September 16, 2011
White van white heat and good wine.
Today proved a better day, even if I finished this evening worn out. I was up and away shortly after dawn, riding on the shoulder of a dual-carriageway toward the city of Beziers with my rear light flashing as there was poor visibility; and it would remain grey and overcast well into the afternoon.
By nine thirty, Is in a satellite town called, Beziers du Venue, where passing by a boulangerie, I bough a meat pastry and two pain au raisons. I sat down on a bench to eat in the main square with a view of a water-feature, a series of water jets gushing up in front of the futuristic glass front of the Hotel de Ville. I took the camera out and took a photograph and was just about to take a second, when a big white van drove into the frame and halted outside the front door; where it remained for the rest of the time Is there and so I didn't get a better shot than that one.
Around the corner from the square, I cycled over a bridge across the Canal du Midi; whereupon, I turned down onto a cycle-path and for about six kilometres into the city-centre, cycled alongside the canal's placid water with the occasional barge chugging by. There were signs showing the path continued to a place called, Pont du Neuf, well beyond Beziers, but the path onwards was rough stones, so I rode up onto the street, joining the traffic and thereafter followed the Tout Direction signs and then signs for Castre and Mazermat.
I cycled pass the old hilltop citadel above the river and left town over a long bridge where I paused and looked at the countryside ahead. It was such a relieve after the concrete landscape of the last couple of days, to see gentle rolling hills and further still the blue ridges of the Pyrenees.
The road D11 stroke out west through long avenues of trees meant for shade with rows of vines either side. Before long, the road rose and dropped, a challenge to pedal up, followed by a fast freewheel down which was so much better than the monotony of the flat road of the aforesaid last couple of days.
About eleven o'clock on the edge of a small town, I stopped at a discount store and bough a can of Corn Beef and a bottle of Cote du Rhone. An hour later, as the road drew parallel with the canal, I cycled onto the towpath and soon found a grassy place to sit down; there, I made a sandwich with the Corn Beef using bread leftover from yesterday and drank the wine, which was readily appreciated and so I drank more and more. As the wine took it's toll on my senses, there came regular groups on cheap bicycles with small fabric panniers folded over their rakes; some of the cyclists looked at me with distain, but then I realised my bike was slightly out on the path, in the way and causing them to slow to get round; so after moving it in somewhat off the path, the next cyclist that came along straightaway smiled and said "bon appetit". The wine made me heavy and after having had a bad night's sleep, I dozed off. I was awakened by another passing group of cyclists and a soft breeze. Looking at the watch, I saw that it'd gone quarter past two. I felt hardly fit to rise again after the wine but pushed myself to the task at hand.
The cloud cover eventually broke up and cleared completely and so it was warm. I had drank all the water and was looking forward to reaching a town and a supermarche to buy a cold drink. All afternoon I passed through a few villages without any place open to buy coke which would've not only have quenched my thirst, but would've gave me a sugar boost.
Finally, with only seven kilometres to Carcassone, I rode onto a dual-carriageway; still there were neither sight nor sign of a supermarche as I carefully moved diagonally across on and off slip-roads which came at regular intervals on the approach to the city. I could feel the rear wheel soft, so I stopped against the crash barrier and pumped it up hard and then pressed on hoping it was only a slow puncture.
I continued on into the city-centre, into the Grand Place without having yet passed a supermarche. I asked directions and was directed to the Gard; opposite which was a small market, and after shopping, I sat outside savouring a cold coke for quite awhile; grimy and exhausted, before pumping up the rear wheel again and setting off back to the Grand Place. It was now getting late and asking there, was told the nearest campsite was three kilometres out of town, so I resolved to check into the city's hostel.
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