After leaving Chris and Monica’s house in Faux I cycled 140km to the north of Angouleme through more hills than villes. The day presented strong head winds, heavy traffic with no room for cyclists, hot stormy weather then rain, then the problem of navigating through the city late in the day, with no signs for campsites nor likely lodgings.
I’d spent parts of the day searching for the Voie Verte, the cycle friendly route that passed this way. Whenever I took it I wondered how much the pretty route was costing me in time. I spent the rest of the day regretting taking whichever route I took.
When late in the evening I found the only campsite Angouleme had to offer it was almost dark. There was hardly anyone there and after a shower I saw no reason to stay noting a soccer field nearby with a secluded corner among the trees - my first ‘wild camping.’ The first thing I noticed as I set up the tent was the absence of tent pegs - I’d obviously left them behind somewhere along the way. Two tyre levers provided some backup.
Once I’d cooked and bedded down for the night I discovered that after dark in a secluded spot the womb-like security of tent is little different for a regular campsite.
The next morning as I tried to navigate my way to the Voie Verte I knew to exist nearby I spotted another cyclist having an early morning ride. Charlotte tuned out to be from Bristol University studying French and Spanish and here for work experience. So we had a pleasant chat as we rode along as she led me to the Voie Verte.
The rest of the day presented me with more hills and uncertainty directions: the direct routes offered heavy traffic and no towns, the less direct routes lovely towns but such slower going.
I was struck by how many houses were for sale and how so many magnificent solid stone houses were being let go to ruin. Something to do with the Napoleonic system of inheritance that favours family squabbles over ownership.
Later in the day I chose to follow another Voie Verte, though thinking it a risk if my bike gear change problems worsened. Half an hour later my rear derailleur wrapped itself in my rear wheel. Help soon arrived in the shape of a man in a van and trailer who took me a few kilometres up the road to the next town where miraculously lay a (mostly) motorcycle shop with a rear derailleur on offer. After fitting the new part and making a few adjustments and with some hours of daylight left to make up time, I was on my way again to the next town that had campsite (or any accommodation).
Somewhere during the day I’d passed both my 1300km and 1400km points on the journey.
