We’ve been here near St. Gervais for three nights now and today seemed to be giving us a stunning blue sky. Neither of us is in any way a sailor but, given a daily shift of an hour or so between high tides, we reckoned the tide might be flooding the Passage du Gois (a submersible road) some time around 11:00 AM. Having cycled across it at basse mer (low tide) three days ago, we were keen to see what it looked like as the sea swallowed it. The channel itself looked very flat so we thought the advance of the water might be quite fast. It seems people do get caught out and stuck, too. We set off à bicyclette at about 10:30 AM.

The warning lights were flashing as we approached the crossing. We had timed it perfectly; the previous low tide had been just before 9:00 AM. The comforting message, "danger area, rising tide", scrolled by in three languages (French, English, German). This was clearly quite a popular spectacle as quite a few people, including other nutters on bikes, gathered to watch the road disappear. Traffic was still crossing unhindered but eventually, as two 4x4s came across, through binoculars we saw spray starting to appear from their wheels. A couple of cars started crossing from our side, got almost half way, thought better of it, did an about turn, and returned. Very sensible! We had a feeling people liked to play chicken with the tide and be the last to cross but that may just be fanciful.

Then a few people on bikes started riding down towards the advancing water, presumably just to watch. Well, why not indeed. Clearly the water wasn’t about to outrun us so we joined them. The water seemed to be flowing in one direction, right to left, which I imagine is because of the throttling effect of the narrow channel to the left of the Île de Noirmoutier. There’s no real reason this should be any more fascinating than simply watching the tide rise, I suppose, but it is a fascinating spectacle watching a road disappear.

Our stunning blue sky was continuing so we set off again after a relaxing lunch for some more contrast and, perhaps, some local oysters. This time the contrast was windmills, modern wind generators versus the old 1703 flour mill, Le Petit Moulin de Châteauneuf, which we had seen yesterday. There is a "parc éolion" of eight very large wind generators right on the coast that we can see from our pitch.

We could see these windmills were large but cycling directly beneath them was awesome. Each of the triple blades was 40 metres long. One revolution was taking approximately three seconds by my reckoning and the tips made what was, to me, a delightfully soft swishing sound as they descended towards us and passed. Now I’ve calculated the tip speed of the blades (anorak!), I’m not surprised that they swished; they were doing about 300 kph. I was completely captivated.

On our way back we found one of two or three oyster shacks open that proclaimed dégustation (tasting) but it had neither tables nor chairs. Brilliant! Opposite, however, by a sluice gate/lock, was a small bar/restaurant that did seafood and had tables and chairs so we sat and shared a dozen local oysters washed down with a glass of muscadet. These oysters were noticeably saltier than those we had tasted a few weeks ago at La Tremblade. We much preferred the ones from La Tremblade.

Our brilliant day came to a disappointing end in the evening. The new and, I assume, inexperienced campsite owner, has let a travelling troop of British-registered Irish itinerants set up camp – five or six twin-axled vans swarming with rug-rats and satellite dishes. They’ve even got a steam-roller on a trailer! Peace, quiet and, more crucially, the feeling of security disappeared instantly. These folks are deliberately intimidating. I think everybody who can will be moving off tomorrow – we certainly are.

The new owner is going to have to learn not to let such people onto his site. It’s a pity – we’d probably have come back here.

One of our neighbours on the campsite told us where there is a stork nest in the vicinity. It could just be seen through binoculars from our pitch but there is a track passing close by it so, after breakfast we pedalled off to have a look. The nest, an unkempt pile of sticks that must be six feet across on a platform, contained two chicks.

The term "chick" feels a little odd applied to something this large. While we were watching, an adult 747 suddenly appeared over some nearby trees, casually flew in, landed neatly on the pile of sticks and started feeding the two 737s with yummy regurgitated food. This was a seriously large bird. White storks are a metre long with a wingspan of two metres. The so-called chicks were not much smaller and must be almost ready to fledge. Having fed the kids, the parent glided down into the surrounding field and stood on a roll of hay. There was no more activity so we moved on to the next activity.

Since this is a marsh area, many of the roads are dead-ends. Our stork hunt had taken us part way down one such so we decided to investigate it further. As we were cycling beside some of the water channels, small brown, furry things rushed off the bank and into the water. They proved very difficult to see properly. Eventually, patience and silence paid off and we captured one on film (well, on pixels, anyway). I think they are water voles, but don’t quote me.

