The extended rest stop continued for a second week in Massac as I waited for Tim to arrive. Several weeks ago I’d donated my old bicycle to him following the theft of his beloved Madeline. It had taken him from England to Australia so there was a bit of sentimental value attached. I now discovered that he’d stripped the parts he wanted from my old bike and added them to an older frame he already had. It's probably exactly what the thief had done. I think many stolen bicycles are stripped of their favourable components, which are then added to different frames. I didn’t have to worry too much about bike theft in the Dorset countryside, although it’s a little unsettling to know that my current bike lock, which weighs a solid kilo, can be broken through in less than a minute with the right tools.I eventually forgave Tim this sacrilegious act once we got out onto the road. During one of my rest days the previous week Xavier had asked whether I wanted to do some fishing by spending a night in a bungalow on the coast. On arrival I realised it wasn’t so much a bungalow as a hut suspended over the sea on stilts, which was connected to the mainland by a narrow wooden pontoon. Cosy and quaint, these structures come with large nets that are lowered into tidal waters below. It is a style of fishing I saw in the waterways of Vietnam and Cambodia and which can be seen along much of the coastline and waterways here. Whether the French imported it over there or brought it home I’ve yet to discover. Xavier referred to it as the Carrelet. I told him it definitely wasn’t a bungalow.The last time the three of us shared the road together was in Rajasthan’s scorching heat. This time there was a headwind to contend with as we headed west towards the coastal town of Rochefort. The plan was to catch dinner, but a handful of shrimps doesn’t go a long way with three hungry cyclists. In the end more consumption of pate and pan took place, followed by a few glasses of the region’s most famous export. Apparently, only 10% of all Cognac produced in France is sold within the country. Americans import the most, followed by the Chinese, whose method of drinking is probably a little less refined than Xavier’s. “A glass of Cognac should last as long in minutes as the number of years that it has aged”. Tim and I were in agreement that forty minutes seemed an excessive amount of time for such a small quantity of liquid.
I thought the Cognac would help me sleep later that night, but the wind continued and at one point I felt we would end up on the rocks below as the carrelet shuddered from side to side. It blew us back to Massac the following day at average speeds that World Record breakers would be pleased with.After just a few days together Tim and I said goodbye again yesterday. I also bid an emotional farewell with Xavier and Nathalie, who’d spoilt me from the moment I arrived two weeks before. So much luxury so early in the trip seems like an over-indulgence, particularly as I’m now carrying an Italian Cafétiere and a hip flask of VSOP! I hope at some stage in the future to pay all this kindness back.
The skies were clear with a slight Autumnal chill in the air as I rode out of the village and navigated my way south towards Cognac and the Gironde River. Gentle rolling hills with grapes ripening on lush vines extended on either side and the drifting scent of figs from the roadside lured me to stop. Three weeks after departing from England this was my first solo day on the road. Back on my own with familiar faces now behind me the trip somehow feels like it’s starting all over again.
