15th &16th September

 Over breakfast André and Marie Edith helped me plan the route for the day. I was heading for the Marais Poitevin an area of canals and polders known in France as Venice Verte. To get there André left me on one of the national cycle trails. It followed the Sevre Niortaise river to the city of Niort which I had to pass through to get to the Marais. It was a beautiful route

 but it was taking forever and at one point I noticed that there was still 30 k to go along the trail and that it was only 12k by road, so I changed track. Well I thought I was doing ok because there was a hard shoulder, it was a dual carriageway and there was plenty of room, but a lot of the drivers didn't like me being there and I got a lot of horn blasting, including from a police car. But they didn't stop me and there were no signs of a cycling prohibition. Anyway I got to Niort real quick and I was relieved but disheartened to get off that road. It was the first time I had encountered anything approaching animosity since I had been in France.

Niort itself was a dream, lots of consideration for cyclists and a very beautiful old town. It didn't take me long to get to the Marais, and it was quite as beautiful as I had been lead to believe. 

However I was having a poverty conscious day and I couldn't bring myself to cough up 16€ for an hour on a punt, or 19€ for a night in a campsite, so I kind of left in a depressive huff not really knowing where I was going. The warm showers app on my phone would not connect to the web so I was out on my own and decided to try a bit of "stealth camping".

I found a nice farm track beside one of the canals which turned into a lovely empty field surrounded by tall hedges that looked like it had not long been mown. There were signs up saying Chasse Reserve, which means hunting reserve, but these are on practically every field in France and are put there basically as disclaimers. Stealth campers have been shot in France, presumably accidentally, so I put my tent right in front of the gateway so it couldn't be missed. Otherwise it all looked perfectly secluded so I got straight to work putting up the tent. Well I didn't know wether to laugh or cry when suddenly a car and a van went through the other end of the field. The road was on the inside of the hedge! I felt like a proper berk. Well it was almost dark and I was too tired to move camp. The Marais is home to a lot of wildlife, including adders so I was being very careful where I put my feet, especially when I went out to pee in the night. When I got back in my sleeping bag I remembered reading that snakes use their tongues to pick up scents and that they can locate their prey by focusing on the smell of urine on the fur of eg rodents. Well that got me tossing and turning somewhat, and just then a load of dogs started barking and I started thinking oh shit there's a hunt on tonight, and I imagined how I would greet a pack of hunting dogs at the door of the tent. Yes this is the real spirit of Tudong. Nothing to protect you, nowhere to go for consolation or reprieve. Nothing to do but sit it out. In fact thinking of the monks on Tudong with really poisonous snakes and real nasty biting insects made me feel a bit more sane and courageous, and eventually dawn arrived without any physical disturbance.

The tent was damp inside with condensation and outside with the morning dew. The sky was overcast so I knew it would take ages to dry out. I just wanted to get out of there so I wrapped it all up as damp as it was and set off towards my next goal, the town of Royan where I planned to catch the ferry across the Gironde estuary to the Medoc. The going was brutal to begin with as it was chilly and uphill, but the road soon flattened out and remained nice and quiet. After a couple of hours the sun came out and I began to notice that the wind was blowing behind me. For the first time in two weeks I was not cycling into a head wind. I was ecstatic and I began to ask myself why it is I love cycling so much. Is it really just that feeling of escape, of getting away, being on a journey and not really too concerned about the destination. Well that's how it was today. The complete opposite of the day before. 

I clocked up about 70 ks including a visit to the médiateque in Tonnay Charente to take care of some bills on the internet. On the way I ran into my first serious touring cyclist actually on the road a lovely guy named Sergio. We had lunch together on a bench in the town Square of Muron. Here he is setting off on his recumbent trike which he has ridden all around Europe. 

He let me have a go and it was exceptionally comfortable. But he is more restricted about where he can go cos the bike is so much wider. Sergio gave me a few websites to use for finding places to stay which was a real help. I located a campsite at a place called Pont L'abbé de L'Arnould.

On the way there I passed this tiny church from the 12th century named after a hermit who lived in a cave nearby. It was so tranquil inside and the beams that had been holding up the roof reminded me so much of the beams I had photographed at Watpacittaviveka in Chithurst. I wondered if they would still look as good in 800 years

Using a map you're never quite sure what you're going to get with a French town. Something that looks quite sizeable can be without so much as a boulangerie or an épicerie. But this town was a beauty. Not large by any means, but it has everything, all the shops, music school, sports stadium, swimming pool, Aire de camping cars and even a campsite. Well actually when I got to the campsite it had clearly been closed for quite a long time and it was fenced off and severely locked up. But alongside the fence ran a national cycle path through a beautiful municipal woodland. It was a perfect place to camp and as I started to unpack my stuff a local guy walking his dog greeted me and asked if I was going to set up my tent. He said it happens all the time since the campsite closed and he could guarantee I wouldn't have any problem with anyone. He knew it well because he lived opposite the entrance and he pointed out his house. This of course put me instantly at ease and I even felt secure enough to go off into town and get a drink at one of the several bars. The barman looked slightly askance as I asked for a mug of hot water and milk into which I could stir some Barleycup which I had brought with me from England. But he soon warmed up when I explained that I was camping and I could get no gas for my stove. He told me he had a very good English friend who lived in the village who came from Cornwall, by the name of Ross.  Barleycup is something I'm slightly addicted to in my old age, and unlike tea, it tastes even better with steamed sterilised milk a la français.

I got back to the tent feeling very grateful for a perfect end to the day