September 7, 2011
Envisaged sheer misery to delightful reality.
The overcast morning meant I over slept and didn't wake till quarter past seven. Nevertheless, I pushed the bike out of the wood at eight o'clock, having seen no one nor having been seen, then rode two kilometres along the farm road back to the main road and set off south.
The sky became duller and before long it was spitting rain. It was a whole different day today to yesterday's warm sunshine. Wet days are just days when you ride and don't appreciate anything, getting to the end having endured shear misery. And the bike, resembles a bike that has had coarse builders sand tipped over it, the chain dry and gritty. The rain, however didn't amount to much, though all along I still feared it would come on a horrible wet day.
I descended steeply and reached the village of Mayet du Montague at ten o'clock. I stopped at the boulangerie, where I bough bread and at a alimention a few doors along, bough all the other food for the day: Cameburt, two tomatoes and a red onion for a salad, pate to spread on the bread, and a fruit cake for tomorrow's breakfast. Before paying, I continued on browsing. I was looking for beer but hadn't as yet seen a refrigerator. "Voulez vous........" interjected the shopkeeper, a burly young man with a beard. I had forgotten the word for cold. If only I could have remembered then, how easy it would've been; Instead, no matter where I pointed, I couldn't make myself understood. I only wanted a cold beer. There were bottles of warm beer on a shelf. I was pointing at them while doing a not too convincing shiver mine. The burly young man with a beard looked aghast. But then somehow, he twigged what Is on about, stepping back from the counter he leaned over and opened a fridge, then handed up a can, settin it on the counter.
Outside the rain was holding off. I sat on a bench, eating a sandwich and drinking the beer where three roads met in the village by a little square with a memorial to the local men that fell in two wars.
Riding onwards, the road meandered it's way up a valley pass pine plantation, steep pine clad slopes and hilltops with rows of wind turbines against leaden sky. The rain came on briefly, but for the most part it remained fair with the odd hint of sun.
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After riding through a village nestled in the valley's uppermost extreme, the road began gently spiralling down. Down the road, my eye soon became drawn to what looked to be two road workers in bright orange reflector jackets. But, as I closed in on them, I discovered they were touring cyclists in bright orange rain jackets, the first I'd seen in I don't know how long. The front rider struggled pedaling uphill. He had a trailer like mine. The rider to the rear, struggled to keep up. She had just rear panniers. I shouted across my greeting and they waved back. I was going too fast and enjoying it too much to stop. I soon knew why they were making the hill look such hard work as I descended a long way down.
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By late afternoon, Is cycling on D8 after passing through a sizeable town called Montbrison. It was getting on to the time to find a place to camp, but there were houses just about everywhere that wasn't farmland. Although a department road Is cycling on, it was no secondary road but a busy alternative to the autoroute, which it crossed on occasion. D8 linked up countless villages, with a constant flow of rush hour traffic to and fro the urban centre of St Etienne.
The only way was to get away from the busy densely populated plain. I was looking therefore across at the hills on the right, at the side of the broad valley. I turned right off the highway onto a narrow road which soon began to ascend and turned off again onto a narrower potholed road, which rose further up the hill. I hoped it would lead to the wood on the top. But it led after cresting a rise to a house and outbuildings where Is met by a barking dog. A man working at the rear of a tractor called the dog back. I was now on private land, as the road had ended, but a track continued on up the hill. The farmer twitched his eyebrows. He looked perplexed and didn't know what to answer as I pleaded in my few word French. Mining sleep and pointing at the hill, didn't help. Ah, oui oui, he finally raised a knowing eyebrow and spat out phrases in which I thought he said something about a picnic area up the hill.
The track upwards was both steep and rough with lose stones and embedded rocks sticking out, though putting in a lot of effort to keep the pedals turning, it was nonetheless manageable on the single-speed.
I reached the level with a view far and wide across the valley, where there was indeed a picnic table upon a grassy amenity area. There, a young man with a little girl was flying a kite. I said bonjour and he said bonjour back. I sat down at the table and set up the stove to cook evening pasta with the intention of waiting until dark before pitching the tent.
Having simmered the pasta twists for six minutes, I drained the water out through the chopping-board's perforated holes, pouring it on a teabag, making tea as not to waste hot water.
It was dusk when the man and little girl finally packed away the kite and went home. Then having pitched the tent alongside the table, I ended the day watching the twinkling lights of villages across the valley. The full cloud cover of the day had broken and fragmented, the remaining light wisps glowed pink then darkened and a bright shinny full moon rose over the hills opposite.
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