Our afternoon bike ride took us to a wonderful old windmill. Le Petit Moulin de Châteauneuf was built in 1703 and has been operated by the same family grinding corn since the late 1700s. In a rare moment of extravagance, we coughed up the modest entrance fee for a guided tour in pretty fast French. I think we followed most of it, though. Well-worn wooden gear wheels turn the grinding stone, chain-operated metal gears are used for turning the windmill sails into the wind. The sails themselves are louvred to allow for varying wind strengths. The very worn, three hundred year old wooden stairs are a tad precarious but it was all very atmospheric and well worth the visit.

The route back took us past more white stork nests built on specially erected platforms. There was an observation deck quite close to one of the nests, this one containing three 737s, together with a board displaying some life history information. Much of the information comes from a yearly ringing operation. Surprisingly, they can live for up to 60 years.

This place had everything today: sun, countryside and in Challans about 10 miles away, a Leclerc supermarket and a McDonalds with McWiFi. First we went to McDonalds to publish a couple of blog postings (two espressos but no McTasteless McChicken with McYankee sauce this time), then next door to a brilliant Leclerc supermarket to do three days’ shopping.

Here’s a glaring example of one of the differences between English and French supermarkets. In Challans, not an enormous town, in addition to the usual wide variety of fish, we had live crabs crawling all over the counter (€3.50 per Kg), live langoustines twitching at the customers, and cart loads of moules de boulots (mussels) that customers eagerly shovelled into large bags to have weighed, priced and sealed. It is quite normal in France to see live lobsters and crabs on supermarket fish counters. Live crustaceans are as rare as hens’ teeth in England – I’ve certainly never seen anything live in a supermarket. In Challans, the fish counter is more than 50 feet long and had four staff who were constantly busy using a numbered ticket serving system. The prawn section on this counter was the size of an entire fish counter in England (assuming that there is one at all). We bought some white tuna to slather in mustard and barbecue for dinner (the mustard keeps the fish moist) together with some excellent prawns to munch with aioli and bread for lunch.

We went off to cycle around some more of the oyster producing coast after lunch. We saw lots of polders (dykes) keeping the sea out of the reclaimed land, and lots of oyster industry but they seem strangely reticent to sell their delicious bivalves; we saw no restaurants or tasting shacks in this area – not one. This part of the coast seemed to be purely business.

What we did see, though, were lots of water channels with many fishing nets and shacks. I can’t imagine what they might be seeking to catch in these streams but there is clearly something worth considerable effort. The bird life was an interesting mixture, too. Apart from scaring up a hen harrier that I cycled within 10 feet of, we saw a suspected marsh harrier. One more sizeable body of water entertained us with some stilts in the company of a couple of black swan cygnets. (What are black swans doing here?)

At last, having driven by stork nests, without being able to get a decent view, on our journey up to Damvix from La Palmyre, we got to see a stork strutting through a recently harvested field. It was some distance away but at least we could watch it through binoculars. There are apparently nesting platforms built for the storks in this area so we will have to investigate further.

Our bike ride broke our 500 miles barrier. If it weren’t for all this French food, I might have lost some weight.

It was definitely time to leave the land of nothing but beaches. There are good cycle paths here but all they really do is connect all the beaches. Clearly, what one is supposed to do cycle to one’s chosen beach, lie in the sun all day having the occasional dip in the sea to cool off, then cycle back rubbing the abrasive sand well into one’s backside. Definitely not us!

Carol had found another marsh area just a little way up the coast by an island, the Île de Noirmoutier. There was a suitable sounding campsite run by a Brit near St. Gervais, too, so we thought we’d give that a try. After a last trip into La Tranche-sur-Mer to buy bread and a postcard of the embarrassingly stranded cargo vessel on the beach at Les Sables d’Olonne, we set off on what turned out to another lengthy trip of 50 miles. The campsite looked great with very generous pitches so, without further ado, we got Billy set up in his new home ready for lunch.

The farm on which we are camped lies between two march areas, one to the north and one to the south. We set out for an initial exploratory trek a bicyclette and were quickly in some much more interesting countryside. The first sign we saw was for a farm selling foie gras but I think we’ll give that a miss ‘cos this is another primarily oyster farming area.

The map showed an interesting road over to the Île de Noirmoutier called the Passage du Gois. What made it sound interesting was the note on the map that says "route practicable a basse mer" (road passable at low tide). That was just begging to be investigated.

We cycled through Beauvoir-sur-Mer first. The draining of the marsh areas along this coast have led to some apparent anomalies. There are a number of towns, such as Beauvoir-sur-Mer, which are no longer sur mer (by the sea) but a few kilometres inland. There are even "ports" which no longer have a port.

Excitement increased as we approached the Passage du Gois. A wonderfully practical road sign depicted a car submerged in water accompanied by the dire warning, "risk of drowning". Terrific!

