Riding injured through the Vendée to the Ocean - The Route IX (part 1)

LATE, WET AND DECIDEDLY TENTATIVE

Not the best start to the latest leg of our cross-Europe cycle tour. Dingo and I arrived in Nantes two hours late. By the time we high fived Uwe in Arrivals it was past Midday and nearly 1 pm before we had assembled our bikes, chucked the bike boxes and Dingo had completed his pre-ride faff (to be fair he was quicker than usual).

We had at least 100 km ahead of us that day and late October offered cold, rain and limited time before sunset. Adding to that, neither Dingo nor I were sure we were in shape to ride. Dingo had a dodgy Achilles and I had the combo of a crooked knee (a yet to be diagnosed ACL rupture) and more complicated issues I won’t bore you with here. We had discussed it on the plane and agreed WTF, we would give it a go and cycle to the nearest train station if I bodies failed.

On the bright side, the gang was back together and I pushed off from the airport excited, if tentative, at the hundreds of kilometres of open road ahead of us to Bordeaux.

STRAIGHT AND STEADY THROUGH THE VENDÉE

There is not much to report from the first few hours of cycling.  A steady pace, stuck in behind Uwe for much of the time (to conserve the energy and the injuries), past suburbia, then fairly non-descript villages and fields. So short on time, we stuck to the straight, semi-major roads and did not even stop for our usual village café pit-stop (not yet at least). Making do with a service station baguette, we pushed on and on through mercifully unhilly terrain.

While I cycled two things ran through my mind. My knee and a bit of history. Only two weeks after ditching the crutches, I was not confident it would hold out, but slowly but surely gained a little confidence as the kilometres past. This allowed some mental room to mull over the dark suppression of this region during the French Revolution. I would have been ignorant of it had I not just finished a study of the revolution, but now could not help but view the countryside in the shadow of the more than 100,000 local lives that were lost as the revolutionary government crushed a rebellion. A sombering thought in the rain.

The day took an upswing about 70 km in as the sun broke through and we gave ourselves the luxury of a brief café vin rouge. This left a final pleasant, if leggy, couple of hours. The highlight was passing through the beautiful village of Mareuil-sur-Lay-Dissais, complete with remarkable round church overlooking a tranquil river.

I for one was pretty relieved when we rolled into Luçon. It was our bare minimum destination for  the day, 100 km and change from Nantes. That was not far by our historical standards, but this was not a standard year. We were lead in from miles out by the magnificent, dominating spire of the Cathedral of Notre Dame (all 85 meters of it), restored by Richelieu himself.

We parked up in a café right outside the edifice and sipped some very satisfying red wine as the sun went down. After the shaky start, all seemed momentarily ordained to goodness, as we stumbled across the aptly named Hotel de Bordeaux and found available rooms to rent. Big pizza, ice-packs on the injuries and lights out.

A SPARKLING RIDE TO LA ROCHELLE

I woke up feeling better than expected, which was for the best given the ground we had to make up after our squeezed first day. Breakfasts on these trips are a particularly enjoyable part of the day, washing down course after course with lashings of coffee. I can’t help but think that a little competition comes in on both the quantity (Uwe wins), quality of choice (Dingo wins) and what extra fuel we can legitimately carry out (score draw). At least on French trips, this is then often topped up by a swift stop to the local boulangerie in anticipation of second breakfasts.

Having followed just that pattern, we headed south and into a flat coastal territory of cattle and egrets. In the morning sunshine we took a detour across a nature reserve and through some age old looking hamlets, before taking a sharp left and then right to avoid the encroaching sea. All in all, it was a lovely 40 km ride into the outskirts of La Rochelle. After the inevitable, roundabout, slightly lost route through the outskirts, we emerged into the simply stunning old port.

Mighty walls and guard towers gave way to harbour side and a plethora of sailing boats in the azure blue waters. We had reached the historic opening to the Bay of Biscay and the Atlantic Ocean. I will struggle to convey how perfect the next hour or so was. We parked ourselves and our bikes in a front row harbour café, sipped ice cold beer, ate glorious food and kicked back in our sweaty lycra in the late Autumn sun.

Before I left, I got chatting to a Brit who ran the local pub. He had come one day, fell in love with the place and never left. In that moment I completely got it. La Rochelle is special.

We undoubtedly stayed longer than was sensible, but were all smiles as we put bums back on saddles and headed out due south on a coastal path along the ocean. After a day and a half of roads, it was great to spend the best part of an afternoon on small mixed terrain paths. A bit of a headwind slowed us even further, but that was fine as we had the beach and ocean to our flank. Having been as far away as Stockholm on the route, it felt exhilarating to be on the Atlantic.

After a while the path noticeably narrowed and grew wilder as we wound our way along vegetation covered dunes. We persevered, but eventually ran out of path not far from Fouras, needing to take a left to avoid heading straight into the Charente river that cut in from the coast.

ROCHEFORT TO ROYAN

Via some bigger roads we made it into the city of Rochefort. Clearly a grand, if not large, place, our road took us straight to the even grander central square. A fitting spot for a lengthy ice-cream crepe and vin pit stop.

Much as we would like to end the day in Rochefort on a high, we had at least another 40 km to go to our much reach destination, Royan. Already late in the afternoon, we headed to the novelty of the vertical lift bridge across the Charente. While worth the trip for its peculiar spectacle, we were disappointed to find it closed and the need to double back a good way to get to the only other bridge across the river that bound in the city on three sides.

Unfortunately for us that was a motorway type bridge complete with speeding trucks. After a sharp word or two between us, we jumped across the reservation and grimaced as we pumped up and over the steep incline, gripping the handles tight in  anticipation of being knocked sideways by a speeding lorry. A very sketchy bit of riding.

From there it was pedals to the floor to beat the dark. I had largely forgotten the dodgy knee during the joys of the day, but an deep ache now came to the fore. This was made worse by us being forced onto a busy commuter road as the light failed. A difficult end to the day and it was a relief to wheel into the distinctly odd seaside town of Royan at night (think of Margate meets Milton Keynes). After the special places of the day, we hardly cared that Royan was a bit shit and were just happy to find a bed for the night and some late night chow.

Behind us were 230 km cycled against the odds (and the advice of my physio). Before us was the wide mouth of the Gironde river and then mile upon mile of Medoc vineyard. Could be worse.