Playing the endgame.

We've set ourselves up in a 'camping', as they call them in France, about a half hour's drive from Bordeaux near a village called Crėon. We drove for four hours from 8.30 this morning to get here.

I didn't sleep last night. Was wide awake at 2.30 am after receiving the information from sister, Reggie, that mum would be dropped at my house in Coburg, Australia, on July 15. Okay, back on duty in my brain, which has already got me on high alert.

But it wasn't just that that woke me. It's playing the endgame on a holiday like this, and let's face it, it's been a rollercoaster. 

The endgame requires a strict schedule. Dispose of the bikes, somehow, return the camping car, and this time face the damage bill for an avoidable prang that's been eating at us since it occurred over a week ago. Then there's figuring out how to make all the public transport connections, cos poor me, I get to spend two nights in Paris.

Sounds absolutely pathetic, but it's white knuckled stress for a neurotic like me. 

As far as driving goes here, the other drivers are generally polite and cautious. The roads are safely marked and chicanes slow down traffic. But it's foreign. It's not home. And we're driving a sizeable truck, even though it's called a 'compact car'. As I've already mentioned, some roads are so narrow you suck in your tummy to get through and god help you if a car, or semi, yes, is coming the other way.

Thinking of all this got my stress hormones happening. Sister, Jane reckons I'm an adrenaline junkie cos I keep returning for more. I'm not though. I hate adrenaline; makes me feel desperate and today it had my blood sugar in the 20s. (I have T1 diabetes.)

I got up at 4.30 this morning, sick of lying on our cramped smaller than double bed and went for a ride through the camping ground to find the facilities. Was kind of fun. Wondered where the stars were. When it lightened it was foggy. I've only seen stars once on this rain sodden trip to France, where incidentally it's now HOT AND BLUE. Yes, just when it's almost time to go home

When Al woke up at about 6.30 he was unusually anxious too. That caused me even more of an adrenaline surge. He needs to be in charge. Don't like it when he goes all dithery on me.

After a brief confab during which I bitched about the cold shower I'd just suffered in the dark sanitaires with some madam making her tea and having an early morning fag, Al and I agreed to make a dash from Cahors, where we'd arrived late the previous arvo, to Bordeaux to try to resell our bikes at Ecocycle Merignac, from whence we'd bought them.

And that was it. We were on the winding road carefully following Sat Nav Jane's directions for close to five hours, despite having done a similarly long drive from Carcassonne to Cahors the previous day.

(Carcassonne, by the way: put it on the must see list.)

The reason we had to return the bikes today, Saturday, even though the van's not due back in Bordeaux until Tuesday morning, is that Ecocycle isn't open on Sundays and Mondays. We'd bought them for €320 3 weeks earlier. Given how few rides we've managed due to inclement weather it seemed every ride had cost us about €60. 

Anyway, we high-fived each other when we arrived at Ecocycle, found it miraculously open during that lunch-time shutdown - c'est exceptionnel, said Monsieur le bike seller - and sold our bikes for €168.50. Made us feel a tad better.

Now we have a couple of days sans bikes, to read books and relax by the pool; the type of thing one does on a holiday if one is not us.

Feel better.

Post-trip debrief back in Melbourne

Arrived back in Melbourne last night.  Interesting that I've got a winter garden happening here, as opposed to all the greenery and flowers blooming in France and Germany.  However, the weather is quite similar to that on the day we left Munich on Friday.  Except it's not raining here.  The sun's up and it looks like my washing will mostly dry on the line.

Before I put our wonderful holiday to bed, I must mention that our final few days in Munich went well.

Despite my concerns re McRent, the rental company from which we hired our van, the handover was better than expected.  We'd felt ripped off in 2010 when we were forced to pay 100 euro for an alleged hair and smudge of 'shampoo' in the bathroom as I mentioned in my previous post

This time we had to return the van on the date planned between 9 and 10 am.  I'd awoken at about five.  Special combo of anxiety and the fact that it was light outside.  I'd started my cleaning frenzy by seven.  I was quite irrational but determined that the van would 'pass' the inspection.  Unfortunately, it started raining which made it particularly difficult to keep mud and footprints out of the van.  I covered the clean floor in towels and Chux cleaning cloths and we used these like stepping stones to avoid 'recontamination'.  

We were also concerned about being charged for a faulty latch on the rear door of the van.  When we'd returned our van in 2010 we were charged for a key that snapped off inside the lock.  Surely not our fault but rather the quality of the key?

As per instructions, we filled the tank with fuel then dropped it into the carwash prior to returning it.  McRent pays for this final exterior clean.

