21st Day

21^st Day

Bonjour!!!

            “Up and at them,” shouted the drill sergeant or the football coach.  The sun is a glimmer of hope in the eastern horizon.  I had a nice breakfast and set off.  The night could not have gone better, no lights, no noise.  I greased up like I was going to swim the English Channel.

I turned north out of Monbalen.  Within two kilometers I see signs for a campground, a combination equestrian center and campground.  Two kilometers farther on I hit N 21 with cars streaming by line canal boats linked together.

Choosing wisely, I did a one-eighty back to Laroque-Timbaut.  There I took the less travelled, thank you Robert Frost, and safer road to Penne-d’Agenais.  Words are insufficient to describe this wonder.  It rises magically from the carpet floor like a rocket at Cape Canaveral.  Like a pilgrim, I walked the incline, 1.5 km, to the top.  At the Office de Tourisme, the two ladies were off the charts helpful.  This is a point on the Walk.  In fact, there is a Hotel La Compostella for the walkers that also offer meals.

I was able to access the Internet in the Tourist Office.  The older of the two ladies handed over a code that stretched across a page, 26 characters, 20 numbers and 6 letters.  If you care to calculate this, it is 26 to the sixth power times 10 to the twentieth power, you will come up with a number slightly less than the likeability factor of Carol and Ron Zeppa.   

From this wonder I was off to Villeneuve-sur-Lot, a much bigger with many of its medieval buildings still intact. The Cathedral is new by comparison having been built in the 19^th century and constructed entirely of red bricks.  Its tower rises high above the town.  Equally tall are the two remaining city towers that guarded the entrances.  I

The young lady at the tourist office showed the way to Cassenull by a bike path.  She also sold me a small jar of honey and a can of canard (duck) pate.  The products unique to an area are sold at the various Offices de Tourisme.

The bike path went well except for a series of gates at every intersection, like a shalom run on a bunny hill.  The path was on the bed for a former railroad.  Where once the trains took precedence now the cars were the high and mighty.  I was apprehensive because in the past the bike paths have ranged from super to gravelly farm roads.  It was nice to be free from traffic and it actually cut off 1.4 km from the announced highway route.

According to the tourist map, there was supposed to be a campground in Saint-Pastour, my hopeful target.  But once again nada!  As I bicycled on I hoped that one my appeared like the day before.  Not until Cancon, 12 km away, did a sign indicate a campground off to right.

Cycling out of town toward the campground I was given a taste of French humor.  Bone weary, I asked a tall thin man leaning on the fence in his front yard if this was the way to camping.  He nodded and hollered, “Yes, another 8 km.”  With brakes screeching, I turned and stared back dumb foundling at him.  With a smile stretching from ear to ear he shouted, “Only kidding.  It’s just ahead.”  I am not sure what I would have done if he were not.  Would my legs or spirit have lasted another 8 km? 

The campground was in an idyll location near a tiny lake and surrounded by woods, a nice tidy package carved from the farmland.  A bar-restaurant and pool stretched on one side of the lake while the campground was situated on the other side.  Several fishermen had their long poles in the water.  After setting up camp, I cycled back to the bar for a cold beer to have with dinner, 

As I was eating a wolf-like dog came racing in, howling and growling, looking like a Jack London creature.  He had that lean and hungry look and I was on his menu.  He sniffed every inch of my camp space.  His curly hair was a mottled black-brown.  His owner soon appeared and I am sure saying in French that the dog was harmless.  He was as scruffy as the dog, wearing dirty fatigues and smelling like a shower was a distant memory.  He finally got the hint that I did not want either him or his dog around.  He marched out of camp huffing and puffing on his cigar, the dog hugging his legs.

I had another night in my 1000 star hotel!

Au revoir!!!

20th Day

20^th Day

            Bonjour!!!

            Each of us has our own Everest to climb.  Our personal journey is unimportant but if we don’t take it no one else every will.

It is Sunday, a day for heading north, free of trucks.  Thin white clouds lay in ripples on the blue sky like the sands on a beach as the wave returns to the sea.  The sun is peeking over the eastern horizon, a glimmer of the great day to come.  The best day is the day you are in!

Claude, the French photographer, warned that the route of the day would be tough using his version of the hand jive.  True to his word the ascent out of Beaumont de Lomagne was a doozy, steep and long.  Once again the lay of the land was like fingers jutting out from an unseen hand. 

Lavit de Lomagne was still waking up.  A few people were lined up at the bakery.  Fewer were attending mass in the village church.  It was 9:45 and the service was well on its way.  With the service in French I was the only one in the Church not comprehending.  I miss the old days when the service was in Latin and no one understood!

