Standing up this morning, feeling tired while watching fog drift in and all but the nearest trees disappear in thick soup; then briefly, the sun shone through and momentarily I'd a clear view pass the trees, down the valley before fog came in obscuring everything anew.

I checked the tyres. The rear tyre needed air so I pumped it up hard. I adjusted the rear-brake with a three millimeter allen-key. The front-brake is hydraulic and I suspected that it's leaking. It can't simply be adjusted like the rear-brake which is mechanical; in other words, the pads cannot be screwed closer together in order that when applied by a squeeze on the brake-lever, the brake responds fast and is effective. The brake-lever corresponding with the front brake doesn't give a respond and has no effect; when pulled, it kissed the handlebar grip, while I simultaneously moved the bike forward, simulating braking but nothing happened, the pads only bush the rotor, no more. I looked down and saw black gunge below the brake-caliper on the inside of the fork. The oil has indeed leaked out. It's easy seeing the nonsense of touring with hydraulic brakes now as I write, and I should know better than to go on a long cycle-tour with sophisticated bike bits, but next time I'm riding a simple steel bike with mechanical brakes.

The fog had cleared when I finally set off, leaving in it's place low cloud which blocked out the sun keeping it cold, as I sat motionless on the bike gritting my teeth, while seemingly forever descending into a deep gorge. I could've done then with being forced to pedal hard just to warm-up. After some dozen kilometres, I swept down through strung out hamlets, pass bars and gable-ends with old faded advertising, on the way into Vals Les Bains. I stopped at a boulangerie and bough among other things two slices of pizza: one formarge and the other jambon, which I ate sat outside on a bench while looking across the street at a leanto awning front of a restaurant with it's chairs stacked upside-down on tables underneath. Next the restaurant, was a concrete utilitarian block, it's original plain white facade dirty, time worn and as grime as the nineteen thirties when it went up; it had Ecole Communial above the main door.

Cycling on, I avoided the busy town centre and turned toward Aubenes, where, I saw another cycle-tourer on the road ahead in bright yellow. I thought, a small stumpy rider until at a roundabout, where swinging sideways, I saw that the pedals where up at the front. It was a recumbent Is looking at.

The sign on the way into Aubenes said it was a historic city, which didn't make the climb to the hilltop citadel any easier. And when I got there there was just the usual cobbled pedestrianized street, though with lots of tourists because it's a historic city. There were lots of cyclists too and the recumbent passed hobbling along over the cobbles as I sat with a coffee at one of the many pavement cafes. The man sat at the table in front of me snubbed out one cigarette and immediately lit-up another cigarette. His dog, a big grouch with droopy eyes, was impatience to get going, looking up with pleading eyes, it yelped at it's puffing master while making an effort to get away. The man replied with a firm demand on the dog to sit, which it finally did, underneath the table, letting out a sigh of resignation. A bigger dog came along pulling it's master by the lead. The big grouch underneath the table at once jumped up and the man had to grab it firmly by the collar, holding it close to his leg as the grouch striped it's teeth and growled angrily. The other dog too was growling and it's master pulled hard on the lead to get it away. With the bigger dog passed and peace returned, the man bent down now and had a solemn word with the grouch whose droopy eyes remained fixed on the man but it looked as if it would've liked to be doing anything other than remaining there underneath the table.

I looked at the map before leaving and saw that I need to leave town in the direction of Ales. I cycled along the street pass pavement cafes full of Saturday morning people to where there was much honking of horns at a traffic jam which I got round by cycling on the pavement. At a roundabout, looking at the map afresh, I saw that the road I need to take is D103 to Pont D'Arc. The road was a busy divided highway but had a shoulder with cycle-path markings as there were lots of cyclists, riders of all types and all abilities. After lunch in the shade of a roadside tree, while getting ready to go again, along came a cyclist on a skinny tyred expensive mountain bike. After a hesitant French start he spoke English and was English. He told me, that in the past week he had cycled from Reading. His only luggage was a weighty small backpack which he admitted was a mistake and said that if he done it again he'd use panniers. We talked a short while before he intimated that he had to be going again, as he still had a long way to go before dark.

The landscape stroke me as arid. There was scrub but irrigated agriculture too. There were fields of a green leafy crop in straight rows which I think was Lavender after the purple flowers have been removed. It was a warm afternoon. I had a bottle of coke rolled inside my thermal mat but no water. At a supermarche, they'd sold out of cheap water, there was only expensive water, expensive one Euro twenty for a two litre bottle water. I decided to wait as being a little thirsty wasn't going to kill me. I cycled a little further until I came to a village, deserted in the afternoon, but in which I found a public water tap in the main square where I filled all my water bottles.

I cycled five or six kilometres more, at which point I came to a lay-by with a path leading off through the scrub to trees, underneath which I found a dry grassy place in the shade, where I pitched the tent. It was only a little after four o'clock so I took the opportunity to read a chapter of my book. My attention was drawn to a rustling in the dry grass and when I looked, I saw a big green lizard that because I'd moved froze like a rabbit in the headlights, then darted away and was gone.

As I write this evening, a curious horse came over to the tent but once it heard me move within the tent, took off in a thundering gallop.

Heart

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