Upon our return to McRent, Sulzemoos - 27 kilometres from Munich - we were greeted by a delightful bloke.  He seemed impressed by our efforts.  He climbed a ladder to inspect the roof, lest we'd damaged it in some way.  We had been concerned about hail storm damage, but we were clear.  He surveyed the vehicle, muttering 'Gut, gut,' while I hovered around in my massive yellow Vietnam rain poncho.  In one hand I clutched a trigger bottle of all purpose cleaner; in the other a Chux cloth, ready to pounce had he suggested, like his female counterpart two years earlier, that the van was not clean.  Must have looked a tad insane.

Perhaps it was this insanity that led me to take close up shots of all the surfaces in the bathroom as proof of their gleaming condition. 

I needn't have been so concerned.  The fellow assured us that it wasn't our fault that the door latch had broken and that it was easily fixed.  We passed with flying colours, apart from the 302 euro that we had to pay for damage - our fault - to the table top in the van.  Otherwise, we got the rest of our 1200 euro deposit back.

The guy at McRent could not have been more obliging on our return, including driving us and our bags back into the village to catch our bus to Munich.

BTW we also did well selling back our bikes.  We'd originally paid 260 euro for two second hand bikes.  We sold them back for 120 euro.  We couldn't have rented bikes for eight weeks at that price.  Definitely the way to go if you're ever considering a similar trip.

So, props to McRent.

And props to us.  We drove 3000 kilometres and cycled 685k during our eight week holiday.

Lost in France

My husband has a special quality. It has served us well through the 33 years we've been together. We're not unlike Jack Sprat & his wife.

I'm obsessive-compulsive which led to six or so years of panic disorder in my 30s, given the OCD/Type 1 diabetes special combo that I am, amongst other things.

Al is the opposite. Totally 'she'll be right'. In him, it's bordering on over-relaxed disorder. Usually his calm counteracts my anxiety. But not right now.

Because, right now, 1pm, I am sitting in a hot campervan. Sick. And stuck.

You may remember that in an instant of over-relaxed carelessness, Al lost our passports & cash in Vietnam? Well, today he has lost his keys. Not the van keys. Our Australian house key - no big deal. But also the key to the bike lock. No big deal?

Actually, it is. We'd taken my bike into a repair shop today to get an inner tube replaced. We parked the van & Al locked his bike onto the bike rack on the van. We always lock the bikes up. His is locked onto the outer rim of the rack. Mine generally sits on the inner rim.

So we have our coffee while we wait the half hour for the bike repair. Al decides to go to the supermarket while I stay at the bar-tabac drinking gallons of tea cos I'm not well. (I was outside, BTW. Not spreading my germs, I hope.)

And somehow, in all that, he loses the keys.

I returned to the bike shop, which was closing up for a two hour lunch break, and in faltering French - my language skills falter when I'm on the verge of tears - & with lots of miming, explained the dilemma.

The bike shop owner got it. He'll be back at 2pm with an angle-grinder or hacksaw. I hope.

Ironically, on our return from Vietnam in January, we had to take Al's bike to our Melbourne bike shop to get the D lock cut off. Because Al had lost his house & bike lock keys with the passports, cash & credit cards. His bike was locked on our porch.

Forty minutes still to wait. Least it's not so serious this time. We will look back & laugh - when I can bring myself to speak to Al again.

La rhume et la grippe en France. Farque alors!

Made one of my infrequent phone calls a couple of weeks ago to sister Reggie. She commented on how relaxed I sounded on my cycling holiday in France. Of note, she said, was the fact that I hadn't mentioned my diabetes at all. Well, I've still got it. Don't mention it much, just the rare blog. I know I should be a proud advocate of Type 1 D, but it gets on my nerves. Generally I play it down.

My diabetes has been our constant companion on this trip. Al carries juice packs on our long cycles. I've been hitting the carbs & taking more insulin during the rides; something I'm experimenting with as per Ginger Vieira's book. I've actually managed my blood glucose really well this way. We stop cycling after an hour. I check my bg., have some insulin, eat a croissant!! Lol. I'm in France. Have also had 'pain chocolat' - more or less a chocolate filled croissant-ish treat. I bolus for roughly half the carbs & 'roule' on. That's ride on. Bgs have almost invariably been normal & I don't think I've gained that much weight. If I have it's more likely due to fromage, pate and grands vins blancs sec.

So why am I going on about D now? Because I've got high bg that I'm constantly bolusing down, my throat hurts, nose & eyes are streaming. Yes I've got a cold. And I'm pissed off at getting it & I know exactly who gave it to me. I didn't get away quickly enough.

