Instead we made it as far as La Rochelle, which my Lonely Planet book promised to be “a lively and increasingly chic port city.” We decided to give it a try as it was getting later in the day and our chances of making it to Bordeaux and a campsite before dark were looking smaller and smaller. We disembarked the train at La Rochelle-Ville in the late afternoon and made our way to Camping du Soleil, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be full.
We must have looked really pathetic, James and I, wearily trudging along in the heat with our backpacks, because for the second night in a row we were squeezed onto a pitch even though the campsite was already booked solid. On this occasion, we would be sharing a pitch with another couple who had a single tent and no car. It wasn’t ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers.
La Rochelle
One of the main focal points of La Rochelle seemed to be two towers dating from the 14th century that stand at the entrance of the harbor. To guard and protect the city, the people of La Rochelle stretched an enormous chain between the two towers. Sometimes the best solutions really are the most simple. James and I admired the towers from afar, resolving to leave the bulk of our exploring for the following day. Our main priority, having established a place to pitch our tent, was to find something to cook for supper.
The campsite was louder than the last two had been, and the showers smelt of urine. This was also my first encounter with the infamous Asiatic toilets. I was unnerved to discover a lack of toilet seats on the non-Asiatic toilets, and as a result, I “held it” for as long as possible. This only resulted in extra-long wees that made my thigh muscles ache as I hovered above the seat-less toilets. In this, I’m afraid, my American-ness showed through like a neon sign.
James and I were woken up that first night by a steady pitter patter of something hitting our tent, leaves or small pinecones or bugs or even rain. In the light of day, we discovered piles of small stones and rocks at the side of our tent nearest to the other couple’s tent. We were glad when the campsite owners moved us to a newly vacated pitch.
Writing Postcards With a Pint of Jupiler
Thursday in La Rochelle dawned slowly. We ventured out into the already hot morning to explore. We spent the day wandering around the streets of the city, visiting a model museum that housed, among other things, a motorized battle between two ships on the high seas and narrated entirely in French (obviously). We stopped at a sidewalk café that served Jupiler, a beer James had first tried in Belgium when we’d gone a few years previous. We found a market and bought the fixings for that evening’s meal. We tried, in vain, to find a beach where we could swim, but instead found only the rocky sides of the harbor with a dead jellyfish washing to and fro.
La Rochelle
In an effort to avoid the ants that were running rampant throughout the pitch, James had hung our string bag of food items (olive oil, apples, salt and pepper, dried herbs) over the fencepost closest to our tent. Much later that night, after the campsite quieted down and nearly everyone was asleep, we were woken by a strange rustling noise. James stuck his head outside and recognized our angry rock-throwing pitch-mate from the night before walking swiftly away from our food net, perhaps having discovered that there was nothing steal-able inside.
Dawn couldn’t come fast enough for us; we were heading to Spain in the morning.
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