At the beginning of the road itself is a board showing the time of the next low tide. The crossing, about 5 kilometres, is practical for 90 minutes either side of low tide. In a brilliant stroke of luck, we had arrived at 5:30 PM, 45 minutes before low tide. What a wonderful sight. Not only was traffic streaming across, but people were driving out into the middle of the causeway, parking, and digging for clams. There were dozens of them (people, not clams). The French practice of fanatically harvesting a source of free food is so indicative of a nation with a passionate interest in gastronomy. 

Given the timing, we just had to cycle over to the Île de Noirmoutier and back again. The underwater road was built between 1935 and 1939 of diamond-shaped paving slabs. Some of these remain and give the bikes and, therefore, ones backside, a serious pounding. Some sections have been replaced by tarmac and these provide a blessed relief to the vibro-massage provided by the paving slabs.

This place is great. What a difference 50 miles can make.

While we were investigating La Tranche-sur-Mer yesterday, Carol found a post card depicting a large cargo vessel parked on the beach at Les Sables d’Olonne, embarrassingly close to the promenade. It had apparently been driven ashore during a bad storm, we thought in early May. Largely in the hope that it would still be stranded, but also because we wanted to see Les Sables anyway, we loaded the bikes onto the car so that we could park outside the town and cycle in, and set off.

Managing with difficulty to avoid car parks with height restriction barriers that would have creamed our bikes, we got parked, picked up the cycle track and pedalled into Les Sables. Serious disappointment – no stranded large cargo vessel. What you-know-who had read as "May" had, in fact, been "March" and the recovery operation had been completed. Mon Dieu! We can’t have a large cargo vessel taking up valuable sun-worshipping beach space now, can we?

Undaunted, we poodled around Les Sables looking at the various remaining sites, none of which were as interesting as a beached large cargo vessel. Then it was back to the car, bikes back on the roof, and off to search for the Les Sables McDonalds. Not only did we find it, complete with McWiFi, but, since it was getting well into lunch time, I broke the habit of a lifetime and bought McDonalds version of food, a "Chicken Mythic" with Yankee McSauce, as well as the usual two espressos and ice cream (sundae de la saison) for you-know-who. I won’t bother again; the "Chicken Mythic" was predictably McTasteless. I won’t try again.

My late afternoon/early evening was spent on a jay hunt. We had a local jay which seemed to be doing a relatively predictable round of the campsite. Part of its routine was to look for insects on a wood pile and fence opposite our pitch. I bolted on the long lens and tried to wait patiently. (Patiently, for me, means not fidgeting more than once per minute. This is why I could never be a fisherman.) My version of patience paid off in the end and the jay, relatively undaunted by my approach, posed for a photo shoot. The jay wasn’t a pristine example, having a few ruffled feathers, but the resulting bird filling the viewfinder constituted something of a victory.

Our plan, such as it was, was to pop in to see the town of Les Sables-d’Olonne, today. The sky above Billy was bright blue (my favourite colour) so we set off. Once we got beyond all the trees of our campsite and onto the roads into the exceedingly flat countryside, it became clear that fairly thick cloud cover existed almost everywhere but where we were. Our clear patch extended south towards La Rochelle; Les Sables-d’Olonne lies a little way north of us. Having found some sun we were not anxious to drive deliberately out of it so we changed tack to head south and check out La Tranche-sur-Mer instead.

La Tranche-sur-Mer turned out to be a typical French seaside resort town. We parked a little way out ‘cos I hate paying to park and walked in. We were really on the look out for some wi-fi ‘cos the blog postings are building up into a something of a backlog. One bar/crêperie claimed to have it but it didn’t open until midday. In the end, two extra trips back to the car to collect the laptop proved less appealing than a wi-fi-equipped crêperie so, rather than wait a little while, we skipped it and went on a necessary shopping trip instead.

After lunch, the sky had cleared up nicely and we had a lot more of that wonderful blue. So, we hopped on the ol’ bicycles again to try some more of the pistes cyclables (cycle tracks) and to investigate an interesting-looking estuary area called Pointe du Payré about 10 miles west of us. It looked as though it might be a good place for wildlife. (Aside: it strikes me that there is something decidedly perverse about an area that looks ironing-board flat – a mole hill would constitute a mountain around here – but that has the hilliest cycle tracks we’ve ever encountered.)