Al & I took refuge from the rain in the medieval town of Loche in a bar. Ordered our drinks. Sat down. No other customers. So far so good.

Then in came a paisley panted bespectacled American tourist with her emaciated blond friend. They ordered their drinks & got their novels out. Paisley pants sat with her back to me at the next table. As she settled to her book I heard her gurgling the mucous back in her nose, followed by some soggy tissued wet nose blowing. Sneezing.

'Oh-oh,' I said to Al. 'She's at the droplet infection stage!'

'Why do you always think you're going to get it?'

'I always do. Come on, let's go.' I knocked back 100ml of wine in one gulp & we wandered off to find somewhere less toxic to eat. (Btw we had crepes & they were disgusting clot cold abominations with which we toyed. The maitre d was all effusive & wanted to know if we'd enjoyed them. 'Pas mal - not bad,' I lied.)

Anyway I'm still cross with selfish snotty paisley pants. She should have read her book in her room rather than spreading her germs. Just in case there was someone around with a chronic illness who's now going to struggle with the complications of this cold & have to do extra blood tests all night, & for the next few days, to keep her bg under control in a bid to shorten the duration of the cold & avoid subsequent chest infection. Grrhhh!

I wrote a little note in French for the pharmacist & Al cycled off into the village - St Amand-Montrond - to get me some cold & flu tabs. I've isolated
myself to avoid spreading it. Wish frickin' paisley pants had done the same.

Culture shock or alcohol overload?

We're in Nantes, a huge city in France. We arrived yesterday just as the weather cleared and we sat in the bar at the camping, Al drinking his 1664 biere- beer - and me supping on one of the most delicious Chardonnays, from Bourgogne, that I've ever tasted. That makes about 6 weeks of solid drinking for me. Not good, even though I'm having yet another trip of a lifetime.

So today I was determined to go alcohol free. Lately it's been a case of trying to keep off alcohol until after 4.30 in the afternoon. But it's really hard to resist a bevy with one's duck confit.

The other day we stopped for lunch in a place called St Georges sur Loire on the way out of Angers - Angers brilliant BTW. The restaurant was called Hotel de Tetes Noires. That sounds a bit like hotel of the black heads but we didn't let that deter us. We'd visited the place a couple of days earlier in search of change in case we got stuck on the peage - tollway - again. It looked 'local' and friendly, hence our return visit.

We were ushered into a large old dining room. It was a bit tardis-like - bigger on the inside. The tables were all set for for fine dining with white napery. lots of glasses and cutlery. The walls were painted with old fox hunting scenes. The floor tiles were colourfully patterned and old.

The waitress remembered us from our Sunday visit looking for change. She was from New Caledonia, which seemed to make us kin. I didn't mind. Love it when people are prepared to chat and share a bit of their life story: how she misses NC and her son and daughter and grandson after six years of being in France. She screwed up her nose a little to tell us that she thought the French in France are not as friendly as those in her native NC.

Anyway, we ordered cuisse de canard confit - duck thigh cooked to perfection; the best duck confit I've eaten in my life. It was served with an assiette des legumes - assortment of vegetables. Yeah, big deal. But it was. Exquisitely prepared and arranged veges: a slice of a dense, tasty mushroom frittata, zucchini, potato, sweet potato, carrot, tomato. But each vegetable was carefully prepared. The sweet potato was a small breaded disk, the potato and zucchin stood to attention and each had a pureed delicious piped topping, as did the tomato. Slivers of apple were arranged around the plate with the duck leg in the middle of it all in a slightly sweet apple flavoured gravy. May sound odd but it was perfection. Couldn't believe it for 13 euros each. So good.

I started off writing about overdoing the alcohol, and I have overdone it. Haven't written my blog for a few days because I'm boring. Sleep, cycling, driving, the usual panic trying to drive through cities. 'Head for the Centre Ville! Left, left, left! Why did you go right?'

'Fuck, fucking, fuck!' Seriously. I've never heard Al swear so much. Well, not since we were here in 2010.

The trick with heading for the Centre Ville is that after you've driven three times around the roundabout you've usually figured out in which direction to head.

Have been totally overwhelmed by Nantes today. It's huge and busy; an incredible mix of medieval and ultramodern. Witness the mechanical elephant. Nantes, I think, is the birthplace of Jules Verne. My head is almost exploding trying to take in all the cathedrals and chateaux. I need to draw breath.

Cycling into the centre from the camping ground was terrifying, despite all the marked cycle paths. What a day to decide not to have any wine.

