My strategy for today was an early start to beat the heaviest rain. Zeus, the Greek god of storms, thunder, lightning and rain, had a better plan and brought the rain early. A malicious bunch those Greek gods when they have a mind to be. I did however manage to pack and leave during a brief interlude and the tent was only damp. By around 9:30am I had entered the Dordogne and by 10:00am I was ready for a stop to warm up, stretch aching shoulders and hydrate. I am on the D675 which is a big boys main road where the trucks roll past at speed. It is not hugely busy but I have to be alert all the while. I later realise that my tour guides have rushed ne through this segment as there are exciting roads to come where they take a less direct route.
Just when I needed it a covered garage appears and I don't hesitate to take cover. Feeling a bit cold and grim I remember the saying that when life gives you lemons make lemonade. OK, it is not iced lemonade weather so I harvest some rainwater using my best Bear Grylls skills and make hot, strong sweet coffee using sugar cubes foraged from the ferry. I must remember to drop a note to Bear Grylls to point out that coffee is better made with rainwater than with your own pee; though in truth I've not tested the second scenario and haven't any immediate plans to do so. And in fairness to Mr Grylls I don't think he ever advocated for pee over rainwater in hot beverage making.
And yes, that is a pack of hand-foraged oreos by my helmet. I'd been hoping to see some of my recent acquaintances and sure enough I get to wave down Steve and Trish and make them coffee doing my darnest not to appear too smug; the ubiquitous bar tabac isn't as present these days. They seem to quite enjoy getting into the general water harvesting, man against the environment vibe.
Brantome is something of a tourist honey pot and I arrive just when Komoot told me I would at 4:07 hrs of pedalling. In the middle of May it is quiet and the sun peaks through allowing me to take in the town and dry off a bit before heading to the campsite.
The Abbey is a big draw here.
Unusually the old town sits totally surrounded by the river Dronne and has eight bridges connecting it to the outside world.
Brantome is about 80 miles north east of Bordeaux or half way between Bordeaux and Limogues in the Perigord region. This might sound like I am well on my way but I am still on the west side of France and need to track east when I get to the Lot Valley. France is shaped like a hexagon and therefore 'fatter' than people think. Tomorrow is in fact the day I start my eastward journey; the straight line from Brantome to Nice is East-South-East.
And how do you deal with wet clothes when camping? Simple, put any thought of shame aside and hang it all out to dry by the side of highbrow Brantome's riverside promenade. Water flows downhill and its the cyclist's shoes that fill up.
Today was, as much as a wet day on a bike can be, a good day but despite this my ponderings on the world of hope turned to the expression that to lose hope is to lose everything.
To lose hope is to lose everything.
The more you look at that statement the more you realise how important hope is to the human condition. If water is vital to supporting our physical aspect, then hope sustains our emotional wellbeing. If we are deprived of water we very quickly start to suffer through the effects of dehydration. Without hope we lose our motivation, willpower and desire to continue. I recall one cycle tour where I was coming to the end of three long days with plenty of climbs and I just needed to climb to the top of the next hill to my campsite. Turning off the main road the tarmac rose steeply so I jumped off my bike ready to walk but my legs were having none of it. It was hope that told me to rest and then continue round the hill until a more feasible and hopeful road might present itself. Needless to say that hope saw me camping on top of the hill that night as planned. If that was all rather dark then perhaps the lesson is that we should never lose hope as we can always find a way.
It was Shelley who wrote the classic poem "Ozymandias". In it a self-important king has a great statue built so he would be immortalised and the plinth tells us that "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" The statue itself was lying in the sands slowly decaying. The lesson? We all turn to dust eventually. Ozymandias (real or fictional) will be remembered through the great work of Shelley so his hopes were realised.
