Day 4I wake early in my carpeted dog kennel and check the weather. Wait, no need. I can hear the rain lashing against the unpainted shutters. I turn over and consider staying s. here for, oh, at least ten seconds. No chance! My nose could not stand it. Up and out [don’t stand barefoot on carpet]. Check washing. It will do. Check out breakfast, avoiding rabbit having a scratch on the stairs. Breakfast is not too bad for 1 euro. Trouble is I paid 6! No wonder I was lonely in the dining room. Apart from Topsy that is. Bless. Never mind, back to room and quickly pack up. S..t dropped washing on carpet.
Still pouring as I pack bike up and wheel through mini zoo to rear gate. There is nobody about but big gate slides open and zoo inhabitants don’t make a run for freedom. Unlike me. I’m off! I find a Lidl down the road and provision up leaving unlocked bike outside.
The town is quiet as I skitter down the wet cobbles to the Loire and turn left for Nevers. This is a pretty busy main road but well surfaced and I can knock some miles out. The rain however is getting heavier and I come to a sign for a rail station. It’s tempting so I ride down to check it out. Course it’s deserted, no booking office open and no human activity. Back to my route to find the road is closed and diversion signs. I’m not following a diversion in this weather so I follow the closed road. Eventually I come across the works, supervised by the hi-viz, professional shovel leaners. There is no road or pavement but that does not bother a cyclist. With the bike over my shoulder I tramp though the mud field dodging the odd JCB or tipper under the watchful gaze of Henri, Pierre etc who say nothing, just nod through the smoke from their damp gauloises. The road is its usual fine French self from here on in and once again the miles roll by. Rain stops and the sun decides to see what’s happening as I enter another charming village. I spot a human and ask a nice old guy to direct me to a cycle path that I have seen on my map. He immediately shakes my hand, what a lovely gesture, he then gives me directions in very rapid French. I can just make out right and left and straight on. The rest I have no chance and, I think, I explain that my French is mon petite. He turns away and trots off to his car as I turn away to check the map. Next thing there is a tap on my shoulder and he has returned with a map he has drawn for me on a scrap of paper. What a lovely guy. I thank him and off he goes after shaking my hand again and patting me on the back. Not sure if it’s a sympathy thing.
I then spot a Tourist office and decide to see if I can filch a local map. Well. My world has fallen apart! All my preconceptions about these Tourist offices staffed by a bevy of lovelies. It’s just not true! It’s a nice big well-stocked office and as I approach the desk I see two well fed ladies tapping way on computers. I greet them in my best French but am studiously ignored. After an age. They correctly assume, I won’t go away. The one nearest to me tears her self away from the “All pies are lovely” website and deigns to raise a bushy eyebrow in my direction. I ask if she speaks English. A sigh and a twitch from her rosy scrubbed cheeks and she nods her, I’ve not had time to comb my hair this year, head towards her companion. This lady struggles up from her seat, this one is marginally smarter, and bigger. She’s had a meeting with a hairbrush somewhere today though. She shuffles over to the counter. “Monsieur. You are in France. You must speak French.” This in terrible English. Nice. Thank you very helpful. That’s what I thought I was doing. {French customer care at it’s finest]. So I count to thirteen in French to her [as far as I got in school] and ask again in French for directions and a map. Hey! She smiles. “See monsieur you can speak French.” No I can’t. Never mind. She throws me a map and clumps back to her desk to bury herself in the “All foreigners are s..t” website.
The maps actually not bad and show me a cycle track out of town alongside the river. Trouble is it’s really for an MTB and before long I retreat to a busy Tarmac highway. The rest of the day is pretty uneventful. Fields, cows, hedges, deserted villages, rain, sun, rain, rain, rain. Get the picture, but it’s touring and I’m fine with it. Creaking bike though and I keep getting a whiff of something not nice. I think it’s coming from my shorts. No not that. I dropped them on the carpet this morning when they were still damp, Flopsy still with me. I reach another village and stop for a comfort break as I spy a public toilet sign. Interesting. There is no door on the toilet and looks like there never have been so all your actions are open to public gaze.
Oh well as I’m in France. It’s starting to reach that hour when I need to find a bed for the night. Luckily I come across a little town. Luckily there is one hotel on the main street. Unluckily it is shut! Hmm. I spot a supermarket down the road. This yields yet more fruit and a box of cream do-nuts on offer. Plus a bike lock. Good stuff.
I’m now on the outskirts of town with no sign of a room so I head back to the main street and bang on the Hotel door. No sign of life at all. I’m just wheeling my bike away when there is a shout from the side of the hotel. Madam comes striding round the corner. Now if you have ever watched Allo, Allo you will be familiar with Renee’s wife. It really is her. The living spit. Incredible. I stand gob smacked as reaches me, saying, I don’t know, something in furious French. Grabs the bike and wheels it away into the rear of the hotel. I run after her and she is propping it against the wall in the back. There is half a guy in the yard. Top half. He’s stood in a deep trench, leaning on a spade. He reaches out his hand to me. I thought he was stuck! But he’s the owner he explains and he has a problem with le pipe. Madam [Edith]comes back and thrusts a key in my hand for the room. No English off either of them. Believe me or not, but the guy in the trench is a thin version of Rene' without the apron. It’s crazy. I’ve got a room, parked the bike and still no mention of price or whether I want it or not. I have to ask Rene' how much the room is. Thirty-five euros he tells me, writing it down on a piece of paper with a stub of a muddy pencil and eleven euros for evening meal. This while he is still down the trench and leaning on the paving to write. I’m on my knees in the muck talking to him and working out French scribble. Hope he can't smell my shorts. I love France!
So. Up the creaking rear staircase to my room.
It’s a step back in time. Think 1930s. Original furniture, huge bed, ancient window shutters etc with an old but really nice bathroom. A candlewick bedspread for crying out loud! Lovely and clean though and smells fine. I like it. There’s also a phone, but its one of those with a big round dial. Great. I put a brew on and break into the do-nuts. Big mistake. Greedy git that I am I scoff the lot and promptly fall fast asleep. The phone wakes me. It’s got one of those rings that grabs you by the scruff and throws you round the room. It’s Rene' to tell me that evening meal is being served. I didn’t know that I’d ordered it! I head down and find the 1930s restaurant buzzing. I’m sure I’m the only guest.
People are still coming through the door. It must be the only place in town for the locals. Renee seats me and I’m given the menu. Evidently the eleven euros is for a three-course meal and one of the options is steak! No wonder it’s busy. Madam is the only cook, toiling away in the kitchen and Rene' is the only waiter. He’s run off his feet but the meal is superb and I spend time talking to his son who wanders in for last orders. I think what a great end to a challenging day as I make my pleasantly, weary,way, upstairs to the past.