We arrived in Barcelona at night, which is instantly disconcerting in any city. Danny had devised a system to take us down the one way streets adjacent to Parral-lel, working out the route beforehand and then writing down the number of turns we had to count before our next right or left. It worked, though no thanks to Michelin.
We chucked our bags and bikes off the train as quick as we could (I stood below while Danny threw things at me - panniers, tents, sleeping bags) and assembled our structural masses on the platform before taking the lift up to street level. Outside the scenery was confusing. I remember it as mostly being dark, though there must have been street-lights. Danny brought out his compass and made vague directional gestures with his hand before finally deciding on the other side of the station. We got ourselves onto a big road, indistinct in this rather quiet sunday evening, and it looked like we were heading in the right direction. Slowly but surely making our way through side streets, counting as we went, we finally wound up (I know not how) outside the Youth Hostel, wherein we had beds books and friends awaiting.
Fred and Lucas (how wierd to talk of people from back home in this, otherwise, entirely foreign story) were not in, for they had left to sample the delightful tastes of tradition spainish foods - a pizza from pizzahut. We saw them through the window before they saw us, they were engaged in conversation with others from the youth hostel, so Danny made silly faces to get their attention. We finally got their attention and they came out to congradulate us on getting this far, whilst a couple of others from the youth hostel joined in with the praise. We joined them indoors as they were just finishing up (splitting the bill as people of our age, by not paying for more than ate - which invariably leads to arguments and less money being forthcoming than appears on the bill).
We sauntered back to the youth hostel and talked our trip over with Fred and Lucas. There people made plans for the evening, a trip to the "travellers' bar" and perhaps something later. Then Rosie came bouncing up the stairs and introduced herself. She was off to meet a friend elsewhere, but said she would join the group later. So we left, as all big groups do, in varying waves of speed and enthusiasm. Danny talked to Fred and Lucas, while I mingled with others and spent most of the trip talking with a guy called Simon about bikes. In the dark, our trip had no relation to any later trip we made in the light the next day; almost as if we were walking in a different cities. Onto La Ramblas, the "travellers' bar" was off this road of heavy tourist traffic. Outside the bouncer was English - this really was an international bar. The bartenders spoke English so it was far too easy to order alcohol. We found an empy corner and sat with our beers and chatted about stuff.
The metric system of measuring alcohol is mostly unfortunate. Half a litre lacks the directness of "a pint" nor the foolish accurateness of "568ml" when measured in metric itself. Its a round number at "500ml" but it lacks life, and I missed the pint whilst I was out there. Another thing that was odd was that I quickly slipped into the spanish way of drinking: slowly and little.
Conversation was good, company great and everyone was very friendly. Reminded me of first week of university, where everybody doesn't know anybody; cliques aren't yet established and there is a free movement of people from group to group. Rosie joined us not long after and we shared a few conversations on interesting and varying topics such as, art, feminism, etc.; all of which we moved through with the ease and interest of two people really thinking at the same level.
Time was called at around 2am, and while the time had passed quite consistently it took me by complete suprise it so late and myself so awake. It took me a bit of time to realise that it made perfect sense - we hadn't got to the bar till 10pm! We walked through the faint pattering of rain in search of bar that was still open. The group found a club open in the Placa Reial and we queued up (though I wasn't keen on the idea - club's require payment on the door and generally don't allow for much in the way of conversation, and I was in the mood for conversation). Danny, who had not bought civvies with him on the trip, was instantly rejected by the bouncer's (for what we ain't sure, he didn't look too bad to be fair). With the group looking like it may split discussion turned into stalling, and eventually Rosie took the lead (she works as a teacher so is quite good at it) and lead a small group of us, Danny and I included, to find a bar that was still open. She had lived in the city before and knew the place far better than the rest of us so hopes were high for a drinking establishment to hole ourselves up in till morning.
A couple of non-starters later, we realised that even BCN, a city that never sleeps sometimes needs a rest and Sunday was its night to get a nap. The bars we tried were all closing up and had stopped serving at the bar before we got there. Danny started grumbling for food, and I was also in the mood for eats, as we had both missed dinner that evening. So we gave up on drinking and focused instead on getting a kebab of some sort (yes they do them in Spain, though quite different to what we expect back home).
Food sorted (I can't remember much about the kebab other than it was rather tasty), we returned to the Youth Hostel, where the night-shift receptionist seemed rather put-off by our insistent talking in the common room after midnight (it was a rule - a pretty crap one). We carried on as he got more and more irate, till finally we couldn't be bothered and so went our seperate ways into our rooms. Each room in the Youth Hostel slept 6 people and we were sleeping in room 4, the room where Fred and Lucas were also sleeping. When we went in we saw all but two of the beds were taken, Fred and Lucas and the other two had all got back before - we assumed they hadn't gone clubbing after all. We got into our beds and looked forward to a good nights sleep...
Which we didn't get because at about 5am we were woken up by someone exclaiming that there was someone in her bed. The night-shift receptionist was roused, and I got out of bed to help try figure the problem out. The receptionist kept asking me if I was George, and I kept having to explain to him that I wasn't. Finally he got the little slips of paper out that somehow organised the Youth Hostel sleeping arrangements and we found mine and Danny's slip. We had been given room 4 to sleep in and a locker key in the self-same room. Except Room 4 already had 6 people sleeping in it. So Danny, not looking very happy, and I were put in another room with a promise that it would all get sorted out in the morning.
I should perhaps mention that both Danny and myself quickly became associated with rather unsocialable things. For Danny it was his quite astounding snoring (and I felt quite sorry for everyone in our room - sleep could not have been good for them for the two nights we were there). For myself it was the quite upsettingly potent stench of my feet, in particular my socks. I had only take three pairs of socks with me, and as my shoes were constantly open to the elements they all became quite wet - I believe I have not had dry feet for some 2/3rds of this trip so far. The bottom of feet were disgusting to look at, wrinkled, white monstrosities that looked rotten and just plain wrong. My feet themselves were not overly bad, and my shoes were also hardly the worst I've smelt, but the socks, all 3 pairs of them were eye wateringly bad. It was for my feet that I became known in the Youth Hostel. Ah well.
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The next morning we woke suprisingly early as Breakfast was served from 8-10. I say served, it was left out for us to pick through. Toast, butter, cereal, tea or coffee made for a good breakfast (though far less in quantity then we were used to). Danny and I were among the first up but eventually others joined us in our wide-eyed awakeness. Most of the conversation was on the early-morning mix-up that the receptionists had got everyone into, everyone was damn sure it wasn't our fault - which was good. Rosie appeared for breakfast, poor thing, and we chatted for awhile, but she quickly went back to bed for a siesta after awhile - she had been sleeping in the bed next to Danny's, she can't have got much sleep.
The plan for today was to hang around with Fred and Lucas on their last day in Barcelona. They wanted to take us to Parc Guell (umlaut not included), which sounded like a pretty good way to spend the day; the sun was out and we were in a strange town. Danny also made reservations to meet up with Rosie during the day for a tour around the old town.
Plans set, we walked out of the Youth Hostel and into the warmth of the Barcelona sun. Up La Ramblas we stopped in a little known market called La Boqueria - you may have heard of it. The colour there was fantastic; a thriving throng of fruit stalls and others all aching to sell their wares to passers-by. I didn't buy anything on that first day, but subsequently I would only feel happy after I had purchased a kilo of golden delicious from my favourite stall there: they were so cheap and so delicious it made it hard to think of a good reason not to.
Onwards and upwards to the metro station at the Placa de Catalunya, we passed the most horrifying aspect of La Ramblas. The entire boulevard is packed with street performers the kiosks selling postcards and other tourist memorabilia, but stuffed between these two innocent money-making tourist traps were two stalls selling birds locked in cages. One of them was run by a nasty hobbit of a man, who sparkled and smiled in nasty, grimey way as people (most, I think, with a sense of, "I cannot believe this kind of place exists!") milled around, sometimes inquiring about prices, sometimes not. Lucas made a little film of Fred asking the hobbit-y man where one of his street pigeons had come from and how much it was. The man replied that it was from Madrid (I think) and cost 5o euros! We left him to his cruelty and boarded the metro that would take us to the Parc Guell.
We got of the Metro and followed the signs (they have good signs for local places in Spain) up to the hill, the top of which housed Parc Guell. So steep was the terrain here, the wise governors of Barcelona had decided to install escalators to aid the travel of interested tourists and tired locals. We had seen escalators like these before, and it is quite wierd to see such mechanical devices completely divorced from their usual surroundings (covered and near, or in, shopping centres). It is a long way up, and the hill rises at such an angle as to make one really question the veracity of the signs pointing toward Parc Guell - how could anything balance atop such a peak?!
We didn't see much of Parc Guell, but sat half-way up the path running toward the centre to just marvel at the view of Barecelona. A maze and mass of buildings that stretched for miles everywhere - Barcelona really is an impressive city, nestled so sporadically between the mountains and the coast. We sat there for awhile, Fred and Lucas pointing out interesting sights to us, the sun warming us so pleasantly. Before too long we had to leave to meet Rosie in the Placa Reial, so we made plans to catch Fred and Lucas later outside La BLa Boqueria at 4pm as we planned to have dinner with them later.
Danny and I walked down to the metro station and armed with the map found ourselves back on La Ramblas again and reached the Placa Reial spot on 2pm. We couldn't see Rosie though (and no-one turns up exactly on time anyway) so we went to a near cafe and Danny ordered a coffee - to take-away. I wasn't sure that it was something they would offer, but sure enough Danny exited with some coffee in a little see-through plastic cup. What wonders Barcelona offers.
Finally we spotted Rosie and Caroli, another girl from the Youth Hostel. They had been waiting at the fountain in the centre all along. Introductions sorted out, we hadn't met Caroli before, Rosie suggested a tour of the old town; a maze of close streets and balconies that join the many plazas that dot the city of Barcelona. One particular plaza that painted a particularly poignant image was the one where a large number of rebels during the Spanish Civil War were slaughtered by Franco's soldiers; you could still see the pocked walls where bullets had broken the skin of those buildings. And amongst all this history of violenc children were playing football without a care in the world. How wounds heal.
Our group was a very unusual one. Caroli didn't speak much English; Rosie spoke (to my ears anyway) fairly decent Spanish, though she often had to search for the right word; Danny was still learning, but looked fairly competent; and I spoke no Spanish whatsoever (I could say "hello", "please", "thankyou" and "good-bye"). This meant that Rosie had to act as translator for Caroli if our English conversations got out of hand, and when Rosie and Caroli spoke Spanish, Danny tried to follow along and I listened to noise. Still, we managed to communicate pretty well as a group with sign-language, and whilst Caroli didn't speak much English, she spoke well enough for her to ask me questions and understand my answers - made me ashamed to be English, not least because she also spoke Italian well enough to even start using Italian in her Spanish by accident!
We hardly saw even a quarter of the old town, though I was distracted by conversation with Rosie for most of it, so we may have seen more: I was to revisit this part of town in much greater depth whilst aimlessly wandering when it was just me left in Barcelona (Danny took to cycling quite early on). One of my favourite parts of Barcelona was the internal streets: behind every big door in these streets was an internal street from which the higher levels could be reached. They looked fantastic, like a city within a city.
One of the reasons we ventured into town was for supplies. Not food supplies, we were fairly competent with that now; we were looking for clothes. I was in need of new socks (my feet were awful, my socks even worse), and Danny was in need of some civvies. We spent a bit of time walking through that part of old town that was full of little shops and indoor markets, but we couldn't find anything cheap enough for Danny, and socks just did not seem to be on the menu.
As the time approached 4pm we made our back to La Ramblas and to the market where we met up with Fred and Lucas. They wanted to get back to the Youth Hostel, but we wanted to do a bit more shopping and also get food for this evening: Danny planned to cook a mean for us four and everyone else as it turned out. For the purposes of dinner, we took a little detour through the Carrefour Express on La Ramblas. Danny is like an old-woman in a supermarket, he spends ages getting just the right ingredients; it's quite funny to watch. Rosie was the one to point it out to me.
Don Simon: Danny has a taste for cheap red wine, and he found his greatest in Spain. It goes by the name of Don Simon and sells in Carrefour for 64 cents for a litre. So cheap it makes you wonder how the make any money off it. It is disgusting, and the Spanish we talked to were ashamed of it, but if we ever exclaim "Don Simon!", it is this we do it for. We also found the Sangria version 1 euro and 4 cents; it tastes much nicer and is far easier to drink.
Food shopping done, we stopped for a coffee and relaxed for a bit; staring at the cats on the wall. The siesta that afflicts the Spanish shopper between the hours of 12 an 4 was finally at a close and we quickly found lots of little shops selling cheap stuff cheaply. In one we found a shirt for Danny and new shoes, whilst I picked up some new socks and new underwear. Our tasks finally done we returned to the Youth Hostel so Danny could prepare dinner and I could finally wash with the prospect of something that didn't smell of stale sweat to put on my feet.
I spent 20 mins cleaning my feet alone, washing them over and over again till I could be sure that any smell eminating from them was only the lemon of the soap. That is something I've learned the hard way on this trip: Feet are important, do not underestimate the need to protect them from the elements and from themselves. As they spend most of their time enclosed in the same material all day long, it is vitally important to be able to change them into something more comfortable and allow them to air in dry socks and shoes. Next time I would definately do what Danny did, which was to have one pair of shoes to cycle with, and one pair for when the cycling is over. Fleece socks are also important, and waterproof shoes or over-shoes for when the weather is against you.
Finally, with feet done and socks donned, I stepped out into a world where I did not need to feel ashamed of my feet anymore. Fred and Lucas were not in when we got there, so we waited a bit before Danny decided to start cooking without them. I don't know at what point he decided to cook for everyone who was in, but it ended up as a meal for 9 people. In itself this is quite impressive, what makes it staggeringly god-like is that the Youth-Hostel, while equipped with a kitchen, did not have a cooker so Danny did the entire thing on our little camping-gaz stove. It really makes you realise how wasteful we are of our 4-hob monstrosities. If you can cook a meal for 9 on one hob, imagine what you could do with 4!
