Etape 11 Rochefort to La Rochelle

Breakfast in our small chamber d’hote in La Rochelle turned out to be a communal affaire with two other guests and the patrons of the establishment which was a very interesting townhouse built in the 1850’s. It takes my brain a few hours to get into gear in a morning these days and being pitched into a full-on French discussion with the everyone was a bit of a challenge. The other two guests eventually departed leaving the two of us and the ‘patrons’ watching us eat the breakfast that they had so lovingly prepared which was a slightly unnerving experience as you feel obliged to say how nice everything is. They cooed with pride as we effused about the little pots of homemade aromatic fruit compote, theirs jams and croissants. They were actually very nice and helpful people even phoning the tourist office in La Rochelle for us to check on some ferry crossing times.

Anyway we eventually got underway riding off into the piercing sun. Luckily riding south to north means no sun in your eyes and a well tanned rear in more senses than one.

Spent most of the day zipping along the coast which has beaches stretching to the horizon and which are full of mussel and oyster beds. Because they are very flat the tide comes racing in at a great rate of knots and, in the time it took to drink a cold beer in a bar, the water had advanced over a couple of hundred metres across the sands.

Arrived in La Rochelle in the late afternoon heat to find the town in full festival mode. It is the annual 4-day long Francofolies musical gathering with accompanying markets, side shows, street musicians, buskers and food-sellers. There were thousands of folk milling about filling every available table in the restaurants surround the harbour. We eventually got sat down at an outdoor table in amongst the hubbub and ordered up some grub. I am about halfway through my giant pot of moules marineres when Carol pointed skywards and said ‘look there thousands of swifts or swallows flying overhead’ at which very moment a great dollop of birdshit landed on my leg. I half thought another load had bombed into my pot of moules and was lurking amongst the shells or in that lovely creamy garlicky liquid that lies at the bottom of the pot. A quick search found nothing but I did sense that the flavour of my dinner had changed somewhat.

Also, mid meal, a troup of 8 heavily armed soldiers in full battle dress walked through the crowds very slowly and very deliberately one behind the other several meters apart. They were eyeballing everyone and everything very carefully as they progressed along the quayside amongst the assembled throng. I think since the various Paris bombings at public events the French government have decided to up the level of visible security presence at major gatherings.

The downside of a well located central hotel just by the quayside is that it sits amongst lots of other bars and restaurants outside which many partying and drunk Frenchmen are prone to gather until the early hours of the morning. Despite having our windows firmly shut drunken strains of tuneless songs came wafting in for hours till everything fell silent at about 5am.

And tomorrow is 14 Juillet – Bastille Day – when we will have to go through all this again and then on Sunday France are in the World Cup final. I sense more sleepless nights ahead!