After breakfast I left Kez at camp and whizzed into town on my wunderfully unladen bike. I spent a few hours in the free internet center, tapping away on my little laptop and uploading pictures. Before I knew it, midday had passed and I realised Kez might be wondering where I was, but after a speedy sprint back along the river to camp I found her sitting happily relaxing, having packed all the gear up on her own.
Since it was already after lunch time we decided to head for a campsite at a small town called Brissarthe that lay a short thirteen miles down a ‘D’ road and back onto the river Sarthe. The ‘D’ road turned out to be a fairly busy main artery, very straight and hilly, with heavy lorries thundering past quite regularly, so we veered off onto another ‘D’ road that was an absolutely deserted, poppy verged dream of a country lane that would add a few miles to the journey but was much more pleasant to cycle. The French road classification system isn’t very helpful we’ve found. We meandered peacefully into Brissarthe, followed the campsite signs and eventually found ourselves at a wonderful little site right next to the river, shaded by beautiful trees in an excellent peaceful location, but it was very clearly closed. We trundled past the bolted and chained barrier and surveyed the overgrown pitches, rusty electric hook-up boxes and spider web covered shower block. I wondered about flattening an area of grass and pitching the tent regardless but it appeared the water had been turned off and we certainly wouldn’t get a shower, so saddled up and rode on out.
The next site was seven miles down the river in Chateauneuf-sur-Sarthe but first we had to negotiate a funeral procession that appeared to consist of one rather undignified panel van and the entire population of Brissarthe (about 50 or so) slowly following on foot. I glanced at the map and realised that if we shot up a side road and were quick enough, we might make it back onto the main road in front of the procession. Needless to say, we were outpaced by the bow headed trudging mourners and they had filled the junction where we needed to regain our road. We stopped a respectful distance away and I removed my daft red cycling bandana.
‘Perhaps’, I suggested to Kez, ‘if fwe just ride at them pinging our bells, they’ll probably just, sort of get out of the way..  Wouldn’t they?’
She wasn’t keen and we waited for some time while wreathes and bouquets were labouriously and carefuly carried one by one into a graveyard on the corner. We’d been waiting impatiently for what felt like ages when a car with a trailer full of garden garbage and presumably no connection to the deceased came past us and forced its way through the solemn faced gathering, creating a window of opportunity for us. We seized our chance and followed it through, nodding apologetically four our ungainly garish clothed appearance in their black suited, dark mooded ceremony.
The town of Chateauneuf-sur-Sarthe looked pleasant, if unexciting. with the usual charming array of  boulingeries, charcuteries, boucheries and coiffureries. After stopping for directions from a jolly local, then stopping for more helpful directions at the tourist information office we found the camp site just over the large stone bridge which led out of town, over the swollen waters of the Sarthe. A decent, cheap site with rabbits hopping around on the central shrubbed mound like something out of the teletubbies, and a worrying amount of ants nests on the pitches, we decided though that since the ants were already homed, they probably wouldn’t need to invade ours. Dinde and feta salad with fresh fruit for afters and a wonderful river walk amongst the friendly local ducks rounded off a pleasant sunny evening.