We were ready and on the road before 9:30, heading south/southwest, and using the Beemer instead of the campervan as it still has electrical issues.  Getting around Bordeaux was a slow pain, and the motorcycles were semi-suicidal.  They’d whiz up in beside us out of nowhere and cut in front, then do the same to the car in the other lane, many times just riding between the lanes full of cars.

Once we passed Bordeaux it was still slow for awhile, then gradually the traffic cleared and we made good time again.  We went pretty much straight south, passing through Ustaritz where we started to see signs for the Tour. We had put the GPS co-ordinates of a campground into the system but it misguided us so we just followed the signs for the stage route.

There were already lots of campervans parked along the road and we wondered if we would have to ‘wild camp’, which we were prepared for, but still preferred the idea of a campground.  We did stop at a B&B along the stage route, but it was, of course, fully booked. The lady there did, however, direct us to a nearby campground that we might try.

It wasn’t very far – just around the corner from where the stage will be going.  We pulled in and walked up to the house/office. A man came out and indicated that they were full for the next several days, but when we told him we only had two small tents he thought about it a bit, then said ok – we could squeeze in somewhere.

We had our choice of two spots, both of which were very nice.  We didn’t need electricity or anything, so just pulled into the spot of our choice and proceeded to set up our tents.  The views from the campground are just beautiful – it’s in the foothills of the Pyranees and the whole area is rolling hills covered with trees and small farms.

We needed groceries, as well as lunch, so ended up driving just past St-Pee-Sur-Nivelle for the groceries, then back into the town to a bar for lunch.  It was right on the main street – we sat outside and asked for two orders of the pate and each got a bowl of bread rounds and a small can of pate.

It actually was really good – not quite as good as what I had in Varenne, but not bad at all.  Almost everything on the menu – both food and drinks – is from ‘Basque’ – many folks have red neck-kerchiefs and the Basque flag is prominent.  I tried a local cider, which was ok – not overly sweet like some can be, and had a slight citrus flavour.

The shop next door to the bar we were in had some really neat posters of old Tours – one was from 1922, and the shop across the street had a cool painting of a cyclist on its window.  Most of the signs – shop signs and street/highway signs – are in two languages – French and Basque.

Our neighbours at the campground are really nice – they invited us over to play a game that seemed similar to bocci-ball, but was with disks instead of balls.  Colin passed on joining them, but I gave it a go. My first toss was really close, but after that it was hit-and-miss for me. One of the kids – probably around 13 or 14, was pretty good.  They tried to instruct me on how to throw properly – one such piece of advice was ‘not a frisbee’.

When the game broke up so they could eat dinner I left – sat outside and read for a bit, then headed into my tent for more reading.

Colin filled up the back of the car with things for the charity shop – Mo got to ride in the back seat for once.  It was getting very hot by the time we got there – Colin dropped off his donations and we went inside the cafe for lunch before going to the book store to pick up some more reading materials.

The ‘for adoption’ dogs were so cute – one of them was a 4 year old black griffon-labrador cross that was so sweet – more like a puppy than an adult – but he was having trouble finding his forever home.  They told us that adult black male dogs have a lower chance of adoption – I couldn’t understand that – he was just so adorable.

The laundry I’d done earlier was well dry by the time we got home.  We watched part of the day’s Tour stage, then went down to the bar for a drink – the race is being recorded.  There were a couple of bad wipeouts on the very steep final downhill – one rider went clear over the barrier but luckily didn’t pitch down very far.

Michele from the local cycling club dropped by – he had been in Italy on vacation for two weeks and had stayed at Colin’s house in Papiano.  He said the house was lovely – especially the air conditioning – and they went on lots of day-trips to places in the surrounding area.

Wednesday morning I stayed home while Colin went out with the cycle club – did yoga and coloured my hair.  Spent part of the afternoon packing up what I’ll be taking tomorrow.

Had really good BBQ burgers for dinner – fried onion and mushrooms, lots of cheese – very tasty.

