It was one of those days when I didn’t want to faff around with a map. The sun was shinning, there was a light breeze. My plan was to ride upwind, then when I’d had enough turn around and ride home with a tailwind feeling like ten men.
I set off through the lanes to Rochechouart, descended down the back of the Chateaux, then on toward Babaudus. About a kilometer along I turned up a chemin for no reason other than I just did. The chemin climbed out of the valley in a middle-ring easy going sort of way, then across a road and on toward who knows where.
And so it was for the next couple of hours, I just rode along, in the warm sun, trending in the same direction, along fabulous tracks that just presented themselves one after the other like a gift, carpeted in spring flowers, not a care in the world, lost in the moment. However, with the realisation of being lost in the moment came the loss of the moment, and I found myself lost.
I had arrived at a huge lake, with a cafe, and a bar, and not a person there apart from mowerman. There were places launching saling boats, and signs that mentioned fishing, I wondered if the place ever got crowded, maybe in August, and how it survived the rest of the year. I spotted a path around the shore, I rode it.
By now my legs and hunger were telling me it was time to head home. As per plan, I turned to ride with the wind, noted where my shadow fell, and trended in that direction, it was that simple. Some time later, I grovelled my way back up the steep climb past the Chateaux with tired legs. On the run in along familiar roads I began to feel good. Maybe not like ten men, but certainly like a man who had enjoyed a gift of a day. Twenty minutes later I was back at home with a cool beer in the garden.
Salut nos chers amis – we are online in worcester Library, have just looked up Rochechouart and guess who we found!!! It looks fantastic and we can’t wait to see for ourselves. We especially like your last sentence…
A bientot