Turn, turn, turn

De Neuilly à Arcy-sur-Cure
66 kms

I woke up at a quarter to ten to find out that Fabrice, serious sportsman that he is, had left ten minutes ago. I had to say goodbye by telephone, never very satisfactory, so here again I want to reiterate how much I appreciate all his sound advice aswell as his company over the last couple of days.

The Zarmaloulous and I had an amazing breakfast of fire-cooked compote made from the fruit we had gathered from roadside trees the day before (all on public land, yep yep upstanding citizens we are). The chicas and I took turns washing dishes and reading short stories from a Jorge Lucay anthology from the botom of Sibylle’s sacoche. Cyril repaired my ever-troublesome bottle-holder. I wanted to never leave, but then I remembered my crush on Roberto Saviano and the call of Naples got the best of me.

Pushing off into the wind around 1:30pm, I decided to try to stick to small Communale roads, long and winding as they may be, in order to avoid heavy traffic as much as possible. Big mistake. Huge. I spent most of my day circling round and round a small number of Bourguignon villages which, pikshuresk as they may have been, I did not wish to see five times over.
And then it started raining. And even though my distance counter showed 30 since the morning, I was probably in all about 10 kms from last night’s camp ground. And that’s how I learned to stop worrying and love the yellow Départementales. Some cars but no trucks, relatively few curly wurly bits—an ideal compromise. Heretofore they shall be the Git’s preferred stomping grounds.

Mmmmmm, le Morvan...

Twice the sun done salutation to the dawn...

Close shave with Abz during my munchbreak (that was supposed to be lunchbreak, but the typoed version is much more expressive!), for which I stopped outside a lovely cemetry in the middle of empty fields. We were happily engaged in an impromptu model shoot, she daintily hanging from the latch of the cemetery gates (meet me there, Wilde is on my side) when suddenly a strong bluster of wind came and swept her from atop her perch and into the forceourt, to which I had no access, the gate being locked. (Les horaires d’ouverture are seldom on my side.) At first I was shocked and aggrieved and hair-pulling-outy frantic. Then I decided to put on my thinking cap, or helmet en l’occurrence. I designed an ingenious plan to get her out of there. With a fallen branch I swept her back towards the gate, and then porceeded to fish her out with one of my hooked sanlow straps. And the day was saved.

Abz, repêchée...

Ears ringing from the cold wind seeming to actually cross my skull, feet numb and toeless, I came upon a sign for the “camping municipal” of a picture-perfect village called Arcy-sur-Cure. Barely 500 metres out of my way. It was closed. Bum, methinks. But the café was open, and from it emerged a smiling Mme Maraux, who said that the camping ground had officially closed yesterday, so I could stay for free. And the showers had not even been locked up yet. Ah, gratitude! I set up camp, had a long warm, oh so warm, shower and a most pleasant night’s sleep, tout cela pour mes beaux yeux. Un grand merci donc à Mme et M. Maraux pour leur généreux accueil ! They truly saved the day.

Mme Maraux derrière le comptoir de l'Eldorado

My own private domain: le camping municipal d'Arcy-sur-Cure

Daily shout-out goes to my main boy Matthew. The thought of his joie de vivre and gorgeous vibratos gave me the oumph to continue pedalling through the rain whilst listening to Antony--"Outside of you there ain't no place to go."