Day 30: Guéret to Chateauroux and...

86 kms. Details

For reasons I shall explain, I decided to exert myself just a little and make the fastest passage to Chateauroux that the initial hills would allow, and covered the last 50 kms, admittedly trending slightly downhill but into the wind, in under 2 hours. Trust me, that's pretty quick on the loaded bike.

The countryside for the last three days has been a series of variations on this theme:

Rolling hills covered by partly-wooded farmland, very beautiful to ride through but not especially spectacular photographically. And every few miles a village, the larger ones invariably provided with an excellent Boulangerie/Patissierie. I haven't made enough of the boulangeries, they are everywhere and simply perfect for the passing cyclist who needs sustenance. I've developed a passion for chaussons aux pommes and today picked up a superb tartelette de rhubarbe. 

So, why the hurry this morning? Because, dear reader, I have decided to bring this little voyage to a close. While riding between Limoges and Guéret I found myself planning my route back to Paris, and quite suddenly, the spell was broken. I realised that from then on I wouldn't be in the moment, just doing what the fancy took me, but would just be riding to get home, and that isn't the same thing at all. So I booked myself and the bike on a train from Chateauroux to Paris on Wednesday morning, and on the Eurostar to St Pancras on Wednesday afternoon.

Naturally, of course, it turned out not so simple. Within a few hours of my buying a ticket, SNCF e-mailed me to tell me that because of a mouvement social (elegant French euphemism for a strike) no trains would be running on Wednesday. However, my ticket from Chateauroux to Paris would be valid any day from Tuesday to Friday. Hence, a quickish ride to Chateauroux to make sure I could get a train to Paris today and be there to make the Eurostar connection tomorrow. 

As it transpired, I could have dawdled. I had plenty of time to have a look round the town before the train. Not especially remarkable, but the old part by the river is pretty enough.

I've decided to spare you a final picture of a cathedral...

So, tomorrow I should be back in The UK and re-enter real life. Or, possibly, exit real life; I am more alive, I think, when doing this sort of thing than when doing predictable things in familiar surroundings.

Thanks for reading. I'll be doing more tours, and they'll be recorded here.

Day 29: Limoges to Guéret

82 kms. Details


Belatedly blogging about yesterday's journey having been frustrated by a pitiful wifi connection last night.

Did I mention that I was in Limousin?

A fair bit of climbing today through quite substantial rolling hills which are, I suspect, the outermost ripples of the Massif Central. And the road, the D940/941, turned out to be a good example of what I mentioned yesterday. It's quite a major road, beautifully maintained - large sections of it so recently resurfaced they haven't even replaced the road markings - but it isn't the most direct route to anywhere and on this Whit Monday it was dead quiet. Actually, I can't pretend that the fact of it being Whit Monday influenced my choice, I'm completely oblivious to the date etc. I only know its a holiday because here in Guéret, which I suspect is a half-dead town at the best of times, absolutely everything is shut.

Fortunately, that wasn't the case everywhere. In a re-run of my experience at La Bagatelle south of Chartres, I stopped for lunch at a local café that can only be described as unpretentious. On asking for the menu I was told to sit down, and there followed four courses. No choice, and heaven help you if you're vegetarian. For starters I was presented with a loaf of bread and a thumping great chicken terrine and simply left to carve myself slices from the pair of them. Then more chicken, this time a breast of chicken, fried, with a huge heap of Dauphinoise potatoes. Cheeseboard, then a dessert that very closely resembled a Bakewell Tart. €14.

And today brought another example of the advantages of this rather undirected, exploratory mode of travel. About an hour out of Limoges I passed through a little place called St Léonard de Noblat. Never heard of it before, but it was obviously old so I had a look around. Yet another charming and very unspoilt mediaeval town, this time with a church (called, for a reason I was unable to fathom, a Collegia) of real distinction.

Nave and transept 1030-1070 (!), porch and tower a bit later. I know the eagle-eyed among you won't have missed the splendid flying buttresses.

