While I was
eating, Monsieur disappeared into his study and came back with a hand-drawn map
of how to get back onto the bike track from their place. He’d already explained
it to me earlier but wanted to be certain that I could follow it. He wished me
a Bonne journée, Bonne route, Bon courage
(there are so many wonderful farewelling pleasanteries in the French language)
and assured me there would be plenty of pine trees to see.
His map
would have worked perfectly except for the travaux
(roadworks). There seem to have been a lot of travaux on and around this route. They cause problems as signs get
displaced, paths get changed. This was no exception: Route Fermée said the sign firmly and there was red and white tape
everywhere. So I looked for an alternative and while I was looking at the map this
happened: there I was on the side of the road, at 8.30 in the morning, map in
hand, NZ silver fern flag flying at the front, big bags on my bike and a woman
drove her car across the roundabout towards me, stopped in the middle of the
road facing the wrong direction and wound down her window. What was coming, I
wondered. She's going to ask me for directions. I don't believe it. Preparing myself to say I'm not a local, she said, Excuse me, Madame, in French. Could you tell me of any
antique dealers around here? All ready to say, Sorry, no, I had to change tack. Aha, brocante, I knew that word, I’d just left one! Well, I
said, feeling quite smug, yes, I do actually, and gave her directions to the B&B I’d
just left. But, I said, it won’t be open yet, knowing Monsieur had done
breakfast just for me and Madame wasn’t even up yet. Nevertheless, off she went
quite happily following my instructions. What was she doing looking for an
antiques place at that time in the morning anyway? I guess I
reinforced her poor sense of judgment. 
I found my
way back to the bike path and my legs had to get going quickly with an early
morning climb up yet another big bridge and then into the forest, lots of it. I
had to stop and look at a lighthouse just to relieve the boredom. Then there
were some nice beaches, lovely, empty,
wild stretches with no one on them, and one with some sort of surf-lifesavers’
competition. The weather was a bit patchy and then I was into Royan and its
suburbs. St-Palais-sur-Mer is a posh-looking seaside resort with grand old
houses and wide promenades. The path went up and down and around the cliff-tops
(corniches) north of Royan; the way
to the ferry was well-signed. I came around a corner and there it was, making
its way rapidly towards the terminal. I sprinted, and got there just in time to
board.
Some other
bikers were on board: an Englishman heading for the same destination as mine
but going by a different route. He looked at my bike. I salute you, he said, doing all those kms on
that! I’ve got one, he said, and I wouldn’t want to tour on it! Might see you
further down the coast, he said, but I never did. And a German couple doing a
tour of southern France. We rode off the ferry together and then they were all
gone and I was left alone in the forest again.
The ferry takes
around twenty minutes and runs all day, crossing the huge estuary of the
Gironde River and connecting Royan and the region of Charente-Maritime to its
north with the region of Aquitaine to the south. The area along the southern
shores of the Gironde heading east towards Bordeaux is known as the Médoc and
is a famous wine-growing area. I’d like to have explored it, but my route took
me directly south and it was starting to rain.
There seemed
to be a change that was evident as soon as I rode off the ferry. There was
graffiti and a general scruffiness about the area that hadn’t been present
north of the river. It seemed poorer. The weather didn’t help. Lunch was grey
by the beach and eaten in a hurry. Then the rain became serious and I had to
look for accommodation in Montalivet-les-Bains. The woman at the tourist office
was, at best, disinterested. Il pleut,
she announced, rather unhelpfully, and went back to her Iphone. There was a
choice of three hotels. They all looked like brothels. (By the way, I have a
quite justified fear of choosing a brothel in error. Tony and I did just that
one night in Algerciras in Spain. I woke at five in the morning to find him
lying paralytic next to me. We have to leave, now, he said, so we did.) I
picked the least dingy-looking one, but the Madame looked suspiciously like a
Madame.
I was wrong.
The rooms were small but clean (she showed my three of them; I don’t think
there was anyone else staying there), she carried my bags (dripping wet) up the
stairs, and even offered a place on the upstairs verandah for my bike so it
could be under cover. When the rain
eased a bit and I finally ventured out, the mini-supermarket was the best
stocked I’d come across, and my dinner at a nearby restaurant (pasta and smoked
salmon with about a gallon of cream: a bit of carb-loading for the long day in
the forest tomorrow) was delicious.
Two couples
came in while I was there, on holiday with their dogs. The dogs came in too.
One of them was a giant. Its owners sat at the table next to me. The waitress
brought it a bowl of water. The man told it to sit (Assieds-toi!!). It sat. But its head still towered above the table.
It had a chewy bone thing to entertain itself with while its parents ate. But it
had finished that before they’d even started their apéro. It drank from its bowl and slobbered everywhere. Monsieur threw
it snacks from the table and no one seemed to mind. The waitress just stepped over
it when she brought the wine. I was the only one kept entertained. 
No comments:
Post a Comment