I must have slept about ½ hour in all, and was woken by the announcement that we would be docking in 45 minutes.  I roused myself as folks started coming into the bar area from the private cabins, which were just down the hall. I washed up a bit and brushed my teeth, then went to the self-serve cafe to get a cup of coffee.

I gulped down the coffee as we approached the port at Oistreham – they call the destination Caen as that’s the nearby city, but the port itself is actually Oistreham.  I made my way down to the bike deck and got everything ready – I was the first cyclist there and got loaded up and out of the way so the others could get to their bikes.

They were off-loading cars already when I suddenly freaked out and said ‘oh my god – i’ve left my bag in the cafe upstairs!’.  I leaned my bike against the wall, grabbed my camera case and raced to the door to the upper decks. I hoofed it up three floors and fled forward to the cafe, racking my brain trying frantically to think what had been in the green plastic bag that I’d really miss if it was, indeed, lost.  The cafe was empty of passengers, of course, and the staff was cleaning up. I ran to the first person I saw and said ‘I left a bag’ as I searched the area I’d drank my coffee in – no bag. The staff person said I should check for it at the information counter one deck down. As I raced towards the stairs again I actually started using my brain and thinking:  I remember shoving my blanket into a panier down on the bike deck, so how can I be missing the bag I’d carried it around in? I settled down a bit and just went back to the bike deck – the other cyclists had already left and my bike was leaning all by itself against the wall. I did a quick check, and there was the green bag, all flat and almost empty in the basket that my camera case sits in – I hadn’t even seen it when I originally freaked out, grabbed the camera case and fled upstairs.  I felt, at the same time, great relief, as well as super stupid! Chalk it up to no sleep – that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it!

I immediately got on the bike and started riding to the exit ramp, when a worker called at me – I wasn’t meant to ride the bike while I was still on the ferry – oops.  I walked the bike to the front of the cars, and they let me push it up the ramp ahead of the vehicles. I could see the other cyclists not far ahead and managed to catch up to them well before we got to the security booths.  

Getting into France wasn’t nearly as hard as getting out of England had been – they looked at my passport, looked at me, and bid me welcome to France, enjoy my stay.  I rode a bit until I was at the terminal and missed the narrow path to it – I kept riding along the small building thinking I would turn around at the end, but as I passed the corner I saw Colin and Mo waiting for me.  I was so happy to see them!

The car wasn’t far so as I coasted along towards it and they walked we reached it at the same time.  Just then Cary rode past on the road and saw us – he joked ‘that was a long ride!’ as I laughed and waved at him.

We decided to drive for a bit before stopping for coffee and a bite to eat.  There are dozens and dozens of black migrants near the port – they are all over the place and come out of the ditches as soon as it gets light, and are almost entirely young able bodied men.  Apparently their aim is to sneak onto a lorry and get across the channel into England. I’m not sure what is better for them in England than in France, but the penalties to the truck drivers and the companies they work for are very steep if they get caught with someone hiding in their cargo.  And if the cargo is any kind of food or produce the entire load has to be thrown out, in addition to a fine of at least 25,000 pounds. The whole situation is very very sad.

We chose to follow smaller, quieter side roads home rather than take a quicker route via motorways.  Not far from Caen was a memorial to the Canadians that helped liberate the city on July 9, 1944. Memories of the war are all over the place here (as they are in so many parts of Europe)  – Normandy, of course, was in the thick of it, especially the attempts of the allies to get a foothold on the continent so they could have a base to work from to roust the nazis.  NOTE to Trump and others like him, as well as their supporters – beware!! Don’t forget what hatred, ignorance and paranoia can produce. He who forgets the past is doomed to repeat it!

Looking for a place to stop and eat was a bit challenging – we had passed thru Alencon intending to find a small cafe in a village, but nothing was open anywhere – either the village didn’t have any cafes or they were closed because it was a Monday.  

We finally saw a restaurant/bar in the town of Varenne and what a great choice it was.  They had a buffet of appetizers and salads, and two choices for main course. I was so hungry I loaded up on pate and several kinds of salad, and was it ever tasty – I wolfed it down.  We both chose the beef for our main – it was steak, not an overly expensive cut but nicely grilled and tender.

