Cycling the Midi Canal in France

Martha Marino

Day 1: Beginning the Midi Canal (Southern France)

Something unexpected happened on my way to the Nantes train

station where I was going to take a train to the Midi Canal. My bike

began making strange sounds. Eventually it was impossible to pedal,

so I push my bike the rest of the way, almost missing my train to

Agen.

As soon as we pulled out of the station, I walked back to the

baggage car to inspect my bike. First, I removed my saddlebags and

large duffle bag from the rear rack and then turned the frame upside

down. Quickly, I discovered the problem: The small screw that held my

rack in place was missing, causing it to rub against the back tire.

“Well, at least I didn’t break the expensive derailleur,” I mumbled,

recalling my trip to Scotland when this did happen.

My repair kit contained extra spokes, brake pads and inner tubes,

but no tiny screws. For a moment, I thought about my problem, then I

remembered one of my favorite Indian mantras: “Look around. What you

need is where you are!”

Would a paper clip work? At least it’s worth a try. I pulled out a

large one from my fanny pack and wound it between the two holes.

Presto! The rack stayed tightly in place. What luck!

The train trip to Agen -- where the Midi canal towpath begins --

took six hours, with one transfer at Bordeaux. Usually, upon arriving

at a new town, I buzz around to look at all the sights. This time,

however, I headed straight for a bike shop. It was unwise, I

reasoned, to begin a 112-mile trip to the Mediterranean with a paper

clip holding my bike together.

As I bounced along Agen’s narrow, cobbled streets on a Saturday

afternoon, motorists began blowing their horns at me. Finally, I got

fed up with blocking their heavy traffic and joined the sidewalk

crowds. For blocks, I pushed my loaded bike in the stifling heat.

When I finally reached the out-of-town bike shop, the mechanic found

the right sized screw and in minutes repaired my bike.

I had planned to spend one night in Agen -- the bustling town

mentioned in the film “Chocolate” -- but the municipal campground was

closed.

Feeling depressed and suffering from heat exhaustion, I sat down

in a sidewalk cafe and while gulping down numerous glasses of

ice-cold lemonade, thought about what to do. Should I stay in a cheap

air-conditioned hotel, head for another campground five miles out of

town or ride down the canal to the next town Bon Encontre that

supposedly had a campground? Since I was anxious to see the Midi

Canal -- known to be more beautiful than the Nantes to Brest canal

that I had just finished -- I chose my last option.

That afternoon, the first thing I passed on the canal was the

unusual sight of a boat floating on top of a tall, arched aqueduct.

(These aqueducts were built so boats could cross over the rivers.)

Next, I rode by graceful weeping willow trees, ancient churches and

dignified-looking buildings. I was glad to be leaving Agen and its

unbearable heat. Soon, a cool breeze swept over the quiet

countryside, and I felt revived.

In Bon Encontre the “unexpected” happened again: Their municipal

campground, listed in my tour book, was also closed.

Before panic set in, I rode up to a pizza booth behind a filling

station and asked a lady kneading dough if she knew of a hotel

nearby. “There might be one, en face (across the street),” she told

me.

I had just come from en face and hadn’t seen one. Nevertheless, I

returned for another look. Still no hotel. Noticing a light in a

nearby concrete building, I stepped inside where some elderly people

were playing bingo. “Is there a hotel around here?” I asked the

number-caller sitting in front of the room.

“Yes, it’s the yellow building on the side (not en face) of the

gas station,” he snapped, annoyed at my interruption.

I crossed the highway for the third time. After leaning my bike

against the yellow building with no signs, I entered cautiously.

A man with blurry, blood-shot eyes, dressed in a blue, flowered

shirt, was standing behind an empty bar.

“Is this a hotel?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he answered with a sly grin. “We’ve just painted the

building and haven’t put back the signs.”

“Do you have a room?” I asked hopefully.

He paused. “Well, I’m expecting a wedding party, and it may be

filled.” Keeping me in suspense, he examined his book. At last, he

pulled out a key from a drawer. “There is one room left on the third

floor. It’s 170 francs ($23).”

Though I sensed a strange, deserted atmosphere inside the lobby, I

agreed to take the room.

In his woozy manner, the desk clerk staggered up the stairs and

unlocked my room. Before handing me the key, he mentioned that he was

leaving at 8 p.m. and closing the hotel. “Don’t worry,” though, he

added, “I’ll leave the back door unlocked for you.”

In the pale evening light, I walked to a corner restaurant,

attractively decorated with green plants and pink table clothes. To

celebrate my first night on the Midi Canal, I ordered an exquisite

dinner with plenty of Bordeaux wine, beginning with a dozen escargot

(snails cooked in butter and garlic) and ending with a chocolate

mousse.

Afterward, in my mellow mood, I returned to search for “the

hotel’s back door,” more challenging than I had anticipated.

I first tried the door near the green, slime-covered swimming

pool. It was locked. Next, I spotted a second door on the first

floor. It was locked, too. By now I was feeling like Goldilocks

looking for the right-sized bed. Would the third door -- if I could

find it -- be the right one? I hoped so! I climbed up more stairs and

looked around. In the corner I saw another door. Trembling anxiously,

I turned the handle. It was unlocked. Thank goodness the tipsy desk

clerk had kept his word.

That night the hotel was as quiet as a morgue. Somehow the wedding

party never arrived, so the entire hotel was mine. Was I scared to be

all alone? Only a little. I was too exhausted to give it much

thought.

Next episode: Cycling along the famous Santiago de Compostello

trail.

* MARTHA MARINO is a Laguna Beach resident and author of “Asian

Adventure.” This is the first of a series of stories from Marino’s

recent bike tour.