Day 7 (a)

Day 7(a)
I sat with Pepe this morning as I said, I looked at the maps and I drank my water... It was a pleasant start to the day and one which seemed to provide a great opportunity. Today was an adventure, if things went well and if the roads were kind, then I’d be with Dave a little later and a chance for a friendly conversation without the need for a translator.
Now I don’t want this to turn into a moaning session, but bloody hell. The one thing I’d change about France is the road signs and the directions they give (or don’t depending upon experience). For instance, I knew I needed to get to the Marseille – Montpellier highway, if I was going to make it anywhere today, but wherever possible I have been trying to avoid the toll roads. (Not an easy job, because, obviously, they are the one’s best marked and tend to give the most accurate information, not to mention having the most amount of (open) petrol stations and (pause for breath) get you from A-B in a straight line.) It took over half an hour to get from the campsite to the road from Marseille, which to give you an indication, is only (in a straight line) approximately 9 miles. It’s not the mileage that makes the difference it’s actually the fact that there are no road signs!!! Hmm. Did that come across? I think the most annoying thing was going along the same road three times and without actually knowing that it was the right one. The frustration...
Anyway. With that out of the way, the road was lovely to ride once out there. I took the decision that I would not stop in anymore concrete jungles, no matter what I thought would be there (or not). It’s not that the history and culture doesn’t exist, it’s more the point that find it is like searching for a needle in a haystack. For instance, as I rode from Montpellier to Narbonne and onto Toulouse, I passed through the wine region of Chateauneuf Du Pape. For those of you who don’t know, it is a particularly good and favoured wine. The roadside marker gave a depiction of an old chateau and the grapes growing around the vineyards. ‘Excellent’, I thought, ‘I know just the person that would appreciate a photo of that’, so I looked for the signs to the chateau. Now I’m sure they’re there, and I’m sure it is probably me, but do you think I could find my way there? And that wasn’t the only incidence. There were Abbey’s, and Castles upon hillsides or buried in the tree-line, the road signs assured you they were they, you could see them, but you could not reach them. Grrr!!!
I guess the final moment came when riding From to Toulouse to Agens and then on to Bergerac. Dave had been quite explicit in his directions and I thought it best to follow them. So I did. I took junction 7 on off the ‘E’ road and headed to Agens. Perfect, no problems at all. I needed to follow the N21, the signs said N21. The road was moving along nicely, I might even make an early dinner... Then it stopped. Literally stopped. Dead.
In the middle of the road was a sign (with bollards blocking the road) saying ‘Deviation’. Now I’m no rocket scientist, but surely that requires clarification. The road is blocked fine, so where do I go? I spent almost half an hour riding up and down the roads, this way and that, much to the curiousity and amusement of the local kids as I passed them time and again... So with time pressing on I pulled into a garage and explained the situation as best I could, and asked if they had any idea. Well, it was like watching war commence. First the receptionist gave her view, then realising that what she had said was not quite right, the secretary joined in and told her so. As the conversation got louder and louder I would have been happy for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. In stepped a mechanic, then one of the customers and then a second mechanic, it could have been war and I was stuck there cowering in the corner... Rescue came from the most unlikely of people. An old couple sat in the corner, quietly stood up and came over, ‘I have a map in my car. This one is no good, come I will show you the way on my map.’ His English wasn’t brilliant, but it was the best I had heard all day, and he made sense. An early dinner was looking far less likely, but I was on the road again.
The final part of the journey to Dave’s was just as eventful and I am pretty amazed that I made it there at all. Just think, you drive a couple of hundred miles, you see a road sign and it says your destination straight ahead. The next says, turn left, and finally straight ahead. Sounds simple enough. However, it’s not that simple when for whatever reason, the road signs change, not the destination, no. Where you want to go still exists, but the road sign don’t. That’s right folks, I followed the N21 when it reappeared on the far side of Agnes for about 15-20 miles. Then as if by magic, it disappeared... and that was that, sat there at the convergence of three roads and not one sign said N21, not one said St. Mathieu the world had ended in that spot. There was only one thing for it, drink water. So I said, read my maps and drank water... I’m not quite sure what happened after that, but half an hour later with the road well planted beneath me, I began to see signs for St. Mathieu, I screamed with excitement, don’t worry nobody saw or heard me. For whatever reason, the world just shuts and goes home at about 7pm in middle France. Believe me, I rode and rode and rode, and yet in 30km I only saw 3 cars on the road, no sops open, no pubs, restaurants, nobody sat outside their houses, and no picture-postcards scenes of people sat at tables drinking wine, eating cheese and bread and enjoying the world with friends. It was like entering the twilight zone, nothing stirred.
By the time I arrived in St. Mathieu the same could be said, everything deserted. I rode up the main drag toward the church that stands in the centre, on the left hand side is a pub called The Royale and I’d guessed that was the place to meet. I stepped off my bike and turned off the ignition and the doors to the pub opened.
‘Hello’ said the landlady, in broadest English. The shock on my face must have been a picture. Dave had said that the owners of the pub were English, but the shock it gave me was beyond anything I had experienced to that point. Shouts came from behind me, Dave, (C)Andy and Reme were walking up the road and shouting their cheers. I greeted Dave with a hug, it was good to see such a friendly face in such a remote area. That was it. 412 miles in a day and worth every moment of experience. Tomorrow would be a day off and time to experience the French life with friends.