After we finished we walked Mo around a bit outside – there’s a memorial to those killed in Verdun in WWI, and part of the display has a glass cover over some soil from Verdun.  

Just across the river as we headed further south there are a bunch of caves in the cliff – folks live in some of them, or at least they used to.  

Lots of hay fields, and sunflowers.  A couple of times I almost nodded off because I’d gotten so little sleep, but we made it home to Mansle in pretty good time even on the smaller roads we were using.

Shortly after we got home I walked to the store to get some essentials – tomatoes, cucumber, fresh greens, etc.  Early to bed.

 

Got up nice and early so I could finish the cleaning – first the bathroom then the kitchen.  It took me a few tries to get the clothes-line to collapse – turned out to be really easy once you lift the catch that holds it up.  I even called over the fence to Lyn, who said she’d come over in a few minutes and have a look but by then I’d figured it out.

Yesterday Lyn had mentioned that she and Philip were taking a coach into Wales with a ‘social group’ of friends today and had asked if I’d like to come.  I would have loved to – I’ve been watching a series on canal travel by Prunella Scales (Sybil Fawlty) and her husband and they’ve been going all over England and other places on canal boats – the one I watched just yesterday was set in Wales and featured the Llangollen canal which crosses a river via an aqueduct.  That’s exactly where the coach trip is going to go, and I would have loved to join them – maybe next time!

I gave all of the food out of the fridge to Lyn and Philip, took out the garbage and recycling, and was on my way to the train station before 11:00.  The train was right on time – the first one was very new and clean, and almost empty. The second one, when I changed in Bristol, wasn’t. Well – it was clean enough, but not that new, and so crowded I had to stand up next to my bike almost the entire way to Portsmouth.  It was also sweltering hot, unless someone kept pushing the button to open the door into the carriage, which had air conditioning – then it diminished from sweltering to merely very hot.

Just before we left Bristol, when there were already three bikes crammed into the small space allocated, 3 or 4 more cyclists rushed up and asked if there was room – unfortunately no way.  I’m glad I as one of the first ones there – I think the latecomers did manage to squish on somewhere further down, although I don’t think there was another proper ‘bike carriage’.

 

I arrived in Portsmouth in plenty of time so rode around the centre a bit and had a bite to eat on a bench in front of a fountain.  The ride to the ferry wasn’t very far and I then had a bit of a wait. I checked at the desk, and they said I could probably go thru the initial security around 8:00.

I thought I’d maybe have a coffee on the upper level while I waited so walked my bike across the entire terminal to the elevator at the other end.  Just as I pressed the button to call the elevator I heard a voice calling ‘Miss! Miss!’ So I turned to see a ferry worker behind a counter gesturing to me.  He asked where I was going with the bike and I told him to get a coffee while I waited, to which he answered ‘you can’t take a bike up there – you shouldn’t even have it in the terminal’.  I said ‘What? Really? It’s not like a train station? You can take them everywhere there’. He said that no – it wasn’t like a train station (with no hint of humour, I might add). I asked where I could put the bike and he said there’s a bike rack back out the front door and to the left (where you can’t see them).  I asked if it was safe there and he said that it’s pretty safe – things do get nicked from time-to-time, but there’s a security guard that does his rounds so the risk isn’t too great. The security guard was crossing the floor of the terminal at the time and as I was walking the bike back to go outside he intercepted me and told me I could actually take it out the side door and lock it to a cement structure right in front of the waiting room window where I could see it from.  I thought that was a much better solution so that’s what I did – luckily my lock is quite long and just fit around the cement thing.

Just after 8:00 I headed to the first security booth, on the very far side of the lineup area.  I went to the front of the line, along with the other bikes and we didn’t have to wait too long for the booth attendant to get us going.  We showed out passports and boarding passes and were given stickers with our names on to attach to our bikes.