Think I'm at the culture shock stage of our tour because I'm too exhausted to try to speak in French. Yes, I've definitely had a bad French language day. Tongue-tied again, probably because I've been over-indulging for too many days, starting back with my dad dying over a month ago now.

Ah well. Better put the kettle on.

Angers, Pays du Loire. Or bust.

Sunday. Rain.  And it's set in according to my iPhone weather forecast.  Popped in to a Maccas for a cafe and wifi use to see whether we could manage a visit to my cousin, who lives in France.  Needed to check Google maps because her place wasn't listed in our Michelin guide.  Tant pis - too bad.  Seems she's 250 k south of where we are.  That's a big round trip when your days are numbered.  Next visit, it seems.  (And hi, Penny, BTW.  Was so good to hear from you.)

Instead we headed further west along the Loire valley to a place called Angers.  We're just winging it here in France.  We've no idea what we're cherching - searching - for.  Chateaux? Voies vertes - like our rail trails in Victoria - or veloroutes - shared bike/car trails along the Loire?  Found a good one yesterday.  50 k.  Brilliant.

Angers, according to the yellow patch on the map, is a big place.  Supposedly there's a 'camping' in the centre. We stop for a wonderful lunch in a place called Noyant.  (Duck confit cooked in cider with mushrooms, a ratatouille modge thing, asparagus cooked in butter and saute potatoes. Delish. All that was left on our plates were denuded duck thigh bones. Al finishes with a creme brulee. Excellent fare at a roadside pub.  Apologies for my tense swapping, BTW. Not enough battery to proof and edit! My excuse and I'm sticking with it.)

Then came the fun bit.  Besides the nasty weather we had immense trouble finding our camping at Angers, despite us having plotted it all out.  I'm talking serious map perusal and highlighting of appropriate roads.  Somehow, as we approached Angers, we were 'herded' onto the autoroute and then missed our turnoff to the camping.  I swear there was no turnoff!  We drove about 16 k beyond where we were supposed to be and decided to get off the autoroute and turn around; see if we'd have better luck going the other way.

Suddenly, we're at a totally unexpected toll booth.  We had been, unbeknown to us, on 'le peage' - the tollway.

"Quick, Al.  Get your credit card.'
'Fuck, fuck, fuck!' Fumble, fumble, fumble.

Al grabs his wallet out of the glove box. gets the card out, sticks it in the appropriate hole.  Reject. Invalid.  He tries another card.  Same result.  I quickly grab my card.  Uh-uh. I'm invalid too, it seems.  And we have no coins and the machine won't take notes.  If only Al hadn't been so concerned about leaving a ten percent tip at the restaurant.  Farque alors!

We pressed for assistance.  'Parlez vous Anglais?' I ask, knowing I won't be able to explain our dilemma in my crapue French.  'A leetle.'

We explain.  The disembodied voice tells us to insert our credit card again.  Same result.  And clearly she is not able to press the button to release the hapless travellers.  Instead, some music starts playing.  Seems she's hung up.

We're stuck. I grab a 20 euro note - our smallest currency - leap out of the van and accost the woman, who just happens to have a disconcerting wandering eye (no offence but she did) in the car behind.  I wave the note at her and she winds down her window an inch.  I explain the situation in the best French I can muster.  She checks her wallet but only has 15 euro in notes.  Tant pis.

I'm panicking.  An arm has emerged from the third car back and it's making an angry gesture.  I approach the second car back, my 20 euro held in front of me; prayer like.  The driver says he has no money but the passenger springs out, tells me he'll help and approaches the toll booth.

The 'remote controller' is no more help, despite the young gent's perfect French.  The fellow tries our cards again, but to no avail.  At least we know we weren't sticking it in the wrong way - which would be typical of us..  No matter.  Our young gallant darts back to his car and returns with the 2 euro 80 in coins and pays for us.  How lovely!  I tell him, like a lover, je t'adore - I adore you - using the inappropriate informal voice.  De rien, he says.  It's nothing.  And he wishes us a good day and we're through.

We have found our way back to Angers and have located the camping, which is 'a local place, for local people' for League of Gentlemen fans.  Don't know whether there's anything for us here.  But we're resolved to donning our plastic Vietnam ponchos and braving the rain tomorrow.  It seems it's here to stay for the foreseeable future and I don't want it to get in the way of us seeing France, the country of my dreaming.

But I'm wondering whether it might not have been a better option to head south in search of my first cousin.  Wonder what the weather's like there.

Onzain, Loire valley.

Spent last night at Chatres-sur-Cher. Sounds so simple, doesn't it?

