I’m in Blois and that was the view across the Loire of last night’s sunset from my campsite.

A song’s been ringing round my head this morning, written by Evan Dando, the main man behind 80s band, the Lemonheads. He sings of the deceit he’d deployed to woo an outdoorsy girl and how, to win her over, he’d lied about being the outdoor type. “Never learned to swim, can’t grow a beard or even fight. I lied about being the outdoor type”. It’s worth a listen.

I’ve just spent my first night in a tent for a long, long time and, although it’s not quite the same and I haven’t lied to anyone, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been kidding myself. I’m not quite the outdoor type I used to be.

I’m travelling as light as I can be with a tiny tent but it still means that I’m lugging around a weight that’s more suited to a hefty wheelie suitcase or the company of a Sherpa.

I’d forgotten what backpack camping’s really like. The things you’d normally do in a room, for example, like flaying your arms around to pull on a jumper or putting on your trousers, require Houdini-like contortions. And there’s nowhere to put anything, including your self. You either lie down or crouch and it’s not very comfortable.

The reason I think I’ve been kidding myself is because I rather fancied the idea of travelling light, unencumbered by the need to be any particular place and with all that I needed on my back. The reality, of course, is very different. I used to travel lighter, for sure, but as I’d planned my trip I’d been thinking of a time when I was a leaner, younger version of myself and overlooked the fact that I no longer am. And I need more stuff.

Last night was awful. I ached from the eight mile walk, which I could have done easily without my home on my back, and I slept badly on a hard floor. Coddled in a sock-like sleeping bag unable to toss and turn, and with the cold that comes with a cloudless sky seeping in, as did the raucous, all night snores of a hefty German man in a neighbouring tent, it was a long night. I woke at 5.00am as the light poured in, as I did several times throughout the night, including once when a cat (I think?) was meowing at my door at 3.00am.

So I’m revising my plans. I’m going to walk down some of the Loire and I’ll take a train from time to time too. But best of all I’m shedding my load back at Jim and Brigitte’s. It’s B&Bs from now on. And anyway, I need to go back because I forgot to pack my underwear.

The campsite, now rechristened Le Camping de l’Épiphanie du Vieil Homme, is a few miles from Blois, which, to labour my point, is too many with a rucksack on your back. But it’s a nice enough walk, and I’ve just come into the city along a path that hugs the Loire’s southern bank beside which noisy toads croak continuously.

All around there are tern colonies, many on the river’s islands. They’re noisy, busy birds, continually coming and going as adults bring fish back for their chicks or their sitting mate, young birds call for their parents and others chase off intruders. They even make a racket through the night. But it all goes quiet when the weather cools and they head off to winter in Africa.

Here’s a view of the bridge I’ve just crossed and of the view back towards Le Camping de l’Épiphanie du Vieil Homme.

If you’d like to receive updates on new posts, it’s a bit clunky, but you have to send an email to yourself via the ‘Register’ link below. Just add your email at the top. Once you’ve done that you’ll get updates on any future posts. Your email won’t show on here and won’t be shared with anyone.