We cycle through the city centre looking for a shop where we might buy something suitable for lunch - it being Tuesday though, everything is closed.
Today's ride is a good one - after the descent and subsequent climb from the city we're on smooth tarmac all day. We tell each other again, the roads over here (paved ones) are much better than those at home. Gary says he'd like to bring his carbon bike over - he reckons these roads are fast.
As we leave and are tending our bicycles there is an oldish couple arriving - the man stops and fishes out a photograph of someone on a recumbant bike - there is an exchange of smiles and words that neither party can understand - the bicycles are the common language.
|Getting Gaz's bike fixed|
Where we're staying has all the idiosyncratic peculiarities one might expect of a Hobbit. A room decorated entirely with artifacts from a Morrocan bazzaar. All wall space throughout the house is taken up with paintings by the Hobbitman himself. He locks himself away in an upper room and paints away with music blaring. There's a most wonderful and ancient oak staircase. A mosaic tiled floor, sun-bleached blue shutters, faded fabrics and dust. The place is at once a museum and a testimony to eccentricity. I love it. Our room on the second floor is basic but comfortable. The bathroom is like no other I've ever seen. The toilet facility involving a strange and ancient pumping system to facilitate a flush. The iron roll-top bath is shrouded in a hessian curtain and the floor covered in ruckled linoleum.