Absolutely clear blue sky and beating hot sun greeted us as we unzipped the tent at around 8am. We were definitely leaving today, our burned shoulders couldn’t take any more pool lounging anyway, and it just wasn’t the same with other people slopping around the place making it look untidy. An English couple with a tiny caravan of the style kez refers to as ‘Moulinex mixers’ told us they’d just come from the town we’d chosen to head for, and that the site was very nice. Apparently you could visit the knife factory… fascinating. I was sweating buckets by the time we’d packed everything up, the sun was really hot today, and the site attendant seemed dubious about our planned cycle. I handed him a bottle of Bishops Finger as a thankyou for looking after us so well and explained that it was made near our home. He eyed it suspiciously and asked ‘What is this?’
‘Bier Anglais’ I said enthusiastically.
He thanked us politely and probably used it to drown ants or kill weeds, but it’s the thought that counts, and as he pointed out a short cut for us and wished us ‘bon route’ we set off in the baking late morning sun and completely forgot to fill our empty water bottles.
The first few miles were lovely. Level easy cycling meant we kept a cooling breeze rippling through our shirts in the dead still roastingly hot air. Mad dogs and Englishmen… Soon we were paying for the easy start with some slow sweaty shadeless climbs and it was apparent we’d be needing to find water soon, having only a few mouthfulls of warm stale dregs in one bottle, and a half litre of wine.
Just before 12 we climbed into a town and I left Kez in a shady park while I caught a boulangerie before it closed for a baguette, two cans of cold Orangina and requested politely if it would be possible to ‘recharger mon bidons’ or ‘fill my bottles’. She was completely happy to do that and ran her taps till they were cold and handed the bottles back with a cheery ‘bon route’. Rested, watered and cooled we carried on but the ride didn’t get any easier. If the sun is going to be this severe from now on we’re going to have to change our hours of cycling, our usual 11 till 3ish pedal will have to be spent under a shady tree with some long drinks.
Eventually though, we arrived in the small touristy town of Nontron, whizzed down past the center, a large stone bridge spanning the tight little valley and with my brakes squealing in the heat like an articulated truck we found our campsite and trudged into the reception, sweating in the heat and probably looking like a right pair of frazzled tramps. The site madam promised us excellent showers and a quiet night’s sleep by the river. She was right about the showers.