Dinner cooked, and Fred, Lucas and the others waiting and hungry, we sat down for a meal of epic proportions. There was so much food that Danny had to cook it in two batches! We ate well and accompanied by Don Simon (we had snuck it in as alcohol apparently forbidden) the entire meal was a great success. After Dinner we planned the proceedings for the evening. At the start everyone was planning to go out in one big group, but as the time got later and later, Rosie, Ethan and myself got impaitent and we decided to meet up with them later if we could.
The goal for the three of us was to visit a champagneria (or something like that - basically a place where they only serve Cava). The place we had seen during the day opened a 7pm, but it was shut because it was a Monday (The Spanish seem to follow the Garfield philosophy of week-days). With no chance of excessive amounts of Cava, we stopped off in a particularly plush cocktail bar. I can't remember where it was (perhaps Rosie can help), but it is certainly a place to go to if you are in Barecelona, if only because it made the most potent cocktail I have ever tried: the Hemingway. It was a cocktail made from Cava and Absinthe and may well have been made in the same way as the Death in the Afternoon Cocktail, the name of which is suitably descriptive of the stuff we drank. Rosie and I both had a Hemingway, while Ethan stuck with the far safer Mojitos. We had only sat down for a couple of minutes before Ethan said he had to rush to meet some friends of his. I didn't mind, he left his Mojitos behind, which meant more alcohol for us.
And so Rosie and I, accompanied by the quite potent mixture of the Hemingway cocktail, talked and talked. About what, I couldn't say; for how long, I have no idea. Conversation was effortless, pauses were comfortable, words flowed and wit was forthcoming. Topics were interesting and obscure, the kind of things that you only talk about when you are "talking shop", but here we were doing it in the context of open and friendly conversation; light-hearted mixing the deep and shallow with the simplest of ease. Basically, we connected. It was odd to find this here in Barcelona; a freak's chance. The excitement associated with meeting Rosie over the next few days can be quite accurately analogised to the feeling of excitement you get on Christmas Eve; a restless sense of expectation, which never fails to disappoint as a child: and meeting Rosie never failed to disappoint. It was not a new experience; we had met before, this companion and I, but to find her under a new guise was an unexpected pleasure. Her rarity had been shattered, with two there could no longer be one, and with two there could only be more: an interesting prospect.
But I digress. After polishing off our cocktails, and the one that Ethan left, we moved on to a small bar near the Placa Reial (which had seemed to become the unofficial centre of Barcelona). Here we randomly met a bloke from Rosie's school, who was enjoying a quiet drink with his newly acquired fiance - he had proposed to her only the night before in that very same bar (which was odd, because it wasn't a particularly romantic bar). We stayed there for awhile, but let the two lovebirds get back to revelling in their rings and plans (or whatever it is fiances talk about). Onwards, and me and Rosie dropped into a small bar in the Placa Reial (everyone ends up in the Placa Reial sooner or later), where we supped on fruit juice as we were both feeling the effects of the Hemingway with exceptional vividness.
At last tiredness crept up on us as the alcohol high left, and so we made our way back to the Youth Hostel, passing the largest chair I've ever soon. Though Rosie had been in Barcelona for some days already she had not noticed the big chair, it was like some giant chair-shaped elephant. She has a great interest in chairs (why? See here: http://www.rosie-alcock.moonfruit.com/ ) and I toyed with the notion of trying to climb up on it, but decided against it due to complexity and lateness of the evening.
When we got back, we expected the others to still be out, but no! Our little evening had outlasted their flamenco one, and we found Danny asleep in his bed. I introduced Rosie to Beirut (Elephant Gun is where you have to start), but before too long the night receptionist bloke started getting tetchy again so we retired for the evening, at the exact same moment that Danny began to snore. God! I felt sorry for the others in the room - I was largely used to it by now, but for the others it must have been difficult to get some sleep. Come on tomorrow!
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Today was the day we left the Youth Hostel, it was expensive and we were poor. Fred and Lucas were also leaving today so we stuck around with them till in the morning till we had to vacate the building at 11am. We escorted them, bikes in tow, to the metro station and then left them to their costly flight home - what fools they were, they should have cycled.
Our plan of action for today was to find campsite, and I had chosen one not far out of Barcelona (for there is none in Barcelona) called Tres Estralla (Tip: never stay at a campsite whose name is a direct reference to how well it has been graded by the local authority - that sentence was not nearly as succinct as I would have liked it, never mind and onwards). But to get there we had to get out of Barcelona first, and that was to prove difficult.
Sunday 27 April 2008
Wednesday 23 April 2008
Day 30 - Spain and the Great Conspiracy
What dastardly deeds did the Spainish Government hold for us on this day of days?
Our train was to leave from Zaragoza train-station at 12:21 exactly (though we were not sure if trains in Spain took the Swiss approach to departure times), and so we endeavoured to be there an hour early so that there would be no chance we could miss it. Packing expertly we wheeled our bikes, fully laden, out of the hotel and up the street that led, almost directly, to the train-station. Passing a small shop, open on a sunday, that sold stuff useful for breakfasting and lunching, we stopped for a short period to stock up. Inside they sold the most fantastic large croissants for 50 cents each - Spain is literally so cheap for food. After our little stop we continued at a pace and arrived at the station at 11:21. Excellent! An hour ahead of when the train was due to leave, exactly.
It was at this point that I noticed a large digital clock outside a pharmacy that, inbetween telling the public that a) the building it was attached to was a pharmacy and b) that the temperature was a decidedly warm 20 degrees, gave the time as 12:21. My suspicions were aroused and I recalled a little conversation we had with an English couple in Duras, cycling from Bergerac to La Reole, that the French would putting their clocks forward on a certain sunday. I continued this rather disturbing train of thought to the logical conclusion that Spain, also, made the changes to the clocks so that, appearing one hour early for our train's departure, we had actually arrived just in time to see it leave without us. Damn!
Suspicions were confirmed when Danny, throwing Spainish around like a pro, inquired at the ticket desk about trains. Bum. Well thankfully another train was to leave shortly before 5pm, but till then we had to find ways to amuse ourselves. We sat outside in the sun, ate lunch, and while I dozed and went for explorations, Danny made friends with a Polish guy, who had been living in Spain for only a year or so, and thus both used very simple spainish - definately a good way of getting some practice in.
Finally, after much waiting, our train was scheduled to depart. To get to the platform we had to pass through suspiciously heavy security - one of those x-ray machines that you find in airports - so we had to take all our bags off our bikes then quickly put them back. When we got to the train we once again had to take our bags off and then suspend our bikes vertically (which I was able to understand quite well from the man who was trying to tell us because, as I didn't know the language, I focused on his use of sign language, whereas Danny was too involved with trying to figure out the words he was using). Finally all our bags packed away we were off to Barcelona - Buenos Dias, Chocolate, y Picasso!
On the trip we met a troubled, female cycle tourer, travelling to Taragona, who had punctured a tyre but was stuck without a pump (surely the pump is the towel of the cyclist - I was not impressed). Danny helped her fix the bike and we swapped tales of where we had been - it's amazing how much info you can get across when you cannot understand a word the other person is saying (she was spainish). She had a mountain-bike, and huge tyres, but her set-up looked far more professional than what we were carrying (in fact, our gear has without fail looked haphazard compared to every other cycle-tourer's gear, a fact of which I am proud).
Danny had invested some money in a detailed street map of Barcelona and so spent most of the trip either planning our route to the Youth-Hostel where Fred and Lucas were staying or sleeping. I, however, read Nietzsche, listened to music and stared at constantly changing scenery (as somekind of replacement for all the terrain we were not going to cycle through to get to Barcelona).
And so we arrived in Barcelona, but that deserves its own post so I'll write soon.
Our train was to leave from Zaragoza train-station at 12:21 exactly (though we were not sure if trains in Spain took the Swiss approach to departure times), and so we endeavoured to be there an hour early so that there would be no chance we could miss it. Packing expertly we wheeled our bikes, fully laden, out of the hotel and up the street that led, almost directly, to the train-station. Passing a small shop, open on a sunday, that sold stuff useful for breakfasting and lunching, we stopped for a short period to stock up. Inside they sold the most fantastic large croissants for 50 cents each - Spain is literally so cheap for food. After our little stop we continued at a pace and arrived at the station at 11:21. Excellent! An hour ahead of when the train was due to leave, exactly.
It was at this point that I noticed a large digital clock outside a pharmacy that, inbetween telling the public that a) the building it was attached to was a pharmacy and b) that the temperature was a decidedly warm 20 degrees, gave the time as 12:21. My suspicions were aroused and I recalled a little conversation we had with an English couple in Duras, cycling from Bergerac to La Reole, that the French would putting their clocks forward on a certain sunday. I continued this rather disturbing train of thought to the logical conclusion that Spain, also, made the changes to the clocks so that, appearing one hour early for our train's departure, we had actually arrived just in time to see it leave without us. Damn!
Suspicions were confirmed when Danny, throwing Spainish around like a pro, inquired at the ticket desk about trains. Bum. Well thankfully another train was to leave shortly before 5pm, but till then we had to find ways to amuse ourselves. We sat outside in the sun, ate lunch, and while I dozed and went for explorations, Danny made friends with a Polish guy, who had been living in Spain for only a year or so, and thus both used very simple spainish - definately a good way of getting some practice in.
Finally, after much waiting, our train was scheduled to depart. To get to the platform we had to pass through suspiciously heavy security - one of those x-ray machines that you find in airports - so we had to take all our bags off our bikes then quickly put them back. When we got to the train we once again had to take our bags off and then suspend our bikes vertically (which I was able to understand quite well from the man who was trying to tell us because, as I didn't know the language, I focused on his use of sign language, whereas Danny was too involved with trying to figure out the words he was using). Finally all our bags packed away we were off to Barcelona - Buenos Dias, Chocolate, y Picasso!
On the trip we met a troubled, female cycle tourer, travelling to Taragona, who had punctured a tyre but was stuck without a pump (surely the pump is the towel of the cyclist - I was not impressed). Danny helped her fix the bike and we swapped tales of where we had been - it's amazing how much info you can get across when you cannot understand a word the other person is saying (she was spainish). She had a mountain-bike, and huge tyres, but her set-up looked far more professional than what we were carrying (in fact, our gear has without fail looked haphazard compared to every other cycle-tourer's gear, a fact of which I am proud).
Danny had invested some money in a detailed street map of Barcelona and so spent most of the trip either planning our route to the Youth-Hostel where Fred and Lucas were staying or sleeping. I, however, read Nietzsche, listened to music and stared at constantly changing scenery (as somekind of replacement for all the terrain we were not going to cycle through to get to Barcelona).
And so we arrived in Barcelona, but that deserves its own post so I'll write soon.
Sunday 20 April 2008
Day 29 - ... or "Day 28" take two
So with our rather failed day yesterday - Zaragoza was not reachable - we know had to spend most of today trying to either get my bike fixed or figure out a way for us to get our bikes and bags to a train-station so we can get a train to Zaragoza.
Danny woke earlier than I did, I just was not feeling in a good mood that morning thanks to an overwhelming sense of despair that I had completely fubared any straightforward attempt to get to Zaragoza and thus Barcelona. Danny left some breakfast and sailed off on my bike into Ejea to a) find the elusive tourist info office of the day before and b) see if my bike could be fixed. We didn't hold up much hope, but Danny insisted that we try.
He left and I stayed behind to have breakfast and pack things away, which I did slowly as the sun was making things hot and all I wanted to do was lie down and soak in the pleasure such weather brings to the skin. Eventually, after much moving of things I took the time out to lie down and just not think of a thing. So enjoyable in the sun. There is something quite unique about the warm sun on your skin, it isn't the warmth that does it, but some strange combination of everything that great nuclear furnace in the sky gives us. Its how I imagine plants must feel when they are fed with solar energy.
I dozed peacefully in the sun till I heard Danny cycle up the farmer's road and onto the field. Ah, what a welcome sight, for Danny appeared with bike and a new carrier, shining bright and shiny in the sun that I had so been enjoying. We packed up quickly and continued on the route were to have taken the day before. Ah, but cycling of the day before had gone, as if in punishment for my broken-down machine. The wind tore right into us and the straight roads left us travelling directly into the wind for most of the day. Slow, so slow. Danny was suffering from a somewhat upset stomach that day, so he was not on his best performance. The sun was still hot, but the rest of the day made the whole experience frustrating rather than enjoyable.
Danny wished to take the train to Zaragoza, to make up for lost time and because he was feeling unwell. I had chosen a route that would not only take us near a town with a trainstation, but would also take us closer to Zaragoza as well.
Trains in spain do not operate as they do in the UK. We reached Zuera to find the trainstation for Zuera wasn't actually there, but rather in a small industrial part of a smaller town just outside it. Once more the Spainish signs came to ruin our day and we spent an hour or so cycling through industrial estates. We found a huge carpark, and we thought it was connected to the train-station, but on closer inspection it turned out to be a car-depot for cars before they are shipped off to be sold.
Finally a friendly spainish bloke showed us in his car, and we stopped to check the time-table and what can only be described as a very run-down and, more importantly, very shut train station. It turns out there were only two trains a day that stopped in Zuera (its not a small town), and in between times the station was closed. Very, very strange. Obviously trains were never as important as they were in Britain, and Spain never developed a history of travelling by train to the same extent as we have.
With no train till 5pm, we decided to make the 25km to Zaragoza instead. In Zuera we stopped for lunch (late), and then cycled south to join the main roads into Zaragoza. We arrived there, along a messy and busy motorway-esque dual-carriageway, that was mostly the complete opposite of pleasant. Once again the Spainish made finding the tourist info offices hard to find, so we cycled to the train-station of Zaragoza as the light faded away. We found a tourist info box and whilst I counted the seconds on a rather cool digital clock, Danny queried the people inside.
