Fourth Day

Fourth Day

Bonjour!

            I am up and about and nothing else is stirring.  An absolutely gorgeous sunrise and that was the last of the sun to be seen for the rest of day.  On the patio next to reception there was red table with four red chairs.  My breakfast was the usual, delicious coffee and bread and jam.

            Last night I left this journal in the laundry room.  Not being Hemingway or Steinbeck it was still there in the morning. 

            The cleaning lady arrived soon after, an elfish creature with dark hair and pointed chin and nose.  She put on a gray smock and a kepi type cap and grabbed a pail and mob and went to work.  A young man whipped into a nearby parking space and began rearranging his travel van, car.  He is obviously living out of his car but with his dark handsome features he does not have the aura of the homeless one sees in California.

            Now come the dog walkers.  First came a lady in her early sixties with flaxen hair being pulled by a dog half her size.  She is wearing a black and white striped blouse over blue pedal pushers.  Next a tall man in his late forties already balding guides his dog through the exit gate.  He looks comfortable in a green and white plaid shirt over his blue jeans.

            I forgot to mention that yesterday I happened across two gypsy camps.  The first had five caravans and a passel of people.  The second was smaller with only two caravans and civil authorities were ousting them.  The women sat on the steps looking forlornly as items were being tossed into the dumpsters. 

            From the campground I stopped at Leclerc, a huge department that literally carries everything from soup to nuts.  There I picked up another canister of Butane.  With only one item a very nice lady with tons of items let me jump ahead of her.     

            At the Office de Tourisme and older lady was very helpful.  I say older but she was only in her early forties but the other clerks are in their early twenties.  She guided me out of the city and to a campground in Eymoutiers, 50 km away.

            I checked out two churches of similar styles, St. Pierre and St. Michel.  They were massive, boxy, and dark and lacked the grandeur of the more famous cathedrals.  The tower over St. Michel’s is 70 m high.

            The downtown area is very nice, filled with shops and closed to traffic.  There was a huge Les Halles.  There was an archeology dig that is ongoing but can be seen from adjoining sidewalks.

            I passed by a Quick burger filled with students on noon break.  I was rewarded with a Kebob.  The chicken sandwich, fries, and beer will fuel me the entire afternoon.  The place is quaint nestled in a basement.  A large pillar in the center branches out into four arches supporting the ceiling and dividing the eating areas from the cooking area.

            The proprietor and his wife were very welcoming.  He was small at 5’5’’ and she was a good 5 inches shorter.  He was a handsome man with his dark hair streaked with grey.  Dark glasses hanging loosely on his nose framed his deep-set eyes.  His bushy eyebrows tweaked up and down as he greeted customers with a broad smile and cheerful banter.  His wife looked more French that Turkish and more than held her own.  Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a bun accentuating rounded cheeks and pointed chin and nose.

            A Turkish mandolin hung from one wall and there were pictures of deserts and mountains on another.  I ordered and sipped a cold beer as they served take-a-way to 6 students.  The sandwich she brought over was spilling out of a fresh bun with thinly sliced meat, tomatoes, and lettuce.

            Even though fresh and fueled I made poor headway out of Limoges.  The climbs were relentless, one after another with no relief.  I barely made 5 km in the first hour.  The goal was 50 km to Eymoutiers but at this rate it should take most of the afternoon.

            The skies were darkening and threatening rain.  I hesitated a couple of times to catch my breath.  Otherwise I kept moving.  With 20 km, 12 miles, to go, the rain caught up.  Not hard, just enough to make one wet, cold, and miserable.  While walking up a steep grade a young motorist asked if I wanted assistance.  I nearly said yes, instead waved him on with a smile.

            There was an 8% grade, 8 feet of drop for 100 feet of run, leading into Eymoutiers.  I rode the brakes the entire 1700 m.  The signs in the town for the campground were clear and non-ambiguous, probably, because there was only one main street through the entire town.  The last sign announced the campground was still 2 km away and up a steep grade.  Upon reaching the turnoff, another sign declared an extra 500 m up a steeper grade.  The lane became a path.  Just before touching the clouds I arrived.  A camper was leaving.  Was there no room?  I made the final switch back to have that fear replaced by another.  There were no campers.  Was the campground even open?  The sign on the office read closed, however everything was open and operating, water, hot water, electricity, toilets, and showers.  There was a nice covered shelter for my bike and me.

            Soon after three campers join me in Shangri La.  The campground is situated on the ruins of an old fort with a view of the entire valley, the ultimate high ground.  Everything, washroom, unisex toilets and showers, office, and sheltered eating area, is arranged in a compact and tasteful manner like a mini RV.

            A stonewall, knee high, encloses an outside eating area with two beautifully finished wood tables and benches.  There are two flower boxes on the top of wall filled with white and pink blooms.  The park is obviously well cared for.

             I boldly ask a passing couple if they have an extra loaf of bread, already thinking of tomorrow’s breakfast.  They beaconed me to follow them to their RV, a Fiat model, handled over half of loaf, refused my payments, and ushered me inside.  It is cramped but comfortable.  He brings out a delicious liquor from Charante, similar to one Gerald enjoys.  Like a game of Charades we pantomime our questions and answers.  Amazingly, they are from Niort and he was a chauffeur.  Niort is a large city however the percentage of people in France from Niort is tiny.  In the original “Diabolique” the two women retreat to Niort after they commit the murder.  Supposedly the film maker was from Niort.