And this is yet another little town on one of the St Jacques de Compostelle pilgrimage routes, a couple of which I seem to have criss-crossed several times without any such intention. I've been looking up the network of routes to Santiago, they extend right across Europe, and it occurs to me that there's a terrific bicycle tour to be created out of one or more of them...

Day 28: Périgueux to Limoges

102 kms. Details

An earlyish start and a slow day along an undulating route into a fairly steady, and surprisingly cold, north wind. Moved from the Dordogne to the Haut-Vienne, from the land of the Perigord goose to that of the Limousin cow.

I chose a major road today, the N21. It's the sort of road I'd usually avoid but I decided that since it was a Sunday morning the chances were it would be quiet, and so it proved.

Which reminds me that apart from commenting on the signage, I haven't said anything about the experience of being a cyclist in France. It's largely positive. I'd say the condition of rural roads is rather better, on average, than in the UK. Plenty of them could do with some work, but I haven't come across any egregious potholes or as many of the bodged and obviously short-term repairs that one tends to see at home. In one way, however, things are very similar - choosing routes on the basis of how the roads are categorised is a lottery. D roads - which seem to have a similar status to A roads in the UK - range from deserted winding country lanes to four-lane arterial highways, so it has paid me to do a bit of in-depth work with google maps rather than just relying on fairly large-scale paper versions. I've only once been caught on one that I regarded as really unsuitable, for the last 15 kms or so into Niort, so I haven't done badly.

Most importantly, my experience has been that French drivers tend to be more considerate of cyclists  than are their UK counterparts. Very few close passes, more preparedness to wait when visibility is restricted instead of trying to squeeze past, generally a greater willingness to share the road. It has been a good experience all-round.

I have to say, however, that so far I am not particularly impressed with Limoges. I'll see if I can find something worth photographing before I leave tomorrow, but my immediate priority is dinner.

Days 26 and 27: Fumel to Périgueux and rest day.

104 km. Details


I decided on a reasonably swift journey yesterday, to outrun the rain that was forecast for the afternoon. It worked - I was caught by only a couple of brief showers, and sure enough it rained for most of the afternoon after I arrived. But by the end of a 100km morning my legs were reminding me that I'd ridden for seven straight days, and I decided to linger here and make today a rest day.

Not at all a bad idea. Périgueux is an interesting place, with enough of the old town left to make it worth a day of anyone's time.

Those who like timber-framed houses would be in for a treat:

And the cathedral is unusual. Built on the pattern of St Mark's in Venice, with several (six or seven?) domes in a Greek cross, it was largely rebuilt in the 19th century and as a result is quite austere.

But however pleasing the architecture, what one has to talk about here is the food. To visit the Saturday morning market in Périgueux is to condemn oneself to a lifetime of dissatisfaction with supermarket shopping. It's a riot of colour and quality and sheer gusto. One almost expects the perfection of the fruit and vegetables, and the stallholder cutting chunks out of a melon so you can taste it before deciding to buy one, and the dozens of varieties of local cheeses you've never heard of, and the astonishing range of breads produced by the artisan boulangers, but it is still overwhelming. More surprising are the hundredweights of oysters tumbling out of crates, and the steaming pans of paella a metre across that are being ladled into cartons for queues of people looking for a takeaway lunch, and the guy cooking crepes to order - 6 for €4 - while you wait.

But even away from the market, this is a town that relishes its status as the capital of the Dordogne. Every third shop seems to specialise in a range of the regional delicacies. Foie Gras and Rillettes de Canard are everywhere. I half expected to be accosted on the street corner by a Perigord goose honking "please, eat my liver, it's delicious" after the fashion of the pig in the restaurant at the end of the universe.

So, entering into the spirit of the thing, I lunched in Le Chai Bordin which I am at present disposed to nominate as the best wine bar on the planet. Tiny, absolutely heaving with regular patrons, serving really, really excellent wine by the glass and plates of charcuterie and cheese. La vie en rose.

Day 25: Cahors to Fumel

62 km. Details

I shouldn't say au revoir to Cahors without posting a couple of pictures of its signature 14th century bridge.

