Bastille day fun and games

We left Pont Aven in southern Brittany on Friday and cycled 65 miles down to Vannes, which is right in the south of the region.This was easily the best day I have had so far. I managed to go a whole day without something on my bike collapsing or puncturing.Vannes is a beautiful old walled city of windy cobbled streets and quaint little cafes but on Friday it was brimming with people who had come for the Bastille Day celebrations. This caught us completely off guard because Bastille Day was not until Saturday. We were standing outside a street cafe nursing a demi biere when I turned to my left and saw a huge dragon careering towards us, with fiery eyes intent on death. It was followed by an enormous procession of weird and wonderful characters. It would have been a great day to be a burgular because the whole of the town must have been involved in the procession, from children just old enough to walk, to elderly ladies dancing the Waltz.Just as we were about to return to the bar the fire works started. The display was incredible and the atmosphere was even better. I have only been in France on Bastille Day once before and I was working on a campsite so all I got was a scaled-down packaged version of these magnificent celebrations. For the French Bastille Day really is something. Everybody was excited, the French flags were flying and the town was buzzing. I didn't realise how much of point of pride this day is for les Francais. I cannot imagine anything which comes close to this in Britain. Politicians have recently been bounding about the idea we should have some sort of 'Britain Day' but it would be hollow and meaningless compared to this.
The next day within five miles of leaving the city I got my second puncture of the trip - this time the front tyre went. We were better prepared this time, I had bought spanners and more replacement inner tubes so I thought we were safe. Needless to say as I re-fitted the tyre my cheap spanner snapped. So with no spanner and no more spare inner tubes I have since been praying that I do not suffer a third puncture in four days on the road. After finally persuading a friendly Frenchman to lend me a spanner to finish the job we set off again several hours late.We managed about 40 miles on Saturday and stayed at a quiet little seaside town called Penestin. After a day's cycling I fancied nothing more than a dip in the sea, so bounding in I went. It was only after re-surfacing with a splutter that I noticed the water was green, slimy and had a certain stench about it. There were children in the water so I am sure it was safe but it took a long time to get the slime off my back. So the sea bathing wasn't a success but we heard a really good lband playing nearby, so we thought we'd have a look at that. Everything looked perfect and before long we had been given a free drink. We had slime all over our clothes but things were finally starting to look up. But it soon became clear something was not right. There were probably 200 at the gig and they all seemed to know each other. THey all seemed to be observing a strange ritual of forced pleasantness. I started to think we had unwittingly stumbled into a cult from which we would never escape.As panick set in, we were discovered. "Erm non we are not from your group" - I felt my words burning in their ears. We managed to talk our way out of becoming an ingredient for the evening's broth by saying we thought it was a Bastille celebration. We were advised/instructed to buy tickets which we readily did, to ease the tension. It turned out that the party was to celebrate the 30th birthday of a youth hostel and the tickets could be exchanged for drinks.So it wasn't a cult but it still wasn't easy to escape. Just as we thought we might be able to make for the gate a crowd of people surrounded us and we found ourselves on the front row of a female cabaret quartet. We sat for what seemed a lifetime listening to bawdy French show songs we barely understood. We managed to find a camping rurale to stay for the night, which consisted of a field, a toilet and a shower. For two euros it was a bargain. Yet again some greater force seemed to be acting against us. Having escaped the bawdy show songs and downed a couple of drinks to calm the nerves we settled into the tent for the night.Within ten minutes the rain started, followed by the thunder and lightening. I have always really enjoyed a good storm but this was something different. The thunder seemed to be crashing above and all around us for endless hours. The lightening flashed everywhere and the rain was constant. We were right in the middle of a viscious storm with a tired old tent with aching poles and missing pegs. Thankfully it held out.The next day the owner of the field a Madame Bernard, a lady of considerable years, proclaimed with a look of genuine concern in her eye, that she had never in her life seen weather like that. Who am I to question authority like that?Before we left the soggy field yesterday my bike had time for another mishap. This time the valve gave up on one of my tyres, so another hour was lost fixing that. It also turns out my front wheel has buckled slightly. But I managed to ride it 55 miles yesterday to get to our current destination Pornic, on the Loire coast. A new wheel is going to be high on my shopping list.We have now done 250 miles and until yesterday we had not had any hot food since Thursday, so we decided to have a day off. Pornic is only about 40 miles from Nantes and it is a hugely popular tourist town. It seems strange to find such a hive of holiday making without the presence of at least a few easy-living Brits. I thought we managed to get everywhere. There is a beautiful chateau here and lots of quayside bars and restaurants. We were hoping to go spend our free day on the beach but we spent the morning buying yet more parts for my bike and it has been pouring with rain ever since.We are staying on a lovely little campsite aptly called Le Bon Acceuil. It is cheap, close to town and it even has a tiny swimming pool. I think our arrival caused a bit of a stir among our fellow holiday makers. I suppose it is not everyday two weather-beaten Brits slump through the gates on antique bikes. We had an audience of kids throughout the time we unpacked and put up our tent. They said nothing but giggled to one another whenever I tried to speak to them. We are leaving Pornic tomorrow and it will be with regret that I go. I think it is partly because the town is has a lot to offer and I would like to see more. I also never got the day on the beach I promised myself as I slugged along roads yesterday. It has also been really refreshing to wake up in the morning and having to put down the tent and pack all my things. We are going to stick to the coast from now, so the ride should be pretty picturesque and hopefully nice and flat. The rain has stopped so we are going to attempt a barbeque in between downpours.
I should quickly warn anybody thinking of cycling anywhere near Saint Nazare - don't. The town is grotty and horrible and it is a death-trap for cyclists. The only reason we went was because it was the only point we could cross the Loire. The Pont de Saint Nazare was the only route we could take. Apparently a two-lane motorway with tiny little fences stopping us dropping into the ocean in the high gales is "safe for cyclists." At the top of the bridge we were so high I spotted a tiny little speck of a cruise liner being built below. I would not even fancy it in a car.