We found out that there was a train tomorrow at 12:2o, just as on saturday (seems sundays work the same as saturdays for trains in spain), so we went a-searching for accomadation. We ended up in this dingy, if somewhat grand hotel, in that classic style where everything is brown and everything is bathed in brown-light.
Danny went down to the cafe that stood next to the hotel, and I slept and watched spainish TV. I became fascinated by the Spainish version of our channels devoted entirely to those stupid word games. The woman presenter (whose face reminded me of the "Mouth of Sauron" off of the films - her mouth was out of proportion to the rest of her head) seemed to not be getting any calls at all, and because I couldn't understand the language I focused entirely on the body-language, which was classicly nervous - it was almost fun. Eventually I drifted off to sleep, and Danny returned at 3am (though really it was 4am, and had we known that we would have been in Barcelona earlier).
Tomorrow Barcelona and the apex of our travels.
Danny woke earlier than I did, I just was not feeling in a good mood that morning thanks to an overwhelming sense of despair that I had completely fubared any straightforward attempt to get to Zaragoza and thus Barcelona. Danny left some breakfast and sailed off on my bike into Ejea to a) find the elusive tourist info office of the day before and b) see if my bike could be fixed. We didn't hold up much hope, but Danny insisted that we try.
He left and I stayed behind to have breakfast and pack things away, which I did slowly as the sun was making things hot and all I wanted to do was lie down and soak in the pleasure such weather brings to the skin. Eventually, after much moving of things I took the time out to lie down and just not think of a thing. So enjoyable in the sun. There is something quite unique about the warm sun on your skin, it isn't the warmth that does it, but some strange combination of everything that great nuclear furnace in the sky gives us. Its how I imagine plants must feel when they are fed with solar energy.
I dozed peacefully in the sun till I heard Danny cycle up the farmer's road and onto the field. Ah, what a welcome sight, for Danny appeared with bike and a new carrier, shining bright and shiny in the sun that I had so been enjoying. We packed up quickly and continued on the route were to have taken the day before. Ah, but cycling of the day before had gone, as if in punishment for my broken-down machine. The wind tore right into us and the straight roads left us travelling directly into the wind for most of the day. Slow, so slow. Danny was suffering from a somewhat upset stomach that day, so he was not on his best performance. The sun was still hot, but the rest of the day made the whole experience frustrating rather than enjoyable.
Danny wished to take the train to Zaragoza, to make up for lost time and because he was feeling unwell. I had chosen a route that would not only take us near a town with a trainstation, but would also take us closer to Zaragoza as well.
Trains in spain do not operate as they do in the UK. We reached Zuera to find the trainstation for Zuera wasn't actually there, but rather in a small industrial part of a smaller town just outside it. Once more the Spainish signs came to ruin our day and we spent an hour or so cycling through industrial estates. We found a huge carpark, and we thought it was connected to the train-station, but on closer inspection it turned out to be a car-depot for cars before they are shipped off to be sold.
Finally a friendly spainish bloke showed us in his car, and we stopped to check the time-table and what can only be described as a very run-down and, more importantly, very shut train station. It turns out there were only two trains a day that stopped in Zuera (its not a small town), and in between times the station was closed. Very, very strange. Obviously trains were never as important as they were in Britain, and Spain never developed a history of travelling by train to the same extent as we have.
With no train till 5pm, we decided to make the 25km to Zaragoza instead. In Zuera we stopped for lunch (late), and then cycled south to join the main roads into Zaragoza. We arrived there, along a messy and busy motorway-esque dual-carriageway, that was mostly the complete opposite of pleasant. Once again the Spainish made finding the tourist info offices hard to find, so we cycled to the train-station of Zaragoza as the light faded away. We found a tourist info box and whilst I counted the seconds on a rather cool digital clock, Danny queried the people inside.
We found out that there was a train tomorrow at 12:2o, just as on saturday (seems sundays work the same as saturdays for trains in spain), so we went a-searching for accomadation. We ended up in this dingy, if somewhat grand hotel, in that classic style where everything is brown and everything is bathed in brown-light.
Danny went down to the cafe that stood next to the hotel, and I slept and watched spainish TV. I became fascinated by the Spainish version of our channels devoted entirely to those stupid word games. The woman presenter (whose face reminded me of the "Mouth of Sauron" off of the films - her mouth was out of proportion to the rest of her head) seemed to not be getting any calls at all, and because I couldn't understand the language I focused entirely on the body-language, which was classicly nervous - it was almost fun. Eventually I drifted off to sleep, and Danny returned at 3am (though really it was 4am, and had we known that we would have been in Barcelona earlier).
Tomorrow Barcelona and the apex of our travels.
Day 28 - Sun and the Citrus Air
We awoke to yet another day but, oh, what is this ... sun? Indeed yes, for the skies had cleared and the sun was out (as is its wont). It was really quite hot, so it was certainly time for the shorts and t-shirt only affair (wish I had taken my Oceana top as I think the dual combo of type black lycra shorts and tight black lycra top with lapels might just have been a winner) - we looked like proper cyclists in our gear.
Out of the campsite we joined the main road again and carried onto Olite, which sports a rather dashing castle in the Navarre style (or at least thats how I view it). Onwards and onwards, with the wind behind us, and we had finally found good roads in Spain for cycling. The weather was so good and the cycling so much better that I almost forgave the devious Spainish transport departmant for its dodgy road "planning". We cycled at a pace that was fast but so easy, some 16mph and before too long we had done 20 miles and I hadn't even felt it. Fantastic! It was like flying.
The most noticeable thing about the whole day was the scent of plants that mingled in the air giving it the sweet mediterranean smell that I instantly associated in my mind with memories of going to Portugal and Greece so many years ago - so much so that I wasn't sure which one was which in my head. The smell, the air, warm sun on my legs, everything seemed designed to make me feel more alive than I ever had. I feel sorry for all those people in cars, for even with their windows down they couldn't have felt how glorious the entire day was.
We reached the town of Carcastillo before midday and it looked like we would make the journey to Zaragoza in one day (which is what we had planned to do). It was then that I made a small map error and cycled the wrong way up a road away from our destination, I only figured this out after we had cycled up a hill someway and realised that the valley that should have been on our right was in fact on our left, we had gone up the wrong side of the hill. However, not to be put down by such an error and not to make the small but steep climb up the hill a pointless venture I noticed a small road that followed a river south further ahead that would take us back on the right track.
It was in fact slightly further up the road than I had thought, and it wasn't actually a river nor a proper road, it was in fact an access road for utility vehicles to a canal. But it was on the map and I knew where it went so we sailed along this road for some hour and half or so, crystal blue water glistening in the concrete basin of the canal and our bikes making the most of the flat if somewhat rough road. Finally we made it to the town of Sadaba, where we stopped to have lunch.
Next we raced down to Ejea, a trip that was far shorter than I had expected and we looked to be making good time, though Zaragoza would not be reached that day and Danny made the call to get as far as we could but camp early rather than try to get to the city at night. So we stopped in a Lidls in Ejea and stocked up on water and tasty foods. We spent sometime in Ejea looking for the tourist info office, for it was well sign-posted from the centre of the town, but to no avail for (as Danny was to find out the next day) the plucky Spainish had decided that the best way to support tourism in this part of Navarre was to have a sign for the tourist office pointing - the opposite way to where the office actually was. In fact, the tourist office could almost be seen from the sign if you stood underneath it and ignored where it was pointing. Almost, but not quite as good as the Tourist Office in La Reole, but definately in the top five worst signposted tourist offices in Europe (we are making a list).
We cycled out of Ejea aiming to camp wild somewhere in the hills to the east. However, we had barely got 5km down the road before Danny noticed something rather disturbing about my back carrier on my bike, it seemed to be dangerously leaning to one side. In fact it was completely fubar, the stand connecting it to the back forks had broken, snapped completely on one-side. There was no way that this was a safe thing to cycle on, there was no telling when it would break completely. Danny spotted a little wall on the road side, that shielded a small field from the view of the road and we stopped down there for the night. Feeling slightly guilty that I had ruined our trip a bit with the crappy bike, I cycled off in search of a bit of extra food for breakfast. Things were not going well for me and my bike, it seems that as soon as one thing is fixed something else breaks.
I returned and we slept well, sustained, psychologically speaking, by chocolate. The plan for tomorrow was to somehow get a bike shop in Ejea to get a new carrier on my bike, and if that failed we were in a bit of trouble. Zaragoza was so close, less than an hours car journey away, but for us on our bikes (and especially mine) it was an almost impossible goal.
Out of the campsite we joined the main road again and carried onto Olite, which sports a rather dashing castle in the Navarre style (or at least thats how I view it). Onwards and onwards, with the wind behind us, and we had finally found good roads in Spain for cycling. The weather was so good and the cycling so much better that I almost forgave the devious Spainish transport departmant for its dodgy road "planning". We cycled at a pace that was fast but so easy, some 16mph and before too long we had done 20 miles and I hadn't even felt it. Fantastic! It was like flying.
The most noticeable thing about the whole day was the scent of plants that mingled in the air giving it the sweet mediterranean smell that I instantly associated in my mind with memories of going to Portugal and Greece so many years ago - so much so that I wasn't sure which one was which in my head. The smell, the air, warm sun on my legs, everything seemed designed to make me feel more alive than I ever had. I feel sorry for all those people in cars, for even with their windows down they couldn't have felt how glorious the entire day was.
We reached the town of Carcastillo before midday and it looked like we would make the journey to Zaragoza in one day (which is what we had planned to do). It was then that I made a small map error and cycled the wrong way up a road away from our destination, I only figured this out after we had cycled up a hill someway and realised that the valley that should have been on our right was in fact on our left, we had gone up the wrong side of the hill. However, not to be put down by such an error and not to make the small but steep climb up the hill a pointless venture I noticed a small road that followed a river south further ahead that would take us back on the right track.
It was in fact slightly further up the road than I had thought, and it wasn't actually a river nor a proper road, it was in fact an access road for utility vehicles to a canal. But it was on the map and I knew where it went so we sailed along this road for some hour and half or so, crystal blue water glistening in the concrete basin of the canal and our bikes making the most of the flat if somewhat rough road. Finally we made it to the town of Sadaba, where we stopped to have lunch.
Next we raced down to Ejea, a trip that was far shorter than I had expected and we looked to be making good time, though Zaragoza would not be reached that day and Danny made the call to get as far as we could but camp early rather than try to get to the city at night. So we stopped in a Lidls in Ejea and stocked up on water and tasty foods. We spent sometime in Ejea looking for the tourist info office, for it was well sign-posted from the centre of the town, but to no avail for (as Danny was to find out the next day) the plucky Spainish had decided that the best way to support tourism in this part of Navarre was to have a sign for the tourist office pointing - the opposite way to where the office actually was. In fact, the tourist office could almost be seen from the sign if you stood underneath it and ignored where it was pointing. Almost, but not quite as good as the Tourist Office in La Reole, but definately in the top five worst signposted tourist offices in Europe (we are making a list).
We cycled out of Ejea aiming to camp wild somewhere in the hills to the east. However, we had barely got 5km down the road before Danny noticed something rather disturbing about my back carrier on my bike, it seemed to be dangerously leaning to one side. In fact it was completely fubar, the stand connecting it to the back forks had broken, snapped completely on one-side. There was no way that this was a safe thing to cycle on, there was no telling when it would break completely. Danny spotted a little wall on the road side, that shielded a small field from the view of the road and we stopped down there for the night. Feeling slightly guilty that I had ruined our trip a bit with the crappy bike, I cycled off in search of a bit of extra food for breakfast. Things were not going well for me and my bike, it seems that as soon as one thing is fixed something else breaks.
I returned and we slept well, sustained, psychologically speaking, by chocolate. The plan for tomorrow was to somehow get a bike shop in Ejea to get a new carrier on my bike, and if that failed we were in a bit of trouble. Zaragoza was so close, less than an hours car journey away, but for us on our bikes (and especially mine) it was an almost impossible goal.
Day 27 - The Going Down
We awoke rather warmer than we otherwise would have been, and praised the world for radiators. We left the campsite after paying (very important) and got lost. Stupid bloody Spainish road system.
Finally I figure out where we went wrong (bad Spainish signing was to blame) and we cycled up and out of Leukanberri. As we climbed higher and higher we could begin to see snow appear in small corners of fields, then across most of the field, until finally our vision was just bathed in white. The going was easy however, the roads not too steep, and we reached the peak of the pass without too much trouble at all. This road had not been swept clean of snow and I enjoyed making patterns in the slush (kept my mind off the stupidity of the venture). We saw a huge rat like creature, road-kill, in the middle of the road (it looked like it had been there for sometime), but I don't have a clue what it could be, very strange. At the peak of the pass (780m) we stopped to take a few pictures before cycling on (I love it when you reach the top because the way down is ... well ... down). However, once more the cold ripped into us, and I can safely say that it was even colder than it was the night before. The hill was so steep going down, and we carry so much weight, that there is nothing you can do but coast, which is not a thing that makes heat. Not helping matters was that we were still in marginally wet clothes from the day before so all in all a bad going down.
Not looking to try that again in a hurry we quickly popped into a restaurant in a large, ugly town that seemed to exist merely for the purpose of being in a place where three roads intersect. Got some chocolate (instant make-good) and warmed up over some coffee. Danny ordered some calamari tapas for us whilst I went to the loo. He had asked for two orders of calamari tapas and was given 3 rings of calamari, which begs the question: "What do you get when you order one?" We didn't need to share anyway as Danny had mistakenly thought it was one of the two orders and eaten them all before I got back. Wouldn't have mattered anyway, I was waiting for bigger lunches than that.
We followed the main road into Pamplona and ate lunch alongside the main square before sitting in a cafe for an hour or so to warm up again. The weather was starting to clear and we as we looked south we could see clear skies. Yay!
We finally reached Olite after dark and found the campsite thanks to good (if somewhat oddly place) signage. For the campsite in Olite was not in Olite, nor on the road to Olite. But such are things in Spain. Slept well to a peaceful night free of rain, wind or snow.