We rode to the next waiting area and were there for quite a while.  By the time they opened the next security gate there were nine of us altogether, including a father, son, and daughter – she’s only nine but is pretty serious about cycling.  This is their third trip – the first two had been to the Netherlands. Another fellow, Cary, is by himself – he planned the trip with a friend but the friend fell and broke his wrist a week ago so he’s doing the trip alone.

We were directed around the corner and each of had to take one of our bags off our bikes and go into a security room.  The bags were put thru an xray machine, just like at an airport – and since I’d brought my camera case in that went thru as well.

We were all cleared quickly and then rode onto the ferry, where we had a nice side room for the bikes, with rope to use to tie them securely to rails.  Since the area seemed pretty safe, and everyone else was leaving most of their bags I only took my camera, my jacket and blanket – in a green plastic bag – up with me.  At the door to get to the stairs we encountered another security person, who looked inside my camera case and the other bag – by far the most security I’ve ever been thru at a ferry.

Two decks up I checked out what’s showing at the two on-board cinemas – thought it might be nice to see Ocean’s 8 at 11:00 – then went to the area where the overnight lounge chairs are (that they make you reserve and pay for).  The chairs are worse than airplane chairs and are very closely packed – think I’ll pass again and do like I did on the journey over.

I next went another two decks up and headed to the bar to get some red wine and parked myself in a nice large leather chair next to the sofa I planned to sleep on later.  I hadn’t been there long when an older lady (Pauline) asked if she could sit on the sofa, and we started chatting. A few minutes later her daughter (Lorraine) joined us and we all had a great time talking.  I quickly decided that I could watch the movie some other time and stayed to talk with the ladies.

After awhile one of the other cyclists, Cary, was walking by so I waved to him and he sat down as well.  The four of us talked and talked – they’re all so interesting and well-travelled and we covered many topics of mutual interest.  Both of the ladies have been recently widowed and are on their way to Normandy to tidy up and arrange to sell the house that Lorraine and her husband owned.  We were the last ones left in the bar when we finally called it quits sometime after 1:00.

Cary chose a sofa about 20 feet away and I got out my blanket and tried to get some sleep – I wasn’t very successful.  It was quite cold, even with my jacket and the blanket, and they didn’t dim a single light. Also, my mind was full of ABBA music, and much as I enjoy their music, at this time it wasn’t helping me sleep.

 

Took a couple of short rides on the trails near the house, then on Friday went back down into the city centre.  I stopped at one barber shop to see about getting a haircut but there was a waiting line and no place for my bike so I went a bit further down the road and there was another barber shop with no waiting, and a nice railing right outside to lock the bike to.

Diane gave me a really nice trim and tidied up the back – it was getting pretty shaggy looking, especially at the back.  She said they normally don’t cut ladies’ hair but since mine’s so short she’d make an exception – about half the price of a hairdresser.

After that I went slowly thru the centre and down near the river – found several more giraffes.  I was mistaken about how many there actually are – I read (in the local paper that gets delivered every week) that there are 57 in all.

At least two of them have been vandalized – what low-life scum would vandalize a giraffe?  The first idiot was a drunken 40-year old man, and the second was a couple of drunken young ‘ladies’.  Apparently someone took video of the second assault, and their pictures have been circulating on social media – maybe it’ll teach them a lesson to be kind to animals (even if they’re only sculptures!).

I got to my 2:00 appointment early but that was ok – he took me right in.  They let me put my bike in the back of the shop then I went upstairs and got my tattoo re-coloured.  I’ve wanted to have it done for a long time now, and finally just went ahead and did it. When I originally got the tattoo many years ago (in Amsterdam on my backpacking trip) I had wanted it to be more colourful but it was starting to hurt so we decided at the time to just leave it as it was with the wings being flesh-toned instead of bright goldish-yellow.

After the tattoo was finished I rode along the river for a bit to where the canal empties into it – it’s so pleasant along there with a lovely path and lots of benches, etc, as well as more giraffes.  The canal ride home was so nice – I’m really going to miss it.

