Bike trip: from Carcans Maubuisson to Plaisir (Yvelines)

Hi Alain, Thanks for sharing your experience, and okay, see you tomorrow... Lolo

Hi there, I'm glad you're interested in my story. I'll make an effort to post the next part. I took a look at your profile and saw you've traveled quite a bit.

Tuesday, August 22, 2023 Marans - Magné - 51 km - 4th day - Total: 276 km

Well, since I can’t remember what I wrote yesterday, I might end up repeating myself—or worse, skipping over one or more important moments from this trip, which would be a real shame. I got up at 8:00 AM and left at 11:00 AM. Some of you might wonder what I do with all that time—I wonder the same thing myself. But rest assured, not a single second is wasted or misused. Still, even though I’m not the first one up, I’m always the last to leave. It’s a mystery I can’t explain. So, I left Marans without seeing a single feather from those mythical chickens. Maybe it just wasn’t the right day? The stage was carefully planned to account for the extreme heat, the athlete’s condition (not quite peak form but close), and the scarcity of campsites along the route. I aimed for Niort, but the only campsite—a municipal one—was closed. That left the one in Magné, in the Poitevin Marshes, 10 km before Niort, or another 10 km after. With wisdom (and a little help from the old Chinese sage), I chose the 10 km before. Plus, I had to factor in stops at every little café for a Coca-Cola, whose price varies depending on the establishment’s standing—anywhere from 2 to 3.90 €, nearly a 100% markup. Quite the range when you’re thirsty. And I’m not even counting the stops every 20 minutes to gulp down some water. Other than that, the path followed the Sèvre Niortaise all day—a gentle river with no current, lined with countless little houses ranging from beautifully restored stone country homes to "Sam Suffit" shacks cobbled together from odds and ends. Along the way, plenty of fishermen, picnickers, and a cheerful crowd enjoying the water’s edge.



The peaceful river



Deterrent, animal cruelty, or humor? I’m leaning toward the last one.

I stopped near two grandmothers fishing for eels with *vermée*. They explained the method: You thread big earthworms onto a wool thread with a needle, form a fist-sized ball, and drop it in the water. The eels, greedy but not too bright, try to swallow the whole thing, and their teeth get tangled in the thread. All you have to do is pull them out. My fishermen had already caught a nice specimen and were proud to show it off. They even mentioned using an umbrella, but I’ll stop there—it’d take too long to explain. The water was so tempting that I treated myself to a dip in the river. The water was great—almost warm in some spots, much cooler in others, probably due to underwater springs. Hard to imagine given the drought.



The swimming spot—I didn’t take a selfie because I’m terrible at them, and it was a naturist swim anyway.



This isn’t the Wild West, but it’s close.

During a Coca break, I met another cycle tourist—a 76-year-old who’s done it all, from jujitsu to cycling, even training with a well-known team (though not one I recognize). He was a non-stop talker. We ended up at the same campsite, and before I could even shower, he showed up with a beer. Since neither of us had food, we decided to try the nearby crêperie recommended by the campsite manager. And that’s when we had an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. When we arrived, the owner asked if we’d booked. When we said no, he politely but firmly told us to go elsewhere—he’d hit his customer quota. Thinking it was a joke, we insisted, but he was serious. He said there were restaurants on either side of the next traffic light, 200 meters away. Full of hope, we headed there—only to find both places closed. We asked two locals (a man and a woman, clearly not a couple) for advice, and they pointed us to *Le Carré d’Eau*, 500 meters in the other direction. I called out of caution, but the answering machine said it was closed. Another desperate call went unanswered. You can imagine our despair. At that point, I suggested going back to the crêperie and pleading our case—maybe the owner would take pity on us. I felt like I was playing my last card in a crucial moment. After a long hesitation and consulting his server, the owner—mindful of his staff—finally agreed to let us in, warning us not to expect quick service. Phew! Some dramatic moments in life have happy endings. In the end, we were served almost as fast as the other customers, and we had a great dinner. There you go—I kept it short for those who are impatient.



No transporter bridge? You can always take the ferry.

Wednesday, August 23, 2023 - 1 Magné-Parthenay - 1 - 72 km - Day 5 - Total 348 km

Well, this morning I set my alarm for 6:30 AM to leave earlier and avoid the afternoon heat. But it didn’t go off, or I didn’t hear it, so I woke up at 7:30—still not too bad. After streamlining my tasks and getting organized, I left at 9:35 AM, which is progress. I followed the Sèvre River to Niort, where the riverside houses became more numerous and more upscale—sometimes even a bit pretentious. I arrived in Niort around… I don’t remember exactly. I thought a little coffee with a croissant would be nice, so I headed toward the train station, crossing a neighborhood that must have been lively in the past but was now deserted. Not even a bakery or café open. Disappointed, I followed the "Tourist Information" signs, figuring that where there are tourists, there are cafés and croissants. Success! I stumbled upon a much livelier area near a big park, full of croissants and cafés. I chose *La mie câline*, which I thought served American-style long coffees, perfect for quenching my thirst at least a little. But the terrace was in full sun, and the only two shady spots were taken by a couple in their fifties who didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. So, I sat in the sun. After a while, I ordered a second coffee and asked to refill my water bottle. The owner or manager, a young guy around 25-30, told me it wasn’t possible?? I asked: "Don’t you have a water tap?" He replied: "Yes, but we sell the water—it’s in the display case." I shot back—still politely—that this was the first time anyone had refused me water, especially after I’d already bought something, and that I wasn’t thanking him. I went back to finish my coffee and left, leaving my tray on the table. *Take that!* Never seen that in my (admittedly short but already substantial) career as a thirsty hiker. I looked it up online and can confirm that this guy was breaking the law—businesses are required to provide free drinking water to customers who’ve consumed on-site. He also mentioned there were fountains a bit farther away. I didn’t see any, so I asked a guy who looked like a local, but he suddenly became very interested in his shoes and kept walking without even glancing up. I turned to a sweet little grandmother in a white blouse and pink pants—colorful but simple. She kindly told me that, despite living in the area, she didn’t know, but started looking around. I thanked her and kept searching. I spotted a group of juggling homeless people—well, one of them was twirling sticks. Though water wasn’t their top priority, they pointed me in the right direction. I saw a fountain that *should* work if you turned the wheel at the top. But no water, and no sign of moisture around it—conclusion: it wasn’t working. Not a good sign. Continuing my quest, I ran into the grandmother again, who was still curious about my question and kept searching. Together, we found one that looked in perfect working order, and—miracle—water gushed out when I turned the wheel. It reminded me of Abraham in the desert, though I hope I won’t be wandering the Deux-Sèvres for 40 years, even if it *is* a charming region.



Niort train station



The cathedral

By the way, it’s starting to rain. This morning at the campsite, just after getting up, I saw an elderly couple in their seventies—he was a thin, white-haired old man, and she was plump—walking hand in hand like two young lovebirds. I saw them pass by again soon after, still holding hands, after using the restroom. The scene moved me, and I still have tears in my eyes. It gives me hope for humanity—even though we only hear about tragedies, love is still alive at every age.



