Day 13 Montelizan-Plage to Gujan-Mestras

France has 16,900,000 hectares of forest. I travelled through 16,800,000 of them today!

Think of cycle ways through forests with nothing and no one to distract you from the soreness of your bottom. Not even any bird song. In the distance you see something; you get excited; it might be a cyclist; but no, it turns out, when you reach it, fifteen minutes later, it’s a fence post.

You make yourself keep going until you reach the sign you can see in the distance and then you allow yourself a breather.

I tried a road instead. The road was pretty much the same, the only difference being that on the road there was the occasional car going past to think about.

Think of roads so straight that a car passes you at about 100kmh and you can still see it in the distance five minutes later.

There were some lakes hiding amongst the trees. In fact France’s biggest lake, Lac d’Hourtin, was right on route. But the weather wasn’t good and the lake looked grey. I wasn’t keen to linger.

Kms built on kms because there was nowhere to stop or stay. I had done one hundred. It had to end. I left the bike path to try to find a hotel and ended up on a busy road. There was no other choice. At last, there was a hotel right there on the street. It looked posh. It was. But it was 4.30 and I’d had enough. Lots of men in pink shirts and suits and women in nice dresses and hairdos were chatting in the foyer. There was a restaurant. I leant my dirty bike against the front wall and walked in in my bike shorts and helmet hair trying not to care.

Not one, but two, very dapper middle-aged Messieurs in blue and white striped shirts were on reception. They were completely charming. One of them had been to New Zealand (for two days!) and couldn’t have been more helpful. He carried my bags, made space in the garden shed for my bike, and worried about where I would eat. He should well have.

Well, there’s the restaurant, I ventured. But perhaps there was something special on with all these people here? Oh no, he said, it’s closing for the day now, they’re been here for lunch. It’s a very good restaurant, he confided in a hushed tone, it has one Michelin star. Eh bien! I said, suitably impressed, and thought, oh well, I wouldn’t have been able to afford it anyway.  

It was Sunday night and still low season here. Nothing was open that didn’t involve biking to, only huitres (oysters) available for tasting at the port. It was pretty there with the rows of oyster-processing huts but there was a cool, blustery wind and I don’t like oysters at the best of times, let alone cold and slippery after a day’s riding. I found a boulangerie across the road from the hotel that was thankfully still open. Dinner was a loaf of crunchy bread with goat’s cheese and tinned tuna in my fancy room. I fell asleep in my expensive bed while it was still light outside.