Auvillar was the Hope diamond!  Standing tall on a sheer cliff the town overlooked the river valley below.  Judging by the number of people sitting in the outdoor patios of the many restaurant, a lot of people have Auvillar on their must see list.

The lady in the Office de Tourisme was friendly and very helpful.  She helped plan the afternoon trek, indicated where different stores were in town, and most important the right way out of town. 

At first, I was going to buy a pre-made sandwich and soda from a mini-Casino but decided for the gold.  I bought bread in a bakery.  With all the choices I opted for the choice of the customer ahead of me.  From there I hurried back beneath the ancient stone archway and on the stone walkway to the village square where a scaled down farmer’s market had stalls inside an unique circular Les Halles.  The burly butcher trimed four thin slices of ham from a large hock.  The charming cheeseman trimmed a narrow wedge of Brie from a round.  A fancy farm lady offered a tomato and I was off to the park overlooking the valley.  There I was greeted by a picnic table in the shade of a large leafy tree.  I lavishly layered the brie onto the baguette and blanketted it with a slices of ham and tomato.  A taste of heaven swept into my mouth!

Three English ladies were conversing while sitting on the stone benches jutting from the stonewall.  I always wonder in these groups of tourists who is the engine and who is the caboose. 

After I had finished licking my fingers, two French men meandered over wishing to talk.  With their limited English and my nonexistent French we were able to mine pieces of information.  One was a salesman for escalators and had been to New York and Los Angeles on business.  And neither knew who Pierre Fermat was. The number of French people who have engaged me in conversation has been different this trip.  I do wish that I would learn more French.  The fact that I can survive so amiably in France for five weeks is totally due the graciousness of its people.

Passing back through the square I recognized the young man in the stall selling olives from the day before.  He waved hello, hurried over, and with the friendliest smile handed over a bag of olives.  His only word was, “Enjoy!”

Ever since seeing that WW I memorial in that ultra small village that listed many family members I have looked at the memorials in other towns.  One family had fiv names on the column.  There has never been more than a pair of brothers.

What a different voyage this has been!  After being mired by rain in Eymoutiers for eight days, the zig-zag trip has changed from the jagged hide of the lizard to the smooth skin of the snake.  Finding that campground in Eymoutiers was heaven sent.  I have not found one since that was better suited for waiting out the weather.

A wonderful road with simple undulations and curves followed the steep descent out Auvillar.  At times it followed a river, then a railroad, and finally a canal. 

For the first time on this trip I passed by two nuclear towers spewing white smoke in the blue sky.  I had actually seen the smoke from the other side of the mountain and wondered what it was.  The smoke from an ordinary fire would never be this white. There were several fishermen on the banks of the river near the reactors.  They are fishing with those long poles and I am thinking about the Homer Simpson movie with mutated fish whose pupils bulged with a million eyes.

Many of these Churches are part of the La Compostella, the walk that begins in north western Spain and ends in north eastern France.  I have seen several walkers, most carried the standard backpacks but one pulled a contraption on one wheel hooked to his waist.

Around two I chugged up a mountain to Puymirol.  The town itself was disappointing.  There was a nice Church and the view of the valley was as stunning as any Van Gogh landscape.

The road to Laroque-Timbaut morphed from the fingers of an ordinary man to those of a mythical giant.  Growing sleepy I stopped for a nap inside a large abandoned barn on the side of road.  In spite of a concrete floor and incessant traffic I dozed off for over 45 minutes.

Back on the road fully energized I made quick work of the final climbs into Laroque-Timbaut.  A taxi driver, not Robert DeNiro, gave the proper directions to Monbalen.  The tourist map had a campground in Monbalen.  Not to be found.  I did find a Church with running water and a clubhouse of a fishing club on the limit of the town.  There was nice overhang and two picnic tables in well kept grassy area.  What’s not to like at 6:30?  I would learn to survive with out electricity.

After sponging off at the spigot, I had a nice supper.  Afterwards I read and enjoyed the quiet.  The setting sun had dyed the clouds the pink shade of the blush of innocence.

I am reading a book by a Bellarmine graduate called the “Sympathizer.”  So far it has been a very good read.  The author, Vant Nguyen, has garnered several awards for the book.  And being his first novel it is largely autobiographical.

I slept like a baby!

Au revoir!!!    

19th Day

19^th Day

Bonjour!!!

