clairedavieswriter

Learning from my first night in the tent, I dressed accordingly, and slept very well, once the local likely lads had finished their ‘whose moped has the loudest exhaust’ competition. I was awake early – it’s definitely coldest before dawn – and was packed and ready to go by eight, while the motorhomers slumbered on.

The Charente south of Saintes was unrecognisable from the coffee coloured churn I’d crossed yesterday, south of Rochefort.

By 10am, I’d encountered the first vineyards of the day:

Soon afterwards, I was pedalling along this stretch of road…

When the sight of its ludicrous name literally made me fall off my bicycle. Actually it was a classic cleat fail – so intent was I on stopping to take a picture, I forgot to unclip my foot, so now my right calf looks like I’ve been clawed by a tiger. Bernard wisely kept his counsel. But it was worth it for the photo.

These hunting signs were everywhere. Maybe I’m too much of a tree hugger, (and for all I know we do the same in the UK) but it seems a bit peculiar in this day and age for a government ministry – of the environment no less – to be issuing licences to obliterate wildlife.

I had no cause to re-route today. Aside from half an hour spent slipstreaming lorries on the D700, most of the time I travelled on the deserted, often single track, variety of D road. But how do you tell the difference when looking at the map? Is it that the higher the number, the busier the D road? I feel stupid not knowing this – can French experts enlighten me?

These are definitely my favourite kind:

By mid-morning, other crops had almost entirely given way to vineyards, which weren’t especially photogenic

But it was clear they would taste good (if you like that kind of thing).

Baignes is a pinprick on the map, but had a lovely market hall.

It was also my great good fortune that this random middle of nowhere place happened to be the starting point of a chunk of disused railway line, repurposed into a voie verte, which led directly to my destination:
(NB the uppermost sign indicates this is part of a route called La Scandibérique. Not heard of it before, but it’s definitely going on my to do list)

So the last hour and a half of my day were spent in traffic free tranquility

As ever, I found amusement on the way today.

If, like me, you’re a fan of ‘New York taxi driver discusses French numbers’ on YouTube, this will make you laugh (and if you haven’t seen it yet, do)

This was the name of the farm where I ate my lunch. Not the kind of fare you get in its Wandsworth namesake. Nor, I confess, was it particularly vegetarian. A vegan – or even a less flexible vegetarian – would really struggle to feed themselves round here.

I was taken with this old school garage:

And only caught a glimpse of this astonishing pile on the way into Clérac.

Tonight I have my own front door, and Bernard has the luxury of his own personal foyer.

I’m heading over to the restaurant for dinner shortly. But should I go for the workman or the gourmet? And will either have any veggie options? Tune in tomorrow to find out…

Postscript

Somewhat predictably, vegetarian options for either workmen or gourmets (do we have an English word for that?) were thin on the ground this evening – that is to say, nonexistent. However, that old stalwart, the omelette, was available, and very good it was too.

I was reflecting over dinner about the chance encounters I’ve had on this trip so far. Most have either just been transactions, or were in the context of what I might call “Bernard’s breakdowns”. There have been fewer opportunities to chat when passing through places, because I’ve barely seen any people – France seems much emptier than the UK, even when you’re surrounded by houses, and shop opening hours seem defiantly anti-consumer (which in many ways I applaud, except when I want to buy something and they’re closed).

But I did have one interesting encounter on my arrival in Clérac. I’d just stopped to get my bearings, when a twinkly eyed crone with gently corrugated cheeks seemingly apparated beside me, wearing a pinny round her waist and a flowery kerchief in her hair. She looked for all the world like your picture book fairy godmother. Are you lost? She ventured. On a pilgrimage? She wore a mischievous smile, as though we shared a secret. I explained about my trip and that I was just looking for the auberge. She pointed a wonky finger down the road and pressed a Clérac tourist leaflet into my hand like contraband. I half-expected her to disappear in a puff of smoke, but she just stood with her hands in her pinny, wearing that same teasing smile, and bid me Bonne Route. I rode away not quite sure what had just happened.