Day 7 2015

            Camping in Cahors proved to be interesting and challenging.  More cyclists and trekkers packed into the area allotted to us.  From the languages being spoken I gathered that they were mixture of French and German maybe Dutch.  But one fellow was stereotypical Norwegian.  He was tall, lanky, and walked with a slight stoop.  Only a fringe of hair around the ears outlined an otherwise balding head.  Wired rimmed glasses sat on a strong nose above a mouth that rarely smiled.

            At the center I bought a bottle of chilled Rose and hoped to watch the Woman’s Final.  The proprietor reported that it was over and Serena had won.

            Bunched together in a confined space was like being in a crowded hostel with snorers, talkers, and love makers contributing their own special sounds.  The love makers were a pair of sixty year olds who were moaning like teenagers.  At 2 a.m. I made the decision to bike on tomorrow even for a short distance.  I need a PG rated campground.

            In the morning everyone pulled out their miniature burners and propane tanks and made breakfast.  The “honeymooners” had a table set with tablecloth and candles.  I swear the trekkers had more gear than I did.  They all had tents.

            Recalling the analogy of the crumpled paper, today, I actually rode along several crests with fields of golden wheat sloping away on either side.  The wheat fields themselves were a good omen that flatter terrain lay ahead

            Sunday an interesting challenge in France with grocery stores closing at noon.  Couple with the vagaries of the campgrounds, I am left between a rock and a hard place.  The best would be landing in a campground with a restaurant.  The safer bet is to truck along supplies for the evening and breakfast.  I played it safe and stocked up in Castineau-Montratier.  I also had lunch at the edge of town below their Romanesque styled church.

            Recalling the analogy of the crumpled paper, today, I actually rode along several crests with fields of golden wheat sloping away on either side.  The wheat fields themselves were a good omen that flatter terrain lay ahead

            Sunday an interesting challenge in France with grocery stores closing at noon.  Couple with the vagaries of the campgrounds, I am left between a rock and a hard place.  The best would be landing in a campground with a restaurant.  The safer bet is to truck along supplies for the evening and breakfast.  I played it safe and stocked up in Castineau-Montratier.  I also had lunch at the edge of town below their Romanesque styled church.

            There is a bonus for biking on Sunday.  With all of the businesses closed there are no lorries.  In their place were dozens of campers and caravans making their home.  Once a string of five passed closely by before a car interrupted the flow.

            With the heat beating down, like a sultry summer day in Minnesota, I promised to check in at the first campground passed Molieres, 12 km away.  Barely outside Molieres a sign announced a campground.  In years past I would have scoffed at this literal interpretation, doubled down, and hurried on.  This year I am yielding to age and the heat.   

            After cycling down the steepest road ever (definitely a walk up tomorrow), I found the office closed.  The walkup might come sooner than tomorrow.  But in the blink of an eye, an elfin like man shuffled around the corner.  This smallish French man with a twinkle in his eye belongs in Ireland beguiling the children.  A broad smile revealed a gap as wide as the old hockey goalies used to sport.  He was absolutely charming and most accommodating as he tried out his rudimentary English.  He came up later and showed where the TV was and turned on a small refrigerator.  If I had known about the refrigerator I would have bought beer and cheese.

            Tomorrow, I will pass through Montauban.  Are you catching a trend with many of these towns containing “Mont” in their names?  One stop will be at the Decalthon where the gears, tires, and brakes need checking.  I also might pick up one or two package foods for emergencies.  A second stop will be at the Tourist Office for information but also because it is housed in a former Jesuit College from the 18^th century.  Of course, the end of the 18^th century was not a good time for the Jesuits or any other priestly order.

            Isabelle had warned that thundershowers were coming and one just hit.  Oddly, it came on just like the Midwest, very calm and humid followed by a brisk breeze.  The dark ominous clouds were accompanied with loud blasts of thunder.  I quickly moved my gear under a shelter.  I was taking down the clothes with the first drops fell.  The worst is over, a light rain is still falling, and the sun is peeking through.   Further to the north the battling gods continue to sabre rattle.  Once again, quiet reigns and the air smells so crisp and clean.  A beautiful rainbow has broken out to the southeast.  The pot of gold might be Montauban.  Isabelle says that the temperature will cool.

            Unbelievably, I am the only camper.  It is just the birds and me.  After last night it is a welcome change.  I am going to sleep beneath the shelter.  Hopefully, the French leprechaun does not mind.

Much joy!!!
Hardy