2013 Tour - Jour 18

Retour á Bretagne

After a pleasant stay in sunny southern France, today we return to Brittany; who knows what the weather will hold for us there? Our return strategy consists of the TGV from Angouléme to Bordeaux, then Intercities train from Bordeaux to Lorient. The first leg is straightforward because bike reservations are compulsory on TGV trains, so you have a guaranteed place. On the Intercities there are bike spaces on a first come first served basis, so an unholy scrum will not doubt ensue and I will have to send S into battle with her foot in the door - we shall see.

Carnage of les velos

As suspected, the situation at Bordeaux was less smooth. We arrived and disembarked smoothly enough, then made our way to La Tupina for le dejeuner - OK, I lied, went to Café Tupina, the downmarket version around the corner, once again, not wanting to mark the polished teak floor with our cleats.

A sumptuous four-course lunch was had, the last course being a large portion of something similar to Breton Far flan. Those of you in the know will immediately recognise that we now no longer have to eat for a week because the aforementioned flan is a superheavy element which, when purchased at a patisserie in Brittany, is provided in a lead-lined box. So, having lingered slightly too long in an effort to digest the meal, and imbibed slightly too much, we hastily pushed our bikes back to la gare. Sure enough: the platform had steps up to it (first challenge); there were more people with bikes than bike spaces on the train (second challenge), but I adopted my usual ploy of stuffing them on to the first available carriage without regard to seating reservations; confusion about which carriage the seat reservations were in - probably my fault but this led right in to the third challenge . . .

H: (pushing trolley laden with panniers and camping equipment) excusez-moi (addressing SNCF official and pointing to reservation) quelle voiture est ce

Msr SNCF: (pointing to my luggage) a stream of French which I had no hope of understanding

H: Je ne comprends pas

Msr SNCF: (pointing at luggage) ditto

H: Je ne comprends pas

Msr SNCF: ditto

H: (realising it must be some problem to do with the amount/location of our clobber) Je ne comprends pas

Msr SNCF: ditto

H: (louder) Je ne comprends pas

Throughout this conversation, all around us folks are busily loading bikes, enormous rucksacks, IKEA flatpack furniture, portable nuclear reactors, etc. onto the train like a scene out of Ghandi . . .

Eventually SNCF gives up in frustration and I direct S to chuck the stuff on the train tout suite before he comes back. This done I then evict two nice young ladies from our seats based on my firm belief in gender equality and the prospect of a 6 hour train journey. Shortly thereafter, I see SNCF moving down the carriage in our direction, so I fain sleep. But I needn't have worried because his official ire has been redirected to the 27 bikes squashed into a place for 2 at the end of the carriage. At the next station there is a delay while some disembarkation (forced or otherwise I will never know) takes place; during this whole episode I fain sleep (S has already managed to fall into a deep slumber moments after sitting down).

The merits of the Dessert at lunch soon become apparent because the train does not have a buffet car - people are starving, small children are crying and having their sweets stolen, but we have our bidons and some choccy bicuits in the back pocket. Eventually we arrive at Lorient at 9.30 pm and are currently ensconced in the Ibis Gare which seems like a 5-star hotel, except that our clothes are soaking in the sink.

Bon soir

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2013 Tour - Jour 15 to 17

Difficulties

The last few days have been characterised by problems with technology and biological functions. To start with, my phone decided to stop 'roaming', thereby preventing me from not only uploading to the internet but also . . . well, using it as a phone. Calls to Virgin at £10,0000,0000 per millisecond have not resolved the issue as yet, and I shall look forward to chatting with Branstons [sic] minions to demand a refund for same, plus unused internet pass on my return if the situation remains unchanged.

Jour 16

Yesterday I came down with a touch of Delhi tummy which I put down to a dodgy moule prepared by S, though she tries to blame the duck paté - the remains of which were fed to the gîte cat as we departed today, but we are no longer there to see if it proved fatal. At any rate, under normal circumstances this would circumscribe one's holiday to a limited radius around 'facilities', so it is clear that the combination with cycling and camping is pure torture but I will not go into detail. We were on the road today, so I limited my nutrition to powerade, coca-cola and bits of bread. Ce soir I treated S to bangers, peas and mash, cooked up on the camp stove; I await developments. We are ensconced once more in the camping municipal in Chasseneuil as I write, but still without access to the aether, so who knows whether anyone will see this (or whether they do anyhow).

Jour 17 - Angoulême

It seems that I survived a night in the tent aprés the bangers and mash. Just to make a stern test I also washed it down with two beers and some red wine, without apparent ill effect, though I did manage to catch S's hair in the tent door zipper at 3 am in the morning on my way back from the facilities - 'the joys of a life under canvas' as I said later that morning at a more civilised hour. We broke camp as usual on a gloriously sunny morning and made for Angoulême, cycling through stereotypical French countryside.