A beautiful leaf

The guy I met last night came to say goodbye before leaving—nice of him. Another one who was ready before me. I told him I was happy we’d met, and he said the same before heading off on his way. Then the neighbor came over to chat. How am I supposed to leave early under these conditions? But I’m joking—I’m really happy about all these interactions, maybe sparked by my mode of transport, my age, or both. This family had intrigued me: they had a big BMW with Spanish plates, a large caravan, and two Canadian tents sheltering young girls I assumed were their kids. But the weird part? They spoke perfect French to each other, with no accent at all??? I learned that the man is 62, well-preserved for his age, and has lived and worked in Almería for 30 years, where he runs a fruit and vegetable export business, supplying French supermarkets in Brittany and Normandy. He’s here because he’s from the area and is visiting his sister, who owns a house. She rents it out all summer and lives in a camper van during that time. Mystery solved! The conversation continued about biking, life in Spain, and other important topics I’ve since forgotten. When I see how long this post is, I realize I’m being quite chatty—surprising, since I’m usually pretty reserved. Anyway, I’ll stop here, but for those brave souls who aren’t tired of reading, I might continue the story in the next installment. Have a great day, everyone.



?? There’s always something for the big guys.

Wednesday, August 23, 2023 Magné-Parthenay - 2

Written Thursday morning in Parthenay.

No photos for the simple reason that I didn’t move.

Here I am, still in Magné and still not gone—gotta make a decision. Goal: Parthenay, that’ll be 72 km for the day. Some might say that’s not much, but I’d say it’s plenty. Given the heat, the terrain—which, without being mountainous, has an endless succession of slopes, more uphill than downhill—it’s normal since I’m heading north. One last dip in the Sèvre before leaving it for good. The crew will arrive exhausted at the stop, the phone and bike batteries nearly dead, and the cyclist in pretty much the same state. But none of the crew regrets this moment. I’m going back over my notes from the day to see what I wanted to remember. When I ride, I pedal, I think—some might find that surprising—and when a thought strikes me, I jot it down in a notebook to include in the evening’s journal. Of course, it takes time because I have to stop every time to write, but I take the opportunity to have a drink and, incidentally, pee (or "urinate" for the purists). I tried writing while riding, but the experience was disastrous, and I didn’t stick with it. By the way, I fell twice in the first two days in Les Landes—each time, my wheel got stuck in the sand at the edge of the path, and each time, it was near a Paillotte-Buvette. My falls didn’t seem to move many people, except for one gentleman who kindly asked if I was hurt. The others stayed indifferent. I have to admit, they didn’t laugh either—or if they did, it was behind their mustaches. I answered "Not even hurt" to the kind gentleman, and it was true—the sand is a real trap for bikes, but it cushions the fall and usually prevents injury.

In the moment While I’m writing, a big, dark cloud rolls in, the wind picks up, thunder rumbles, and a few drops start to fall. Looks like quite the program ahead. That’s not going to speed up my departure time. End of the moment.

Last night, I had a couple on bikes as neighbors. We exchanged a few words, but that was about it. This morning, I got up around 5:00 AM to pee, and the guy was fussing around his campsite. When I came out of my tent again at 6:52 AM sharp—daylight barely breaking—they were already gone?! Some people are really something else. On reflection, they just showed great experience by packing up before the rain hit. By the way, since 5:30 AM, the garbage collectors have been picking up trash, making a racket fit for the devil. At 7:00 AM, they’re still at it. I wouldn’t have imagined there were so many trash cans to collect. In any case, with all the noise they’re making, you can be sure no camper is still asleep. Last night, I had a rather unusual adventure. I wear a wide-brimmed canvas hat, like a retired Indiana Jones—great for sun protection, but it catches the wind easily. That’s why I always make sure to fasten the chin strap. So, in a slightly steep descent, I picked up speed, and the hat flew off my head without completely blowing away.

In the moment... Now it’s a full-blown storm over the tent. End of the moment.

Back to the hat: I brake hard, and it—held by the chin strap—falls back onto my face, covering my eyes completely. I don’t know where I am, and given my initial speed, it takes what feels like forever to stop. After lifting the hat, I see I’m still on the road, but on the left side. I can just imagine if a driver had come the other way—they’d have wondered what this guy was doing putting on a show in the middle of the road.

In the moment... The wind is picking up, and the tent is shaking in all directions. I hope the trees around here hold. If this story ends here, you’ll know they didn’t. End of the moment.

Oh right, I’ve been thinking about how most people I meet seem happy. You’d think journalists in the media never go on vacation and only hang out with neurotics—based on my observations, they’re actually a minority. I’m always touched in campgrounds by the little old couples holding hands to go pee or families with young kids who seem to be in a state of grace, the kids so happy to have their parents all to themselves. In the next elections, I’m voting for whoever makes camping vacations mandatory—except during storms, of course. But the big bad one has passed, so let’s hope it doesn’t have any friends nearby. Yesterday, I stopped at noon in the only village with a supply point for miles around—around here, it’s best to be self-sufficient. It’s a small but nice restaurant, and I sit on the terrace (there are two tables) and order a rougail sausage with a pint of beer. Gotta do what you gotta do. Well, the rougail from the Deux-Sèvres is different from the one in Réunion, and most notably, there’s not a hint of chili in it. The innkeeper kindly offers me a bottle of Tabasco or a jar of Réunion chili. Being cautious, I go for the Tabasco—now’s not the time to get hemorrhoids. As I’m having coffee, a man on a bike arrives—kind of a back-to-the-land type, though he’s tall, with long, wild hair, muscular, and quite handsome. You’ll notice there are a lot of them around here. He comes over to talk, and I invite him to sit at my table, which he gladly accepts. We start a conversation that lasts three hours. Well, mostly *he* talks, and I listen, throwing in a little comment or question now and then. He’s quite cultured and interested in the history of the region, especially the creation of the wet and dry marshes, which are the result of human development, as well as the rural society from time immemorial. He publishes travel journals that have nothing to do with travel. They’re books that combine stories and illustrations he creates. Eventually, he invites me to his place, saying he’s expecting a friend tonight. But he lives 10 km in the wrong direction, so I decline. Maybe I should’ve accepted.

In the moment... After the storm, my tent is covered in plant debris blown around by the wind. End of the moment.

He’s planning to go on a trip with his son after his baccalaureate, and I strongly encourage him. Later, I stop in the middle of the countryside at a site set up by veterans from Deux-Sèvres to commemorate the dead and conflicts France has been involved in outside the two World Wars. A panel is dedicated to each conflict—Indochina, Korea, Algeria, etc. A monument lists all the men from Deux-Sèvres who died in these conflicts. There are quite a few, and I’m surprised and moved. I’m always moved in front of war memorials, thinking of all those very young men who lost their lives in wars that were always useless but sometimes maybe justified? It’s not clear—I’ll develop that thought by the fire this winter. Alright, that’s it for today. Until tomorrow, if you’d like.