Pont Valentré

Having crossed it, there followed a very leisurely saunter along the Vallée du Lot. The Lot is perhaps the most winding river I know, it absolutely snakes along. The valley, however, of which I knew nothing, is very beautiful;

Douelle

Albas

and was made more so by an absolutely excellent lunch in a café in Touzac, owned by a woman from Essex. Goats cheese salad followed by confit chicken leg with cajun seasoning, and frites. Ideal for the bicyclist. Dirt cheap, too.

Vineyards right and left today, and virtually all of them open for tastings and sales. One could spend a very happy couple of weeks here enjoying the scenery while making oneself an expert on the Cahors A.O.C. From what I've been reading, viticulture is very old here, having been started by the Romans. Apparently Cahors wine was being exported via Bordeaux long before the latter region started winemaking on its own account.

The vines were close enough to the roadside for me to have a good look at them as I rode by. Whereas a couple of weeks ago they were just coming into leaf, now the fruit is already beginning to set, I could see embryonic bunches of grapes forming. All happens pretty fast once the sun is shining.

I was thinking today what it is about bicycle touring that I like so much. Obviously, I like cycling. It isn't just that, though; after all, there's nothing to stop me spending 25 hours a week on the bike when I'm at home, if I wanted. And if it was just the cycling I could easily drive to the Pyrenees, say, and take a road bike with me to cycle to my heart's content when there. Nothing wrong with that, I may well do it sometime. So why use the bike as the means of transport as well as recreation? It's slow, it can be hard work, it's sometimes wet and cold.

It's something to do with the immediacy of the experience. A car or a train insulates you from the places you are passing through, everything is about the destination rather than the journey, whereas on a bike one is in the open and travelling at a pace that makes one aware of the surroundings. And, of course, being limited to a maximum of around 150 km per day means one can't just bypass chunks of the country to get where one wants to go - I feel that I connect with the places I ride though, and stop in for a coffee, and so on. The journey becomes the point, rather than just something that has to be got out of the way. On the bike I feel like a traveller rather than just a visitor, if that makes any sense.

Whatever. Tomorrow I shall start heading back north. 

Day 24: Rocamadour

Route and details.

The best day I've had on the bike in a long time, despite the fact that it absolutely poured with rain for about five of the hours I spent riding. Just a fantastic ride.

I wanted to visit Rocamadour. I'd considered incorporating it into the route, but it seemed obvious that it would be a climbing ride so I opted for another night in Cahors so I could leave the bags in the hotel and ride it unencumbered. Having bought a decently large-scale map of the district I was able to  work out a roughly 150 km loop.

This is a beautiful part of the world. On a nicer day this would have been a gorgeous route. Even today (rained for the first three and half hours, then hammered down for the last hour and a half) it was lovely, empty country roads winding up and down through wooded valleys and past numerous mediaeval villages and small chateaux. There was a hell of a lot going on around here in the 13th and 14th centuries.

And Rocamadour is beyond extraordinary. Here it is in profile, so to speak:

And a couple of views from the front:

The second one is the best, because it gives a truer sense of how the town and chateau sit in the landscape. It's quite a sight, I'm very pleased to have gone. Terrific day all round. Oh, and I saw my first Hoopoe. Very striking bird. Unwilling to pose for a picture, though.

Day 23: Moissac to Cahors

About 68 kms. Details.

A very easy ride to Cahors today, sun shining, pottering along, heart barely beating.  Stopped off to take a look at Lauzerte, a beautiful little hilltop town that is on the St Jacques de Compostela pilgrimage route (or one of them) to Santiago. Fierce little climb to get up there - the pilgrims didn't make things easy on themselves - but massively worth it, just a beautiful little 14th century town square.

I'm unexpectedly impressed with Cahors, too. A very old town, and the old town centre is very attractive. Nice views across the river Lot...

... and some exceptionally pretty old buildings...

I stopped for a beer before dinner in a bar next to this one and found it deserted except for a Frenchman of about my own age who was so exaltedly, royally drunk that he was unable to articulate even in his own language how much he admired the savoir-faire of the English and how I was, already, his greatest friend. It was necessary for us to embrace before I left. Reminded me of Sunderland.