0io/s320/IMG_20140520_140419.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2014 - Departure from St-Jean-Pied-de-Port</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Cow bells and church bells, both sounds carrying across the valleys in the otherwise quiet hilly terrain. It's only when I'm obliged to take a bigger road that the constant swooshing of cars as they rush past spoils the effect. The countryside is green and gorgeous.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DCZoRPRWQgudMn1PeyOobU1odfkL-WiODnPtMVNMRLzbCsc0K45PImgcnDMAYPhGPmazVkyORor2At1sKsWsbxvSjiymcrYjOD1Xz6NyzZG7lffAi0gjJKl-jdaorGzulon4EcXFNic/s1600/IMG_20180907_083622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DCZoRPRWQgudMn1PeyOobU1odfkL-WiODnPtMVNMRLzbCsc0K45PImgcnDMAYPhGPmazVkyORor2At1sKsWsbxvSjiymcrYjOD1Xz6NyzZG7lffAi0gjJKl-jdaorGzulon4EcXFNic/s640/IMG_20180907_083622.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pyrenees foothills - quite a climb from down there</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I've met Tom and Janet, a Swiss couple who have ridden their bikes from home, yesterday at the hostel. And sure enough, I am sitting for my (late) morning coffee stop at Saint-Jean-le-Vieux and they ride up, joining me for coffee. And as Tom predicts, it's not the last time we cross paths. Later on, after I've arrived in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, settled in to the B&B - the same one I stayed at when I started the Camino four years earlier - and done my washing (a daily and critical task), I head into town for a look around and the they are again, just arriving. We end up having drinks together - a couple of well-earned beers, why not - while they wait for the queue at the pilgrim information centre to get shorter. It turns out to be a three-beer wait, but we have the time and nobody is complaining.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj17lUlr2_4-dklDYxdn7T2RKLtnMml1PY3r-Bh2dWvo-8bv5kf5Oeic_XweqmBhGFNJCz2grc5FiHBR7rIOGQXlIy725QxUoPNN4VgrRu8FVGMd857oiMb_GXJ0QNunHTBgUDf-NvBZ4E/s1600/IMG_20180907_125040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj17lUlr2_4-dklDYxdn7T2RKLtnMml1PY3r-Bh2dWvo-8bv5kf5Oeic_XweqmBhGFNJCz2grc5FiHBR7rIOGQXlIy725QxUoPNN4VgrRu8FVGMd857oiMb_GXJ0QNunHTBgUDf-NvBZ4E/s400/IMG_20180907_125040.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St-Jean-Pied-de-Port - the main street</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I have a bit of the same feeling of anti-climax I had when I arrived in Santiago four years ago; a strange sense of wanting to keep going. This time that part is taken care of, since the plan is to more or less retrace my steps and head back to Tours. I'm realising that I could equally continue on to Santiago, which would not be that much more riding, but then I'm left with the issue of getting back from there with the bike. So I'll stick with the plan and head north tomorrow.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
For dinner I head to the same restaurant recommended by my host last time (and again this time). Only the town is busier this time and the restaurant is already full. There are 400 pilgrims coming through the town each day and then there's the tourists on top of that. So it's the second choice, also full but with a shorter wait. While I wait I sit at a high table that overlooks the whole outdoor area of the restaurant so I have plenty to look at. In front of me there's a couple waiting for their meals. He has a dog on his lap, which he is stroking. Dogs in restaurants; this must be France. At least the dog is content and quiet. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The clientele is overwhelmingly of a certain age. Although there are a couple of tables with younger people, most of the diners have grey hair. But then again, most of the walkers are older; after all they are the ones with the time to devote to a long distance walk. There are a few younger walkers too course, including a table with two girls, likely from South Korea since that country seems to be the dominant source of pilgrims from Asia on the Camino. I saw these girls in the town earlier, each carrying a rucksack and lugging an enormous suitcase between them along the cobbled streets. I just hope they don't plan to walk the Camino with that suitcase. The dog stroker is having his coffee by now. The dog hasn't moved at all during the meal; not even the enormous steak that its owner was eating was enough to stir it. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The grey hairs and other pilgrims are leaving after finishing their meals and the second sitting is starting; now the demographics are changing and it's the younger locals who are arriving. Interestingly, whereas pretty much every table had red wine with their meals during the last sitting, beer is clearly the drink of choice for the (younger) second sitting. I wonder whether this is driven by financial or generational factors. Mark Zuckerberg, or at least someone who looks remarkably like him, is having dinner here with three of his friends. I seem to be the only one who has noticed. My meal is so copious that I don't have room for dessert, and I head back to my <i>chambre d'hôtes</i>. It's a pleasant walk back along the river. Tomorrow I will be heading north.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LT7redoumUXVLgVlxxo0pfODBXBIvQRWB_uuPMZxWWy21r5EJpB7U-acbppluDB8j2PntQ2BMNHl43UHN3fy4fn9IyKclfUUK12cb1ZjIZ5ss7NSjComBCK5_8KgXT7w72GgGLv-UwY/s1600/IMG_20180907_215150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LT7redoumUXVLgVlxxo0pfODBXBIvQRWB_uuPMZxWWy21r5EJpB7U-acbppluDB8j2PntQ2BMNHl43UHN3fy4fn9IyKclfUUK12cb1ZjIZ5ss7NSjComBCK5_8KgXT7w72GgGLv-UwY/s640/IMG_20180907_215150.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St-Jean-Pied-de-Port by night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01421873346559069022noreply@blogger.com0