It seems to be by now something of a cliché to say that I set off cycling into a beautiful morning, but it is actually true. I generally set off before 9:30, and on the roads that I am following everything is so peaceful, and the sun is still fairly low in the sky so it is cool. This morning is slightly different as I am feeling a little more anxious than normal: I am conscious that the landscape is changing, and that the days of cycling along flat, sandy, pine forested tracks are behind me, and that what is ahead is more challenging.
I realise that cycling across a landscape helps you to ‘feel’ the countryside in a way that does not happen in a car, and is even not so obvious by foot. The skin on your face feels the change from a hot, dry inland wind to one coming off the sea, cooler and fresher; the muscles in your legs feel the change from a flat terrain to one which undulates, so that you alternate between climbing and feeling your lungs working hard to the excitement of a descent to the next low point in the land.
I set off from Mr Bossi’s vineyard and head east, pausing in Mirambeau to work out whether to take what might be a busy D730 or to thread my way through backroads following my GPS unit. I decide to take the back road option, and for some miles bump along empty roads, with some short but fairly stiff climbs and constant reference to the GPS to work out which direction to take. This brings me out at the village of Soubran, where I realise that probably because today is Sunday the main road is actually very quiet, and as it is smooth and with gentle ascents and descents, I decide to follow that for while. I take advantage of the local boulangerie to buy a croissant and a pain au chocolat which I carefully store in my saddlebag and then head off. The map shows me that the next likely coffee will be in the small town of Montendre, but when I roll in by about 11:00 everything is closed. I cycle around its narrow streets several times but there is no sign of life apart from hymn singing in several different churches. So somewhat disappointed, I sit on a wall by the side of one of the churches and munch my breads washed down with lukewarm electrolyte solution from my water bottle.
I next have to turn off the D730 to take a slightly more northerly route, and this leads me along back roads, tiny, completely dead villages, thick forests, vineyards and lots of steady climbs and descents. The miles and miles of emptiness and absence of any people, walking, cycling or even in cars brings back the feeling of being in a zombie apocalypse scenario, and I start to feel somewhat detached from reality and wondering what on earth I am doing.
It is now very hot again, over 30°, and at around 1:30 I find a shady corner where I can lie down, gaze at the sky through the canopy of trees and munch my sandwich. Eventually I arrive in the small town of Chalais, where I sit outside the local library and finish off my water while wondering where everyone could possibly be: not a soul around. Fortunately there is a public WC next to the library and I can refill my water bottles, which raises my spirits. Small things like that mean a lot in these situations!
Poster in the Chalais library window
The road out of Chalais climbs some way, and then I am into an agricultural landscape of stubble fields and ripe sunflowers, then suddenly the road drops and starts to follow the line of the river Dronne towards the town of St Aulaye, where some campsites by the side of the river provide evidence of human existence. I receive a message from Helen confirming our destination for the night, and head along a pretty, riverside road to the village of St Vincent Jalmoutiers where Helen has parked up under trees in the village aire. With a small river running through it and a tap and a WC in the corner of the field, it feels like something close to heaven after a hot and tiring day.
I have covered 52 miles and done 2500 feet of ascending. 504 miles are now under my saddle.
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