Thursday, August 24, 2023 - Parthenay to Thouars - 70 km - Day 6 - Total 418 km

Well, the weather forecast called for storms, and they showed up. It's 1:00 PM, and I'm still in Parthenay. Thanks to the back-to-back showers this morning, I stayed cozily in my tent waiting for it to pass. Since it didn’t, I tried packing up between downpours, but that didn’t work out—most of my gear is soaked. I’ve got no dry clothes left to change into. I forgot my towel on the clothesline at the Magné campsite, I’ve only got one cycling jersey left, and the tent has some serious waterproofing issues. I looked for a sports store to replace all this. The web suggested an Intersport in a shopping center, so I planned the route on Via Michelin because Google Maps said it couldn’t determine my location—what a useless app. Michelin guided me, but it sent me to the old quarter, which seemed odd for a shopping center. Sure enough, I ended up in front of a medieval convent. Michelin’s really lost the plot. I fell back on good old Geo Velo, which got me to the right place in no time.

And then, surprise—the Intersport closes between 12:30 PM and 2:00 PM. Never seen that in a shopping center before. I spotted a brasserie at the other end of the parking lot with a proud sign, but as I got closer, I saw a notice saying it was closed for renovations. I finally ended up at the local McDonald’s, where, after a crash course from another customer, I managed to order a McCrispy on a touchscreen. I’ve been dreaming about one since I was a kid. The McCrispy took a while to arrive, and when it did, it was a bit skimpy. A young girl across from me was smarter—she’d ordered a gorgeous McDonald’s salad packed with lettuce and tomatoes. Yep, you really need proper training to tackle McDonald’s successfully.

Another downpour just hit. We’re not getting out of this anytime soon.

It’s 2:30 PM.

Intersport finally opens, I make my purchases, and head out. The first few kilometers are on a busy road—I’m out of practice, and it stresses me out. Eventually, I find my way back to the little country roads that wind through tiny hamlets with cute or charming stone houses. The charming ones are just bigger versions of the cute ones. I’m riding with the stress of my late start, not knowing what time I’ll arrive. Plus, setting up camp will be complicated by sorting out my soaked and muddy gear. For once, I allow myself to use "sport mode" on the hills.

Arriving in Thouars is lovely—I cross a bridge over the Thouet with a great view of the upper town. "Upper" is the right word because you’ve got to climb an old hill to get there. I pass a gallery with paintings in the window that catch my eye. I go in and receive a really warm welcome. The owner explains how his workshop works—everyone’s free to choose their subject and progress at their own pace, and he’s there to give advice if asked. The gallery displays his own work and that of his students. We had a great conversation. He’s self-taught, has been painting for 16 years—8 of them as an instructor at Thouars’ city painting workshop, and the rest since retiring as the head of his own studio.



Thouars seen from the Thouet



A work from the gallery

I arrive at the campsite—simple but decent, as some of my contacts would say. I spread out all the wet laundry and the tent on the grass to dry, and the groundsheet gets a thorough wash.



Drying the gear

The campsite isn’t packed, but there’ll be six of us spending the night here. Once the gear is dry—or mostly dry—I start setting up. It’s 7:30 PM, no time for a shower. Around here, it’s often hard to find food after 8:00 PM, trust me on that. I hop on my bike and head to the town center. I spot a place called "Lily Pâtes" across from a fast-food joint, but they don’t sell beer. I decide to grab one at the café on the nearby square. The café has a large terrace with three tables, each occupied by a different group—no space left. I go inside, where it’s sweltering, and ask, "No room on the terrace?" The barmaid, in her sixties, just says "No," and that’s it. She could’ve easily moved one of the empty indoor tables outside. Stunned, I leave and go back to the pasta place. The server, a friendly young guy, offers me a bowl of pasta with Gruyère. I say it’s probably Parmesan, and he agrees—but in the end, I get pasta with industrial Emmental and a mediocre sauce. Basically, it’s edible if you’re really hungry, but just barely. Still, it only costs 10 € with two sodas. I leave around 10:00 PM and am the only customer of the evening.

Except for a couple with a six-month-old baby named YAYA (phonetically—I forgot the spelling the dad gave me). He lives here because his wife and her family are from the area, but he’s from Marseille. We chat for about half an hour. I ask if he likes it here, and he says it’s quiet. He misses the blue sea, the buzz of Marseille. He’s traded the sound of Kalashnikovs for tractors, the scent of chit for hay, and the blue of the sea for the green of the Thouet.

Anyway, back to the campsite in the dark for a shower—gotta keep up hygiene despite the challenges.

If I’m boring you with my stories, don’t hesitate to say so. I’ll understand and won’t hold it against you, but I definitely won’t stop. Have a great day, everyone.

P.S. I think I’m making great progress with my typing.

Friday, August 25, 2023 Thouars-Saumur - 45 km - 7th day - 463 km.

A new day has arrived, and I remember my father used to say to himself every morning, "Here’s another day that’s been given to me." It’s worth noting he lost his wife, my mother, quite early and faced serious health issues himself. But I think it’s good to realize the luck we’ve been given to live and enjoy the moments we’re offered. This morning, the weather is a bit gray with a light drizzle that won’t last. You see, you’ve always got to have faith—after the drizzle comes the sunshine. Another tip from the old Chinese sage. In the moment We’re now at the municipal campsite in Saumur this evening. End of the moment While I’m writing, I’m cooking pasta, and as I taste it, I realize I don’t have any salt. No big deal—I bought two tiny cans of Catalan-style tuna. It’ll add salt, or at least I hope so, because the cans are mostly filled with the Catalan sauce—the tuna must’ve made a run for it. It’s not that I don’t like Catalan sauce, but I do enjoy tuna too, even if the mercury weighs a bit on the ribs. Anyway, back to this morning. After a question from a reading group member, I timed how long it takes me to pack up, including my morning routine—the showers are 150 meters away. Well, I clocked in at 1 hour and 45 minutes, no stress, no complaints. Some might say that’s not great, but it’s my score, and I’m sticking to it. No need for insane paces. It’s definitely better to pack up in the dry rather than in the rain, I’m telling you. In the moment Meanwhile, the level of the bottle of Saumur white wine I opened is dropping dramatically. When I bought it, I thought it’d last two meals, but as time goes on, I’m not so sure. Realistically, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. So, cheers to you all. At this point, I’m halfway through. Let’s see if it’s the empty or the full half. All around me, I hear English being spoken—we’re not in our own backyard anymore. Back to the story Anyway, where was I? I’m losing track with all these digressions. Luckily, I take notes throughout the day—ideas, impressions. It’s surprising how quickly you get into the habit of keeping a journal. It’s a way to capture travel memories, but let’s be honest, it’s also a bit of showing off, encouraged by readers’ feedback. After my 1 hour and 45 minutes of packing, I set off on a tiny road along the Thouars river and hear a customer singing at the top of his lungs. I spot him—shirtless, in his sixties, walking with energy. I give him a big wave, and he waves back. Another happy man. Speaking of happy men, I see another pushing a wheelbarrow in his garden, seeming miles away from problems in Ukraine, youth protests, or burnout. What does the majority want? To be left in peace, and they’ll know what’s good for them. All these thoughts deserve more reflection, but now’s not the time to overthink.