Finally I figure out where we went wrong (bad Spainish signing was to blame) and we cycled up and out of Leukanberri. As we climbed higher and higher we could begin to see snow appear in small corners of fields, then across most of the field, until finally our vision was just bathed in white. The going was easy however, the roads not too steep, and we reached the peak of the pass without too much trouble at all. This road had not been swept clean of snow and I enjoyed making patterns in the slush (kept my mind off the stupidity of the venture). We saw a huge rat like creature, road-kill, in the middle of the road (it looked like it had been there for sometime), but I don't have a clue what it could be, very strange. At the peak of the pass (780m) we stopped to take a few pictures before cycling on (I love it when you reach the top because the way down is ... well ... down). However, once more the cold ripped into us, and I can safely say that it was even colder than it was the night before. The hill was so steep going down, and we carry so much weight, that there is nothing you can do but coast, which is not a thing that makes heat. Not helping matters was that we were still in marginally wet clothes from the day before so all in all a bad going down.
Not looking to try that again in a hurry we quickly popped into a restaurant in a large, ugly town that seemed to exist merely for the purpose of being in a place where three roads intersect. Got some chocolate (instant make-good) and warmed up over some coffee. Danny ordered some calamari tapas for us whilst I went to the loo. He had asked for two orders of calamari tapas and was given 3 rings of calamari, which begs the question: "What do you get when you order one?" We didn't need to share anyway as Danny had mistakenly thought it was one of the two orders and eaten them all before I got back. Wouldn't have mattered anyway, I was waiting for bigger lunches than that.
We followed the main road into Pamplona and ate lunch alongside the main square before sitting in a cafe for an hour or so to warm up again. The weather was starting to clear and we as we looked south we could see clear skies. Yay!
We finally reached Olite after dark and found the campsite thanks to good (if somewhat oddly place) signage. For the campsite in Olite was not in Olite, nor on the road to Olite. But such are things in Spain. Slept well to a peaceful night free of rain, wind or snow.
Saturday 19 April 2008
Day 26 - Traffic, Tunnels and Temperature
I may have mentioned at some point that I do not like the Spainish road system, today was the day that solidified this opinion in my head.
We left the campsite relatively early to a rather dismal looking rain then no-rain kinda weather pattern, huge lines of cloud punctuated by lines of clear sky seem to be very popular with the northern coast of spain (perhaps that is why we saw so many umbrellas - those umbrella companies are making a tonne of cash in Spain). We said goodbye to our drinking partners from the night before and wished them well (though I was secretly envious of their red car) and set-off. The way down, being a steep hill all the way, nearly had me off the side once or twice - when cycling in hilly areas make sure you are equipped with decent brakes - and I felt sorry for my little rubber brake pads, who were really feeling the burn that day.
Got into town and tried to navigate our way out. We had picked up a map of the town centre, which handily included the direction toward, what seems to be, the only way out of San-Sebastian - the big fat main road. Dodging motorways like crazy, we finally get onto what we hope is the main road out and to Lasarte-Oria, where we were to begin our trek south over the mountains along a minor road that dived in and out of the motorway going the same route - to Tolosa and further, if you wish to check the map. Lasarte-Oria is literally a blip on the map, but it took us over an hour to get there thanks to the enormously complex and crappy Spainish road system that seems to exist in these parts. Signs appear occasionallly, but mostly to prohibit bicycles, and we had to rely a lot on pray and guesswork to finally get us to Lasarte-Oria where - they go and do it all over again.
Lasarte-Oria lies on the route that the N-1 road takes south to Tolosa, but which we cannot follow because it takes on motorway characteristics there. Beyond Lasarte-Oria there begins a minor road that connects all the small towns alongside the N-1 together and to the main road. However this road doesn't start in Lasarte-Oria, to get to it you have to - travel up the road we cannot travel on! We didn't realise this however, so we followed the main street going through Lasarte-Oria as it turned south hoping to join the minor road that followed the N-1 but thats not exactly what happened. Okay, picture a normal road, two lanes, one going south (we are on this one), one going in the opposite direction. Lots of turnings off to the motorway, but we are clued up on the signs for that (blue is bad for bikes) and we head straight south where the road doesn't so much end as goes into someones garage. The lane north leads from the north-bound lanes of the motorway and are one way, the southbound lane is actually only there so you can drive to someone's garage. I mean, c'mon! They are not making it easy for us.
Obviously looking forlorn and lost, we were helped by a really friendly guy in a white van. I had already figured out a way round our problem (I've become quite interested in the art of map-reading and navigation - I like maps), but he showed us the way. Basically it involved us climbing up what must have been a 15 or 20% hill to a town just east of Lasarte-Oria and then following the road there further south to join the smaller road to Tolosa and beyond. I don't like hills, but such are the Pyrennees, and it wasn't too hard going after the first climb. When we finally reached the town of Urnieta and followed the road south to Andoain we thought that our troubles were over... No, no they weren't. At Andoain the regional government had cleverly not put up any sign detailing how to get from Andoain to the next town up the road. Wasted an hour looking for a way round, and eventually through sheer chance found a sign pointing in the right direction. At last we were on our way out of there.
But, no. The sign we saw didn't point in the direction we wanted and we found ourselves on this rough track heading up the side of a river. I had had enough at this point and after a little checking of the map realised that this may take us to sort of where we want to go (but certainly not a planned route). Danny asked a couple of walkers if this road led to Lietza, and they said that yes it did, but it was very steep (it wasn't), so off we set into the wilderness. We kept on this road, little more than a stoney track, for what seemed like hours (we have no idea how long it took us) because we had to cycle so slowly due to having thin tyres rather than heavy duty thick ones more suited to this type of terrain. Danny's in particular are extremely thin, 23s, but guess who sprung a puncture? Me. So we stopped and I replaced the inner-tube and we set-off again (though unbeknownst to me, my tyre still wasn't right as I had a slow puncture which would later make the trip very dangerous late at night).
This track was just amazing to cycle on, and the road wasn't steep at all. I had been dreading the Pyrennees quite badly, as my hill-climbing is appalling and I just end up in absolute pain from it, but this route proved to be slow, easy and not painful at all. Indeed it was actually a lot of fun and I really enjoyed the entire way up to Lietza. The river was a raging torrent, and supplied many interesting vistas. The road wound through the mountains and in some cases through the mountains. Tunnels, though we weren't sure about how they had been made, offered plenty of excitement as they were unlit and some of them wound round so much and were so long that it was pitch black in them (the only way Danny could make it through was thanks to his head torch, the only way I could make it through was thinks to his back light). One of the tunnels, which made me question whether they had been man-mad, rose up to the height of a small church, far beyond what would be needed to fit a car through and was quite site. There were also old abandoned tunnels and bridges where the road had changed course and these relics of a previous route had been claimed back by nature; the tunnels becoming bat caves (to the bat cave!) and the bridges becoming beautiful, vine-entwined paths for the wild-life to use. It was beautiful.
We finally reached the end and cycled to Leitza as the sun began to go down. We still had a little way to go, and on the map it seemed to follow a little river valley south. It didn't. It climbed higher and higher through the mountains till we must have been over 800 metres. As we climbed, and it was a fairly steep climb, the snow began appearing. The road had been cleared, but on the sides where these huge mounds of snow, like decomposing snow-men. In my mind the whole scene is blue, like some Narnia winter or the Parkwood Path in the 1st year when it snowed. I was not in a good mood, it would be fair to say that I was in a very miserable mood. I was tired and I was too hot, for indeed, whilst there was snow on the ground, rain in the air and a temperature that got cold enough so that for some of the way it really did precipitate snow, cycling up hill has the odd effect of making you really really hot. I was obviously wearing all the clothes I could (including my new hat that I had bought, but I had to unzip everything just because the heat was getting too much: our bodies were working so hard that the excess heat was making us boil.
Obviously as soon as your body stops working your core temperature plummets crazy-mad, which is what happened on the way down. It was round about this time that I realised that my back wheel was going down: the slow puncture had made itself known. But we couldn't stop, had we stopped it would have been very difficult to start again. I do not think I have been so cold in my life. So there we were, coasting down-hill, my back-wheel feeling severely under-pressurized and the light fading fast, heading for the town of Lekunberri, where we hoped we would find a campsite that was open. We did ... sort of. It was actually closed, but the woman in charge was there and she let us stay in one of the log cabin places (basically a room with bunkbeds to fit six and just for the purposes of sleeping). The rules said no cooking, but we cooked anyway and I had a very odd night of not sleeping on the ground (for I had chosen the top-bunk!).
We left the campsite relatively early to a rather dismal looking rain then no-rain kinda weather pattern, huge lines of cloud punctuated by lines of clear sky seem to be very popular with the northern coast of spain (perhaps that is why we saw so many umbrellas - those umbrella companies are making a tonne of cash in Spain). We said goodbye to our drinking partners from the night before and wished them well (though I was secretly envious of their red car) and set-off. The way down, being a steep hill all the way, nearly had me off the side once or twice - when cycling in hilly areas make sure you are equipped with decent brakes - and I felt sorry for my little rubber brake pads, who were really feeling the burn that day.
Got into town and tried to navigate our way out. We had picked up a map of the town centre, which handily included the direction toward, what seems to be, the only way out of San-Sebastian - the big fat main road. Dodging motorways like crazy, we finally get onto what we hope is the main road out and to Lasarte-Oria, where we were to begin our trek south over the mountains along a minor road that dived in and out of the motorway going the same route - to Tolosa and further, if you wish to check the map. Lasarte-Oria is literally a blip on the map, but it took us over an hour to get there thanks to the enormously complex and crappy Spainish road system that seems to exist in these parts. Signs appear occasionallly, but mostly to prohibit bicycles, and we had to rely a lot on pray and guesswork to finally get us to Lasarte-Oria where - they go and do it all over again.
Lasarte-Oria lies on the route that the N-1 road takes south to Tolosa, but which we cannot follow because it takes on motorway characteristics there. Beyond Lasarte-Oria there begins a minor road that connects all the small towns alongside the N-1 together and to the main road. However this road doesn't start in Lasarte-Oria, to get to it you have to - travel up the road we cannot travel on! We didn't realise this however, so we followed the main street going through Lasarte-Oria as it turned south hoping to join the minor road that followed the N-1 but thats not exactly what happened. Okay, picture a normal road, two lanes, one going south (we are on this one), one going in the opposite direction. Lots of turnings off to the motorway, but we are clued up on the signs for that (blue is bad for bikes) and we head straight south where the road doesn't so much end as goes into someones garage. The lane north leads from the north-bound lanes of the motorway and are one way, the southbound lane is actually only there so you can drive to someone's garage. I mean, c'mon! They are not making it easy for us.
Obviously looking forlorn and lost, we were helped by a really friendly guy in a white van. I had already figured out a way round our problem (I've become quite interested in the art of map-reading and navigation - I like maps), but he showed us the way. Basically it involved us climbing up what must have been a 15 or 20% hill to a town just east of Lasarte-Oria and then following the road there further south to join the smaller road to Tolosa and beyond. I don't like hills, but such are the Pyrennees, and it wasn't too hard going after the first climb. When we finally reached the town of Urnieta and followed the road south to Andoain we thought that our troubles were over... No, no they weren't. At Andoain the regional government had cleverly not put up any sign detailing how to get from Andoain to the next town up the road. Wasted an hour looking for a way round, and eventually through sheer chance found a sign pointing in the right direction. At last we were on our way out of there.
But, no. The sign we saw didn't point in the direction we wanted and we found ourselves on this rough track heading up the side of a river. I had had enough at this point and after a little checking of the map realised that this may take us to sort of where we want to go (but certainly not a planned route). Danny asked a couple of walkers if this road led to Lietza, and they said that yes it did, but it was very steep (it wasn't), so off we set into the wilderness. We kept on this road, little more than a stoney track, for what seemed like hours (we have no idea how long it took us) because we had to cycle so slowly due to having thin tyres rather than heavy duty thick ones more suited to this type of terrain. Danny's in particular are extremely thin, 23s, but guess who sprung a puncture? Me. So we stopped and I replaced the inner-tube and we set-off again (though unbeknownst to me, my tyre still wasn't right as I had a slow puncture which would later make the trip very dangerous late at night).
This track was just amazing to cycle on, and the road wasn't steep at all. I had been dreading the Pyrennees quite badly, as my hill-climbing is appalling and I just end up in absolute pain from it, but this route proved to be slow, easy and not painful at all. Indeed it was actually a lot of fun and I really enjoyed the entire way up to Lietza. The river was a raging torrent, and supplied many interesting vistas. The road wound through the mountains and in some cases through the mountains. Tunnels, though we weren't sure about how they had been made, offered plenty of excitement as they were unlit and some of them wound round so much and were so long that it was pitch black in them (the only way Danny could make it through was thanks to his head torch, the only way I could make it through was thinks to his back light). One of the tunnels, which made me question whether they had been man-mad, rose up to the height of a small church, far beyond what would be needed to fit a car through and was quite site. There were also old abandoned tunnels and bridges where the road had changed course and these relics of a previous route had been claimed back by nature; the tunnels becoming bat caves (to the bat cave!) and the bridges becoming beautiful, vine-entwined paths for the wild-life to use. It was beautiful.
We finally reached the end and cycled to Leitza as the sun began to go down. We still had a little way to go, and on the map it seemed to follow a little river valley south. It didn't. It climbed higher and higher through the mountains till we must have been over 800 metres. As we climbed, and it was a fairly steep climb, the snow began appearing. The road had been cleared, but on the sides where these huge mounds of snow, like decomposing snow-men. In my mind the whole scene is blue, like some Narnia winter or the Parkwood Path in the 1st year when it snowed. I was not in a good mood, it would be fair to say that I was in a very miserable mood. I was tired and I was too hot, for indeed, whilst there was snow on the ground, rain in the air and a temperature that got cold enough so that for some of the way it really did precipitate snow, cycling up hill has the odd effect of making you really really hot. I was obviously wearing all the clothes I could (including my new hat that I had bought, but I had to unzip everything just because the heat was getting too much: our bodies were working so hard that the excess heat was making us boil.
