Bordeaux – Hourtin – La Tremblade – Rochefort – Vouillé les Marais – Saint Hubert – Châteauneuf – Nantes: 440 km

For three days now, I’ve been waiting for the rain to pass Bordeaux. My hosts Alain and Mimi are leaving the house, so there’s no other way but to set off in what is predicted to be a cold and wet ride. And it will be.

The first 10 kilometres are dry, but ominous. Then, all hell breaks loose. The rain pours out of the grey sky with a ferocity is hasn’t over the last couple of days. I spend two hours in the cold, but at least the dry, on the porch of a barber on the outskirts of the city. I seriously consider going back and book a hotel. But I do some research and figure I can just ride through it if I have a dry place to stay the night. There are no Warm Showers in a reasonable distance. I do find a hotel. I only have data on my phone – long story – so I send them a Facebook message and they assure me they’re open and have a room free. Perfect. Just another 60 km and I’ll be in the Garden of Eden. With that in mind, the day becomes bearable, the rain seems to fall a little less heavy, the roads a little more friendly and my clothes a little less wet. The pine forest from before Bordeaux continue after, and I would enjoy my surroundings if it wasn’t for my freezing feet and soaked everything.

Let me give you a better understanding of what makes cycling, and particularly camping, so hard in the cold rain. One day of rain can have a lasting effect for days. All your gear is now wet and dirty, your mood going downhill with it. The bike suddenly squeaks and creeks as there’s now sand in every nook and cranny of the groupset. So, you’ll have to clean it when you get the chance whenever the rain stops. Then, once you’ve set up your tent, there’s no way to dry your clothes. They’ll come in with you, making everything inside moist. There’s no payoff for the moist either, because they won’t be dry in the morning. I carry two sets of clothes at the moment, so you can seriously only do this for a day. When camp is set up, there’s nothing to do but sit uncomfortably inside the tent, breaking your back, waiting for time to pass to go to sleep next to a wet dog. If you can sleep at all with the sound of the rain on the tent. And the next morning you’re packing your tent wet, so you’ll need to dry it in the days to come. Long story short, rain and I are natural enemies.

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I will have no such inconveniences tonight, since there’s a hotel room with my name on it in Hourtin. When I arrive, my feet ready to be amputated because of wet frost bite, the hotel is full. I show them my Facebook messages, but they claim I didn’t confirm. The receptionist is unmovable, solid as a rock. All that made this day doable evaporates, and demoralized I have to prepare for a night with all what I described above. Dawn is setting in, and in an ultimate and desperate attempt to find a spot inside I walk into the town’s church. Church doors are open to everybody right? Maybe they’ll let a drowned and lonesome traveller sleep underneath the cross. The doors are open, but nobody inside. Just as I’m about to make my way into the damp forest, a slender man in an understated suit and bright blue-coloured rimmed glasses comes walking in. In crippled French I explain my situation. Without batting an eye, he says: “You’ll sleep in my house!” Given the surroundings, he might be a literal angel. I follow Jean’s car to his house. Their three kids moved out a while ago, so there’s ample space, and before I know it, I’ve had a steaming shower, washed my clothes and we’re having a perfect dinner prepared by his wife. We are both somewhat astonished by this chance encounter that has led to us spending the night under the same roof. They look at me in awe, wanting to understand how somebody rides a bike around the world, I look at them in awe for their hospitality and giving me exactly what I need at this exact point in space and time. It all happens in a wonderful mix of broken English, French, sign language and Google Translate. When I turn to bed, my room must be about 35 degrees Celsius, but I’ll won’t turn the heat down. I need this right now.

Jean and Marie wave me goodbye as I set out northwards once more. With my five layers of clothes washed and, more importantly dried, my spirits are up. But nature will not leave me alone quite yet. Yesterday it was the rain, today it’s the cold that hardens the day. But cold is better than wet. I find a beautiful camp spot on the beach, that provides me with a spectacular sunset as I cook my noodles. A good thing about cycling in winter, is that there’s nobody patrolling even popular beaches like these. No police or Baywatch patrols the waters, nobody to send me away.

If it’s not the rain or the cold, it’s the wind that grinds me down. I ride through pancake flat oyster farms hoping to make it towards La Rochelle, but not getting further than Rochefort. The wind has free reign here, and it comes right from the front. After 15 kilometres that feel like 50, I throw the towel in the ring. I book the closest Airbnb and dive into bed, for an afternoon cuddle and nap with Maya.

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I’m complaining. I do realize how lucky and privileged I am to do this. Even still, suffrage is not a competition. And in hindsight the hardest days are often the most rewarding. In the moment however, it’s hard to put it all in perspective. I think about Mexico, where the sun shines, the taco grills fume, and there’s life at every corner of every street. It’s a sharp contrast from the desolated holiday towns in winter France. Maybe I should have stayed a month or so extra.

The last few days towards Nantes are a little brighter. I camp next to a fishpond, on a beautiful beach and in a forest. Although my tent is frozen every morning, the days bring the occasional sunlight and I feel good when they do. I can feel I’m getting stronger. On top of that, the roads are completely flat. They guide me through marshes and wetlands full of birds. But at this time of year, it feels like nature has decreased its saturation. The skies grey, the earth black and the trees a strange wetly darkened green, the sea not as blue as it will be in a few months.

I have a hard time finding a Warm Showers host in Nantes. Maxime and Mathilde first declined but on the day of my arrival send me a message they managed to fix something. They live pretty close to the city centre, but once you turn into their street, it’s a place of tranquillity. It’s a community of randomly generated neighbours, living in 10 houses connected by a communal garden. I sleep in the shared bar/canteen. They’re amazing hosts, who know exactly what a cyclist needs; a warm welcome, an even warmer shower and the freedom to go off on his own. Their kid Sohan is a great deal of fun, and with Maya he overcomes his fear of dogs. I’m very proud of Maya recognizing the vulnerability of this 20-month-old and playing with him ever so softly. I come to rest here after this rough week. I stay with them two days, explore Nantes, which seems like a smaller and sweeter version of Bordeaux. Next up, I might cheat and actually take the train.