Tranquil France



A bridge that can be called old

In the moment

The bottle’s level has dropped again—worse than the water table. This might even make the news on BFM. Back to the story I don’t know why I’m thinking of this saying I like, and that likes me: "What’s well understood is clearly expressed, and the words to say it come easily." I think it’s from Coluche, but he stole it from the old Chinese sage, who stole it from some guy from Meaux (Seine-et-Marne). Speaking of philosophy, we always tend to overcomplicate things. I’m here to enjoy myself, live in the moment, yet I invariably speed up on my bike. Why? Nothing’s rushing me—I’ve got all the time in the world. So, I slow down, but quickly go back to my usual pace. Today, since the stage was short, I forced myself to slow down, and—miracle—3 or 4 km/h less, and I enjoyed the surroundings even more: the little insects scurrying on the path, the scents of nature. Plus, speed isn’t always advisable. At one point, the old sage—don’t worry, he’s still Chinese—taps me on the shoulder and says: Alain, you haven’t learned a thing. You’re racing down this trail, and you know it hasn’t worked out for you before. You’re truly incorrigible. So, listening to the voice of wisdom, I slowed down. And I smelled the straw, the damp earth freshly plowed. I saw the little flowers by the path—and the big ones too.



The smell of straw



The smell of damp earth



The little flowers

Anyway, without transition, I arrive around 12:30 PM in Montreuil-Bellay, a charming town with many venerable houses, some restored, others waiting for a benefactor.



I wonder what they’re doing?

I count three open cafés. The first offers charcuterie boards of the worst kind—hello, cholesterol—not appealing at all. The second has pike-perch in white butter sauce, which is tempting but seems a bit above my station as a humble hiker. You’ve got to know your place. I opt for the last one, with a terrace in the garden and a view of the castle. Well, the castle—I can’t see it. It’s hidden by the umbrella of the neighboring table, occupied by two well-dressed, made-up seventy-something friends sharing stories. No gossip or backbiting—one’s doing plumbing this weekend, or maybe crawling under the sink. I hear she also paints—artistic, of course—and is tempted by abstract art. The other doesn’t do much but doesn’t seem to mind. They each check their packed-with-nothing agendas to schedule their next meet-up. Despite our differences, I find them likable. The meal is decent: an acceptable fish tagine and an orange moelleux with an excellent chocolate fondant. I must say, with a top-notch cook at home, I’m a tough customer. Don’t take me for a terrible macho—I cook and do the dishes too. But like cats, I have a phobia of the vacuum and the mop. Anyway, since I don’t make a mess, I don’t see the point of cleaning. I forgot—2 glasses of very decent Saumur white. It was to celebrate my first week of travel. In the moment The bottle’s level is dropping again. I’ll have to stop soon. End of the moment The style of the houses has changed—they’re now made of tuffeau stone with ornate corbels. Many small châteaux or manors dot the countryside. Lovers of old stones, grab your trowels.



A small château



Here, you’ll need a good trowel and a lot of elbow grease

Leaving the restaurant, I find the temperature just right—barely 20°C. It’ll rise by late afternoon. Anyway, I arrive at the campsite at 4:30 PM. Set up, shopping—which isn’t cheap. In the moment The bottle is empty. End of the moment. De profundis.



Saumur—I spent 4 months here during my military service in 1971. Memories, mostly good ones.

I notice my photos aren’t top quality, but it’s the thought that counts, as the old Chinese sage says.

Saturday, August 26, 2023 - Saumur - Le Lude - 73 km - 8th day - Total 536 km

Last night, I ate the entire Carrefour milk-hazelnut chocolate bar and drank the whole bottle of Saumur wine. After a week of this very alternative fasting, it’s not exactly responsible, but whatever—I don’t regret it yet. Well, this morning, I do regret it a little, because I slept really badly. It was chilly for the first time in ages. I wouldn’t say it’s better, though, because now it’s raining March-like showers. They’ve messed everything up with their climate change. There are thousands of tiny black midges, dead or dying, in the toilet—it’s pretty creepy. Speaking of toilets, it reminds me of two little girls when I arrived at the campsite in Parthenay. Since the start, I’ve had urinary issues, probably due to the heat, but when I need to go, it has to be *right now* for a disappointing result. So when I get to the campsite, two girls around 6 or 7 are there, and I ask where the toilets are. The more outgoing one says, "Over there, sir. If you want, I can take you." Panicked, I reply, "No thanks, I’ll find them myself." I didn’t want anyone seeing me follow a little girl to the bathroom and getting accused of pedophilia—or worse. I can just imagine MC’s face if she found out I was in custody in Parthenay, the city of hell’s evil. I wonder if there’s a heaven of good? You might think I’m overreacting, but that’s exactly what went through my mind at the time—minus the custody part. This morning, I got up at 2:00 AM to pack and be ready to leave, including breakfast and a quick wash. No way around it—that’s the time I need. I’m writing this from a pizzeria/kebab/fast-food place in Le Lude. The storefront is smashed—I didn’t know there’d been protests here. The decor is awful, but the music and the synth singers are actually nice. It’s run by a group of young guys who smile when they pinch their fingers, but since they’re so skilled, it doesn’t happen often. But for eating alone, it’s perfect—cheap, too. 10 € for a burger with fries, mayo, and two Cokes. I notice that burger and Coke prices are way lower here than in the Paris region. I should take a hamburger-tasting class. No matter how hard I focus, I can’t seem to grab the patty, its buddy the chicken patty, or the fries—I just end up with bread in every bite. I’m about to finish all the bread without even touching the patty. Plus, I’ve got sauce all over my fingers, and the onions fell onto the tray. It’s terrible always trying to eat at fancy restaurants.



My fast-food spot in Le Lude. Later, I found out the storefront was smashed by a tractor that drove by with its trailer, hitting a bunch of cars, traffic signs, and other street furniture before locals finally stopped it.