We'd left Auxerre reasonably early that morning to visit Chablis. We parked at the Intermarche supermarket to stock up, then left the van in the carpark to cycle into the old town. Pretty, of course: narrow, winding stone walled lanes, all apparently built on top of one another. And then I thought, I'm pretty close to my neighbors back home, albeit in a weatherboard sort of way. Many of the lanes in Chablis won't even admit a small car. On your velo - bike- however, you can go anywhere.

Next drove to Vierzon, about 90k away. This was the closest biggish place to where Al had spotted, on the map & in the camping guide, what he thought would be an ideal camping, between the river Cher & its canal. But the place, Chatres-sur-Cher, wasn't on the map.

Well, getting to Vierzon wasn't a problem. Easy. When we arrived we found it was a sprawling suburban 'working class' sort of place. No indication of which way to go to find our 'ideal' camping.

We stopped in a Maccas. The young girl serving couldn't have been more obliging. She even drew a map with traffic lights and a 'hopital' to show us the way. If only I'd had her 'plan' - map - the right way up when I was giving Al directions.

Al was very kind.

Eventually we found the camp on the road to Tours & it was so ideal that it only cost 8 euros for the site & we could park anywhere cos there was only one other couple there. As an added bonus we'd found the only canal in France without a cycle/tow path so no rides there.

On the other hand, the washing machine was free & it was blowing such a gale that our washing dried within a couple of hours. Also had a bit of an opportunity to develop my French skills when the washing machine flooded. (Pardon Madame. Il y' a l'inundation dans les douches. Excuse me, madam. I've flooded the showers.) Struck up quite a rapport with the patron - boss - as we mopped the laundry floor.

Actually, that camp in the middle of nowhere was wonderful. Big river; sun on my back; no traffic noise. And the woman at reception was delighted - & surprised - to have customers. She spoke absolutely no English so my French got a good workout. Also got the showers & toilets to myself in the morning. Very cleansing.

Now, we're in the municipal camping in Onzain in the Loire valley. Got a bit shirty on the way here. We were searching for a four star camping as recommended by the guide book. Was like solving a goblin's riddle - or is it a troll? - trying to find the place. When we did, at the divorce stage, it was a veritable suburbia of tin cabins & indoor heated swimming pools. Despite the 90 minute search for the sodding place, it wasn't for us. We returned, through the vines and waving barley fields & tortuous villages, to the basic municipal on the Loire. And, btw, right on the cycling route along the Loire.

Hard to remain shitty when you've screamed with joy into the wind whipping through the Loire valley as you cross the bridge - walking your bike because otherwise you'd be swept off.

Tomorrow, a 46 k round trip along the flat between here - Onzain - and Blois. With chateaux to spare.

The trail is slightly hilly.

'Are you enjoying the free ride?' asks Al as we're whizzing down a hill at about 30kph.

'Nooo!!'

I was actually. Poppies and other wild flowers and herbs along the sides of the paths, miles of vines stretching out into the distance. Is there a better view? Ancient stone walls along the lanes, beautiful little villages. Ahh. Too hard to find all the superlatives.

Sky a bit overcast with a few peeks of blue. Perfect temperature for cycling.

But the thing about that free ride? Well, you know. When you're doing a round trip along a veloroute - a cycle route that's shared with cars - you're going to pay for those free rides on the way back.

Forty-four k from Beaune to Santenay & back. But for me it felt like 100. And I've cycled 100 so I know. I'm puffing and panting up those hills. Meanwhile, my companion is cruising gently along. I've dropped down to granny gear and he's still in 3 & 4. Wanker.

However, can honestly say it's one of the most sensational rides of my life. Still buzzing from it now, post shower.

Did have a bit of a contretemps about half way through the ride. Encountered the witch of Santenay. Clearly a mad woman who lives to guard her driveway. We'd done this lovely ride and had reached the destination but we had the temerity to inadvertently park our bikes about a centimeter over this woman's driveway. Her place was next door to the restaurant at which we stopped for a bevy.

Well, she went off her face, screaming & gesticulating. More savage than a German Shepherd guarding another maison along the way.

I did a bit of sarky savage back. 'Oh, mon dieu! J'en suis tres, tres desolee!' complete with a few dramatic actions of my own.

But the woman wouldn't let up. I'd shifted the bikes but she felt she had to start beating her carpet on the wall in our general direction. Farque alors! I lapsed, to no avail, into un petit peu of Anglo-Saxon but it didn't work. Think she got the two fingers though.

Should have had a beware of the dog sign. But which one?