Day 30 — Sunday 29 May 2011

Eymet – Atur

This turned out to be a day with a frustrating end. It was a Sunday and I anticipated that main roads would not be too bad, so I rode back into Eymet, almost passing the very good municipal campsite close to the centre, and joined the D933 out of sheer laziness to Bergerac. There was little traffic, so the hunch turned out to be a good one, and the riding was fast and flat through general farmland and vineyards.

I got to Bergerac by midday and rode through without recognising any of it. I had been once before and thought I would pass the bridge near which we parked our car, but it all looked very different from saddle height. I crossed the river and turned east along the D660, finding an expensive but filling lunch at a restaurant that did not have a menu du jour on a Sunday. I continued with the river on my right, until I turned north climbing in fits and starts up the D21 and eventually the D8 to Notre-Dame-de-Sanilhac where I turned off towards Atur, where my planning had identified a campsite.

I puffed up the Route d’Atur and crossed the A89/E70 La Transeuropéean on an overpass. In Atur I asked for directions and eventually picked up campsite signs. I wormed along secluded narrow lanes and eventually came to Camping Le Grand Dague, a superb, huge campsite with every facility you could possibly want; except it wasn’t open. There was a large sign up saying that it would open on the first of June. I could hear voices so I followed them to a paintballing area in adjacent woods. The man in charge there telephoned the campsite director and suggested I ride down the drive to find him. The director was up to his eyes in last minute plumbing and electric wiring at the bar, but he did say I could camp rough on the meadow on the understanding that there was no water, no showers, no lights, nothing other than what I could get into my water bottles. I filled them at the bar (with drinking water) and trundled back to the camping area, pitching at one edge about 50 yards from the drive.

A Rumanian work party was battling with getting the site ready, and there had been delays. I had four bottles containing about three litres of water that I rationed between drinking and washing myself. My sweaty clothes would have to wait until the following evening when both sets of cycling kit would have to be washed and dried together. I stripped and began a flannel bath in the plastic sandwich box where I kept small items of cooking equipment. Suddenly from behind me on the drive there came a squeal of delight and loud wolf whistles. The Rumanians were returning to their chalets for the evening. I waived but thought better of turning round.