There were no problems with the weather these mornings. It was warm and sunny again. We loaded the bikes, asked directions out of town and followed them with no mistakes. The road out initially was wide but not too busy. We stopped at the monument commemorating the massacre by the Gestapo of the inhabitants of the village of Buchères, now part of the agglomération of Troyes. Soon after, we turned onto a white road which follows the Seine for about 35km, parallell to the RN71 on the other side of the river. This was a very pleasant ride, passing as it did, through picturesque riverside villages. I did make an attempt to break up this idyll, by means of a lone breakaway in the direction of the Champagne vineyards of the Aube to the east. This involved taking a wrong turning in the village of Clérey and a detour of about 4 km. We bought lunch in Bar-sur-Seine, after which the easy option of a parallel minor road ran out. We took the pretty way through Merrey-sur-Arce [I offer no comment] and Celle-sur-Ource, before deciding to follow the not too busy Route Nationale for about 10km. We turned off the main road once more and had lunch under a tree in Mussy-sur-Seine. The terrain, as suggested earlier in the piece was not exacting, but we were still finding it hard going. I see now, reading the account of the previous day, why that might have been, but at the time I failed to put two and two together. The heat did not help. We rode on a minor road , again tracking RN71 as far as Châtillon-sur-Seine, where we stopped for iced refreshment. We were in Burgundy now, on the Golden Slope, Côte d'Or (21)

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We had no alternative route, so we rode on the RN71. There wasn't too much traffic, it could have been worse. 15km on, we reached Aisey-sur-Seine, a village tucked away off the main road, but straddling the river, which at this point was close to achieving babbling brook status. It was now 5pm, we were sweaty, tired, out of drinking water and it was still hot. We had just completed 100km for the day. Just across the attractive little stone bridge over the Seine, perfectly placed within the sound of the old watermill was just what we needed, a small, pretty, country Auberge with a restaurant. The menu looked excellent, regional cooking a speciality. Fermé le Lundi didn't look so good.

Back on the RN71, still within the confines of the village, I noticed a man pottering about in his garage. I asked him if we could fill our water bottles, anticipating a refill from an outside tap. He invited me into his house, introduced me to his wife and then filled our bottles from the water he had been chilling in mineral water bottles in their fridge. [I said it was hot] A small act of kindness, I will never forget. I asked after the next hotel along the road. "There's a hotel in St. Marc-sur-Seine 6km away." "That's excellent,' I said, "Merci, Merci beaucoup." I pulled up in St. Marc, tried the hotel door, then noticed the cobwebs on the hinges. A Laurie Lee moment. We were now anticipating, without admitting it to ourselves, another 35km of riding, to St. Seine-l'Abbaye. The terrain, now we were approaching the source of the river, became more challenging. It would be a case of dragging tired bodies as far as they had to go. This was an empty landscape for a cyclist, a grain producing country, with little in the way of anything for anyone not on four wheels. I would have enjoyed it as a morning stage. Before we left England I had printed out a list of Gîtes d'étapes* close to our proposed route, from two separate websites. I had phoned one place near Aisey-sur-Seine, no bed, no help. There was one listed for Baigneux-les-Juifs, just off the RN. Enquiries here proved to be equally useless, the young woman on the line seemed bewildered by my call. On we slowly rode.

Near the hamlet of Courceau the road plunged to cross the river and rose again out of the valley. At the bottom of the climb, we ate the last of our food, in my case a banana and some Brazil nuts, ready for what we thought would be the last push to St. Seine. Chris set off up the hill, while I was still examining a sore on my inner thigh caused by my shorts. I remounted and wearily ground up the slope. I reached the top of the climb to see Chris still some way ahead, waving in what appeared to be an agitated manner. I thought at first, that something was amiss, but as it turned out he had spotted a Chambre d'Hôte* sign on one of the houses in the village of Chanceaux. He had knocked on the door but there was no reply. I went round to the back of the house. There was no one there, but I could hear voices. I walked further down the drive of what was a very capacious garden. There were three adults and two children in and out of a sizeable swimming pool. The host, Dominique, actually seemed pleased to see me. He accompanied me back to the house. We had obviously taken him by surprise. It began to occur to me, that guests at Chambres d' Hôte* would normally book ahead. Just the same, it did not occur to me to apologise for disturbing his peace and offer to find somewhere else. Dominique showed us our room. It was a large upstairs room, benefiting from, as London [real] estate agents like to say, some of its original 16th century features including a massive stone fireplace. There was also a small bathroom attached at the rear. It was fantastic. What fatigue, what sore arse? And who's Laurie Lee ? What's more, Dominique asked us if we would care for a swim. What? A swim, in a nice cool pool, after 6 hours in the saddle on the hottest day of the year. No way! I've got to clean the bike, adjust the derailleurs, tighten the brake cables, anything to keep these sweaty clothes on for a couple of hours more. Oh yes please.

I showered off the road sweat and took the plunge. Chris unfortunately had omitted to pack swimming stuff. He had the next shower. I was introduced to Dominique's guests. Neighbours of his, they were accomplished local singers. He had asked them round so the children could use the pool after school. They had brought a picnic. Would we like a ham sandwich? And some cold cider? For f*ck's sake wake me up.

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After an hour or so, parents and children went home. Dominique asked us if we would like something to eat. Of course. As I said, we were unexpected guests and so, dinner was bread, cheese, salad and a six egg omelette [cooked, at Dominique's suggestion, by me], fromage frais, more cider and beer [but not enough]. To finish we walked down the garden and picked fresh cherries off his trees. They were delicious. I offered to buy Dominique a beer in the village café-bar two doors away. This gesture was not entirely altruistic, but more an attempt to reduce our cold beer deficit. He said it's not possible now, it's 9-45, the bar's closed. Of which more later.

Dominique is a wiry energetic man of medium height in his fifties. Obviously prosperous, he owns three cars [one 4WD] three bikes, including a road -racing machine of the droolable-over variety as seen in the bike shop in Troyes and of course the house with its garden and pool. He is an agricultural contractor, harvesting cereal, is involved in forestry and carries out renovation projects on local historic buildings in order to encourage tourism. Still unmarried, he asked us, with a smile if we could affect an introduction to a nice, suitable English woman. I could foresee that a lot of English women might well be interested in the lifestyle, but could offer no guarantee as to suitability or niceness. In any case she would have to speak some French, because Dominique's grasp of the English language is not comprehensive. He asked us now and again to supply him with English equivalents for certain words, but could not wrap his tongue around the pronunciations, after any number of attempts.. He is the representative for his commune on the Conseil Géneral in Dijon. In English terms, he is a county councillor. We sat up talking until not too late.

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