Day 8--Kindness of strangers

Serrières-de-Briord to Grenoble
107 kms

Woke up to a lacey violet dawn, and had coffee on the banks of the Rhône in the company of its resident crew of swans, who seemed more preoccupied with their morning toilette than my witty répartie.

OK, I get the message.

Having run out of porridge oats, I decided it was time for a trip to the market. The camping ground owners told me there was a good one about two villages away. So off I headed in quest of some yumminess, convinced that I wouldn’t have to wait too long until breakfast. But this market, you see, was in Montalieu, not its neighbour Montagnieu, and I only realised the difference between the two after what seemed like a few hours of combing the entire village thrice over at a crawl, peering down every alley way to find the market. I like to think that my facial expression was inquisitive. However, I wouldn’t blame anyone if, in my full biking get-up (bum-bag-style rain coat and all), they mistook me for a mental ward fugitive and/or child molester. I’m pretty sure I heard some mothers call their children inside, interrupting their game of street football.

In any case, the market turned out to be fantabulously abundant, with local goat’s cheese home-made apéricubes and the first comice pears of the season. Happy as Larry (and Bob and Eugene), I filled every available space in my saddle bags with fruit, cheese, a pain au chocolat (a mere 80 cents and better than Fauchon), and crawled off in the direction of Grenoble, the Git’s joints creaking and re-adjusting to the extra weight.

Abz and I, ready for the best lunch imaginable.

Strange that these things are even noticeable when one is travelling so slowly, but I actually felt the temperature shift around mid-day. It wasn’t just the blazing sun and blue of the sky; the air had all of a sudden become softer. I decided that I had officially entered the South.

The road towards Grenoble started getting a tad hilly, with the mini “Col du Banchet” standing in as a taste of what was to come. I got lost in the tangle of interconnecting roads leading into the centre of town and almost got stuck on a godforsaken highway, but happily was turned back at the péage. So I was tired and grateful when a couple of guys cycling back from a mountaineering expedition offered to guide me halfway to the youth hostel I was looking for. And even more grateful when the Bailly family, of whom I asked directions, offered to host me for the night. Oh shower! Oh warm dinner! Oh sleeping in a real bed! It’s hard to express how appreciative one becomes of these simple offerings after a mere week on the road. But it felt like a little slice of heaven.

Bailly, père et fille. They were heroes.