The plan was for a short eleven mile morning pootle to Fontignac where we could get our washing done and out in the sun to dry after the rain of the last couple of days. We had a wonderful few miles down the Dordogne with small stone churches and tumbledown barns amid highly tended neat vineyards patchworking the hills to the South. After a while we turned South ourselves having decided to avoid Bordeaux city and made the pleasingly short climb into the hills we’d been eyeing less than eagerly earlier. Acres and acres of grapevines covered the rolling hilltops and we quietly trundled on through them enjoying the cool breeze and the lush views. We soon reached the town of Fontignac and found a sign to the campsite which worryingly contained the word ‘naturiste’. We quickly decided this had nothing to do with the rural setting of the site and weren’t particularly keen on sharing our afternoon with a load of naked pot bellied Germans and saggy old hippies, so we decided to head for Blasimon, six miles or so East. The GPS took us onto a dusty farm track despite being instructed to avoid unpaved roads, but it made for some lovely peaceful cycling through wooded areas, astonished looking cattle in flowery fields and of course, more vineyards.
We had trouble finding the campsite and my back wheel had developed a worrying problem, so we gave up looking for the site to tend my wheel in the shade of some trees by a pretty church with a ruined abbey next to it. While I tinkered we met an American couple who, interested in our adventure, were keen to help. I assured them we were ok and that we would head for the tourist office if we couldn’t find the camp site later. The wheel problem appeared to be with the bearings in the freewheel. I don’t have the tools for such a job and it seemed a funeral might be in the offing at the church, so we gave up and were about to trudge up the hill into town to find help when the Americans came roaring up in their huge Audi with directions to the camp site and a ‘Good luck buddy!’ before driving off with a wave. We appreciated their help because it certainly saved us some time at the cost of theirs. The site is on a lake with a beach which people were sunbathing on and swimming from, thick woods rising up either side and a large park area with picnic tables along side. The lady in reception was highly animated and talked ten to the dozen in French but was very helpful, calling an auto garage outside the town to see if they’d look at my bike, and drawing me a detailed map. I left Kez setting up camp and set off to find the garage with my sickly bike, hardly even noticing the topless sunbathers as I passed the lake, if there were any, I’m not sure because I didn’t even really look much anyway. The garage was a dusty forecourt ramshackle affair. A tiny, very old cloth capped fellow stood by while a mechanic whacked his equally ancient looking tractor with a spanner, then stood as I rolled up and wiped his hands on a rag. ‘Bonjour’ I said, ‘J’avez un.. errrr problem.. avec mon vélo.’ They were keen to help and had a good look at the wheel while I chatted to the old fellow (who didn’t seem at all bothered that I’d interrupted the work on his tractor) about our route and the weather. After some time the mechanics realised they didn’t have the tools or knowhow and directed me to a cycle shop that would be open in the morning. They refused payment for their time and I cycled off slowly praying the wheel would hold out till tomorrow. As I rolled down a hill there was a frightening crunch and slap of the chain and suddenly….. It was fixed! I assume some grit from the farm track had been somehow interfereing with the freewheel mechanism and now had been knocked loose, but whatever the reason all seemed well again. I bought some bread and cold drinks from the vastly overpriced boulangerie which was the only shop in town, apart from the ubiquitous coiffure joint and neon emblazoned pharmacy of the type that seems to light up even the smallest dustiest one bar towns. We’ve discovered in France that you might not be able to buy anything to eat for miles, but you can always get your hair done and buy some extortionately priced cellulite cream.