Like a new man

[This post happened on Monday 24th]

I woke up early and reorganised my luggage. It had become disorganised during the camping and no longer fitted the panniers so well.

I enjoyed a long breakfast talking - in terrible French - to Jacqueline.
She had told me the evening before that they kept a smallholding along with the chambres d'hotes; they had pigs, ducks and a field of corn. Her hands were thick-set from work and her back was slightly hunched. She was industrious and it seemed that she was making something of a success of the chambres d'hotes and the smallholding. She would have a full house this evening and would visit the town of Auch on Tuesday with her husband to view a Saffron "culture".

Eventually, after a large bowl of coffee I got going.

A decent shower, a hot meal, and a proper bed made me like new and I set off on good roads through flat farmland at a tremendous pace. I reached Vic-en-Bigorre twenty kilometres away in 40 minutes.

I wanted to pick up supplies and rode past a supermarket on the way in (Intermarche Les Mousquetaires! - I was in musketeer country) but preferred to buy from local shops. Supermarkets are soulless places compared with a local butcher or grocer where you are far more likely to enjoy a good-natured chat with the proprietor.

I rolled round town but all the charcuteries were closed. I asked a passer-by and was told, of course, that all the butchers close on Mondays. So, Intermarche Les Mousquetaires it was, then.

As I was locking my bike up and, an old gent on a shopping bike with leather panniers rolled up. He said something I didn't understand so I smiled and nodded dumbly. He was keen to chat and I was in no hurry so we eventually found some terms to communicate on.

I told him about my trip and that I am English but live in Spain and he suggested, generously, that made me trilingual. I protested that my French is poor, which he didn't accept.

As we were talking, three teenage girls arrived and locked their bikes. The old boy said to all of us, "Ah look! Perhaps these nice girls could accompany you on your trip!"

I could comfortably have been their father. The girls were embarrassed and so was I, so I smiled awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

My French was not up to the situation so I looked down at my bike and fiddled with it unnecessarily, wishing the old man, "Bon journee." ("good day").

Eventually, in a gesture which surprised me with its warmth, he put one arm round my back and shook my hand with the other, wishing me, "Bon route!"

I said it had been a pleasure to meet him and he replied the same.

I headed out of Vic-en-Bigorre on minor, single-track roads through more farmland. The sky, for the first time during the trip, was grey and overcast that morning and would continue to be so for the rest of the day. It made very pleasant riding weather and I had already seen plenty of sun.

I rolled into the charming town of Marciac for a picnic lunch in the square. After so much time in rural tranquillity, the unexpected noise of the small town of Marciac took me by surprise and grated my nerves. I considered moving to somewhere quieter but by now was hungry and in any case I got used to it quickly.

I heard many English voices as I ate in the square.

An Englishwoman said, "Look at that hotel [hotel de ville, to those of us in the know], it says Republic of France! France isn't a Republic."

"It is," replied from a member of her family.

I wondered if it mattered much either way whether France was a republic. Life in the town square would carry on pretty much the same. History lessons would be duller; less gruesome, certainly.

I didn't have far to go after lunch so I took my time, exploring the impossibly quaint villages of Gascony. I stopped to take photos in Castelnau d'Angles, a watching me from the front door of her cottage. I felt she required some sort of explanation so I said the village was very pretty. She replied, "C'est vrai." ("It's true.")

The pretty village of Castelnau d'Angles. C'est vrai.

I found a campsite for the evening run by a friendly Dutch family who gave me some tent pegs to secure my eccentric shelter against an impending thunderstorm.

BC