            After a healthy breakfast of minestrone soup, bread, and coffee I am off.  I was able to use the ten free minutes of Wifi to check e-mail and share the last two blogs.  Yesterday was a day I am happy to see in the rearview mirror.

            The 6 km ride into Montcuq was straightforward.  You ever named the town certainly had delusions of grandeur, more of a mound than a mountain.  It reminded me of the delightful movie, “Went up a mountain and came down a hill.”

            Another 10 km brought on the climb of the day into Lauzerte.  The 1 km into the town was so steep that I walked and rode for a full thirty minutes.  The reward was magnificent!  The town dates back to Roman times and later fortified in the 13^th century.  A huge farmer’s market was going full bore in the village square.  The Church was fascinating.  I ended up buying a ménage of olives, a jar of homemade apricot jam, and a delicious hot dish of potato, ham, and cheese in a cream sauce.

            The man in the Office de Tourisme was curt and less than friendly.  The same could be said of the lady in the office in Moissac.  They were helpful but dismissive like they were dealing with hordes when there was only me.

            The ride into Moissac was like riding over the fingers of an outstretched hand, up and down.  Upon rising on the third finger, the road abruptly turned and ran along the top to the first knuckle when it dropped down into the valley.  There it stayed until reaching Mossaic. 

            The Church for the Benedictine Abbey is astounding.  The first word is massive.  The second is heavy.  Inside, the marvelous decorations soften the blow.  There were over fifty seats for the monks in the choir stalls.  Beautiful carvings were in niches on the side.  The massive pipes of an organ filled one archway entirely.  They do offer a tour of the abbey garden but I chose to be on my way to Castelsarrasin.

            First I tried an canal road which started out okay but soon degenerated into a donkey path over grown with tall grasses.  I rolled the dice and tried a farm road which came to a main road.  I asked for directions from a lady selling strawberries in a stall of the road.  She was having a hard until a customer drove up.  He suggested the proper direction would be to the right.  I bought a basket of strawberries, tied to the handlebars, and took off nibbling as I cycled along, delicious.

            In and out of Castelsarrasin in record time including a much needed stop at MacDonald’s.  I still had 24 km to go to Beaumon de Lomagne, the destination for today.   The curves of the voluptuous Rachel Welch settled down into the simple undulations of the rail thin Twiggy.

            Beaumon de Lomagne is the birthplace of one of the most important figures in the history of mathematics, Pierre Fermat. The time was 4:45.  The tourist office had closed at 4.  However, the house of his birth was open until 5:00.  I entered with such enthusiasm that the attendant reopened a door for me to see the upper floors. 

            I had stayed in this town the year before but failed to recognize its mathematical significance until later.  I easily found the campground and the store, Leader Price.

            A Frenchman in the smallest camper ever invited me over for an aperitif.  The camper is two-thirds the size of my VW Westy.  While eating olives and drinking he shared photos of his journeys.  There were gorgeous; postcard quality shots of mountain landscapes, forests, meadows, animals, and flowers.  I was blown away.  He had a tremendous eye for composition.

            The campground is very nice but filled with families making lots of noise.  As they quieted down a concert at the stadium next door took over.  They played until three in the morning.  The concert was part of a huge soccer tournament with many players staying in the campground.  They are wearing their team colors.

            With the concert over they have returned to the campground in a loud and boisterous manner.  Even with concert over the sounds of the crowd are still coming from the stadium. 

I have taken refuge inside the sanitaire; the combination toilet, shower, laundry, and kitchen sink area.

            The skies were overcast all day threatening rain.  In the campground I prepared for the worst.  I place the bike and most of the gear under one of the overhangs of the sanitaire.  The skies have finally cleared at 4 in the morning with a bright three quarter moon slipping shyly behind a featherly cloud.  With th e incessant noise blanketed, I dutifully sleep the two hours before the breaking of the dawn.

            Tomorrow, today,  I start the long trek north back to Niort and Marie-Line’s wedding on the July 2.

Au revoir!!!!

               

18th Day

18^th Day

            A veil of gray descended over the valley forcing the sun from its starring role the last few days.  The attendant came by exactly at eight.  She looked around, refused by offer to pay, bid me bon voyage, and left.

            I was rewarded for the torturous ride of yesterday with the most magnificent ride so far, a perfect ride for the semi serious cyclist.   It was a long ski run starting with a Black Diamond run through twisty moguls and ending on a bunny hill.  At the bottom, the road chased a stream through a wide valley.  The luscious green valley narrowed wedging the road and river between the towering walls of a canyon.