The last couple of Tour stages were excellent – although I have to say ‘f***ing fans and f***ing motos’!  I don’t care if someone doesn’t like Froome – neither do I – but they shouldn’t be throwing things at him or trying to hit him.  And Nibali was taken out yesterday with a broken vertebrae in his back because of a collision with either a moto or a fan in the middle of a cloud of coloured smoke – he managed to finish the stage but was taken to hospital by ambulance at the end.

On Saturday I spent a bit of time washing sheets and vacuuming, etc, then treated myself to fish and chips for dinner at the pub.  It was a lovely evening – not too hot, but not rainy either. Lots of people outside at the picnic tables – kids running around, dogs lolling about – a very nice atmosphere.  Took a little ride around the nearby trails before heading home.

 

Got up nice and early and was on the road shortly after 8:30.  I had plotted a fairly ambitious route, mostly on quiet side roads towards Stratford-upon-Avon.  I packed a few extra things in case I got there and didn’t feel like riding back later.

Colin had warned me that the town is very touristy – mostly busses full of Japanese and Americans, so I wasn’t intending on seeing that much other than maybe Anne Hathaway’s house (and garden) and perhaps the canal.

The first part of the route was on kind of busy roads, at least until I was almost in Crowle where it turned off and went along the same road as the church tour I did last week.  At one point I had to ride for a bit along the A44 which was very busy. The GPS indicated that I wasn’t to turn off for 11 km and I almost stopped and turned around – just as I was thinking that, there was a road that veered slightly to the right.  Luckily that was the road I was meant to follow and was I ever glad to be off the busy one.

The quieter side road went thru Flyford Flavell and on past Radford.  There was a turn-off south that had a nice bench on the corner so I stopped for a minute.  I heard some voices coming from the east, and then a large group of walkers started to appear from around the hedge – there must have been about 20 of them in all.

I got back to riding and went another couple of km east before the clouds started looking more and more threatening.  The forecast hadn’t mentioned much rain but I decided against pushing on any further once the thunder started.

At one farm along the road there was a little booth that had eggs in cartons of 6 with a sign that indicated they were 1 pound each – the honour system still works in some places.  The place next-door had a ‘cattery’ – not sure what that is.

Back on the road from last week I was again in the ‘village’ of Huddington, which was where I couldn’t find the church before.  I took a right-hand turn that I thought might lead into the village but it really only went past a few houses and then ended. There was an older man with a large black lab (Charlie) and he asked me (the man, not the dog) if I was looking for something as I slowed down beside them.

I asked if there was an old church around there somewhere and he responded ‘oh – that would be on my property’.  We started chatting and, as is usual when he heard my accent (or – lack of, as I think of it) he asked where I was from.  When I told him Canada he asked what part so, as usual, I said Vancouver. Then he told me that he had lived there for many years and thinks it’s a beautiful city – he had been a doctor at Lion’s Gate hospital!

As we chatted we were walking to his property, which was across the road.  It’s a large estate with a very old ‘manor house’ and the church off to one side.  He told me to go ahead and lean my bike up on a nearby tree and cut across the lawn to the church gate.

He noticed that the lights inside the church were on and said that there may or may not be anyone inside, but if it was open I could go on in.  Just as I was about to walk over he mentioned that the church was involved in the ‘gunpowder plot’.

There was someone inside – a lady that was doing a little cleaning.  She also mentioned the gunpowder plot, then said she was leaving, and asked if I could please turn off the lights and shut the door when I left.  She also mentioned that the church picnic is on Saturday afternoon and I was welcome to join them if I wish.

I spent a little while inside – there are some very old-looking stained glass windows as well as large stone inscriptions.  It was very peaceful and quiet, although the whole place could use a bit of airing out, as it smelled pretty musty.

I knew my way home from there so ignored the GPS and headed for the canal.  

I got home in time to watch most of the day’s Tour – very exciting day, ending on La Rosiere, where Colin and I had seen a day of the Criterium.  One sad thing, though, is that a lot of the sprinters, including Cavendish, didn’t make the time cut.

