clairedavieswriter

This afternoon I definitely experienced one of those ‘can’t believe I’m here’ moments. It seems that if you start in Fleet and keep pedalling more or less south for over 700km then this is what happens.

At the risk of repeating myself, it was another lovely day on the bike. Not having so far to go, I left my auberge (my self-contained room below) at a leisurely 10.15, by which stage it was already 25 degrees.

Incongruously, across the street, a rave seemed to be getting underway on the village green. Apparently it was an end of year party for the youth of Clérac and loud music, fancy dress, beer and blow up dolls were all in evidence. It was going to be a long day…

Within the first half hour Guillaume le Garmin first tried to take me down a sandy forest track to save half a mile of (empty) road – I declined – and then persuaded me to go along with this brilliant plan, which got more and more overgrown until it emerged virtually in a farmyard. The resident dog was understandably perturbed by my sudden appearance, so I was glad to see it was on a lash, although that was (bizarrely) attached to an overhead zip wire, which allowed the enraged hound to race the length of the perimeter, nearly garrotting itself when it got to the end. I gave Guillaume a stern talking to, and he sulked for the rest of the day, but we did at least stay on roads.

Meanwhile, my other companion was suffering from a very dry chain which was not good for him, and made work harder for me. I had not seen a bike shop since La Rochelle and assumed it would have to wait until tonight when I would be with my first Warmshowers hosts. I could not have been more surprised to come upon Jean Vannier’s workshop, in the middle of nowhere, opposite a vineyard. He kindly blew the dust off the chain with an air compressor, and applied the oil, while remarking “Vous avez un très beau vélo Madame.” He wished me “Bonne route, et bon courage” and as I rode away I could feel Bernard basking in the lubrication and admiration in equal measure. I hope he doesn’t get big headed.

We spent the morning travelling through heathland and pine forests – I could smell the resin as we cycled past piles of logs.

I didn’t need to worry about traffic:

The pretty town of Guitres seemed to be mainly closed – who could possibly want to shop at midday on a Saturday?

Lunchtime found us in St Emilion country…

Miles upon miles of it:

My hosts tonight told me that St Emilion vineyards have so much money that in unseasonable cold weather, they use giant fans, or even helicopters, to keep air flowing across the vines to prevent frost damaging the harvest.

I thought this one had a particularly good ring about it:

This was my peaceful lunch spot du jour.

But as I said, the highlight of the day was definitely riding across the Dordogne.

At this point, I only had a few kilometres to my destination. Or so I thought. My hosts had kindly messaged to say they would be out until 6 but that I should make myself at home. Their address was just a house name, and the village, but the Warmshowers map gave a precise location in the middle of Sainte Radegonde, so I expected it would be obvious. It wasn’t. They weren’t answering their phone.

I asked a villager, who’d never heard of them. Odd, I thought. Asked another, who had (‘I know everyone – I used to be the Mayor – I’m not anymore but it doesn’t matter,’ he said, sounding as though it did matter, quite a lot). He told me they lived 3-4kms out of the village and drew me a map, which included lots of detail on the turnings I shouldn’t take, but unfortunately missed out the crucial last bit of information about the one I should. This meant that I ended up climbing an entirely unnecessary hill, and of course there was no sign of the house. Not knowing which way to go – nor wanting to climb any more needless hills – I sat down to wait for my hosts to call back.

We found each other eventually of course, and when I reached their house (by which stage they’d got home) I found this sweet note they’d left me, when they’d expected me to arrive earlier, explaining how to get in, find the bathroom etc. The irony of the last line wasn’t lost on me: ‘you can’t get lost!’ We spent a convivial evening sitting outside, enjoying produce from their amazing small holding, and planning a better route for me tomorrow.

I’m tucked up tonight in their lovely shepherd’s hut, listening to the crickets, frogs and tawny owls (word of the day: chouette hulotte) doing their thing.