I realize typing is a sport—you need a warm-up to perform. This morning, I decided to go to Le Lude via La Flèche—it’s the scenic route, 81 km, though. Anyway, I’m off to find a shop that might have oil to grease my bike chain. It looks pretty dry. I owe it to this brave bike, which keeps going without complaint, like the little white horse—me on top, it underneath. I feel way better on its handlebars than on the old one. Like everywhere in the region, not a soul in sight. I hear a grinder as I pass a house and think there must be a DIYer inside. Bingo—the very kind gentleman shows me into his garage, lends me a can of oil, and even helps me grease the chain. Better than *La Mie Câline*! He looks about my age, with a big belly and a deeply lined face. He’s a roofer by trade and tells me he’s 57?? I think he’ll normally have to wait until 64 for retirement, and there’s a real issue with that. Our leaders are totally out of touch. Meanwhile, he’s got steel-toe boots and a wrecked back. I pass through Longué—it’s not Ukraine, but almost. Half the houses have their shutters closed, and the hospital in a modern building is abandoned and in ruins. I stop at the bakery, where there’s a line of at least 5 people—average for here, but still a line. No croissants or anything like that left, so I settle for homemade gingerbread, which, with the coffee I had a bit later, turns out to be amazing. Thanks, Carole and Cédric Hardouin, the bakers. For those wondering how I know their names—I read them on the wrapping paper. I’m joking, but driving through these small towns in decline always breaks my heart. I think about the generations who built these countryside areas, now on the verge of being completely deserted. I hope a turnaround will bring them back to life.



I have big gaps in spelling, but still.



The bucolic path.

Yesterday, the bike path was really bumpy, and the small roads I took were just as bad. I’d had enough, and the old Chinese sage in my head tells me my back is fed up. So I check the road map for routes that roughly follow my itinerary and find some. What a pleasure to ride on smooth asphalt—it’s comfortable, efficient, and gives my back a break. I think about the Tour de France, where roads are completely redone. In those conditions, it’s a joke anyone could do. Anyway, back to my notes for the day. I notice a huge number of very, very large bellies on middle-aged men. I wonder if this is genetic, dietary, or—let’s be honest—liquid-related. Guys, this isn’t going to end well. Now for an episode I hesitated to share, but even heroes have their weaknesses. The roads in Les Landes are lined with amazing blackberry bushes, loaded with perfectly ripe fruit. I love blackberries, and the first two days, I ate way more than I should have. That’s why, on the third morning—the third morning is always fateful in stories—at the Rochefort campsite, where the only bathroom block is a good 200 meters from my tent, I suddenly *really* need to go. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t make it in time. And I ended up in a literal mess. Luckily, it was still early, and I don’t think anyone saw my misfortune—except for a white goose that hissed at me as I passed, giving me an electric shock through my whole body. Since then, I consider blackberries forbidden fruit, contenting myself with just a few here and there. I meet an English guy who’s also biking. He’s touring Normandy and the area and really likes the countryside. I ask if it reminds him of England, and he says, "A little, especially Normandy." But he adds that French roads are in much better shape than back home. I’m following the *La Vélo Buissonnière* route—before that, I was on *La Vélodyssée* and *La Vélo Francette*. Tomorrow, it’ll be *Le Loir à Vélo*. At the end of the day, with the weather looking unpredictable and wet, I skip the route to go straight to Le Lude, bypassing La Flèche. Obviously, I didn’t win 20,000 francs, but I managed to set up camp before a serious downpour. Thunder rumbles now and then. The campsite is great. I finished my burger and fries and am about to brush my teeth before bed. Good night, everyone.



Campsite in Le Lude.

Morning. It’s starting to get chilly—it’s not warm at all. The café owner where I stopped yesterday said it was 10°C in the morning. I can’t believe such a change is possible in just two days. Climate change in 48 hours—who knew? The sky is clear, and mist covers the ground. A bell rings in the distance—I counted the chimes: it’s 7:00 AM. A flock of noisy crows is raising hell in some nearby trees, and doves are cooing in the tree above me. The crows get even louder—I wonder why. My tent is soaked with dew. A beautiful day is shaping up, or at least I hope so, because rain isn’t great. I check the weather anxiously. The tent is on its last legs—its vital prognosis is critical. The waterproof tape sealing the seams is peeling everywhere. I’ll need to think about a replacement soon. I think it belonged to Nicolas and Marie—it’s served well and deserves a well-earned retirement, even before 64. But I’m asking it to hold on until the end of the trip. My fingers are cold—ironic after the heat of the past few days. I have nothing to eat for breakfast. Resupplying is a recurring problem when biking. First, you rarely pass a shop, and they’ve been disappearing from small villages for ages or just closed in bigger towns. So you have to go to the local supermarket or hypermarket, which is always several kilometers away on the other side of town. Though I’m being unfair—I just forgot to buy something. A little warbler—*little* is redundant because warblers are never big—lands in the bush next to the tent and chirps softly while looking at me. I wonder what it’s trying to say. Okay, I’m getting chattier and chattier. The tent next to mine is occupied by a retired couple from Vendôme. They’re on a trip around their area. The man is up doing exercises that look like Tai Chi Chuan—phonetic and approximate spelling. Hi everyone, and have a great day. May everyone’s gods unite to protect us.



I didn’t think I was so close to Rungis—another GPS trick.

Sunday, August 27, 2023 - Le Lude to Montoire - Day 9 - 65 km - Total 601 km

I’m in Montoire-sur-le-Loir, the town where the meeting between Marshal Pétain and Hitler took place. The train station where the encounter happened has been turned into a museum dedicated to that event, by the way. Today, there are no more trains—our two buddies would have to bike here like I did. They’d need to plan better, though, because as usual, I have no supplies. It must be said that here, like everywhere else, you can’t find any shops, or if they do exist, they’re closed for vacation. Plus, it’s Sunday evening, which explains a lot. I arrive with the last of my pasta from Saumur, but without salt or anything to season it with. After asking a couple of locals, it seems I’ll have to resign myself to starving. Heading toward the campsite, I spot a small place that’s also closed but promises to open at 6:30 PM on Sundays and Mondays. I’m saved, though I’m a bit skeptical about how reliable that announcement is. I head to the municipal campsite, which is quite decent, where I can spend the night for the very reasonable sum of 13.50 €. Of course, as soon as I unfold my tent, it starts raining. I grumble, but it’s just a few drops, Don Cyclo. Shower—no matter how wild the country, civilization’s habits always come back. Then I rush to the bar, which is indeed open. It’s tiny and already almost full with its 6 customers, who seem to be regulars or friends of the owner, a cheerful blonde in her sixties. I sit at the counter and order a mixed platter and a slice of plum tart, along with two glasses of very decent local red wine, all for 17.50 €. The wine is from Bráslier, Côteaux du Vendômois. The atmosphere is friendly. Back at the campsite, I chat for about an hour with a couple of cyclists in their sixties from Nantes. Socializing, tourism, the merits of European capitals, etc... This morning, after a few kilometers on a slightly rough trail, I glance at my dashboard and—surprise—I can’t see my phone anymore. It must have fallen along the way. I turn around immediately and find it after 500 meters, lying quietly in the middle of the path. However, the camera lens is shattered, as if someone had shot a bullet right through its center. So, no photos for the rest of the trip. Too bad! Once again, I tend to go too fast, and the Chinese reminds me to slow down. It’s right—if I reduce my speed by 2 km/h, I ride much more relaxed. There you go! By the way, I’ve seen very few hedgehogs or other squashed critters. In any case, much fewer than on other trips. I wonder and consider different hypotheses: 1- All the hedgehogs have already been run over. 2- Hedgehogs have taken training courses and are much more cautious now. 3- Drivers have gotten tickets and are much more respectful. Indeed, losing 6 points for failing to yield at a hedgehog crossing makes you think twice. Oh no! Sorry, that’s for pedestrian crossings. In any case, there are far fewer squashed hedgehogs, and that’s great for them. I’m going back to an incident that happened three or four days ago. Passing through a village, I smell a strong odor of burning straw. I see a gathering of small vintage utility vehicles like Berlingos, C15s, or Kangoos, as well as a nice collection of fire trucks, one of which has the inscription "Animal Rescue Vehicle." I think there must have been a farm fire, and the cows must have alerted the firefighters, hence the specialized vehicle. Worried about them, I wonder if some didn’t get roasted, which would explain the influx of all those awful meat-lovers drawn by the prospect of a giant barbecue. To be sure, I checked Google News that evening to see if Sandrine Rousseau had made a statement about it. Finding nothing, I was reassured about the cows. 12:48 PM - Nogent-sur-Loir, it smells like barbecue, but no firefighters and still no shops in sight. 1:15 PM - Château-du-Loir, from the station, I head up the main avenue to the center—it’s done quickly, not a soul to ask for directions. Plus, there really aren’t many real cats around here. In a side street, I see two small lanterns lit above a sign with the sweet name of "restaurant" (that’s two "small" in one line, but I own it). I think, *please don’t let them have just forgotten to turn off the lights before closing*. And bingo, it’s open.