Rode down into the city centre via Tolladine Road – not quite as scary as I expected and I made it down unscathed.  

There’s a large herd of giraffes in the downtown core – it’s a community project with various artists, clubs, groups and schools decorating statues, large and small.  It’s called the ‘Worcester Stands Tall’ project and they’re just beautiful – children especially like the small ones.

I made an appointment for Friday, and visited Holland and Barrett – they’ve been emailing me almost every day since last August so I figured I might as well pop in and pick up a couple of things.

OK – the last one is a painting on a wall at a park on the canal – but it goes with the theme…I believe there are 30 sculptures and I located around 23 of them – seven more hiding somewhere waiting to be found.

Rode up the canal back home – quite a bit further distance, but much easier on the nerves.

 

Once Philip (Lyn’s husband) returned from his walk on the canal, where he feeds the ducks, he managed to stuff my bike in the back of his car, with Lyn’s direction, then drove me down to Halford’s to get the tube replaced.  Their bike repair shop is on the second floor, which seemed a bit odd to me since you have to lug the bike up the stairs, but there was no waiting line or anything. After hefting the bike with full gear up and down stairs in various train stations in Italy last year this seemed like a piece cake.

I had called from Lyn’s before I went down – they don’t take appointments, and they prefer to only install products that they sell in their store, but she said to come down and they’d have a look.  It ended up being no problem to use the tube I’d brought from home, and it took him no time at all to change it. I watched as he did it, and I’m sure I could have done it myself – it had been such a chore to put the wheel back on last year when I first arrived and pulled the bike out of the box, but this was really simple.

There was a thorn stuck right thru the tire – he had to pull it out with needle-nose pliers.  I bot another tube to have as an extra, and am taking home the punctured one to see if I can patch it.

I’m glad I got that done in the morning as it clouded over and just poured rain most of the afternoon and evening – apparently the first real rain they’ve had here in weeks.  All of the lawns and gardens should be happy for it, and hopefully it’ll also cool things down a bit – riding when it’s over 30 degrees isn’t that pleasant.

The next day I rode to the pub to watch the England/Belgium game for 3rd place – it wasn’t nearly as crowded as the other day when England got beaten by Croatia, but there was still a good number of folks there – once again they left disappointed.

I went home and started feeling a little sorry for myself – no one cares where I am or what I’m doing – poor little me!  Of course that’s not quite true, but I was feeling down. Then I got a really nice newsy message from Marge, and exchanged a couple of short messages with Bob.

This morning I slept in later than I have in ages – being slightly depressed makes me tired, I guess, as does staying up late reading.  I really enjoyed watching the day’s stage of the Tour – it had 15 cobble sections and was very difficult. I was very happy with the result, with the exception that Richie Porte had to withdraw – I believe he broke his collarbone when he fell.

I rode back to the bar to watch the World Cup final – not many folks watching the game at all – after sitting on the stairs for Wednesday’s game because it was so crowded I had my pick of tables to watch from.  I was kind of cheering for Croatia since they’ve never won before and were the heavy underdogs, but I’m just as happy that France won. I can imagine that the Penalty Bar in Mansle was going crazy.

I rode by the orchard on my way home – still nice and peaceful.

 

Got going nice and early in the morning on my ‘Towers and Spires’ bike ride based on the brochure Lyn gave me several days ago.  The entire route cover 12 churches on a 42-mile circuit, but I’m only planning on doing the northeast part.

I rode first to the canal (of course) and left it at Dunhampstead, where I took the road southeast.  There’s not much traffic on the road and it’s nice and smooth, and winds past lots of trees and hay fields.  There was supposed to be a church at Huddington but I couldn’t find any signs or see any spires so I continued on to Grafton Flyford.

You have to go a few km up another side road to get there, but at least they had signs so I managed to find the church.  It has a late medieval timber bell frame and apparently there are two recently restored 16th-century paintings showing the symbols of St. Mark and St. John, although the door was locked so I couldn’t take a peek at them.

