The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I felt like lukewarm death. Just putting on my shoes required major effort. Breakfast was served downstairs by Veronique, our terminally cheerful hostess. Afterwards, I kept my promise to myself to go for a walk along the picturesque waterways of Arcais, resisting temptation to curl up along the grassy banks for a nap. My walk eventually led me to the port, where sexy Frederic --whom we had met last night over pineau---was waiting for customers to push through the *conches*. He invited me across the street for a coffee, and showed me a handmade book of photos and clippings that served as the village archive.
He told me of the frequent floods, the time he pushed Mitterand around in a boat with the ranking Socialists from nearby Niort, and the crops that are no longer grown in the *marais* due to the difficult labor involved and the lack of demand. There were many photos of cows being transported in the boats (\"that's only folklore now,\" Frederic explained) and others of an old guy who made eel traps out of straw, an art that died with him several years ago. Both Fred and I could have stayed a few more days in Arcais, but we had a rendezvous to keep some 175 kilometers away, so shortly before noon we hopped on our bikes for the ride to Coulon, self-described capital of the Marais Poitevin.
It was a very tough eleven kilometers against a howling wind. Coulon came as a disappointment after the perfection of Arcais; it isn't nearly as pretty a village, and has been all but effaced by mass tourism. We ate on a terrace full of Brittanic tourists and contemplated returning to Arcais for a lazy afternoon of napping and boating. Somehow, though, we managed to muster the energy to climb back upon our bikes and head uphill out of the swamp. On our first downhill of the day, I couldn't understand why I had to pedal so hard. A quick inspection revealed that I hadn't replaced my wheel properly after changing the rear tire this morning.
It was rubbing against my brakes big-time, thus partially explaining my lethargy in the saddle for the previous thirty kilometers. Even with the problem fixed, however, I had a hard time keeping up with Fred through the steep hills of the intensively cultivated *bocage* of the Vendée. This was my first visit to the Vendee department, famous for resisting the French Revolution and remaining loyal to the crown, and to this day a bastion of French conservatism. We made our Orangina stop --which has become a BikeBrats tradition in France---in a little town called Vouvant. The waitress offered us \"sanguinary Orangina\", made from blood oranges.
It seemed appropriate for the Vendee's bloody past, so we tried it. All around us on the terrace it was Brit-o-rama, signaling that we were once again in tourist country. We made a quick visit to the town's ramparts, the creepy church and a tower that legend says was built by magic in one day. Beyond Vouvant, the hills grew bigger and the wind grew stronger. Windmills began to appear on many of the hillsides. The last twenty km or so into Pouzanges offered many spectacular views of the surrounding countryside and some of the steepest climbs we've endured since the Hill Country of Texas.
Pouzanges itself is built upon one of the highest hills in the region, and it was quite a pump to get to the strategically perched center. I had another flat tire --this time in front---and made Fred investigate our lodging options for a change. He came back saying that the only decent place in town was full, which meant we'd have to sleep above a bar, in terrible beds with penis pillows. I was ready to sleep anywhere, still feeling like a zombie. In fact, I hardly feel worthy to write about today since I didn't really experience it as a sentient being...