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.