Obviously as soon as your body stops working your core temperature plummets crazy-mad, which is what happened on the way down. It was round about this time that I realised that my back wheel was going down: the slow puncture had made itself known. But we couldn't stop, had we stopped it would have been very difficult to start again. I do not think I have been so cold in my life. So there we were, coasting down-hill, my back-wheel feeling severely under-pressurized and the light fading fast, heading for the town of Lekunberri, where we hoped we would find a campsite that was open. We did ... sort of. It was actually closed, but the woman in charge was there and she let us stay in one of the log cabin places (basically a room with bunkbeds to fit six and just for the purposes of sleeping). The rules said no cooking, but we cooked anyway and I had a very odd night of not sleeping on the ground (for I had chosen the top-bunk!).
Tuesday 8 April 2008
Day 25 - San Sebastian
And so the next morning with sea-air up our nostrils and slightly dryer wet clothes, we stepped into the windy, yet sunny world of San Sebastian and Basque land. Absolutely amazing, completely. The Spainish know how to do cities, they really do. Everything just fits in so well together.
We had a bit of a mission today, we had to go and find new tyres, new gas canister, map our way out, get food and get to the campsite.
First, tyres. Went to this great little bikeshop and bought some suprisingly cheap tyres that haven't blown up once yet. We also got some new inner-tubes and sat down outside a cafe to eat lunch (which Danny bought) while I tore off my old tyres, front and back, and lovingly put on my brand new ones.
Next step was gas canister, so we asked at the tourist info spot and was forwarded to a little shop full of odds and ends. Danny found a gas canister, but had to really fight for it as the owner kept insisting it was the wrong one until Danny took his burner in and tried it out inside the store saying, "No, I want this one". Do not get in the way of Danny and his gas burner.
We found a little Lidls, hidden away underground inside this fantastic fruit market. But my eyes were on the Lidls and so I completely skipped over the fruit market (in BCN it was to be a different story). Took a bit of time because there was so much good stuff, but managed to come out with a food bill totalling €14. We love Lidls.
It was getting darkish by this time, and having decided on a plan to get to Barcelona (namely cheating and cycling to Zaragoza and catching the train from there), we went off in search of the campsite - which was up a bloody great mountain. I was not impressed and much hurt by the terrain. Once there, we soon realised that the Spainish don't care much for campers, for their pitch for us was muddy, sodden and unkept, and while there were lights they didn't work. The areas for the caravans on the otherhand were lovely.
We, quite randomly, met two girls and a guy travelling by car and doing a tour of Europe (with the eventual goal to Poland). We had just reached a 1000 miles for the trip and wanted to celebrate and extended an offer for them to join us in the campsite bar, they counteroffered with an invitation into town to sample the san sebastian night life. We accepted and, in smelly clothes, joined them on the bustrip down (after eating of course).
After a - long - journey down the mountain we got into the centre with about 2 hours to go until the last bus back. Danny had espied a little street full of bars in the old quarter so we checked out that place. We bar crawled a bit, Danny quickly attaching himself to one of the girls with a shared interest in learning Spainish, while I swapped experiences with the guy who had also done cycle touring to Budapest in 10 weeks.
We visited a Tapas Bar and sampled the local beverage for free, thanks to a nice New Yorker couple, which was essentially white wine poured from a great height to give it bubbles. We didn't sample any of the tapas, as it was far too expensive for our meagre wallets. Onwards once more and we found ourselves in a rather spainish looking place, all dark with terrible english music blaring out over the speakers. Very traditional. We sat and drank an awesome little beer called Keler, which I can't seem to find anywhere else, and which at 6.5% had a nifty little kick to it. As well.
Finally, with the hours creeping into morning (we had missed the last bus) we attempted to get a 5 person taxi. Not happening, Spain seems to be devoid. So instead we split and Danny and I got one and the others got a second.
All in all, a good night out. And a great way to relax, which was good as the next day was to be extremely stressful.
We had a bit of a mission today, we had to go and find new tyres, new gas canister, map our way out, get food and get to the campsite.
First, tyres. Went to this great little bikeshop and bought some suprisingly cheap tyres that haven't blown up once yet. We also got some new inner-tubes and sat down outside a cafe to eat lunch (which Danny bought) while I tore off my old tyres, front and back, and lovingly put on my brand new ones.
Next step was gas canister, so we asked at the tourist info spot and was forwarded to a little shop full of odds and ends. Danny found a gas canister, but had to really fight for it as the owner kept insisting it was the wrong one until Danny took his burner in and tried it out inside the store saying, "No, I want this one". Do not get in the way of Danny and his gas burner.
We found a little Lidls, hidden away underground inside this fantastic fruit market. But my eyes were on the Lidls and so I completely skipped over the fruit market (in BCN it was to be a different story). Took a bit of time because there was so much good stuff, but managed to come out with a food bill totalling €14. We love Lidls.
It was getting darkish by this time, and having decided on a plan to get to Barcelona (namely cheating and cycling to Zaragoza and catching the train from there), we went off in search of the campsite - which was up a bloody great mountain. I was not impressed and much hurt by the terrain. Once there, we soon realised that the Spainish don't care much for campers, for their pitch for us was muddy, sodden and unkept, and while there were lights they didn't work. The areas for the caravans on the otherhand were lovely.
We, quite randomly, met two girls and a guy travelling by car and doing a tour of Europe (with the eventual goal to Poland). We had just reached a 1000 miles for the trip and wanted to celebrate and extended an offer for them to join us in the campsite bar, they counteroffered with an invitation into town to sample the san sebastian night life. We accepted and, in smelly clothes, joined them on the bustrip down (after eating of course).
After a - long - journey down the mountain we got into the centre with about 2 hours to go until the last bus back. Danny had espied a little street full of bars in the old quarter so we checked out that place. We bar crawled a bit, Danny quickly attaching himself to one of the girls with a shared interest in learning Spainish, while I swapped experiences with the guy who had also done cycle touring to Budapest in 10 weeks.
We visited a Tapas Bar and sampled the local beverage for free, thanks to a nice New Yorker couple, which was essentially white wine poured from a great height to give it bubbles. We didn't sample any of the tapas, as it was far too expensive for our meagre wallets. Onwards once more and we found ourselves in a rather spainish looking place, all dark with terrible english music blaring out over the speakers. Very traditional. We sat and drank an awesome little beer called Keler, which I can't seem to find anywhere else, and which at 6.5% had a nifty little kick to it. As well.
Finally, with the hours creeping into morning (we had missed the last bus) we attempted to get a 5 person taxi. Not happening, Spain seems to be devoid. So instead we split and Danny and I got one and the others got a second.
All in all, a good night out. And a great way to relax, which was good as the next day was to be extremely stressful.
Day 24 - Spanish Roads Blew My Tyre
There is something quite bemusing about cities, they seem unfit for anyone not living there and not driving a car or taking public transport (essentially cyclists, but I didn't want to leave anyone out). Signposts either assume you are taking the big roads through or are taking the smaller roads to the inbetween places (but not beyond). Hence, after leaving our lovely camping on the farm and cycling alongside the river into Bayonne, we got lost - a lot.
We needed food first, however, so headed into Bayonne centre to find somewhere open. Thankfully there was a little "8 a huit" (so clever) and we stocked up on foods for the day. Our plan was to make it across the border and into San Sebastian with no planning whatsoever. This is known as foolish.
After dining on the rivers edge, in the cold and the damp (thankfully the rain had stopped now), we set-off in search of the road that would take us across into Spain. But we kept running into the motorway and big signs saying "No Bicycles" (but in pictures not in words) and so I attempted to navigate blind through the streets of Bayonne and into Biarritz (where we could follow the coastroad to where we wanted to go). At first I was a bit bemused by the two signs of everything, until I realised that this was Basque country, home to Grafitti artists extraordinaire (whose greatest form of protest seems to be painting over the signs in French).
We got quite far thanks to the fantasticly detailed bus maps that line every bus-stop in France and then "Bam!", there was another sign saying no bicycles. Finally we found our way to the sea and took photos and relaxed with the saltly smell of home in our noises (I'm a seaside town man at heart). We took the coast road, which was windy up and out of Biarritz and attempted to get across the border. It was at this point that God saw our little escape plan and said "No!". The rain fell, it wasn't in drops it was literally in sheets of water. Up and down these cliffs that marked where the Pyrenees fell into the sea, absolutely drenched with water, and then it stopped just as suddenly. God was having his little laughs, as the water eventually came back and then stopped several times over, but we were finding our way there.
Then we ran into a little sign saying no bicycles, goddamn. Thankfully there was another road out of the town and across the border, along the cliffs no less. We cycled up to them, but as we rounded the headland to face south, the wind picked up and changed into something scary. It was stronger than the gail storm we had faced before, and the only saving grace was that it was coming in from the sea (obviously) and so it couldn't push us over the cliffs. We got off our bikes and pushed them along the roads edge, trying desperately to keep them upright against the wind. Finally we made it to a roundabout and made our way inland to see if we could find our road again. As we came down from the cliffs - my tyre blew again! I had had enough at this point and while I fixed my tyre (and the tear was quite extreme know), Danny got the Tea on. Very important.
We both knew the tyre would not last long, but it being Easter Monday we had to press on, time was against us. Finally we made it onto the road we were looking for, the non-motorway N-road across into Spain and to San Sebastian.
When we reached Spain we realised we were in for a bit of trouble - the signs were entirely different. Not just a different language, but a completely different style (that seemed to focus on the absurdly local, while ignoring what the next town on the road was). Along and round this road we went, through and over road-works, the wind driving into us at every oppurtunity and a fair amount of rain making our going even more tough.
When we reached the town just next to San Sebastion I was ready to commit murder on all Spainish road makers. Absolutely abyssmal system, that i can only hope makes sense to the Spainish mind. We had to pop off the N-road we were on and get back on it on the otherside of the town. Only trouble was that the town lacked signs telling us how to get there. We went up and down hills until finally we made it back onto the road just as it was getting dark.
Not long after this little victory, something very bad happened. My Tyre literally blew. Usually a puncture is signalled by a gasp of air escaping, this one actually exploded. No chance now. We lifted our bikes over the barrier and onto the pavement and walked the rest of the way into town with no clue which was was right or where the hell we were going.
Finally we found an internet cafe and tried to find a place to stay. I found a cheap hostel to stay at in the old quarter of San Sebastian and we got our bearing thanks to Google (Google Maps is the Best. True that. Double True!) When we got there, the numbers were a mess. As in all of spain it was a big apartment block, but we didn´t know which number to press. As we were waiting outside, we were stumbled upon by a couple, who not only spoke English but also worked in the hostel we were trying to get into to. They had a room available and took us upstairs to warmth and food (there was a kitchen where Danny cooked).
Slept well, though I imagine that the others there were kept awake by Danny's snoring.
We needed food first, however, so headed into Bayonne centre to find somewhere open. Thankfully there was a little "8 a huit" (so clever) and we stocked up on foods for the day. Our plan was to make it across the border and into San Sebastian with no planning whatsoever. This is known as foolish.
After dining on the rivers edge, in the cold and the damp (thankfully the rain had stopped now), we set-off in search of the road that would take us across into Spain. But we kept running into the motorway and big signs saying "No Bicycles" (but in pictures not in words) and so I attempted to navigate blind through the streets of Bayonne and into Biarritz (where we could follow the coastroad to where we wanted to go). At first I was a bit bemused by the two signs of everything, until I realised that this was Basque country, home to Grafitti artists extraordinaire (whose greatest form of protest seems to be painting over the signs in French).
We got quite far thanks to the fantasticly detailed bus maps that line every bus-stop in France and then "Bam!", there was another sign saying no bicycles. Finally we found our way to the sea and took photos and relaxed with the saltly smell of home in our noises (I'm a seaside town man at heart). We took the coast road, which was windy up and out of Biarritz and attempted to get across the border. It was at this point that God saw our little escape plan and said "No!". The rain fell, it wasn't in drops it was literally in sheets of water. Up and down these cliffs that marked where the Pyrenees fell into the sea, absolutely drenched with water, and then it stopped just as suddenly. God was having his little laughs, as the water eventually came back and then stopped several times over, but we were finding our way there.
Then we ran into a little sign saying no bicycles, goddamn. Thankfully there was another road out of the town and across the border, along the cliffs no less. We cycled up to them, but as we rounded the headland to face south, the wind picked up and changed into something scary. It was stronger than the gail storm we had faced before, and the only saving grace was that it was coming in from the sea (obviously) and so it couldn't push us over the cliffs. We got off our bikes and pushed them along the roads edge, trying desperately to keep them upright against the wind. Finally we made it to a roundabout and made our way inland to see if we could find our road again. As we came down from the cliffs - my tyre blew again! I had had enough at this point and while I fixed my tyre (and the tear was quite extreme know), Danny got the Tea on. Very important.
We both knew the tyre would not last long, but it being Easter Monday we had to press on, time was against us. Finally we made it onto the road we were looking for, the non-motorway N-road across into Spain and to San Sebastian.
When we reached Spain we realised we were in for a bit of trouble - the signs were entirely different. Not just a different language, but a completely different style (that seemed to focus on the absurdly local, while ignoring what the next town on the road was). Along and round this road we went, through and over road-works, the wind driving into us at every oppurtunity and a fair amount of rain making our going even more tough.
When we reached the town just next to San Sebastion I was ready to commit murder on all Spainish road makers. Absolutely abyssmal system, that i can only hope makes sense to the Spainish mind. We had to pop off the N-road we were on and get back on it on the otherside of the town. Only trouble was that the town lacked signs telling us how to get there. We went up and down hills until finally we made it back onto the road just as it was getting dark.
