At about 19:00 I took a turn to the left where a sign directed me to a campsite since it was the only one I had seen since leaving Pessac and soon it would become too late to go any further down the road in the hope of coming across another such sign.

The turning had been somewhere between La Barp and Belin on the N10. I should point out that shortly after leaving Bordeaux I had entered a National park area which in reality was a relatively straight corridor through a commercially forested area of conifer trees planted in regimental row after row, stretching just shy of Bayonne, my entrance to the Pyrenees. After cycling down this deserted lane far a further twenty minutes or so towards the campsite, as the sign allude to, my trust in French road signs began to take a further nosedive as the site failed to make itself known.

Due to the overcast weather twilight fell earlier than would have been usual, so I decided to find a secluded spot in the forest to set up the tent for the night and up sticks at dawn before the Park ranger (or some such authorative figure) had a chance to give me an earful. I came across a tiny little road off the one I had been travelling on where the grass had grown about 8 to 9” high, so I figured it hadn’t been used in sometime, or at least it wasn’t used very often. Down here I discovered an opening in the tree canopy, the ground there growing waist high with bracken to act as cover from the view point of the lane. In the middle of this area I uprooted enough of the bracken to clear a space large enough to pitch the tent. By this stage my trainers and feet were soaked through(the near constant rain fall since leaving Bordeaux having kept the undergrowth heavy with water), so it was a luxury to get a dry pair of socks on once inside the tent. Its surprising how, when there is a charge of context, something you usually pay little regards to can offer such comfort.

Sleep came soon enough but didn’t last long, waking at about one once the ground under the tent had soaked away enough of my body’s core heat to cause me to shiver uncontrollably. Once woken I couldn’t get back to sleep particularly after hearing a large dog barking close by in area far from any houses. With the paranoia that sometimes comes with nightfall, particularly when camping alone in the middle of a forest in a foreign country, the dog grew in stature in my imagination with each passing minute. It wasn’t long before I was conjuring some demonic wolf like beast with enormous salivating fangs on the prowl for some poor unfortunate to put the fear of god into, and convincing myself that it was coming closer! As soon as there was enough light on the horizon to see what I was doing I packed up and got back onto the open road, and in so doing, got back to civilized society (how the night can stimulate a suggestive mind)!

During the night I started doubting the whole venture. I thought about how I would have liked to have stayed longer in Paris and began to recognise my limitations and their implications. For example, if I even had a basic grasp of the French language I could possibly have asked the whereabouts of the mythical campsite, if I had met anyone that is. Standing dew damp by the roadside in the early morning the bike’s limitation also became apparent as the rear wheel seemed to be severely buckled. On closer inspection it transpired that five of the spokes supporting the left side of the rear wheel had little if no tension remaining. I guessed it was no coincidence that it was also the left side carrying the heavier pannier bag. Having never maintained spokes before I assumed the wheel would have to be taken off and both tyre and inner tube removed to access the trouble spots, so I settled on risking a day’s ride to a campsite where I would have a better opportunity to investigate the matter further.

 

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