The camp madam advised us to take the quieter back road to Brantome, a town known as ‘the little Venice of Perigord’, neglecting to mention that the first five miles would be climbing up onto the high hilltops, but thankfully through the intermittent but welcome shade of the forests. Eagles circled lazily on thermals, distant cows swished their tails in the steep valley fields and lizards scapered into cover as we passed. Kez questioned the point of hills and we both sweated a lot. We lunched on the cool steps of a war memorial having shared friendly bonjours with a couple of tandem cycle tourists sitting in a café, smugly enjoying cool drinks under the shady creeping vine of the terrace.
We rolled into the beautiful town of Brantome around 2pm, marvelling at the rocky caves, cobbled bridges and riverside cathedral. The capsite looked like it might be crowded, and the cafés looked expensive, so we decided to roll on to Lisle another fifteen miles down the road after a pleasant rest on the ornate stonework along ther riverside, where presumably I left my favourite posh water bottle that I’d bought a few days before.
The rest of the journey took us down the river Dronne but offered some more hot climbs. At the top of one an English fellow came out of his house to offer us water for our bottles and explained he was setting up a center for runners and cyclists training for triathlons. After a short chat about our plans I promised we’d drop in for a triathlon or two if we came back this way and waved thanks for the water topup.
Lisle municipal camp site was completely empty and pleasingly cheap. Families splashed and swam across the river where a beach had been made, and a slide had been placed to allow a watery landing. Iron steps led down into the river our side but Kez didn’t fancy a dip in the dark green water to practice her swimming today.