No one did come for payment, so the beautiful campground was free.
The day dawned crisp and clear and bright and today was one of those rare days when we could actually pack the tent away dry. But it didn’t last. By the time we had passed one of the two reservoirs at the front it had begun to cloud over. By the time we pulled into the picnic area beside them to eat, the clouds had opened up and curtains of rain swept across the water as we huddled under some trees and ate apples that had sat at the bottom of the bag too long.
We waited for the rain to lift, hoping that the torrent would not last long and it didn’t. It gave way and we resumed our ride only to have the clouds come down and spit like malicious children as we rode. The first town we came to sat atop a great hill. We climbed it afoot, not having the energy to pedal. Half way to the peak a farm dog raced out of his yard and snarled angrily at us. His owner, an old French woman who looked eroded through years of hard work, smiled at us and said “Don’t worry, it’s not a problem.” The dog crouched by my left ankle and snarled, pulling his lips back from his teeth. Just as he made to leap at me I kicked out with my leg and he retreated, only to come back just as fiercely. His owner still smiled and said “no problem.” Heather pulled up beside me and we made a box with the protective walls of our bikes to either side, daunting the dog. But he continued to growl and snarl the whole way up the hill until we mounted our bikes and pedaled off.
We are finding, to our surprise, that we are having problems with dogs. I in particular find it strange because I have always had an affinity for dogs and they have responded well to me. But dogs have a dislike for bikes, or French dogs are raised to be angrier. Every time we pass a household with dogs they go into frenzy. They race at gates or strangle themselves on chains or, admittedly rarely, they get out and charge after us. Pedaling madly away from snarling, salivating dogs was not how I anticipated traveling through France. And with every instance the owners come out and smile and tell us not to worry. When they stand their ground as a strange dog charges them with teeth barred perhaps I will reappraise my attitude but just because the dogs are friendly to them does not mean the same will happen for us.
We continued on and passed deeper into the rural countryside and into the sickly sweet smell of cow farms. The smell hangs in the air like a physical thing and clings to clothes and hair long after you have passed. It was everywhere yesterday and is again today and we seem to develop no immunity to it. Heather, stopping to look at wild flowers growing a ways from the nearest farm summed up the situation succinctly. “Pretty, but they still stink.” It is hard to enjoy even the beautiful things when enveloped in such a foul odor.
Though exhausted from yesterday we reached out destination town of St. Julien Des Landes all right. Heather, however, was sicker than ever and I was feeling none too perky myself.
On our way we stopped at the town of Aizenay. In the center of town was an elaborate fountain. Three silver gothic arches angled over top of each other and over a jet of water. To its right was an elaborate gothic cathedral. The sides were supported by flying buttresses and there was a large spire over the door. But where the nave met the transept there was a strange hexagonal roof. Intrigued by the unique design we went in. I could find no information about the church at all but it was beautiful inside. The church was dark inside and it took a while for our eyes to adjust. Because of the darkness the light from the incredibly elaborate stained glass windows was spectacular to behold. I could not discover whether it was a church or a cathedral or even its proper name. Outside we noticed the buttresses were coated with moss until at their very peaks they were as green as grass.
Once at St. Juliens we were very tired and more than ready for rest. The road today had been full of many small hills. For some reason this small town had four campground but according to our guide only one was open. We followed the signs out and found what we thought was the place. It was, however, closed, and occupied by a farm. We returned in dismay to the town. Heather had developed a raging headache to match her cough and was very eager to sleep. We found another sign to the campground indicating it was further out than we had though. We pedaled wearily out, past our first campground and on to the second. We biked in happily, ready to set up and sleep. It was not to be. Despite the information in our guidebook claiming that they were open, they were not. The lady left to look after the place for the winter was very helpful, looking for another place, but could find nothing. Finally she contacted a friend who ran a B&B and campground and asked if we could stay in her backyard. We could but it was seven kilometers away.
Having no choice we set down a horse path, down to a lake, across a bridge which at first we could not find and up a very steep hill. Finally we found it, or so we thought, a sign pointing to “La Ferme Latoi” our destination. But the campground was torn apart and there were no signs for a B&B. We biked further in on the road, one kilometer, two, before turning back. Despite a sign at the camp saying “open until the end of October” it was obviously closed. Heather checked out the water while I pedaled up the main road.
Finding no water we set out and suddenly found the place. What we got was an uneven field and concrete bathrooms. What the hell, we took it. Then it started to pour. I was very happy to pass out from exhaustion tonight.
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