After some research and assistance I got the pass sanitaire sorted and loaded onto the French app – relief, I wouldn’t have to sleep outdoors.
With rain pouring down I gave up on the off-road route for today, I didn’t fancy tricky descents in the rain. Started out late, cycling through steady rain, meandering around the lake beneath dripping pine branches, very watery. Gradually the rain cleared and the sky brightened, I trundled on and views opened out over the high Morvan hills. It looked like sections were on fire with smoke rising, but after cycling through one of these smoke clouds I realised they were areas of thick mist rising up with the warmth.
The back-roads are very quiet here, in two hours I was passed by only three cars, but one was the postie, who passed me three times. This happens to me on the back-roads of Devon too.
I didn’t find anywhere for lunch, but was going slow and didn’t feel hungry. It was a gradual meander, mostly uphill, to the village of Anost.
Anost was grey under the clouds at 4 p.m. seemed closed-in on itself, silent, devoid of people, all the shops were closed except the Pharmacie, outside which two women stood declaiming together about something. The hotel was closed up, there was a number to ring on a note stuck to the front door. The grumpy individual answering denied all knowlege of a booking, after a while they begrudgingly agreed to meet me. Ten minutes later a car appeared driven by a fierce and grumpy woman with a scruffy, unshaven but smiling man next to her. Luckily he came out to greet me. There was a room ready in a small annexe, it was clean but smelled of damp. They gave me the keys and departed, saying there would be breakfast in the “pub” in the hotel next morning.
Hot shower and a nap, waking at seven I stumbled into some clothes and went to look for the Pizzeria which was the only place in town open, according to google. On arrival it looked fairly deserted – sign on door – closed Mondays!
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Could I go a night without food – I didn’t feel like it. Google google what shall I do?
Good fairy google told me there was a trout farm with a restaurant open 8km away. I phoned – they were open!
Cycle 8km downhill to the restaurant, cycle 8km uphill back again – I was ready for bed.
This is a very beautiful poem by Elizabeth Bishop, she reads it The Fishhouses.