APT 3. Flowering Cars
(Dordogne Cycle Touring 3/6):
The first full day of our Lisle APT training weekend, Saturday, dawned bright and sunny, perfect for a long day of cycling. We were sure we could beat our 2019 record and manage a hundred kilometres. Today was our best chance, since we weren’t yet saddlesore.
We set off towards Bourdeilles, a riverside village that the people at Rénamont had advised us to visit. There was plenty to admire along the pretty country roads, from a 400-year-old oak tree to a flowering car.
We stopped to ask a gardener whether the wooden building in his garden was a tobacco-drying shed (it was). Half an hour later we were still discussing politics and the environment with him, and had been invited to share an aperitif with his family. It would have been easy to stop there, just 2km from the campsite. But we didn’t. We valiantly continued our journey, fascinated by his self-sufficiency project and glad to have put the world to rights.
Bourdeilles is beautiful and not too big. I recommend a visit if you’re in the area. We cycled through the streets, took photos and generally behaved exactly like the tourists we take pains to avoid.
After a quick coffee on a terrace, we continued cycling along the most delightful series of shady lanes. Predictably, I fell in love with rural Dordogne and daydreamed about selling our house and launching ourselves into self-sufficiency here.
My partner was in charge of the map – not that he seemed to look at it very often. We followed the river, stopping to take photos and caress the overhanging rockfaces, remembering our former passion for rock-climbing. Once our daughters had abandoned us, our evenings would be free! We could join clubs. We could start climbing again.
(You see how well the APT training was working?)
I was a little surprised, after just a few more kilometres, when we turned onto a familiar-looking track and headed down a steep hill.
“Let’s check out the standing stones,” said my partner.
He was referring to a ring of stones we’d spotted the evening before, at the entrance to the Rénamont guinguette.
We waded through long grass and examined the stones, speculating as to their origin.
“We could ask about them at the bar,” said my partner.
I saw the gleam in his eyes again, and understood. It was only 3pm and we’d cycled the grand distance of 10km.
“OK,” I agreed.
Six hours later, at dusk – after some games of pétanque, a paddle and walk along the river, a siesta, some convivial aperitifs and an evening meal accompanied by BAM beer – we wobbled our way back to the campsite. We’d only cycled 13km but we’d found a place we knew we’d return to. As for the standing stones, they were installed and sculpted during a festival held on the site.
It didn’t matter that we’d done more socialising than cycling. We would rectify that the next day. At least, that’s what we told ourselves.