Not long after this little victory, something very bad happened. My Tyre literally blew. Usually a puncture is signalled by a gasp of air escaping, this one actually exploded. No chance now. We lifted our bikes over the barrier and onto the pavement and walked the rest of the way into town with no clue which was was right or where the hell we were going.
Finally we found an internet cafe and tried to find a place to stay. I found a cheap hostel to stay at in the old quarter of San Sebastian and we got our bearing thanks to Google (Google Maps is the Best. True that. Double True!) When we got there, the numbers were a mess. As in all of spain it was a big apartment block, but we didn´t know which number to press. As we were waiting outside, we were stumbled upon by a couple, who not only spoke English but also worked in the hostel we were trying to get into to. They had a room available and took us upstairs to warmth and food (there was a kitchen where Danny cooked).
Slept well, though I imagine that the others there were kept awake by Danny's snoring.
Monday 7 April 2008
Day 23 - Dax and Wasting Time
One of the worst things you can do is spend the saturday before easter sunday in the middle of nowhere and then, on easter sunday, not realise its easter sunday till after all the shops shut. This is especially bad when you are relying on said shops to supply you with sustenance for the days ahead.
Thankfully, even in France, where they love their sundays more than any other day, we were lucky to find a shop that was open past midday. We reached Dax, a good cycle ride from where we camped, just as the shops shut, and spent a while finding another place to eat. Finally we found the French equivalent of the Spar, open on Sundays and a bit on the expensive side, and Danny got us lunch and food eventual dinners. We cycled into Dax and had food in the main park, whilst I attempted to find our route that would take us out of rainy France and on into sunny, sunny Spain (I just had images of endless sun when I planned this route). First job was to get to Biarritz, which would hop us onto the only road open to us that would take us into Spain. For the need of packing as many cars into a tight space, they have to have not only a busy motorway (which we cannot go on), but also a busy main N road, and no room for anything else.
The plan was to get to San Sebastian that day, which was so optimistic as to not make any sense. As it was we didn't even make it to Biarritz thanks to some bad map reading from myself. I followed a road out of Dax that would take us alongside the river and then come off to follow the D12 south to the river coming out of Bayonne, which we could follow into Bayonne and then onto Biarritz and the border. As it was I followed the first river out of Dax slightly to far along this lovely little road, which just wouldn´t let us turn off to get onto the D12! Eventually I gave up on the hope that the road might get us far enough south anyway and we had to turn back, whereupon we finally found a road that took us west to where we wanted to go. Which is where I blew my back wheel.
Oh yes, and this was a puncture and a half as well. A huge gaping wide gash went across the bottom of my tyre. A quick fix was come across when Danny gaffered a strap from his tent bag to the inside of the tyre, which we hoped would get us far enough to buy us a new tyre (not something we could do for another two days, as easter monday was coming up). Finally we were on our way again, but with the rain setting in we wanted to stop before it got silly. We saw a sign for a campsite on a farm and hoped that it was already open. It wasn't, but we managed to find the farmer in charge and got a good rate for the night (no hot water, but showers are for weaklings anyway). We had trouble communicating for the purposes of the transaction of money and where to pitch our tent, but thankfully a translater was found in the form of the farmer's daughter (who was quite cute in a studious way) and everything was settled at 5 euros for the both of us - and it was my night to pay, "Yes!". He showed us the rather simple facilities, but then gave us the use of sheltered porch of one of his mobile homes, fully equipped with tables and chairs so we were as happy as cyclists who haven't eater dinner at a table for quite sometime.
It rained all night and next morning. Come on Spain!
Thankfully, even in France, where they love their sundays more than any other day, we were lucky to find a shop that was open past midday. We reached Dax, a good cycle ride from where we camped, just as the shops shut, and spent a while finding another place to eat. Finally we found the French equivalent of the Spar, open on Sundays and a bit on the expensive side, and Danny got us lunch and food eventual dinners. We cycled into Dax and had food in the main park, whilst I attempted to find our route that would take us out of rainy France and on into sunny, sunny Spain (I just had images of endless sun when I planned this route). First job was to get to Biarritz, which would hop us onto the only road open to us that would take us into Spain. For the need of packing as many cars into a tight space, they have to have not only a busy motorway (which we cannot go on), but also a busy main N road, and no room for anything else.
The plan was to get to San Sebastian that day, which was so optimistic as to not make any sense. As it was we didn't even make it to Biarritz thanks to some bad map reading from myself. I followed a road out of Dax that would take us alongside the river and then come off to follow the D12 south to the river coming out of Bayonne, which we could follow into Bayonne and then onto Biarritz and the border. As it was I followed the first river out of Dax slightly to far along this lovely little road, which just wouldn´t let us turn off to get onto the D12! Eventually I gave up on the hope that the road might get us far enough south anyway and we had to turn back, whereupon we finally found a road that took us west to where we wanted to go. Which is where I blew my back wheel.
Oh yes, and this was a puncture and a half as well. A huge gaping wide gash went across the bottom of my tyre. A quick fix was come across when Danny gaffered a strap from his tent bag to the inside of the tyre, which we hoped would get us far enough to buy us a new tyre (not something we could do for another two days, as easter monday was coming up). Finally we were on our way again, but with the rain setting in we wanted to stop before it got silly. We saw a sign for a campsite on a farm and hoped that it was already open. It wasn't, but we managed to find the farmer in charge and got a good rate for the night (no hot water, but showers are for weaklings anyway). We had trouble communicating for the purposes of the transaction of money and where to pitch our tent, but thankfully a translater was found in the form of the farmer's daughter (who was quite cute in a studious way) and everything was settled at 5 euros for the both of us - and it was my night to pay, "Yes!". He showed us the rather simple facilities, but then gave us the use of sheltered porch of one of his mobile homes, fully equipped with tables and chairs so we were as happy as cyclists who haven't eater dinner at a table for quite sometime.
It rained all night and next morning. Come on Spain!
Day 21, 22 - Rain, Wind then Boredom
We had gone to bed with high hopes for the morrow, but the morning soon dashed them on the rocks of dismal weather, yet again.
The first leg of our journey was to the town of Margueron, a short walk away from Bergerac, but it took us hours! The wind was slamming right into our faces, and there is nothing more demoralising to a cyclist than to be putting all available effort into cycling at a mere crawl of 10 mph (I cannot understand people who do this as their normal speed). Absolutely miserable the entire way, which was only worsened once the rain started.
After Margueron we had to make it to Duras, a lovely town sitting atop a hill. We stopped in a little cafe to warm up and take stock. In there we met a lovely English couple living in France, who we entertained with tales of our exploits and our extreme dampness. One very odd oddity about the french cafe and french cafes in total, is that amidst all this traditional wooden decor and the like, there sat this completely surreal orange desk for the purposes of gambling from. It was so out of place in this little traditional cafe, yet the locals seemed to think it far more normal than two bedraggled cyclists on a cycle tour in the middle of march when the weather is bad.
The coffee was good and after, saved from the wind by the buildings, we ate lunch in the freezing cold and with freezing cold feet. Hating to continue but having to nonetheless, we once more braved the abyssmal weather in our attempt to reach Langorn. The next leg of the journey was to La Reole, sitting along the river and only a short 20km from Langorn. We knew we needed the advice of the Tourist Information, and as it was getting late we decided to try the one in La Reole for information on campsites or other forms of accomadation. It was here that the French signs utterly failed us. We tried every road several times for an hour or so in our attempt to find this blasted thing, only through trial and error were we finally able to find it tucked away inside this ancient 17th century building, the only indication that it was a Info place was a small "i" sign in the window. Obviously not fond on Tourism in La Reole.
Anyway, I went in to inquire about the campsite we had found in the Michelin Guide (we weren't sure it was open), and was treated to much amazement by the people inside that we were camping in this weather (a common exclamation from the French it seems). After a little help from the helpful staff, we discovered that the campsite we were heading for was open, but wasn't a campsite. Michelin's mistake had seemed to propagate itself through the Tourist Info business because even their official guide of the region had it down as a campsite. Anyway, looking for other campsites proved unfruitful, and Danny and I decided upon a cheap little hotel in a small village just south of La Reole. The staff phoned ahead and we cycled not knowing what we were going to find there.
When we finally arrived in Pondaraut, we were not suprised by how easily we found the place, the town was tiny. I walked into this rather sparse bar with a few tables and chairs mingling with French locals (we finally found out what they do of an evening - sit in a bar and talk about what they did all day) and shuffled rather uncomfortably toward the bar and bartender there to say in rather awful french that I had a reservation and that I was Mr English with the bicycles. He grinned as I said it, I cannot imagine how badly it sounded, and signalled to follow him. He took us round back, where there seemed to be the skeleton of an even older house, and into the garage where we stored our bikes. Then he took us upstairs and showed us the room. He asked us if we were going to come down for drinks and I said yes we would (all in french).
When had got suitably settled, we headed downstairs sat at the bar and the barman poured us this wierd liquour. It was quite nice, but we moved onto beer afterward. We spent the entire evening sitting at the bar attempting to tell the inhabitants of the bar (mostly the barman - who was incredibly paitent) about our trip so far. Most of it was Danny asking questions, the barman looking confused and then me with a lot of help from the barman and hand signals translating for Danny both the question and answer. A lot of fun all round.
The next morning we woke to an early breakfast at 7 (stupidly early, and we think we may have pissed the barman off a bit). It was a simple fair, but tasty enough, of croissants and coffee. We packed slowly, but left just as the weather changed to bad. Not as bad as yesterday, but the rain and wind were certainly back. We made it to Bazas with little trouble however, whereupon I discovered with some shock that I was no longer in possession of my wallet and, more importantly, my nationwide card. Danny decided that he would go back on his faster racer sans baggage to look for it back at the hotel (a good 10 miles back). I waited paitently feeling the fool by the lidls where the discovery had been made, hoping that hope might just shine through. As the time lengthened out it became obvious to me that it was unlikely Danny had found it, which was to turn out to be the case.
Severely worried and not looking forward to the rest of the trip, we continued onward, after Danny and I planned on an alternative until I could get another card. We left the disaster that was Bazas and followed the road that entered into the most boring part of our trip so far - Parc Naturel Regional des Landes de Gascoigne. It was essentially 30 miles and more of non-stop Pine Tree plantations. The only break in the monotony of the journey was the delightful monster K6.
Has we were about 6km from Sabres along the road from Luxey, we cycled past a house with its front gate wide open (it had lots of classic cars in various states of disrepair in the back garden) and standing there was the biggest do I have ever seen. Huge thing. It barked, and I immediately thought "Crap!". Out it ran after our wheels, as apparently the noise the spokes of a wheel make sends dogs crazy. Usually we pass dogs trapped in their gardens and they just got frothing at the mouth launching themselves at the fence trying to get at us. This time there was no fence and as I looked behind us I saw this huge lumbering shape following us. Following us? He was damn well gaining on us. I shouted to Danny to look behind us, and has he turned around he saw the Dog pass me on the left. On and on the dog ran in front of us, but it didn't look like he was going to turn round and attack. Had he we would have been easily on the road and our spokes in his mouth. Danny noticed it before I did, and suggested that we outrun him. He wanted to race.
To wham, we lauched into a frenzied and extended race over 4km with the dog able to keep up with our stead 17mph. We still weren't sure whether the dog was friend or foe, so while our legs ached, we pressed on and on. After about 4km, the dog could not keep up with us and he started falling behind. Eventually he left our sight and we slowed our pace as we entered the town of Sabres. There was a garage just as we entred so I took the liberty of filling our water bottles and buying a can each to cool us down (the weather was perfect now). As we sat there we saw our doggy friend lumbering up the road toward us - he had followed us all the way here. After a small time playing around with our now beloved friend of K6 (for he had ran 6km to catch us), we decided to move on. K6, eager for the exercise looked ready to join but we were worried that he might get hit by a car on the road so we tried our best to get him to go home, but he wouldn´t. In the end the best way to get him to give up was to just cycle as fast as we could. For the next 15k we sailed along at speeds of 17mph. So fast, so flat.
Darkness was creeping in, and hopes of finding our campsite were slim. Eventually we found a small side road into the pine plantations and made camp in the dark and quite dead wood (there didn't seem to be any wildlife at all here). I was worried at first I could see a strange window hanging in the air not far from where we had decided to camp through the trees. It was such a strange sight. However it turned out to be just the largest moon I had ever seen, perching itself on one of the branches of a tree. Reminded me of some childrens tale or something.
We slept badly, my two man tent is not big enough for me and Danny.
The first leg of our journey was to the town of Margueron, a short walk away from Bergerac, but it took us hours! The wind was slamming right into our faces, and there is nothing more demoralising to a cyclist than to be putting all available effort into cycling at a mere crawl of 10 mph (I cannot understand people who do this as their normal speed). Absolutely miserable the entire way, which was only worsened once the rain started.
After Margueron we had to make it to Duras, a lovely town sitting atop a hill. We stopped in a little cafe to warm up and take stock. In there we met a lovely English couple living in France, who we entertained with tales of our exploits and our extreme dampness. One very odd oddity about the french cafe and french cafes in total, is that amidst all this traditional wooden decor and the like, there sat this completely surreal orange desk for the purposes of gambling from. It was so out of place in this little traditional cafe, yet the locals seemed to think it far more normal than two bedraggled cyclists on a cycle tour in the middle of march when the weather is bad.
The coffee was good and after, saved from the wind by the buildings, we ate lunch in the freezing cold and with freezing cold feet. Hating to continue but having to nonetheless, we once more braved the abyssmal weather in our attempt to reach Langorn. The next leg of the journey was to La Reole, sitting along the river and only a short 20km from Langorn. We knew we needed the advice of the Tourist Information, and as it was getting late we decided to try the one in La Reole for information on campsites or other forms of accomadation. It was here that the French signs utterly failed us. We tried every road several times for an hour or so in our attempt to find this blasted thing, only through trial and error were we finally able to find it tucked away inside this ancient 17th century building, the only indication that it was a Info place was a small "i" sign in the window. Obviously not fond on Tourism in La Reole.
