Day 9: Niort to L'Houmeau 89 km. The rise and fall of Anglo-French detente.

Blistering start to the day and I averaged about 22 kph for the first two hours. There are good reasons for this early spurt. The apartment I stayed in had one of those coffee capsule things and there were four flavours to choose from and I couldn't decide which one to have. Whoa, whoa, you're getting ahead of me there but you're right, I had all four. Not at the same time of course, that would have been silly. Just one after the other in about 30 minutes. 

Wide eyed, wired and buzzing, I zip through Niort to a bike repair shop I'd found online so I could borrow a track pump. It's difficult to get the tyres up to 95 psi with a hand pump. The little local bike shop isn't open yet so I get a pan au raisin and go for a coffee. "Oui Madame. Grand S'il Vous Plait."  So that's six shots of coffee before ten o'clock. I can't sit still for some reason so go back to the bike shop, borrow the pump and inflate the tyres well beyond the recommended 95 psi. Just couldn't stop. Much faster now with hard tyres.

It would be ungrateful not to buy something so I am now the proud owner of a rubber wristband (no, not a bracelet, they're for girls) recycled from a bike tyre. In two days time I shall no doubt be the proud owner of a rash caused by the wristband (ah, ah ah, no) of which I am the proud owner.

I'm full of caffeine fuelled bonhomie as I sprint along in the morning wishing everyone a loud "Bonjour et bon route!". I'm sure that I have, single handedly, reinstated Anglo-French detente following that Truss-Macron débâcle (oh I am into French thing now) when Liz T suggested a fellow NATO member might be an enemy. Now see here Liz. We're supposed to be standing shoulder to shoulder against Vlad the Impaler. Rein it in.

Marans after lunchtime and I have a look at the church. It's got an interesting, open spire. I'm guessing it's to let the prayers out or perhaps someone has had the lead away. Either way, I like it. When Liz and I travel (by the way that's Liz G not the PM) we nearly always visit churches. If there's some holy water Liz used to dip her finger in and draw a cross on my forehead. I would then fall to the floor clutching my face shouting "Aaaaaargh! It burns! It burns!" until a Priest with matching nuns came along and exorcised me.

Warm, flat ride this afternoon on the banks of rivers and canals. Strong headwind coming off the Atlantic that slowed me down a bit but I've arrived at my room now. It's a caravan on a campsite just outside La Rochelle. They're serving IPA ice cold. I feel the detente is under threat.