To be continued. Well, it’s 11:37 PM, I’ll finish tomorrow. End of the update.

I pick up again this morning at 6:30 AM. I plan to pack up in record time, but it starts raining, so the record will have to wait for tomorrow. Back to the restaurant. Rustic decor in the 1970s style. Two elderly ladies around my age are the only customers, along with an old owner about my age who’s the cook, waiter, and boss all in one. At least he doesn’t have staff management issues, but he looks very tired. I choose a composed salad, which turns out to be decent, and the day’s special: calf’s liver. It’s been at least 25 years since I last had it. Of course, he serves it pink, as it should be. I don’t say anything, but I would’ve preferred it a bit more cooked. He must be a bit of a wizard because, as he passes by again, he asks if I wouldn’t prefer it a bit more cooked. How did he guess? The liver comes back much better for me, sliced in half thickness-wise. The guy must’ve thought to himself: *Another bourgeois city-dweller who prefers their meat charred.* Of the two old ladies, one talks non-stop—*me, me*—while the other listens. They each order a scoop of ice cream and praise their respective choices. The chatty one offers the other a taste of hers, and the other accepts, taking a spoonful. She then offers her own in return, but the chatty one keeps talking without paying attention. The other takes her cup back, a bit disappointed. It’s a bit boring to eat alone at a restaurant, but it lets you observe others and their behavior. It’s amusing and enriching. I wonder what others think when they observe me? Plus, it creates connections. Once the two women left, the owner came to talk to me and told me his life story from the moment he left his parents up to today—that’s 50 years. It’s the life of an honest man, made of work, joys, and sorrows like anyone else’s. His daughter works at the MSA, and his wife passed away 5 years ago. He’s 70, and I think he keeps working to stay busy. The weather is pretty nice, though there are some big, dark clouds passing through. For a good while, I follow a beautiful trail laid out on an old railway line. And I think that in our era of fast fashion and single-use products, our ancestors already practiced the art of recycling. Indeed, the engineer who designed this line had already imagined it could later be used as a bike path. It’s like the human body, which was designed remarkably. For example: we think ears were made for hearing, but not at all—they were designed to hold glasses at a time when glasses didn’t even exist yet. What a remarkable sense of anticipation. It’s been raining for an hour; I’m staying in bed. This could seriously mess up my schedule... My fellow bike-touring neighbors seem to have done the same.

As mentioned earlier, due to an incident beyond our control, my phone can no longer take photos.

Monday, August 28, 2023 - Cloyes-les-Trois-Rivières - Chartres - 10th day - 71 km - Total 672 km

Tonight I’m in Cloyes-les-Trois-Rivières. For once, I stocked up in Vendôme—stopped by Monoprix, then went looking for a gas cartridge. I called the campsite in Cloyes, but they don’t have a kitchen area like the one in Montoire, which was super well-equipped for cyclists. To avoid wasting time, I called the Carrefour on my route. They were really friendly but didn’t have gas. I tried Intersport next—they don’t sell gas either. Weird for a sports store, right? They were super nice too. Finally, I found some at Leclerc, but it meant backtracking. I went anyway because I needed it to cook my leftover pasta. All that hassle just for some leftover pasta—I can’t get over it.

Vendôme is a really pleasant town and, without a doubt, the liveliest since Saumur. I grabbed a coffee on a terrace. Then I headed back to the city center to get back on the road, but my GPS lost its signal, and I ended up going in circles through the little streets, unable to find my way out. A nice downpour started, so I took shelter under the porch of a church. I used the time to say three Our Fathers and five Hail Marys. Actually, I was cursing that never-ending rain, but no—I waited patiently for it to pass.

I finally set off again—?? km left to go.

The countryside changes. Up until now, I’ve been following the Loir, a lazy river that flows super slowly. It’s the kingdom of water lilies, duckweed, lethargic frogs, and anglers.

Rafting fans, thrill-seekers, canyoning enthusiasts—move along, nothing to see here.

I arrive in Cloyes, and surprise—bars, restaurants, and grocery stores are open. It smells like civilization, fine particles, and low-emission zones.

Tonight it’s chilly, and I’m starting to miss the heatwave. Speaking of which, my urinary issues have disappeared. I think it was due to the heat. No matter how much I drank, nothing came out the other end—barely three drops every 30 minutes. Then, as the heat eased, it went up to four drops, and finally, normal flow returned. That’s a relief because I was starting to worry.

For a moment, I don’t know why, I thought about how there are 8 billion of us on Earth. That’s 8 billion people on borrowed time. Nope, that’s too depressing—I’ll stop there.

Tonight the sky is clear. There are a few stars and at least one plane in the sky at all times. The other night in Saumur, the sky was full of stars—not planes.

Alright, it’s 10:38 PM, and I’m heading into the tent because it’s starting to get freezing.

Back to my notes for the day.

Every morning is an epic battle between me and my sleeping bag. It refuses to go back into its stuff sack. No matter what tactics I try, it resists—puffing up, bursting out one side, then the other. I dread this moment. I flatter it, pet it, beg it, but it won’t cooperate. Only after a fierce struggle do I finally get it back in the sack. Every time, I think of Patrick Sébastien’s song about sardines: *"How cramped we are at the bottom of this can," the sardines say.*

This morning I woke up at 7:00 AM. It was raining, and the wise old voice in my head said: *Get up and pack your things so you’re ready to take down the tent as soon as the rain stops.* But I was cozy in my sleeping bag and stayed put even after the rain ended.

