September 8, 2011
What to write and where to begin.
What to write, where to begin, it isn't easy writing up, after a hard day, and retelling in a way that is interesting to read again later. I try, thinking of everything that happened no matter how trivial and usually start with waking up.
I dreamt unsettling dreams: one where I got back home and the house was recked, the roof caved in, walls cracked and everything looked like the aftermath of an earthquake. And the second dream was equally disturbing. I awoke with a start, shivering cold to the sound of a church bell clanging four o'clock.
I heard the same bell again, solemnly clang seven times and moments later, while anticipating getting up, I heard a dog-walker pass. The dog-walker was returning as I boiled water at the picnic table. The dog ran ahead, a big though affectionate Alsatian that came over with it's ears pricked up and alert eyes looking up to me. I petted the dog while the dog's owner caught up. The dog's owner asked "c'est bon dorme"; and went on to remark on my bike in a warm aspiring tone of voice.
My morning routine, I've got down to one hour, from unzipping the tent to riding away. This morning I hung on the rear brake lever, the pads dragging on the rim, while freewheeling down the steep hill and then through a village, where in the French way, people met and stood at the side engaged in friendly conversation, some with baguettes while others I suspect were on the way to the boulangerie to buy the morning's bread.
I cycled sixteen kilometres more on department road eight, at which point Is glad to turn off the busy highway and cycle into the twin town of Saint Just, Saint Rambert, a town with an old church from the sixteen century according to a sign on the way in. I would've taken a photo, but the sun was strongly overhead by now, so it wouldn't have made such a good picture.
From the main square, I found my way into a street full of food shops, wherein were two boulangeries, the better of the two had a stall out front in the street, which had a promotion going, special maize bread, slices for tasting and free coffee. The maize bread had a nutty texture and was delicious without any accompaniment. I bough some and two slices of pizza for lunch, one with chunks of formarge and green veg, the other veg too with slices of Jambon, and both looked and proved delicious later at lunch time. The man on the stall gave me a present of more maize bread as I left and I'd yet another refill of coffee.
Cycling back around the square, I found the sought road, D108, and rode uphill pass a school and playground, public buildings and nice houses with gardens. At this point I saw another touring cyclist, descend toward me. Meeting, we nod amicably and nod intimating to swing around to meet. I halted and the cyclist swung around, u-turning across the road behind me, and came back up the road to my side. She was short with grey hair under a cycle-helmet and spoke first in French, then in English in a soft Dublin accent when I hesitantly responded. We exchanged names; her's, Merraid Foresythe. Merraid's bike was an old Dawes Galaxy: traveling light with only two rear panniers because she overnights in hostels; and last night told me, stayed in a place ran by Christian Brothers. It brought back memories of boarding school and a repressive catholic upbringing, she remarked with a certain irony. There is no plan, other than heading north to the Loire Valley and eventually, maybe to Brittany and catch a ferry back to Ireland, Merraid laughed and added, I've lots of time in anycase.
Cycling on up the hill, the countryside I left behind was a broad green network of squares spread out to hills opposite: villages with orange tiled rooftops, clustered and spread along two roads, from which came the constant roar of traffic. The countryside ahead by contrast, was quiet with no houses.
Soon there was no view, as the road wound it's way up through pine forest, then leveled out before spiralling down into a steep wooded gorge, to a river where I rode over a suspension bridge and I began climbing afresh. The road continued gently upwards while still following the coarse of the river, whereupon I stopped at a rest area and set up the tent to dry while eating lunch. The road eventually climbed away from the river gorge to an upland Alpine picture box landscape with the sound of clanging cow bells.
Sometime around three o'clock, on the outskirts of a small town called Bresse du Bas, I stopped at a supermarche, it was a warm day and Is dying for a cold beer. A quarter of an hour later as I sat in the shade drinking a can of beer, I noticed sat over from me and leant back against the shopping trolleys, a fellow traveler, a middle aged man with a big growth of beard and drinking a can of soft drink as he looked out upon the car park. He finally straightened and stood up, shaking the can and looking at the opening on top, before taking his last slug and throwing the can in the bin. He then turned toward me and acknowledged me in a rapid retort in French. I smiled back even though it could have been an insult for all I knew. He lifted up a heavy backpack and eased it on his back; then, took up a hazel stick and I bid him bon voyage as he set forth across the car park and set off anew walking along the roadside, where to, I didn't try asking, but most likely a pilgrim to Santiago.
In late afternoon, the road plunged down through a village and came to a level crossing where the barrier was down. It was a wait and before long cars queued up on either side. Eventually, the train came along slowly, rolling pass in it's gay purple livery whereon was the wording "SNCF Region Rhone Alp". The last carriage passed by and the barrier began rising. Cycling on from the railway crossing, I rode across a bridge over the Loire river and then came the inevitable long climb. The single-speed gear however seems just right for these climbs.
I was telling Merraid earlier that I always camp, that France has no shortage of forests thereby making it easy finding a free camping place. The forests here though, tend to be all pine trees on steep slopes, without much open places in amongst, unlike the flatland broad leaf forests further north. I kept looking at the steep wooded slopes as I climbed. They didn't offer much prospect of a level place to camp.
After some ten kilometres, I ground up to the hilltop town, Yssingeaux; and rode through narrow streets, passed houses with open shutters, bars, pavement chairs and tables with parasols, and stares from locals. Riding out of town the other side, I refilled my water bottles at a petrol station, riding on then, the road swooped downhill underneath a green road sign which read "Valence 105km";perhaps I'd reach there tomorrow, I thought, but now Is still looking for a place to camp. Is glad to see ahead though, amid bands of pastureland and plots with rows of tall maize, a block of woodland.
So what to write to finish off, can I write anything more interesting than I pushed the bike up a steep track from the road to the level at the top of the wooded hill; to where I've camped this evening in a little enclave of wild long grass on the wood's edge, looking out upon a field of maize.
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 0 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 0 |