Thursday 7 June
I spent my rest day pottering around Ile de Re, just off La Rochelle. It was further than I thought to the island, connected to the mainland by a two mile road bridge, so I took the bike. It was nice to wind down and join the many cycling day trippers doing the same. The sun shone, and I lunched on oysters and local beer by the sea. I didn’t make it to La Phare – the furthest point, as I broke the mounting tabs on my Garmin, and spent some time hunting for superglue and sellotape in a supermarket; plus, it was 18 miles from bridge to tip and I was supposed to be resting. I was also distracted by the hairy donkeys.
All told, however, it was a very pleasant sojourn.
Back at the hotel I mended the Garmin as best as I could, before showering and changing. I returned to Le P’Tit Nicolas, for foie gras and magret, followed by a drink in the Irish Bar, where I chatted with the affable owner, Noel McNulty, who had been in La Rochelle for twenty years, and an English Spurs fan who was mates with Harry Redknapp and who told me why Harry didn’t get the England job. I was treated to some comedy darts from a woman who couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, and a rendition of Dirty Old Town (“It’s about Salford, you know,”, said Noel, “I know”, I said, “I was born there”,) then bed, and my stopover in La Rochelle was over. I would give McNulty’s a visit if ever you are in La Rochelle. It’s not your typical Irish Bar, full of beery Brits, and the owner works hard to keep his, mostly French, clientele entertained.
Friday 8 June
I left about 9 the next morning, eschewing the hotel breakfast as I did not want to be late arriving at my next stop, La Seguiniere, a small holding with guest rooms just outside St Sulpice Le Verdon, 65 miles to the North. The owners had contacted me when I booked, offering a home-cooked meal, using produits locales, boissons included for 25 eu, and I did certainly not want to miss it.
I figured I could easily top up on the way, identifying Lucon and Chaize de le Vicomte as potential stops, at about 25 and 45 miles away respectively, so I gobbled the last of my breakfast bars and headed off. The fix on the Garmin appeared to have worked, although the contacts with the battery pack were not aligned.
I made good progress along relatively quiet D Roads to La Vendee. I had been passed by one old bloke on a racing bike, and had failed to keep up with him, but was doing better with the second, raising my pace and sitting comfortable in his slipstream as I crossed the river into Departement de la Vendee. Suddenly, the Garmin indicated I had missed a wrong turning and after a short internal debate, I decided to pull over and take a check on the directions. I broke the mounting tabs again adjusting its position to see it, and so fashioned a hasty repair with sellotape, before doubling back and following a river path, and then a quiet winding cycle lane, which was sparsely populated by other tourers including a tandem, but no cars. I consoled myself that the loss of time was worth the comfort of riding apart from speeding motorists, and, in any case, the road I had been on bypassed Lucon, whereas this path took me right through it. I crossed a bridge over the Canal de Lucon, onto a very narrow, overgrown and broken concrete path along the canal bank. With a steep drop into the canal on my right and a similar drop into a ditch on my left, I slowed down and proceeded quite gingerly. It was by now, approaching noon, the heat was baking, with no shelter, and I was running low on water. The last few miles into Lucon seemed to take an age, but eventually I reached the town.
I decided not to stop for lunch, instead settling for meal of Sprite, full-fat Coke and water at a cafe-tabac. I could always snack in La Chaize du Vicomte and I had a home-cooked fresh French meal to look forward to – hmmm, I was salivating at the prospect.
I pedalled along gently sloping valleys, with the occasional short 8-9% gradient and the odd rough woodland track, arriving in La Chaize at about 3:30. I declined to stop at the small restaurant, opting instead for snack from the patisserie, after all, I had to leave room for the feast I was to enjoy at La Table d’Hote. I looked for somewhere to stop and eat my pain au chocolat, but could find no benches. On the edge of town was a small shrine to The Virgin Mary, with some steps in front so I pulled up there.
No sooner had my backside hit stone, than I heard a rumble of thunder behind me. Clearly, her Ladyship was not happy with a sinner who had traversed Satan’s Way, and a lapsed Catholic to boot, taking some rest at her feet. I finished my snacks and hastened away. I did not beat the rain, and was also slowed down as the woodland tracks became soaked and turned to mud.
Eventually, I tired of this and took the car-route, arrived at my destination shortly after 6pm. At least I thought I had, but, thankfully, I wasn’t staying at the pig farm, rather the charming country house a little further on. The room was spacious and well appointed. Jerome, the host, showed me where to stow my bike, and asked me when I would like breakfast. I told him about 9ish and then asked about dinner. “Dinner?” he said, “There is no dinner, you have to make a reservation for dinner, and, anyway, my wife is not here. There is no dinner.” Indignantly, I tried to tell him I had agreed, at their suggestion, to eat sur place, and tried to find the relevant messages on my phone, but there was no signal. Jerome disappeared to look for his own phone, while I fumed silently in the room. Eventually he came back looking sheepish and said, “You can cook some risotto in your room.” “What? You want me to cook?” “Yes”, he said. Well, I refused point blank and asked angrily where the nearest restaurant was. Not less than 5 km away, apparently. I ranted on about how unacceptable this all was, but Jerome merely shrugged and said, “It’s no good, you don’t speak English”. It was only later, after I had shooed him out of the room so that I could wash, that I calmed down enough to realise that he had been mixing up his pronouns, and had offered to cook for me, but it was too late. In any case, I didn’t want some reheated risotto that his wife had left in the freezer for him whilst she had gone off for the night. I fumed in the bath, and continued fuming as I rode to the next town but one, where I found a second rate Pizza place. I had abouillette (sausage) which looked better than it tasted. Service was slow, as the two women working were serving in the restaurant, dealing with a large party in a back room, taking phone orders, and dealing with takeaway customers. It did not improve my mood and so I did not leave a tip. The rain was threatening to return as I rode back to my bed, but I managed to get back before the thunderstorm struck. I clambered in and was lulled to sleep by the rumble of thunder and the patter of rain.
Saturday 9 June.
I woke early, bathed and packed my things. I swallowed my anger and then swallowed the breakfast on offer. I could hear Jerome and a female voice (obviously La Femme had returned) whispering next door, but, no doubt filled with shame, the lady did not show her face. I left without saying goodbye.
I glued the Garmin to the mount this morning, so that I did not have to use the sellotape, and so far it has been holding well. The roads north to Nantes were mostly tarmac (tarmac is my friend) and I had a faint tailwind, which helped me knock out the first 20 miles in an hour and a half. I crossed the Loire at Nantes (nothing special), and carried on through the town and east along the river, before turning North. I was briefly halted by a bit of cleat trouble, first it came off and stuck in the pedal, now it is lost, but generally, it has been a pleasant and an easy ride. I have stopped for some late lunch in La Chappelle, about 5 miles from my destination, where I am typing this. There has been another thunderstorm, but it has passed, and the sun is shining while I sip a beer before going on my way. All is well. People are walking past me in evening dress to the church, although it is only 4pm. Some folks are getting wed. Life goes on.
The Trick Cyclist 