The day starts ok. I had a great balcony or more exactly a partial roof on which to dry my wet clothes. And so in the morning I collect my laundry and head in for breakfast. Not my best hotel of the trip, very tacky, with an institutional whiff, a scent of something like palliative care about the place, but it’s not inconvenient, the view on the river is good, and the breakfast opens early. When I arrive, I’m the only one there. But if I can do anything, it’s get around a buffet unchaperoned.
No legs, of course, and I crawl once the grade tilts level. A feature of my route, no doubt, but I can’t really figure where the center of town is. But I pull over at a window advertising the efforts of a maître boulanger and prop the bicycle against a signpost on the narrow sidewalk. I’m on an old, but busy street, dense and dusty.
I pass under the Porte de Pujols, a vestige of a medieval fortification relevant during mainly, I guess, a period of religious turmoil. We’re in deep Cathar country.
These trees fall alongside a long, straight road that cuts off one of the Lot’s countless meanders. Between the yellow dust, the silt in the rivers, the sky, and the light, I find myself repeatedly saying, oh, NOW I’m in the southoffrance. Wait, no, NOW…
I rejoin the Lot at a town called Saint-Livrade, which I’m sure doesn’t mean Saint Delivery. I need to make a small detour around a surprisingly active and multicultural street market happening in the center.
Utopia indeed. In the stillness of sun and air I snatch at a recollection of the long mornings of my boyhood’s summers.
The next thing that happens, though it’s not very much, is I pass through Castelmoron-sur-Lot, a cute and sleepy town. I feel as if I’ve missed it in its moment, but I park myself under a tree, on a bench bearing signs of clusters of avian activity above. I reposition myself so as not to be directly under a nest and drink a soda.
I feel slow today; the weather and setting accommodate me.
This village, Clairac, has been advertised on the roadsigns for a while now, and I’m momentarily optimistic about finding something to eat. All I manage is a tabac stop, though. It’s a little early for lunch anyway.
I think this is leaving a small town called Aiguillon.
A small stand of trees foreshadows the managed forests to come.
Here what isn’t pictured becomes one of the longer sections of the day. It’s my most consequential route snafu. (It isn’t very consequential.) There’s a turnoff to the left that I’ve marked as a good offroad shortcut to stay off the busy highways. When I get there, it’s quite clearly marked as a private road, tree works only. There’s a gate and a fence.
We must follow the rules. I make what turns out to be a stupid decision to go all the way around on the highway. It’s mostly two-lane with a 20 cm shoulder. I don’t remember the speed limit but it might as well have been 120 kph. Lots of truck traffic. Not how I like to ride if I can help it.
Most memorable is a stop in what might be a town in the Nevada desert, just some inns, auto parts shops, and gas stations, it seems. But there’s a boulangerie, of course, and it’s honestly pretty good. I stand on the concrete patio, enjoying some buttery treats, while the proprietor starts taking in the umbrellas for the day. Hot trucks roar by.
On the bright side, a nice sign, and anyway this section will end at some point. (It lasts about 40 km, I think.)
Finally off the highway and the roads are quiet again.
I arrive in the slightly surreal main square of Labastide d’Armagnac. Very cute, fancy tasting rooms galore, artist-ateliers of mysterious financial stability. I am disappointed to be told in no uncertain terms that it is too late for a crêpe or anything at all. I eat some emergency trail mix on a bench. Not my best lunch of the ride.
Once I leave the cute part of the town, I find a tabac and a sugary snack.
Then a long voie verte all the way to the goal: Mont-de-Marsan. It’s a nice way and more than welcome after the highway. Without my hardly noticing it’s become full afternoon.
Like my current home, Mont-de-Marsan is parked on a confluence. I guess it’s too pat to say that I’ve come to where I began? (A commodius vicus of recirculation…?) The rivers do stand out as an organizational principle for this ride—the Lot was cast in a starring role from the beginning. But the walk-ons, particularly the Sianne and, here, the Midou and the Douze (and their child, named, no joke, the Midouze), play parts just as important, since they are exactly the streams of accident and experience along which I’ve enjoyed floating these past few days.
Here you see one silty river joining its way with a less-silty other. A lively, rather pretty, rather grand little city, and, though not planned as such, a worthy terminus for this ride. My bicycle gets parked in a historic building for the evening. In the morning I’ll leave to see my parents.
(…for more coverage of “france 2023”, click here…)
a cozy place for odd rats i guess 