We’d childishly decided that whatever it took we needed to be up and away before the unfriendly cycle tourists with their expensive bikes and Thermarest (TM) chairs. As it turned out that really wasn’t very difficult as they didn’t stir till we’d nearly finished our packing and that was only the fellow who staggered painfully to the toilets clutching his hips and groaning. Perhaps it was their first day on the bikes, or perhaps they’d cycled hundreds of miles in the last few days. Either way, we were certainly in better shape this morning and that put Kez in a good mood as we picked up our pain au chocolates from reception and cycled on out.
We cruised happily down the last few miles of the Vezere and soon came to the Dordogne river, stopping for photos of the sign as we crossed it for the first time. Having no planned route, or any idea of the topology of the area I merrily led us up a mountainous route that climbed high and steep over the river on the North of its meandering banks. We pushed and grunted our way up and over the peak which did at least offer us some wonderful views and marked the point of a mountain stage of the ‘Tour de Dordogne’ cycle race.
I managed to keep us on relatively flat routes for the rest of the ride, the highlight of which had to be a wonderful canal towpath which ran for miles towards Bergerac between the river and an elevated canal to the right. We saw a heron fishing calmly and an otter floating happily on his stomach with his legs stretched out, who only disappeared when we came to a stop right next to him. We rested at a shady picnic table and finally ate the huge heavy tin of fruit salad I’d been lugging around for three days.
After some busy traffic and town center cycling we found our little camp site just across the river from Bergerac and pitched feet from the water among gangs of fearless overfed ducks, a lone aloof canada goose and a huge fat turkeyduck thing that gave Kez the evil eye. We relaxed on the shady bank among wild mint and goose poo and I used my binoculars to watch the Bergerac women’s rowing eight practicing their strokes up and down the river in their tight lycra outfits, purely out of interest in their sleek thigh… err craft and oarsmanship. Beautifully peaceful apart from the guitar playing hippy woman and two tents with about ten preschool children who seemed to do nothing but scream at each other. We congratulated ourselves on our decision to pitch some distance from them, unlike the hapless lone cycle tourer who must’ve enjoyed being right next to their stinky barbecue and banshee wailing that went on late into the night. I drank too much cheap plonk and passed out happily in my clothes until Kez threatened violence if I didn’t turn over and stop snoring.