            A bald headed motorcyclist was leaning against his Harley in the shadow of the cliff.  He had on the requisite leather chaps and jacket while sporting an outlandishly wide handlebar moustache that would have made Wyatt Earp proud.

            Further along there was a lovely little town.  On the bridge I could see a ridge of apartments with outdoor patios overlooking the river.  In one, a slight woman in a dark blue smock was serving a man sitting at a round table wearing green trousers and a white wife beater t-shirt.  At the limit of the town I met a couple of Dutch tourists.  They have been on the road for three weeks.  They had those very expensive Dutch bikes.  Holland has a great traditional of cycling.  I have heard that there are 2.5 bikes for every man, woman, and child in Amsterdam.  At the train station, you will see a flood of bikes, half without locks.

            In Cahors, it was déjà vu all over again as Yogi Berra first muttered.  I had the same problem finding the Office of Tourism.  I went to the same Hotel de Ville, asked the same lady, and received the same simple directions.

            The people at the Office de Tourisme were new but still very helpful.  The perky young lady went the extra mile mapping out the afternoon journey.  You might hear God guffawing in the background and you would be right.

            The clock struck noon, like striking midnight for Cinderella and my chariot did indeed turn into a pumpkin, Dr. Jekyll turned into Mr. Hyde.  What could go wrong went immensely wrong.  Even the long-suffering Job would have complained loudly.

            First, the owner of a Turkish restaurant quoted 7 euros but charged 11 and another 4 for a small beer.  Then my treasured St. John’s cap was blown and crushed by the tires of several cars.  I was able to retrieve it but the trademarks are clearly visible.

            Out of town I found myself on a super busy highway that I could not exit for several kilometers.  On the off ramp I could not find my location, D 8, anywhere on the map to the south of Cahors.  Finally, I found it north of town.  I had cycled a busy road with a steep ascent in the wrong direction.  During the descent my speed was such that biking jacket was blown off the back of the bike like losing the sandals last year.  This time I did not go back looking. 

Back through town, I tried again.  I started on the right road but was again sidetracked.  Came back and tried again.  After several kilometers I was up in the hills and totally lost.  Two ladies in a car tried to help but to no avail.  Another lady in a car directed me down a particular path.  There was a hotel-restaurant in the middle of nowhere with a French trekker from Lyon having lunch. 

He was vey helpful making several suggestions.  I tried the second option but that road was little more than a dirt cart path.  I turned around to try the third choice and met him walking with my water bottle.  He had graciously filled it.

The third option was a serpentine route with more curves that Brigitte Bardot and more ups and downs than the stock market.  I was getting nowhere fast.  At a Church I asked a man hanging posters on an already filled billboard for help.  He suggested a route with lots of ups and downs.  The first descent was treacherously fast.  From the front bag all the maps flew in every direction.  I scrambled back to find all of them.  All the way down I was thinking about the ensuing ascent.  For the first time I considered rough camping if I could find a shelter with water.  The weather was humid and hot, which in Minnesota threatens thunderstorms.

At the bottom, the crossroads indicated the town I was looking forward.  Ahead of me was the ascent, kilometer after kilometer of bone weary spinning of the gears.  I did stop at a lavorie, which is a place where clothes were washed in the outdoors in olden times.  The shelter was well covered with water to bathe in but no drinking water. I put it in the back of mind as a possibility.

Within two kilometers I came across a campground.  After renting a space I took an extra long hot shower.  At the camp store I bought half of carafe of red wine and three pieces of slice cheese. 

About nine I hear the sounds of shells exploding.  It could only be the thunder that I as expecting.  I quickly moved everything beneath the slim overhang of the restroom-shower area.  Not a moment too soon before the heavens opened and a deluge of biblical proportions fell.  Sheets of rain were driven into the ground.  A Dutch woman who had been using the restroom soon joined me.  She was less than 50 feet from their camper but she would have been drenched if she tried for it.  Instead she and I waited the storm, lightening, thunder, and rain for over 30 minutes.  Her husband came to rescue her with one of those red and white umbrellas over the tables.

They and a large group of Dutch campers have been coming to this campground for the last 13 years.

After the storm I moved all myself to a larger shelter and settled in for the night.  Now for the last bothersome thing of the day; there is a sound coming out of the darkness like a wind chime.  I looked for the source but discovered that it is coming from several spots.

A day like today reminds me that this is adventure.  The ride in the morning will be long remembered but not with the same intensity of the afternoon.   As demanding as it was physically, the emotional and mental toll was even more tiring.  But I survived.  I did problem solving with severe consequences on the line.  This my friends is way better than 9 to 5.

Au revoir!!