I asked my fellow hikers about their camp-packing speed, and they told me it takes them about 2 hours. So I’m right on average.

I tend to judge people based on my own middle-class, non-hipster city-dweller ideas—that’s a serious lack of empathy on my part.

What right do I have? What do I know about their concerns, their aspirations, their way of seeing life?

This thought seems out of place here, but I’m keeping it anyway. I think some people are unique, but since there are so many of them, they’re actually plural—singular plurals. Yikes. That’s getting too deep—I’ll stop before I drown in it.

This morning, I saw a guy stuffing his face with blackberries by the side of the road. I stopped to warn him about the dangers of overdoing it with that sneaky fruit. Mr. Know-It-All shot back that if I got sick, it wasn’t because of the fruit but because my hands were dirty. I didn’t respond, but I thought to myself: *My hands are always dirty, but since I stopped eating blackberries, I’ve been fine.*

And that’s it.

Tuesday, August 29, 2023 - 1 Cloyes-les-Trois-Rivières - Chartres - 11th day, 73 km - Total 745 km

Another simply beautiful day of life. But I don’t just live for beautiful days while hiking; most of the ones I know throughout the year are beautiful too. This morning, the weather is clear, there’s a lot of dew, and the clothes I forgot hanging on my bike are soaked. They’ll dry quickly in the sun before I leave, especially considering the setback I had. I got up at 8:00 AM reluctantly because I would’ve loved to stay warm in my sleeping bag. I have breakfast, wash up, and pack my things in record time—only the tent is left to fold. That’s when I realize I no longer have my glasses. I search left and right, go back to the restrooms, nothing. Desperate, I unpack everything again—the four panniers—and go back to the restrooms twice. Still nothing. So I head to the reception to ask if anyone turned in glasses. The young woman says no. However, she asks if they might be the ones hanging from the collar of my jersey. I look, and there they are—definitely not a place I’d ever put them for fear of losing them. All that took an hour. In the end, I didn’t leave any earlier than usual. On the path between my tent and the restrooms, about 50 meters, there are rabbit droppings. It’s the first time I’ve seen a camping rabbit... While eating breakfast, I can watch people coming and going to the restrooms—only women. I conclude that, apart from me, men don’t need to go to the restroom in the morning. In the end, camping, like restaurants, is a great place to observe people’s behavior. Freud and Lacan should’ve gone camping to broaden their view of society instead of limiting their observations to a few neurotic bourgeois women. I finally leave at 10:36 AM—could’ve been worse. I pass under the majestic Château de Cloyes perched on its hill. It’s a private property; you can rent it for events—it must cost a fortune. I stop in front of a house to jot something down in my travel journal, and immediately, a grandmother around 70 years old comes to see what’s going on. I explain, and we start talking—well, mostly her talking, and me listening, as usual. She was born 100 meters from here in a family of 12 children and never had any herself. She lived 30 years in Champigny-sur-Marne and came back with her husband to spend her retirement. I ask what she likes about this place, and she says it’s quiet. That confirms my idea about people who live in small provincial towns—they want peace and quiet. I add that she must’ve had a happy childhood if she wanted to come back here to spend her final years. Barely back on the road, I stop again to taste small yellow pears, the size of plums, that had fallen onto the road. They’re beautiful—I’ve never seen anything like them—but they taste pretty bland. I tell myself that if I keep stopping every 500 meters, I’ll never get anywhere. But what’s the point of traveling if it’s just to go straight ahead without looking around? So many interesting things are offered to my curiosity. Ever since I’ve been traveling through rural France, I’ve been amazed by the names of places, which are usually those of the farms scattered across the countryside. Their sound varies depending on the area. They often end in "-rie" or "-ière" and in many other ways—it’s a kind of poetry that makes me imagine the lives of the people who live or have lived in these places. Each one carries a story that blends the place and the people, a relationship that’s being lost as places are abandoned and people lose their roots. I’ve always been amazed by those who can live all over the world without ever getting attached to a place. I’m one of those who need roots—a place, a house that’s an anchor and a rallying point.

After this digression, a more prosaic point: today I noticed the name "La Proutiére." There must be winds there, and it’s not about to be classified as a ZFE (low-emission zone), since methane is a potent greenhouse gas. Okay, I’ll stop before I start making bad jokes. I often stop, but I still catch myself wanting to go fast. And the old Chinese sage (always Chinese) reminds me to slow down. What’s the rush? Take your time, look, smell, listen, enjoy, rabbit—he stole that somewhere. Look, you’re lucky to be able to ride like this at your age; not everyone can. Okay, I’ll stop again before I go off track, and on a bike, that’s always a problem.

That reminds me of my doctor, who protects me by saying: "You have to accept that you’re not young anymore and stop your bike-trip fantasies and all that." Next time I see her, I won’t say anything, or she’ll swallow her stethoscope. She’s already told me there’s no point in giving me prescriptions because I don’t follow them. On the other hand, there’s the cardiologist who wants me to lose weight at all costs. We’ll see what the scale says when I get home—not sure it’ll be convincing. When I lie on my back, my stomach is flat, but when I stand up, it rounds out. The old sage tells me it’s a lack of abs. What does he know? I think it’s more of a gravity issue. If the apple hadn’t existed, Newton wouldn’t have discovered the law of gravity, and I wouldn’t have a belly in a vertical position. It’s all the apple’s fault. If you don’t get it, no worries.

A little later, I’m intrigued by a woman crouched in the middle of a plowed field. I wonder what she’s doing there. The advantage of biking is that you have more time to observe, and it’s easier to stop—sometimes a little too easy. So I take advantage of these two perks to go ask her what she’s doing. She’s so absorbed that she doesn’t see me coming, so I call out from a distance to warn her and avoid scaring her. She gladly answers my question: she’s surveying cover crops with a yellow hoop about 60 cm in diameter. A cover crop is used to cover the soil during the winter to fix nitrogen on the surface and prevent it from being washed deep by runoff. Here, it’s especially important because it’s a drinking water catchment area. That’s what I understood. The accepted nitrate level is 50 mg per liter, but here it’s up to 65. So they either have to treat the water or mix it with purer water from elsewhere—but that costs. So they’re trying to improve cover crops in collaboration with farmers. But not all of them are willing to cooperate. And that’s that.

This young woman works for the water agency in collaboration with the Chamber of Agriculture. She seems passionate about what she does and is unstoppable. After a long while, I have to say goodbye, and she goes off to place her yellow hoop a little further away. By the way, for those interested, inside the hoop there was phacelia, mustard, and radishes. Too bad I didn’t have bread and butter. Another great encounter.

