clairedavieswriter

Phrase of the night: ‘Madame, il y a une chouette hulotte outside my chouette roulotte’ (‘there’s an owl outside my cute gipsy caravan’). Despite the nocturnal noises, I had no trouble sleeping in my dream accommodation – for which I paid not a penny. Warmshowers really is fantastic.

Breakfast was pretty dreamy too:

And it came with a bonus sighting of a red squirrel bounding across the dewy garden:

At 10.30, I bade farewell to my lovely hosts:

And pedalled reluctantly away from their rural idyll (which was up a steep hill, hence my nervous look):

Bernard and I rode happily south, through yet more vineyards, under a cloudless sky and hot sun. Obviously, well-drained land for grape growers means well-exercised legs for cyclists, but none of the hills were steep (though did I mention the sun?). The roads were virtually deserted, apart from one stretch between a church and a village, where we got caught in a procession of parishioners on their way home from Sunday mass, each in their own vehicle. Perhaps someone might say unto them: voulez vous carpool avec moi?

At lunchtime, thanks to my hosts’ new improved directions, delivered to me by Hugo le Headphones (Guillaume was very grown up about it this time) we joined a signed cycle route…

Which took us through the pretty town of La Réole, and over a swollen Garonne, which belied the drought that I’ve heard so much about.

My first glimpse of the Canal des Deux Mers, which would accompany us for the rest of the day, was practically painterly:

We passed through Fontet, a busy canalboat hub (I’m sure there’s a technical term for it), where a huge car boot sale seemed to be underway, and everywhere I looked there were family groups sitting around picnic tables eating Sunday lunch together. I have to confess a soft spot for these timeless French traditions.

Meilhan was a possible destination for the night, but thanks to my new shorter route, it was way too soon to stop, so I decided to continue to the next campsite, at Damazan, 35k further on.

I need add no commentary on the combination of sky, water and plane trees – it speaks for itself:

Though a few benches and loos would not have gone amiss.

As a motorhomer, I made a note of this lovely spot:

And as always I was pleased to see evidence of my progress down the map:

It wasn’t a difficult afternoon’s cycling, but this was still a welcome sign. I had my tent pitched by 6pm..

And enjoyed a gourmet (or possibly ouvrier) dinner, thanks to the kind foresight of last night’s hosts, who suspected (correctly) that I would find no restaurants open on a dimanche ferié.

As always, there were sights to interest or amuse along the way.

This seemed sensible advice (‘No climbing on the roof’):

Aside from silly Roundheads jokes, this had me thinking how much more flamboyant horse riders sound in French:

While this was just downright intriguing:

Until you learn that Mesterrieux is just the name of a village.

Meanwhile, as if in response to my comments a couple of days ago, I’ve actually had quite a few pleasant exchanges with folk since then. The trick seems to be just to stop and wait. So while standing or sitting beside the road, I’ve discussed the relative merits of Schwalbe tyres with a barrel chested French cyclist of a certain age (surprisingly, he confessed he’d had to enlist the help of the fire brigade to get his off his rims); I’ve lamented the map drawing skills of the (former) Mayor of Sainte Radegonde with a passing motorist; I’ve promoted the benefits of Warmshowers to a trio of Scotswomen, riding hired bikes from Bordeaux to Carcassonne; and I’ve had a slightly repetitive conversation with a fellow cycle camper tonight, whose catchphrase, in a strong southern accent is ‘Ça fait du bieng’ (it does you good).

Finally, a flora and fauna update. In the best traditions of the BBC, I have now had it from two credible sources (thank you Diane and Fiona) that the crop of blue flowers I saw several hundred miles ago were flax – also known as linseed. I have also heard – from a single source (but I believe you, Nikki) that the otters I saw near Saintes might have been beavers. Or is the plural beaver? Answers on a postcard please…