On the way we stopped to watch more people lying on a beach, yawned then continued. Another brief diversion up a side track found and impressive old abbey … which was "closed for work until 200-"! (Clearly somebody was having trouble with their project plan.)  The headwind made some of the journey there a tad more difficult but we eventually reached our goal. A wooded area at the end of the road looked promising so we headed through it to … yet another beach with more people sunning themselves. We’ve seen black kites and the like cruising over some of the fields on the landward side of the main roads where there is some marsh habitat but this area’s focus is quite clearly sun-worshipping on the beach.

Cycling to nothing but beaches is good exercise though.

It was finally time to get on the road again. The weather still isn’t very settled further south so you-know-who convinced us that we should explore the west coast some more. Carol had found a peaceful-sounding campsite near the coast at Longeville-sur-Mer and it would give us the opportunity to see the western end of the Marais Poitevin en route.

The journey was all of 45 miles and we soon realised how good the area around Damvix and Arçais is, as the further west we got, the duller it looked. A flat, grey sky and the back-end of several seaside resorts didn’t help much mind you!

The weather had brightened by the time we approached the campsite. It certainly is very peaceful and there are hardly any other campers, which is surprising given the proximity to the beach- a pleasant 1km walk through woods. We found Billy a nicely shaded pitch and got him set up before settling down to the remains of our previously-barbecued pintade (guinea fowl). After Damvix, the wildlife here proved a little disappointing – not much other than the odd jay, blackbird and chaffinch (of course).

After lunch it was time to start exploring par bicyclette and put mon nouveau rayon (my new spoke) to the test. (Aside: To add to our second punctured car tyre, this is my third broken spoke in France – €17.50 this time. In future, I’m going to have to start budgeting for broken spokes and punctures.) The cycle route here runs just outside our campsite and it took us through the woods towards Longeville-sur-Mer. It had hills! We must have forgotten how to do those as they hurt. The signing was interesting around Longeville-sur-Mer and we seemed to go round in circles several times trying to get out. We did find a sign to cycle route 23 but, since our map only went up to 19, we decided to go off piste.

The local marais looked promising but the birds seem to have decided that the weather wasn’t good enough to get airborne. We were cycling along through not very much, getting some strange looks from locals that seemed to say, "what on Earth are you doing here", when we happened upon a Union Flag fluttering in our head wind. It turned out to be a memorial to a Halifax bomber crew, shot down in July 1941. I’m ashamed to say that I have forgotten all my scout training about getting a Union Flag the right way up. I’m not certain about this one.

Carol did of course have to look at the sea at several places Even the coast looked relatively dull – long sandy beaches backed with sand dunes and little else. There were a few dedicated people braving a slight sand-blasting but it seemed that most people had decided the weather wasn’t good enough either.

The weather cleared for the evening and Billy’s shaded pitch provided a very pleasant environment for an outdoor sausage-fest (sausages grilled on good ol’ George, once again, because charcoal barbecues aren’t permitted).

Having discovered a broken spoke in my bike’s rear wheel, I was reticent to use it in case further spokes, now under increased stress, failed. Cycling 25 miles is fine but I really didn’t want to be 12 miles from base having to walk back with a completely disabled bike. Having explained my predicament to our friendly campsite owner, he pointed me at a suitable repair shop in Benet, about 10 miles/15 kilometres distant.

Just before leaving, Linda sent a text message confirming a promenade en barque (boat trip) at 4:00 PM. Perfect timing; we now knew the shape of our last day in Damvix – we are definitely moving off tomorrow. Putting the bicycle wheel in the car, off we went to Benet.

The local market was in full swing when we arrived in Benet. We dropped off the wheel, to be collected after our marais boat trip in the afternoon, and then hit the market. Some small, sweet sardines on the market fish stall looked irresistible. Together with some local bread, a barbecued lunch beckoned. (Why is it that the French can manage the supply of perfectly fresh fish throughout a larger country than we can? We’re lucky if the fish at our fishing ports is as fresh as theirs in the centre of the country.) Back to "play some more harmonicas"!

We met Linda at the appointed hour for our guided promenade en barque. Having a guide was great. Apart from our not having to do any work, we learned quite a bit about the marais. There are apparently four different words for canal: bief, rigole, conche  and fossé (in descending order, from largest to smallest). All these words for canal reminded me of the Masai (sp?) in Africa, who are said to have more than 30 different words for "brown" enabling them to describe precisely their precious cattle.

Our marais guide’s pièce de résistance was to pull in to a side conche, grab an oar and stir up the sediment thus releasing methane gas which bubbled to the surface whereupon he set it aflame with a lighter. Having flames dancing on the surface of the water and licking around the side of the barque was great fun.

