We'd become comfortable in our coco sweet cabin, but the time had come to move on. Angela felt very anxious, tears pricked the back of her eyes. She was cross with the French cyclist who'd run into her, and cross with herself for feeling nervous and that she could not ride her bike with confidence.
So we took it slowly, planning to cycle just twenty-five miles. Soon the route steered away from the river taking us through a flat open landscape of grapevines and olive trees. The earth dry and dusty, baked hard by the sun. A sky of metallic blue hung overhead. We were glad the temperature was in the mid twenties, we were so exposed we would have fried otherwise. The repeating landscape soon became boring and we were pleased to arrive at Tarascon just after two.
The town was pretty, the campsite not so. But as we always say, it's just somewhere to erect our tent and take a shower. The pitches were uneven, the ground hard and stony. Hardly perfect.
Other cyclists began to arrive and soon it didn't feel so bad. Angela showered and changed the dressing on her knee. It did not look good. An infection was showing so we sought advice. The pharmacist in the town wanted Angela to attend a hospital. The nearest main one Avingon where we had just cycled from.
Pizzas bought. Too large for us to finish so we shared them with the other cyclists, we went on to book a train back early in the morning. We were so close to the Mediterranean, our destination. Would we make it?
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