Empty Guts and Wind

Discovering the Boutonne river valley by bike:

I should have known our 80 km bike ride to a friend’s party near the Marais Poitevin last weekend wasn’t going to be simple when I saw how my husband had marked our route.

Note, in the left hand photo, that at least 3 lines lead nowhere – and one starts nowhere. Note how, in the top left corner of the right photo, he highlighted a route across countryside without any roads…

‘It’s OK, we’ve got our compasses,’ he reassured me. ‘There’ll be tracks. We just have to head north-west.’

The plan was to have an overnight stop at one of our favourite campsites – in Dampierre-sur-Boutonne – on Friday night, so that we’d arrive fresh and ready to party on Saturday afternoon. We knew there was a shop in the village, so we left behind our cooking stove, emergency food, waterproofs and other camping luxuries.

The forecast was for 35°C but as hardened cyclists (we’d done a 70 km ride in 37°C the previous week – carrying no kit in the shade along the flat river towpath and eating at least 3 ice-creams to keep us cool), we didn’t think the 60 km ride to Dampierre merited getting up early. As long as we found some food along the road or arrived before Dampierre’s village shop closed at 7pm, everything would be fine.

Which it was. At first. It’s easy to follow signs on a designated cycle route, but it’s more liberating to pick and choose a route that heads in a general direction. It was only 11:30am. We felt like true adventurers, pedalling through the gently rolling countryside of vineyards and woodland on tracks and winding lanes.

But then the countryside opened and the wind picked up. Not just any wind, but a strong north-westerly – i.e. a headwind. Suddenly, we had to push hard on our pedals to manage a meagre 10 km/h across huge, hedgeless expanses of maize, sunflowers and harvested cereal crops. The 20-45 km/h headwind seemed determined to push us back towards home. It was such hard work that I didn’t take any photos, so these were all taken on the return trip (which explains the sinister sky).

The roaring wind meant we could hardly hear each other speak, which didn’t help our disagreements on which compass was giving a correct reading: his or mine. Being intelligent (him), and remembering a similar problem in the past (him again), we (meaning ‘he’) realised that my compass reading was falsified by my nearby phone. When I moved it away, our compasses agreed – which probably saved our marriage.

We’ve never cycled against such a wind before. Not all day, in the heat. Luckily, there were some cemeteries along the way, and at Mons we watered the Brandy family with the dregs of our water bottles before filling up again.

There were plenty of excuses to stop and look at things that caught our attention, including a leaping deer, an unabashed coypu, a racing hare and a couple of magnificent châteaux: Mornay (top) and Vervant (bottom).

We were also particularly attentive to places where we could string up our hammocks and have a quick snooze of an hour or so to rest our aching legs.

The countryside was as parched as the American plains, and I was horrified to see one dry riverbed after another as we approached the Boutonne valley. The farmers, however, were happily watering roads and fields of stubble, creating puddles and mud which would have better served nature if the water had stayed in the rivers. Grrr…

At Vervant we picked up the Rives de Boutonne river valley cycling route signs and happily followed them through tiny, picturesque villages and vegetation that was a little greener. This section of the cycle route was so pretty that we wanted to explore further.

But we were still far from Dampierre and it would soon be 7pm. We hadn’t passed any shops. No cafés. Nowhere to buy an ice-cream.

We accelerated and eventually skidded to a stop in front of the village shop/bar at five to seven, only to find the square full of tables and chairs, a crowd of smiling faces, and a sign saying the shop was closed because tonight there would be a concert.

Luckily, a food truck arrived. The shop owner kindly offered to sell us some food but we declined, since he was busy selling beer and tickets to see the Quintana Dead Blues Experience. With our places paid for, hands stamped and the prospect of an evening of burger, chips and music, we were able to rest our aching limbs and set up our tent in the quiet campsite dominated by whispering poplar trees. Naturally, the wind had dropped to a light breeze.

I felt as if we’d covered over a hundred kilometres. According to my counter, we’d done 58 km but the app on my telephone declared we’d cycled 64 km. It wasn’t only our compasses that were in disagreement. Given that I’m the one who configured my counter using a wheel diameter calculation, I think you can predict which system was more accurate.

The concert was amazing, as are the château (sorry, no photos) and the artists’ showcase. There was plenty of hot water in the shower and I fell asleep to the murmur of gossiping poplars. In fact, we had such a great time at Dampierre that we stopped there on Sunday evening, on the way home from the party.

The shop was closed.

Our friends had given us some leftovers for our evening meal but I’d counted on buying breakfast and a picnic at the campsite épicerie. Remembering the distinct lack of shops along the way, and bearing in mind the next day was a bank holiday, I took stock of our food situation and decided that dinner would be a melon. Breakfast would be our emergency cereal bars, fruit & nuts. Lunch would be a half-baguette. It would be enough. It wasn’t as if it was windy – at least, tomorrow’s wind should be behind us.

You’ve guessed it. The next day, not only was the lowering sky threatening rain, the wind had changed direction. Once again, we had to force our pedals to turn, though, to be honest, it wasn’t a full headwind so we managed to advance a little faster. And in our hunger, we chanced upon a hedgerow of wild fruit. Casting aside the nagging voice that suggested our guts might not appreciate too many plums, we feasted like birds.

We wouldn’t have helped ourselves if these two guys had been watching the hedgerow.

But they were busy scaring crows a little further along the Rives de Boutonne circuit.

I’m sure it was the plums that gave us the energy to make it home that evening. Either that, or the pressing need to reach a toilet…

In any case, we may well return to the Boutonne valley. Next time, I’ll check the wind direction beforehand, not just the temperature. In fact, next time, I’ll choose my route such that any wind is behind me at all times.