For our evening meal (another salade Niçoise topped with the remains of our barbecued tuna), we were entertained by a rally of camping cars (motor homes) in an adjacent field. After some rather bizarre sounds which, in retrospect, were probably warming up exercises, we heard what we thought were French hunting horns (like orchestral French horns but without the valves). Curiosity got the better of us and we abandoned our pastis to go and investigate. Sure enough, the massed French hunting horns of the camping car club du sud were tootling away, very tunefully, in the field next door. We were sorry when they stopped.

Once again, we thought we might move on tomorrow so we pedalled into Arçais to say au revoir to Linda and her folks (Mike having returned to England already). We had only just left the campsite when Carol spotted a fluffy moorhen chick swimming around in a lot of green pond weed so we dismounted to watch. With uncharacteristically perfect timing, a much larger bird chose this moment to swoop in and land on the same piece of water. It was a handsome bird with a fearsome-looking bill, an eye-stripe and a piercing, bright orange eye. This was only our second sighting of a night heron, which do not occur in Britain, and it had the good grace to pose perfectly facing the camera. Another non-British heron, the purple heron, also lives here in the marais but, on this trip, we haven’t had a good view of one.

We had another delay less than a mile upstream as a tourist boat negotiated a lock causing a small road bridge to be raised, but we eventually made it to Linda embarrassingly close to lunch time. Payment was necessary, however. One of their bicycles had a flat rear tyre. All local hands claimed incompetence or inability so yours truly managed to effect a repair for the price of two beers and the offer of some lunch, which Carol accepted. We may all get to go for a promenade en bateau (excursion in a barque) together tomorrow if the weather is kind. We’ve never seen the marsh from a boat before.

During our traditional afternoon bike ride Carol, following me, spotted that my bike’s rear wheel was not running true. It could have been the tyre mounted slightly askew on the rim but it looked horribly as if something more was amiss. As the barbie was firing up, I investigated further and found a broken spoke, as I feared. This is the third time I’ve suffered un rayon cassé (a broken spoke) in France. I must be using the bike too much. The more likely explanation is, of course, that the bread and cheese is having an adverse effect on my weight and is putting undue stress on the spokes.

Now bicycle repair man needs a bicycle repair man of his own.

21st June: for those of us in the northern hemisphere, the day with the longest interval between sunrise and sunset. Following yesterday’s very cloudy sky, the weather chose to celebrate the longest day by beginning summer and actually supplying a sunrise into a blissfully blue, cloud-free sky which lasted uninterrupted until sunset. The French chose to celebrate the longest day with their nationwide 27th fête de la musique (music festival). Stages were being set up everywhere for the evening’s entertainment. It looked like being a hopefully pleasantly noisy night.

We were thinking of moving on tomorrow so we needed a run into Niort and Magné for fuel, McWiFi and provisions. We had to screech to a halt on the way through Arçais to watch boatloads of tourists causing a traffic jam marais-style. It looked as if four coach-loads had just discharged and commandeered every barque in the district.

Photographic diversion over, we continued on our joint missions of blogging and shopping. Since the day promised to be sunny and warm (about 28°C/82°F), we treated the portable Weber to a good-looking slice of tuna for the evening to top another salade Niçoise. The poor Weber wasn’t going to know what had hit it since we also chose to fire it up to grill the remaining chicory heads for lunch. About two barbecues in almost four weeks and then, suddenly, two in one day! Was this summer?

The first time we experienced hot, Mediterranean temperatures, we were a bit nervous about clambering on our bikes and generating more heat through muscular effort. However, once tried, we discovered that the cooling effect of moving through the air made it considerably more comfortable than simply sitting still. So, after lunch we hopped on the trusty steeds and popped out for a quick 24 miles round a couple of new cycle routes hoping perhaps to see some more ragondins (coypus). The ride was great but the coypus were absent; perhaps they had all be made into rillettes or pâté. We’ve managed 400 miles in four weeks, as near as makes no difference.

The evening fête de la musique fired up as we were tucking into our tuna-topped Niçoise, so we went to investigate afterwards. Damvix offered two venues so we picked one where we had seen our campsite owner. Here, the locals were sitting at tables being entertained by a solo performer with his guitar. Our French was not up to understanding the songs but there did seem to be a somewhat bizarre rendition of "roll out the barrel" in French. Odd! A couple of glasses of vin rouge helped us both converse with and dance with some of the locals. Our campsite owner was even gracious enough to buy us another glass of red wine each. What a pleasant evening.

There is another form of entertainment that is quite prevalent in France called son et lumière (sound and light). Having retired with clear skies, our brief summer came to a crashing end during the night when mother nature put on a spectacular son et lumière of her own in the form of a storm to the accompaniment of thunder and lightening.

Never mind, summer was nice while it lasted.