I back-tracked to the ‘main’ road and headed northeast past Stock Green and on to Bradley Green.  Just as I was turning onto the church road (again, good signage) there was a local cycling club going for a ride in the other direction – there must have been 15 or 20 of them and they said hi to me as I turned down the lane.

Same as the church at Grafton Flyford this one is dedicated to St. John the Baptist.  It’s a Victorian successor to an earlier medieval chapel, and has the ‘Bromsgrove Guild’ west rose window which is the memorial to the men of the parish killed in the First Word War.

When leaving the church I took a moment to visit the cows in the field next door – the farmer had delivered a load of hay to them while I was walking around the church.    

The cows were several different colours, and there were some really cute babies, as well as some young bulls.  Some of them looked at me like they might run over – maybe they thought I had another load of hay for them.

I back-tracked a bit again so that instead of going all the way north and then west to see Hanbury Church I cut across and went west and a bit south to Himbleton.  Partway along there was another road that joined it – there was water running over the side road, and a sign that said ‘slippery’. I walked the bike down to take a photo and the whole road was covered in algae – I guess it’s almost always under water for some reason.  It seems like maybe they could use a bridge or something.

When I reached Himbleton I took a short ride up the wrong hill but then I got my bearings and found the sign down a side lane to the church, which is dedicated to St. Mary Magdeline.

When I went to leave the church I noticed that my front tire was a bit low – it had gone very low several days ago after sitting in the sun for a couple of days when I first got to Worcester, but after pumping it up it seemed ok.  As long as I topped it up a bit with air every day I’d had no problem riding on the trails or up/down the canal.

I pumped the tire up before leaving the churchyard and made it back to the canal and just past Tibberton when I noticed that it had now gone completely flat.  I was right near the lock that has the house at it, so coasted there are pulled off the path. The man that lives in the house came up and asked if I wanted to use his pump, but it wouldn’t have made any difference.  Even tho I had tools and a spare inner tube in my pannier I didn’t want to try changing it in case I did something wrong, so I just tried inflating it again and got back on.

I barely got 100 metres and it was flat again, so I ended up walking the last 4 km or so back to the house.  Walking a bike that far sucks, but it was a lot better than having a flat at the mid-point of my ride in the middle of nowhere.  I had ridden just over 38 km when the flat occurred, so it could have been a much longer walk.

 

I now have a pet spider.  Well – not exactly a pet, but we’re co-existing without killing each other (meaning – I haven’t squashed him).  I discovered him the other day when I propped open the inner front door so I could get a breeze blowing thru from the back.  I’m not sure where he is at this time, but as long as he doesn’t take me by surprise he stands a chance of continued life. He’s fairly large but not hairy – there’s another one in the kitchen catching small flies by the window, but it’s more like a skinny daddy-long-legs so doesn’t bother me.

I went down to the pub to watch the England/Croatia game and it was, of course, a very animated atmosphere to begin with.  I was pretty happy when France had won their game, and I don’t mind Croatia, but I didn’t feel it would have been safe to cheer for them, so I went with the crowd.  As it was so packed I parked myself on the stairs below an older couple to watch – almost a front row seat, as long as I kept my feet out of the way of folks trying to squeeze by to the bar.  The festive atmosphere did, however, go downhill somewhat when Croatia scored their first goal, then their second. By the end of the extra time there were people actually crying – one young fellow had his head down on his crossed arms and was just sobbing.

I may have mentioned this before, but I would have been a lot more impressed, no matter who won, if there had been considerably less fake injuries and moaning and groaning on the ground.  I compare it to a cycling race – 5 or 6 hours of all-out racing, and someone wipes out – road rash from head to toe and blood everywhere. Does he cry and whine and want a penalty called before he’ll rise?  First of all it rarely turns out that he’s actually not hurt at all, and no – he doesn’t grab an ankle and pretend it’s broken – he gets back on his bike, blood and all, and continues riding. Soccer – sorry – football players are complete woosies and it’s quite disgraceful to watch them dive and whine – totally unprofessional.  But – once again I digress….maybe next time, England.