As I emerged from my tent I fell into conversation with the couple in the campervan alongside me. They were Dutch and here to help the local Jewish community. They asked if I was Jewish. I replied that my Grammar School was 75% Jewish (in spite of ‘The Reverend’ Alec E Williams Headmaster) and that I’d spent a week in Israel trying to buy military hardware but I could see by her expression that those did not qualify for full membership.
After tempting the devil by saying both boy & bike were doing well it came as no surprise to me today that my front gear-set cable snapped (again) and my left knee tendon should attempt the same. Replacing the gear cable was easy; I even had a spare spare. Fixing the knee problem will depend on how my anti -inflammatories kick in. Odd how my left knee (so injured I was told I’d never run again) soldiers on, while my right knee (untroubled by former injury or strain) now grumbles for attention.
Today was decision day. Should I head due north through mountainous Limoges leaving all options open – or should I head via mountainous Clermont Ferrand – closer to Switzerland. Or should I head to the flat (but longer) route via Bordeaux. The strong northern winds convinced me that west, then north was the way to go - St Malo in reach and avoiding the Massif Central.
I found myself in 'exercise central' along a lovely but otherwise quiet canal. Not a single boat underway. A French group of heavily laden cyclists seemed disinclined to engage with me so I went ahead, glad not to be held back by their very slow pace.
I followed the canal as far as Moissac where I was ready to stop for the day only on account of the grumbling knee. But Moissac turned out to be a gem of a town - a hub of English retirees on houseboats.I shamelessly asked the first Union Flag festooned boat I saw if they could offer a cup of tea to a weary English traveller. I picked the first accent as North London, the next as Yorkshire (Leeds but not Sheffield); I came close with the woman with the Buckinghamshire accent (just out of Marlow) missed the Birmingham (how could I, but she was with the Leeds man) and never got round to identifying the man with the roving accent who’d been everywhere.
They were all off socialising for the evening so I made my farewell and headed off to the campsite. Moissac Municipal Campsite charges Euro 6:50 for a pitch on the banks of the magnificent River Tarn. The best campsite I have found on my journey.
After pitching the tent I returned to the canal port, wine in tow, in search of a fabled Orstralian canal boat. While I didn’t find it I did find English Sue; George and Aussie Pip and Colin enjoying afternoon drinks together. My arrival, unannounced and uninvited, seemed to fit in with their relaxed plans for the evening and several hours later, fed and watered I was fortunate to find my way back to the campsite.
It seems France is awash with baby boomers having a whale of a time on canal boats and the like, renting out their homes while they endlessly relax and socialise in the South of France. And good for them!
My days observations included:
· Women outnumber men 2:1 jogging along the canal
· When I approach men for directions they generally have no idea, while women are almost always painstaking in their advice and always correct. Even if they don’t know which way is North (or South).
· There are far madder people than me out there. One man (ex Military – no wife) spends all year cycling round Europe alone.