Anyway, I went in to inquire about the campsite we had found in the Michelin Guide (we weren't sure it was open), and was treated to much amazement by the people inside that we were camping in this weather (a common exclamation from the French it seems). After a little help from the helpful staff, we discovered that the campsite we were heading for was open, but wasn't a campsite. Michelin's mistake had seemed to propagate itself through the Tourist Info business because even their official guide of the region had it down as a campsite. Anyway, looking for other campsites proved unfruitful, and Danny and I decided upon a cheap little hotel in a small village just south of La Reole. The staff phoned ahead and we cycled not knowing what we were going to find there.
When we finally arrived in Pondaraut, we were not suprised by how easily we found the place, the town was tiny. I walked into this rather sparse bar with a few tables and chairs mingling with French locals (we finally found out what they do of an evening - sit in a bar and talk about what they did all day) and shuffled rather uncomfortably toward the bar and bartender there to say in rather awful french that I had a reservation and that I was Mr English with the bicycles. He grinned as I said it, I cannot imagine how badly it sounded, and signalled to follow him. He took us round back, where there seemed to be the skeleton of an even older house, and into the garage where we stored our bikes. Then he took us upstairs and showed us the room. He asked us if we were going to come down for drinks and I said yes we would (all in french).
When had got suitably settled, we headed downstairs sat at the bar and the barman poured us this wierd liquour. It was quite nice, but we moved onto beer afterward. We spent the entire evening sitting at the bar attempting to tell the inhabitants of the bar (mostly the barman - who was incredibly paitent) about our trip so far. Most of it was Danny asking questions, the barman looking confused and then me with a lot of help from the barman and hand signals translating for Danny both the question and answer. A lot of fun all round.
The next morning we woke to an early breakfast at 7 (stupidly early, and we think we may have pissed the barman off a bit). It was a simple fair, but tasty enough, of croissants and coffee. We packed slowly, but left just as the weather changed to bad. Not as bad as yesterday, but the rain and wind were certainly back. We made it to Bazas with little trouble however, whereupon I discovered with some shock that I was no longer in possession of my wallet and, more importantly, my nationwide card. Danny decided that he would go back on his faster racer sans baggage to look for it back at the hotel (a good 10 miles back). I waited paitently feeling the fool by the lidls where the discovery had been made, hoping that hope might just shine through. As the time lengthened out it became obvious to me that it was unlikely Danny had found it, which was to turn out to be the case.
Severely worried and not looking forward to the rest of the trip, we continued onward, after Danny and I planned on an alternative until I could get another card. We left the disaster that was Bazas and followed the road that entered into the most boring part of our trip so far - Parc Naturel Regional des Landes de Gascoigne. It was essentially 30 miles and more of non-stop Pine Tree plantations. The only break in the monotony of the journey was the delightful monster K6.
Has we were about 6km from Sabres along the road from Luxey, we cycled past a house with its front gate wide open (it had lots of classic cars in various states of disrepair in the back garden) and standing there was the biggest do I have ever seen. Huge thing. It barked, and I immediately thought "Crap!". Out it ran after our wheels, as apparently the noise the spokes of a wheel make sends dogs crazy. Usually we pass dogs trapped in their gardens and they just got frothing at the mouth launching themselves at the fence trying to get at us. This time there was no fence and as I looked behind us I saw this huge lumbering shape following us. Following us? He was damn well gaining on us. I shouted to Danny to look behind us, and has he turned around he saw the Dog pass me on the left. On and on the dog ran in front of us, but it didn't look like he was going to turn round and attack. Had he we would have been easily on the road and our spokes in his mouth. Danny noticed it before I did, and suggested that we outrun him. He wanted to race.
To wham, we lauched into a frenzied and extended race over 4km with the dog able to keep up with our stead 17mph. We still weren't sure whether the dog was friend or foe, so while our legs ached, we pressed on and on. After about 4km, the dog could not keep up with us and he started falling behind. Eventually he left our sight and we slowed our pace as we entered the town of Sabres. There was a garage just as we entred so I took the liberty of filling our water bottles and buying a can each to cool us down (the weather was perfect now). As we sat there we saw our doggy friend lumbering up the road toward us - he had followed us all the way here. After a small time playing around with our now beloved friend of K6 (for he had ran 6km to catch us), we decided to move on. K6, eager for the exercise looked ready to join but we were worried that he might get hit by a car on the road so we tried our best to get him to go home, but he wouldn´t. In the end the best way to get him to give up was to just cycle as fast as we could. For the next 15k we sailed along at speeds of 17mph. So fast, so flat.
Darkness was creeping in, and hopes of finding our campsite were slim. Eventually we found a small side road into the pine plantations and made camp in the dark and quite dead wood (there didn't seem to be any wildlife at all here). I was worried at first I could see a strange window hanging in the air not far from where we had decided to camp through the trees. It was such a strange sight. However it turned out to be just the largest moon I had ever seen, perching itself on one of the branches of a tree. Reminded me of some childrens tale or something.
We slept badly, my two man tent is not big enough for me and Danny.
Day 20 - To The Dordogne and Rain
The next day we woke relatively early, we have certainly been noticing the warmth reaching us earlier in the morning as we have travelled south.
The goal was Bergerac, and hopefully a book full of campsites for us to gaze over and plan our route from. It was going to be a short ride, definately when compared to the day before, and we hoped to enjoy an early evening of sun and good wine. The going was relatively easy, though we had to join a busy red road for a while to keep us on course. The cycling has definately gotten easier as we have travelled, and whilst we were going up and down hills quite a lot, I wasn't feeling the strain so badly.
On the simply named D8, which is so straight on the map it makes you wonder whether it wasn't a Roman road, Danny and I met myself when I'm 70. Danny was cycling ahead - it was hilly so I was slower - and as I rose over the crest of the hill behind him, I saw him talking to someone who seemed dressed exactly as I was then. The Cyclist was wearing a black and yellow helmet (like mine), a yellow wind-breaker (like mine) and had yellow covers over his panniers (as I was wearing mine). As I approached he was showing Danny the tour book he was following. After exchanging pleasantries we cycled on, but I swear that that old guy was me in 50 years. So when I´m 73 I´m going to cycle on that route at that time and on that day in the hope that I might meet myself and Danny in somekind of wierd time-loop thingy (I'm sure Donnie Darko would understand). A momentous occasion to be sure.
We arrived in Bergerac just in time for a late lunch alongside the Dordogne, and so we had hotdog sandwiches (so cheap) with cheese and salad and tomato ketchup. A good meal. Next we went looking for a bookshop and, having learnt that the book we were meant to pick up had never arrived by post, we bought our own copy of the Michelin guide. We had coffee and crepes in the square outside the church and poured over maps to find our route that would take us to the border with spain. Danny, armed with ruler and superior mathematic skill planned a route that would push ourselves to the limits, 60 miles a day through either rain, boredom or just wierd happenstance.
That evening we supped on riverbank at the municipal campsite in Bergerac, after shopping in the local Lidls and saving ourselves 10 euros on the days shop (though I was short-changed by 10, which didn't help much). 3 Litres of Orange juice made for a very happy me. Lidls allows one, if not to breakfast in style, then definately to breakfast in quantity.
Tomorrow we hoped for good weather, with perhaps a little wind, and a good start the our final push through france into Spain. We were not to be disappointed.
The goal was Bergerac, and hopefully a book full of campsites for us to gaze over and plan our route from. It was going to be a short ride, definately when compared to the day before, and we hoped to enjoy an early evening of sun and good wine. The going was relatively easy, though we had to join a busy red road for a while to keep us on course. The cycling has definately gotten easier as we have travelled, and whilst we were going up and down hills quite a lot, I wasn't feeling the strain so badly.
On the simply named D8, which is so straight on the map it makes you wonder whether it wasn't a Roman road, Danny and I met myself when I'm 70. Danny was cycling ahead - it was hilly so I was slower - and as I rose over the crest of the hill behind him, I saw him talking to someone who seemed dressed exactly as I was then. The Cyclist was wearing a black and yellow helmet (like mine), a yellow wind-breaker (like mine) and had yellow covers over his panniers (as I was wearing mine). As I approached he was showing Danny the tour book he was following. After exchanging pleasantries we cycled on, but I swear that that old guy was me in 50 years. So when I´m 73 I´m going to cycle on that route at that time and on that day in the hope that I might meet myself and Danny in somekind of wierd time-loop thingy (I'm sure Donnie Darko would understand). A momentous occasion to be sure.
We arrived in Bergerac just in time for a late lunch alongside the Dordogne, and so we had hotdog sandwiches (so cheap) with cheese and salad and tomato ketchup. A good meal. Next we went looking for a bookshop and, having learnt that the book we were meant to pick up had never arrived by post, we bought our own copy of the Michelin guide. We had coffee and crepes in the square outside the church and poured over maps to find our route that would take us to the border with spain. Danny, armed with ruler and superior mathematic skill planned a route that would push ourselves to the limits, 60 miles a day through either rain, boredom or just wierd happenstance.
That evening we supped on riverbank at the municipal campsite in Bergerac, after shopping in the local Lidls and saving ourselves 10 euros on the days shop (though I was short-changed by 10, which didn't help much). 3 Litres of Orange juice made for a very happy me. Lidls allows one, if not to breakfast in style, then definately to breakfast in quantity.
Tomorrow we hoped for good weather, with perhaps a little wind, and a good start the our final push through france into Spain. We were not to be disappointed.
Day 19 - Indescribable.
We left Limoges in high spirits and armed with a good map of the city centre and a good idea of where we were going we still managed to get onto the wrong road. Well, never fear, it was a nasty red road, but it was quite slow and travelled alongside the river out of Limoges. With the flat of the river plain helping us we managed to get an average speed of 15mph going, which was enjoyable to say the least. After getting to Aixe-sur-Vienne we followed the D20 south through Les Cars and to Bussiere-Galant. All bog-standard. Pretty nice, but nothing to write home about (other than it seemed to be largely downhill, which was nice). However once we got to the station of Bussiere-Galant, which is so far away from Bussiere-Galant that it requires its own name on the map, we met "Wow!" country.
Zooming in and out, round and about these small lakes, through woodland and across open fields the scenery was nothing short of extraordinary and I promise that we barely had to move our feet. Alongside rivers we rode, birds flitting to their own music beside us, the sun beating lightly on our brow as we watched the world, the beautiful world continue around us. Curving roads carried us south and it could have been october, the trees were so red and orange.
We didn't stop once until we reached Sainte-Marie, and I cannot impress on all of you enough the sheer excitement and thrill, far more silent and pleasurable than anything this cycle trip has yet shown me, by this simple road. It needs to be experienced in its entirety. If you ever find yourself in France and near Limoges, hire out a bicycle on a cool spring morning and make your way to Bussiere-Galant and just follow the D20 south, its not something that can be shared any other way. I decided not to take pictures just because no one part could stand without its next, had I video even that would not do it justice.
Absolutely beautiful, but it wasn't yet finished. Turning left, we followed the road to Jumilhac-le-Grand, which was beautiful as it followed river and climbed hill to reach this castle perched securely atop a hill, commanding the most magnificent views we had seen. Here we stopped for lunch, which I had made the night before; sandwiches full of meat and cheese and salad, followed by chocolate to delight the stomach and the blood.
After a small stop, for at this point the sun had decided to disappear behind unfriendly clouds, we followed the road south to Perigueux, and camped rough just south in a little place called Atur. The campsite we were hoping to go to was shut, but we found this neat little passage going nowhere between two fields, safely shaded from the road by a small rise and fall in the ground and trees from the side. Not perfect, but better than nothing.
Zooming in and out, round and about these small lakes, through woodland and across open fields the scenery was nothing short of extraordinary and I promise that we barely had to move our feet. Alongside rivers we rode, birds flitting to their own music beside us, the sun beating lightly on our brow as we watched the world, the beautiful world continue around us. Curving roads carried us south and it could have been october, the trees were so red and orange.
We didn't stop once until we reached Sainte-Marie, and I cannot impress on all of you enough the sheer excitement and thrill, far more silent and pleasurable than anything this cycle trip has yet shown me, by this simple road. It needs to be experienced in its entirety. If you ever find yourself in France and near Limoges, hire out a bicycle on a cool spring morning and make your way to Bussiere-Galant and just follow the D20 south, its not something that can be shared any other way. I decided not to take pictures just because no one part could stand without its next, had I video even that would not do it justice.
Absolutely beautiful, but it wasn't yet finished. Turning left, we followed the road to Jumilhac-le-Grand, which was beautiful as it followed river and climbed hill to reach this castle perched securely atop a hill, commanding the most magnificent views we had seen. Here we stopped for lunch, which I had made the night before; sandwiches full of meat and cheese and salad, followed by chocolate to delight the stomach and the blood.
After a small stop, for at this point the sun had decided to disappear behind unfriendly clouds, we followed the road south to Perigueux, and camped rough just south in a little place called Atur. The campsite we were hoping to go to was shut, but we found this neat little passage going nowhere between two fields, safely shaded from the road by a small rise and fall in the ground and trees from the side. Not perfect, but better than nothing.
Days 17, 18 - Limoges and the plan.
Waking up feeling slightly worse for wear and knowing that, as this campsite was largely on the closed side, we hadn´t been able to dry any of our clothes, I decided to sleep in and make the most of the warmth while Danny took of to being pro-active and getting his clothes washed (which took absolutely ages). Whilst Danny was getting clean in one sense I tried to have a shower but was foiled by someone taking, quite literally, hours (or so it seemed) to do their business. As the toilet and shower were all in the same room and there was only one I just had to wait and be paitent. I took the oppurtunity to do a bit of winding on my wind-up mp3 player but got bored quickly so played music instead. ... At last the toilet opened, and I realised why it had taken so long, there were two doors, one for the camping people and one for the restaurant people (which was located on the campsite), and it seemed that the restaurant owners were giving an entire construction team a bath or something - kinky, eh?
