Day 1You would think I would have learnt my lesson last year. Stay home! I can’t, the flipping road calls. France is good. Lets do France again. No don’t! Yea, let’s do it. My imaginary friend has turned up early this year. Out with the maps. Draw lines. Curse at the computer whilst trying to load routes into GPS. Get frustrated fall out with my wife, growl at the cat or is it the other way round? You’ve got to love touring.
I’ve spoken once to a guy who is also in France at the same time and thinks it could be good to travel together. I’m wary after last year when I lost my companion after one day and ended up on an expensive lone tour. Still we exchange details with this new contact. I don’t let him know about last years trip. Best not.
Lessons to be learned as any brainless MP will recite. This year I’m taking an emergency tent and sleeping bag plus bubble wrap for a mat. I’m heavy enough without taking a load of heavy camping gear, which I hope not to use.
Oh and I’m having another go at Warmshowers. Last year I asked six of them to host me for a night. Not one sodding reply. This year I’ve changed my Lycra dressed, look at me, so big and muscular [LOL] profile pic to a picture of a, non-threatening, granddad me in Eric Morecambe shorts holding on to a Touring bike in order to stay upright.
It works! I start to get replies. Pity ones of course but who cares. I’m accepted for five nights in total.
Ok. Airport. No problem checking in. Bike in box with camping gear and panniers. Wait in line for Ryanair flight. Eva Braun in Ryanair suit comes down the line with cardboard box to see who they can catch out with an oversize bag. She’s disappointed when she sees my stuff sack and has to settle for making a young mother and kids unpack in front of the desk.
Not a bad result for her I thought.
A guy next to me starts to chat. I thought he had a stutter but no. He’s pissed! Off to see his DddddDaughter in TttttTours I ffoo. Oh it’s me, I found out.
No bother I let him lean on me [not that I had a choice] as we progressed down the tunnel. Once aboard I dump him and manage to shoulder charge a couple of those, everybody wait while I slowly fill my overhead locker, types out of the way and nab a legroom seat.
I’m flying to Tours. Did I not say? Flying to Tours and riding down the west side of France to Beziers, as Beziers is the only place I can realistically fly back from to Manchester.
Quick, easy flight and I’m walking across the tarmac to a shed/customs at Tours tiny airport.
Get the welcome to France bit off Customs, as I’m rollocked for letting my foot stray over the yellow line while he was scrutinising the persons passport in front of me. Once he decided which was the right way up, I was allowed to cross the magic line and dispatched with a casual sneer into the baggage hall/hut.
Drag the bike box outside and start the reassemble. It starts to rain. Why does it do that when it knows you have a bike in bits?
The uniformed, yellow line fanatic, gun, fag and hat set at a haughty angle, comes out and passes me, on his way to his mums I suspect, having done his community service.
I manage a childish “Tosser” under my breath as he passes. He heard, but don’t think he understood. Too late mate. I’m in.
Well. Bikes together. GPS is switched on and I ride slowly out towards my first night with a Warmshowers host. Get to the first junction and look down at GPS and it say’s
“Where the f… are we. Why have we left home?” Okayee. Lost already. Traffic is crazy. Nobody around. I’ve not totally trusted the GPS and have printed a little map. That’s fine but none of the roads have signposts. So I head into the centre of town. Find some young humans and ask in my usual crap French for help. They look at me dumbstruck. I can see them thinking, should they fight or flee? They go for acting dumb. Pretend to look at my map and shake their heads in amazement. One even has an Iphone thing and look on there for me [I’ve won them over to the pity me bit]. But no, even that does not bring a result so they slope off to McDonalds and leave me to it.
I boot Garmins finest up again, and it goes all French and decides to tell me where I am. Using my incredible intellect and good luck I find the street where the host lives.
While riding up and down I hear. “James”!
It’s the guy I’m staying with waving from an apartment balcony in a gated compound. He runs down and lets me in. What a nice guy. Pleased to see me. We take the bike up in the lift to his apartment. He stows it in the lounge.
He introduces me to his girlfriend who does not speak much English and is engrossed in her laptop. She manages a hello and returns to the screen. The guy Pierre is great. Only young and speaks good English. After a while I have to ask if I can sit down and if I can have a glass of water. Of course. A beer is offered and accepted with relish.
He then goes to work on a MTB he has on the balcony and I’m left with the silent girlfriend.
It’s awkward so I go to help fix the MTB.
They are very good and we all sit down for supper. I think the silent GF is just shy as her English is not good but not as bad as my French. I do get the impression though that she did not know I was coming and maybe they had had words before I got here.
They inform me that they were going on an MTB trail ride tomorrow so have to be away for 7.30. I’m to be kicked out early. I’m also kipping on the couch. But that’s fine. It’s free so who am I to be picky.
Its now 9pm and off they trot to bed after giving me a sheet for the couch. Good job I brought the sleeping bag.