I forgot to mention we were in the middle of a barley field, which I, poor ignoramus, had mistaken for wheat. I arrive in Châteaudun, dominated by its massive castle. I have a particular fondness for this town, where I’ve probably passed through about ten times. The first time was with my parents and brothers. We were accompanying my father, who was installing a kitchen. It must’ve been in the early 60s. While waiting, we visited the town with our mother. It was market day, certainly on the main central square, and I bought one or two stamp packets. (In parentheses, I’ve long since stopped collecting stamps.) My mother bought two small bedside lamps for my brothers in a store like the "Grandes Galeries." I can still see them. They lit their dreams for many years. It was on the bulb of one of them that JM—initials only for discretion—used to heat the thermometer to fake a fever and skip school. One day, he even overdid it, and the thermometer exploded. Anyway, that’s how you uncover terrible family secrets buried for years.

Second memory: we stopped here with my dear travel companions Jean Paul and Édouard exactly 10 years ago for lunch during our fantastic bike adventure to Saint-Jacques and Portugal. Another moving memory. I was surprised by Édouard’s choice—sausages with fries, full of saturated fats. That surprised me coming from him.

This town has a certain charm. The streets in the center are often lined with very old houses, and an esplanade overlooks the endless countryside. It’s also one of the last places of French resistance against the Prussians in 1870. I have a coffee in the sun on the main square. I’m comfortable and find it hard to leave. I wander the streets desperately looking for a bakery and finally ask a passerby waiting at a red light on the sidewalk. Yes, I said *red light*—because cars go on green while pedestrians wait for it to turn red. I ask if he knows the area, and he says yes, pointing me to a bakery on the square. He takes the opportunity to ask about my trip, and I learn he’s originally from Corsica, married to a woman from La Rochelle, retired from the air force, and his son is on vacation in the Landes. All that in a few seconds, thanks to half a baguette. And people say folks are closed off, glued to their TVs, and don’t want to communicate. Try biking with luggage—even fake—and you’ll see.

I have a picnic by the Loir River with a duck terrine I bought at the campsite this morning for 1.70 €. An incredible price for a very decent product. Then a coffee in Bonneval. Prices are going up—the croque-monsieur is 11.90 €. I set off again to cross the immense Beauce plain with its vast fields, endless sky, and horizon. Not a sound, only the whisper of the wind in my helmet. The crossing over the A10 highway near the "Poêle percée" rest area is a striking contrast with the impressive roar of vehicles speeding by after the serene calm of the countryside.

From the height of my bike, I often see insects crossing the road at full speed, hurrying to escape my criminal wheels. Speaking of which, I see one crushed when I stop. It wasn’t me who killed it—I’ve never killed a beetle, or at least not one that smelled bad. I stole that line from a song, but it was about cats.

Tomorrow, I start the last leg of my trip. I approach it with the impatience to arrive and also the nostalgia of a beautiful journey full of serenity, encounters, and above all, pleasure.

Wednesday, August 30, 2023 - Chartres to Plaisir - 12th day - 85 km - 830 km total

The total distance I covered came out to 830 km, while the app had estimated 860 km for this route. So I saved 30 km—that’s not insignificant in these times of budget constraints. The weather forecast predicted rain between 7:00 and 9:00 AM. It’s pretty handy how accurate this science has become. I decide to strategically plan my morning: 1—I stay cozy in my sleeping bag until 8:30. 2—During the rain, I get up and pack all my gear into my panniers without leaving the tent. 3—I freshen up. 4—The rain stops, and all I have to do is load the panniers onto the bike. Darn, I forgot to fold the tent. 5—Problem: doing all that between 8:30 and 9:00 isn’t realistic, so I’m only ready by 10:26. But the calculations were intentionally off from the start so I could stay warm in my sleeping bag a little longer. By the way, I’m getting along better with my sleeping bag now—it’s become more cooperative, and I can pack it away more easily. Patience and psychology really do work wonders.

I left my tent in Chartres, an old companion from my recent trips. Despite its best efforts, it had reached the end of its life: all the waterproof seams were peeling off one by one, and its waterproofing was becoming increasingly unreliable. So I left it in the campsite trash, not without a pang in my heart and a little guilt for not giving it a more dignified send-off. Now, every time I pass through Chartres, I’ll have a fond thought for it.

My tire pressure seemed a bit low, which made the bike less efficient, so I headed to the gas station at the nearby supermarket to use the air pump. It costs 1 €—a step backward when I think about how this service used to be free. Plus, I didn’t have that euro. I spotted the nearby bakery, bought a sandwich for 4.90 €, and handed over a 10 € bill, asking for change in 1 € coins. To my surprise, the cashier told me it wasn’t possible. I wondered if she was a friend of *La mie câline* from Niort. She explained that money handling is done through a machine that gives change however it sees fit. What was bound to happen, happened: I slid my 10 € bill into the machine, and it spat out a 10-cent coin and a 5 € bill. UGH!

After letting the staff know what I thought of this evil progress that prevents you from inflating your bike tires, I stormed out. Oh well, I’d ride like that. Anger is a bad advisor—with a little more thought, I could’ve gotten what I wanted. For example, by returning the 4.90 € sandwich and just asking for a caramel that cost 1 franc.

Still, I think progress can be unsettling sometimes. Like the idea of implanting an electronic chip in our bodies containing all our personal information. You walk into that devil’s bakery and order a tuna sandwich. When you go to pay, the machine replies: *I can’t accept your order. This item contains mayonnaise, which is not recommended given your health status.* *Please choose a more diet-friendly option, like our young spinach shoots salad with tofu.* Welcome to this wonderful world.

Another annoyance: the chicanes placed on bike paths at every intersection, forcing you into acrobatic maneuvers—especially with a loaded bike. Do they put chicanes on highways to keep bikes out?

Finally, a positive note: the smiles of others. I’m often surprised by how easily people smile at you—a driver stopping to let you pass, a pedestrian you cross paths with, an elderly woman you ask for directions. Most people are genuinely friendly and approachable. It’s reassuring.

Yesterday, I finished following the Loir River and entered the Eure Valley, so I went from the Loire watershed to the Seine’s without even realizing it. It’s true that the Beauce hills aren’t exactly famous yet.

And there I was, arriving at the church steeple at 4:10 PM. MC was waiting with Valentin and Manon—what a lovely surprise to see all three of them. They knew I was arriving soon thanks to the app tracking my route.

The last kilometers felt long, and I was eager to arrive. I used the EMTB mode on my bike—don’t ask me what it means, but it gives you a boost. Climbing hills felt as easy as riding on flat ground.

I’d like to thank everyone who followed my journey and sent so many encouraging messages.

This wasn’t an athletic feat—11 days to cover about 800 km is longer than the 8 days it took me to descend to the Basque Country 10 years ago with my good friends Jean-Paul and Édouard. Under Jean-Paul’s demanding but fair leadership, we were practically setting records.

But I wasn’t looking for performance. I had a wonderful experience, crossing landscapes that, while not extraordinary, have a special magic when you travel by bike. They let you savor little things—a scent, a light, a house nestled by the river—and make countless friendly encounters. It’s proof that people are still curious and open to others.

Hopefully, until next adventure!