We arrived in good time so I took myself off to find our lovely chambre d'hôte situated right in the middle of the town (booked randomly over the internet just prior to it going t*** up) while I left S in the park to attend to matters domestique.

Having roundly panned the delights of Limoges in a previous post, I can now report that Angoulême is well worth a visit, a bit like stepping back in time to an 18th century city on a hill, complete ramparts, cathedral and etc. It even offers floral arrangements to match your clothing, as modelled by S . . .

And opportunities for the 'Man at C& A' . . .

. . . and the guesthouse has WiFi, so here you are . . .

Bon soir

 

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2013 Tour - Jour 14

Limoges

The forecast was for light cloud and sunny intervals and mid-twenties centigrade, perfect cycling weather for a day trip to Limoges, site of a splendid gothic cathedral St Etienne where Richard the Lionheart was invested as Duke of Aquitaine in 1169. Well, it only rained a bit on the way out, nothing to trouble hardened Devonian randonneurs. However, it transpired that Limoges is protected by the 21st century equivalent of curtain wall defences, a.k.a a motorway and various ring-roads. Travelling the 10 km from the outskirts to the centre took as long as the previous 30 km along the Vienne river. Luckily, we intersected a cycle path - actually some pictures of bikes with arrows painted on the road at 30 m intervals - which the municipal authorities had clearly deemed necessary in order to guide non-motorised traffic into the city centre. Eventually we got to the centre ville which, alas, turned out to be rather underwhelming. The expected medieval city centre around the cathedral turned out to be no larger than the Barbican in Plymouth, and the city planners had clearly had it in for the place judging by the blocks of concrete flats dotted around the old quarter and practically next door to the cathedral. Oh well, it's not the first and only place to have been so treated. . .

So we visited the cathedral: flying buttresses - tick; vaulted ceiling - tick; stained glass windows - tick; side chapels for the various saints - tick; a magnificent organ - tick . . . you may have guessed by now that it was similar to other cathedrals. I noted that the votive candles were €1 for a small and €2 for a large - I presume the large carried 'extra blessing' mixed in with the wax, otherwise Trading Standards should be informed . . .

On the plus side, we did have an excellent lunch of steak and chips.

We returned along the same marked cycleway, all the time eyeing the evil storm-clouds gathering in the south, and congratulated ourselves on having reached the river then turning away from the evident downpour on the horizon - tweaking the weather's nose if you will. I should have known better because, just as we hit the outskirts of St Junien, the weather decided to divest it's nose of a barrel-full of snot . . .

So, the scorching heat of the previous days has given way to a typical British Summer.

Bon soir

 

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2013 Tour - Jour 12

St Junien

Today we explored the quaint town of St Junien. The tourist office literature proclaimed that it is:

'. . . the French capital of leather glove making . . . '

However, these days, only top quality gloves are made for haute couture such as Gucci etc. because of the inevitable competition from child labour exploiting and tax evading brands such as *******. So clearly, a visit was required to sate S's appetite for luxury goods, as a counterweight for being forced to drag a tent and other accoutrements to southern France. The nice lady in the tourist office provided a map and directions, so off we set off, via the inevitable café au lait, to the gant manufacturer in question, only to find that it was ferme août . . . as was the next . . . and the next . . . and in fact all of them. Clearly, the month of august is 'glove maker's month', much as it was 'miner's fortnight' when I was a lad and everyone decamped to Trecco Bay for a couple of weeks of CPA and and fish & chips. Not to be deterred by such minor inconveniences I took myself off to find an alternative source of hand-wear for S, which you can see here modelled ce soir aprés le diner . . .

That sorted, we explored the rest of the town. Similarly to other manufacturing towns in Britain the indigenous industries have wilted in the face of Asian competition, so along the banks of the Vienne there are numerous disused tanneries, paper mills etc. Probably to be had for €2 or so, and thus ripe for re-development as bijou riverside apartments where we can all:

Unscrew a new bottle of chardonnay

and fill to the brim the long-stemmed glasses;

apéritif to Hello and OK,

aspirational lifestyle of the masses.

Holiday reading

So, at last, we come to the contentious topic of holiday reading. This year, in a spate of self-improvement, I have downloaded numerous 'classics' from t'internet on the trusty old iPad. 'Oi, you crusty old skinflint . . . ' I hear you say, ' . . . you've only done it because they are free', and yes, you have a point, but I will add that there are also a sprinkling of paid-for tomes, e.g. John Grisham, Phillipa Gregory, Dawn French, which S had instructed me to purchase on pain of death (or something worse). Returning to the main thrust of the story, I have been regaling myself with 'Don Quixote' which, as it turns out, has curiously similarities with our current situation:

1. Deluded middle-aged 'Don' who goes off on adventures

2. Same 'Don' who thusly gets himself into all sorts of injurious situations

3. Same 'Don' who drags along his faithful squire (Sancho Panza, aka 'S')

4. Same 'S' who gets into all the same scrapes by association

Here is a picture of us after we have raided the alforjas . . .

Bon soir

 

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