Finally, we left about midday, Danny's clothes cleaned and my skin feeling refreshed, we launched into another day of grey cycling with hills aplenty (which Danny was loving and I was hating). Not an hour into cycling up and down these hills north of Limoges, I already start to feel my legs go - the left thigh and the right knee - and before long I have to spend the rest of the ride into Limoges limping (yes, you can limp on a bicycle, I was as suprised as you!). I don´t like hills.
Limoges is, as befits its surroundings, quite hilly. We hadn't arrived too late on this occasion (helped somewhat by the short ride today), and so were able to find the Tourist Information Office with relative ease (though the French Advertising sense still leaves much to be desired, and least they sign post well enough). I inquired about book-shops (so we could look up campsites), internet cafes, and accomadation: we are really getting quite good at using these tourist information places, they are our slaves.
Zoomed into a local cybercafe and found a route to the campsite. This cybercafe is quite literally amazing. Cheaper by 40c an hour than any other we had been to, but with computers that make me weep a little; sleak, black things, with widescreen LCD monitors, no slowdown at all and a very cool surrounding. If you are ever in Limoges, its a place to check out. Its how all internet cafes should be.
Had dinner across the way, in a awesome little pizza place called Speed Rabbit Pizza (though why they insist on using English is beyond me, its bad at that). We could not figure out what the special deal was, so we just got two super-size pizzas, and were suprised to find that we only need to pay for one. Apparently 1 Achtee = 1 Gratuite means Buy One Get One Free (or whatever the french is - damn you Michel Thomas, I can say it but cannot spell it.
We got to the campsite about 8pm, and so it was quite dark, but we met the campsite warden at reception and were a bit worried for a moment when we told him we were camping. He kept saying that that was going to be a problem, then finally explained that the campsite was very water-logged at the moment. So he took us in and got a map out of the campsite and proceeded to um and err over the pitches until he decided on (what seemed to be quite random) two pitches that might suit us. He then proceeded to get on his bicycle and take us round a tour of the campsite as if we were some VIP guests. The first pitch was no good, he told us, as he scraped about in the mud trying to find a bit of ground. At the second pitch he directed us to a small patch of ground between to two trees and told us that that was alright but everywhere else on the pitch was waterlogged. We checked and he was right. This guy new his campsite well, very well. I don't know, maybe it was because we were cycling but this guy made us feel like we were important. He came round the next day and made small talk for awhile. The guy rocks.
We slept well and woke up the next day to a freezing morning. Our plan today was to go to a bike shop and stock up on supplies, then find a bookshop and get maps for spain and find our route to the border. Our first stop was a little bakery to pick up some much needed p-a-c, but then we found the bike shop, so while I looked for new gloves (I had lost my fingerless ones the day before), Danny attempted to ask the shop owner to check his spokes for him - which was enjoyable, if somewhat painful, to watch just because Danny knows so little French and the bike shop owner spoke no English. Ah, if only there was some international language for cyclists. Anyway there wasn't any fingerless gloves and Danny's attempts at getting the bike shop owner to check his spokes, while successful, did cost Danny a fair few euro.
Onwards to town and Danny wanted to get on top of his application to Imperial, so I went looking around town for a bookshop that was stocked with maps of spain. We had found one for the Catalan region around Barcelona, but not one for the first area we were reaching, the Basque area of spain. After a little bit of wander, and a little bemoaning the severe lack of good sandwich shops - why? - I stumbled upon a little bookshop and browsed the holiday section for maps and a french camping book (The Michelin Guide for preference). I found both and invested in a map of the Basque region of Spain (1cm to 2.5km, which is barely good enough - the catalan map is 1cm to 4km, terrible).
Stopping for awhile in the central plaza and realised the time and found my way back to the internet cafe where I had arranged to meet Danny. The sun was amazing so I sat outside and just basked there. Finally Danny made it and we both went to the bookshop again (which I found with some ease - me and my internal mapping system) took plan a route down to Bergerac where we were to meet a friend of Danny's Mum who hopefully had a book of campsites for us. Route in hand, we stopped in a Cafe to have a talk about what we wanted from the journey ahead. It was the 18th that Day, and Fred and Lucas were arriving in Barcelona on the 27th. This was the first I had heard of this, and I was not pleased that this change of plans seemed to come from no where. Danny suggested that if I started lagging he would speed off and I could continue at my own speed, but I was unsure on this state of affairs as my bike mechanic skill is less than shakey and I was not looking forward to doing any part of the trip alone. I was very tempted on just cutting my ties here, cycling to see my mum and missing out spain all together. Eventually after a bit of wrangling over what we were willing to compromise, we decided that we would try our hardest to reach Barcelona, but if we couldn't we wouldn´t split up but would instead catch a train to our destination. I would cycle a bit further and a bit further than we had been, but Danny promised not to forsake the slower of the two if time called for it. This sorted out I felt a lot better about the trip ahead, almost excited that it could be possible.
We returned to the campsite and made our preparations for tomorrow.
Finally, we left about midday, Danny's clothes cleaned and my skin feeling refreshed, we launched into another day of grey cycling with hills aplenty (which Danny was loving and I was hating). Not an hour into cycling up and down these hills north of Limoges, I already start to feel my legs go - the left thigh and the right knee - and before long I have to spend the rest of the ride into Limoges limping (yes, you can limp on a bicycle, I was as suprised as you!). I don´t like hills.
Limoges is, as befits its surroundings, quite hilly. We hadn't arrived too late on this occasion (helped somewhat by the short ride today), and so were able to find the Tourist Information Office with relative ease (though the French Advertising sense still leaves much to be desired, and least they sign post well enough). I inquired about book-shops (so we could look up campsites), internet cafes, and accomadation: we are really getting quite good at using these tourist information places, they are our slaves.
Zoomed into a local cybercafe and found a route to the campsite. This cybercafe is quite literally amazing. Cheaper by 40c an hour than any other we had been to, but with computers that make me weep a little; sleak, black things, with widescreen LCD monitors, no slowdown at all and a very cool surrounding. If you are ever in Limoges, its a place to check out. Its how all internet cafes should be.
Had dinner across the way, in a awesome little pizza place called Speed Rabbit Pizza (though why they insist on using English is beyond me, its bad at that). We could not figure out what the special deal was, so we just got two super-size pizzas, and were suprised to find that we only need to pay for one. Apparently 1 Achtee = 1 Gratuite means Buy One Get One Free (or whatever the french is - damn you Michel Thomas, I can say it but cannot spell it.
We got to the campsite about 8pm, and so it was quite dark, but we met the campsite warden at reception and were a bit worried for a moment when we told him we were camping. He kept saying that that was going to be a problem, then finally explained that the campsite was very water-logged at the moment. So he took us in and got a map out of the campsite and proceeded to um and err over the pitches until he decided on (what seemed to be quite random) two pitches that might suit us. He then proceeded to get on his bicycle and take us round a tour of the campsite as if we were some VIP guests. The first pitch was no good, he told us, as he scraped about in the mud trying to find a bit of ground. At the second pitch he directed us to a small patch of ground between to two trees and told us that that was alright but everywhere else on the pitch was waterlogged. We checked and he was right. This guy new his campsite well, very well. I don't know, maybe it was because we were cycling but this guy made us feel like we were important. He came round the next day and made small talk for awhile. The guy rocks.
We slept well and woke up the next day to a freezing morning. Our plan today was to go to a bike shop and stock up on supplies, then find a bookshop and get maps for spain and find our route to the border. Our first stop was a little bakery to pick up some much needed p-a-c, but then we found the bike shop, so while I looked for new gloves (I had lost my fingerless ones the day before), Danny attempted to ask the shop owner to check his spokes for him - which was enjoyable, if somewhat painful, to watch just because Danny knows so little French and the bike shop owner spoke no English. Ah, if only there was some international language for cyclists. Anyway there wasn't any fingerless gloves and Danny's attempts at getting the bike shop owner to check his spokes, while successful, did cost Danny a fair few euro.
Onwards to town and Danny wanted to get on top of his application to Imperial, so I went looking around town for a bookshop that was stocked with maps of spain. We had found one for the Catalan region around Barcelona, but not one for the first area we were reaching, the Basque area of spain. After a little bit of wander, and a little bemoaning the severe lack of good sandwich shops - why? - I stumbled upon a little bookshop and browsed the holiday section for maps and a french camping book (The Michelin Guide for preference). I found both and invested in a map of the Basque region of Spain (1cm to 2.5km, which is barely good enough - the catalan map is 1cm to 4km, terrible).
Stopping for awhile in the central plaza and realised the time and found my way back to the internet cafe where I had arranged to meet Danny. The sun was amazing so I sat outside and just basked there. Finally Danny made it and we both went to the bookshop again (which I found with some ease - me and my internal mapping system) took plan a route down to Bergerac where we were to meet a friend of Danny's Mum who hopefully had a book of campsites for us. Route in hand, we stopped in a Cafe to have a talk about what we wanted from the journey ahead. It was the 18th that Day, and Fred and Lucas were arriving in Barcelona on the 27th. This was the first I had heard of this, and I was not pleased that this change of plans seemed to come from no where. Danny suggested that if I started lagging he would speed off and I could continue at my own speed, but I was unsure on this state of affairs as my bike mechanic skill is less than shakey and I was not looking forward to doing any part of the trip alone. I was very tempted on just cutting my ties here, cycling to see my mum and missing out spain all together. Eventually after a bit of wrangling over what we were willing to compromise, we decided that we would try our hardest to reach Barcelona, but if we couldn't we wouldn´t split up but would instead catch a train to our destination. I would cycle a bit further and a bit further than we had been, but Danny promised not to forsake the slower of the two if time called for it. This sorted out I felt a lot better about the trip ahead, almost excited that it could be possible.
We returned to the campsite and made our preparations for tomorrow.
Saturday 5 April 2008
Day 16 - Wet, Wet, Wet (I feel it in my toes)
Essentially this day consists of rain, wind, getting lost and the first complaints of my wheel.
Rain: It rained, and it rained alot. Thankfully, we've become so use to it that there is no problem with rain anymore as long as we are wearing our waterproofs. Unfortunately we both lack sufficient waterproofs for our hands and feet, and especially my feet. I was sporting my wonderful, wonderful binbag socks again - they had worked so well last time it would have been silly not to. However my selective memory had forgotten to warn me that the binbag socks had not really been tested in rainy weather properly. It turns out that if you wear plastic bags over your feet, it does keep your socks dry but also creates a reverse wet-suit and causes your feet to freeze - and they did freeze. It got to the point where I couldn´t pedal efficiently because I couldn't feel my toes at all. Eventually we had to stop for a bit so I could warm my feet by - taking them out of my shoes and warming them in the cold air. After today I'm never using these again.
Wind: Actually it wasn't that windy, but there were several bits where the gusts were capable of throwing us from our bikes. However we were on good clean country roads, which leads me to:
Getting Lost: It didn't really add much to the journey, but it still did not make me happy. We were taking some smaller roads and Danny was leading the way. Had it not been raining and the sun had been shining, we would have been fine, however I was not in a good mood what with the bad weather and with no idea where we were I was very nervous about the whole day. Our destination was Chateauponsac, where the campsite is open all year (no problems there), which wasn't to far from Montmorillon, so the day wasn't going to be too hard. Which was good because it was a sunday, and things are hard to get hold of on a sunday. However, the trip just seemed to take so long in the wet feet and the wet back wheel...
Back Wheel: It seems that even with getting the bikeshop in Tours to re-grease my back wheel it still gets into difficulty in the wet. As we were travelling down this muddy road, after having got ourselves lost (the french do not make it easy sometimes), the wheel started squeaking quite badly, and vibrating the bike frame as well. It did not feel healthy at all. I was getting really worried about it, and wanted to get to the campsite as quickly as possible. However the region we were entering took on a completely different terrain from what we were used to, which also seemed to change the entire culture as well. It reminded me of the Lake District; dark stone, small rivers pouring into large ones, thick woodland. I noticed that this land changed the building materials of the buildings and it all seemed very different from the Normandy and Loire regions we had been through. Still very french though.
The Campsite and Town sat perched upon the top of a great hill overlooking a beautiful river valley (and in a few days time we would realise just how beautiful the river valleys could be in this region). When we reached the campsite, the reception was shut but we were intercepted by a friendly and helpful old French man (who was 86), and with my broken french he was able to communicate to me that the reception would open at 8am tomorrow morning and that the showerblock was shut, but that we were to use the restaurant toilets. I had a great time trying to explain to him where we had travelled and I think he understood some of it. My French was definately getting better.
Rain: It rained, and it rained alot. Thankfully, we've become so use to it that there is no problem with rain anymore as long as we are wearing our waterproofs. Unfortunately we both lack sufficient waterproofs for our hands and feet, and especially my feet. I was sporting my wonderful, wonderful binbag socks again - they had worked so well last time it would have been silly not to. However my selective memory had forgotten to warn me that the binbag socks had not really been tested in rainy weather properly. It turns out that if you wear plastic bags over your feet, it does keep your socks dry but also creates a reverse wet-suit and causes your feet to freeze - and they did freeze. It got to the point where I couldn´t pedal efficiently because I couldn't feel my toes at all. Eventually we had to stop for a bit so I could warm my feet by - taking them out of my shoes and warming them in the cold air. After today I'm never using these again.
Wind: Actually it wasn't that windy, but there were several bits where the gusts were capable of throwing us from our bikes. However we were on good clean country roads, which leads me to:
Getting Lost: It didn't really add much to the journey, but it still did not make me happy. We were taking some smaller roads and Danny was leading the way. Had it not been raining and the sun had been shining, we would have been fine, however I was not in a good mood what with the bad weather and with no idea where we were I was very nervous about the whole day. Our destination was Chateauponsac, where the campsite is open all year (no problems there), which wasn't to far from Montmorillon, so the day wasn't going to be too hard. Which was good because it was a sunday, and things are hard to get hold of on a sunday. However, the trip just seemed to take so long in the wet feet and the wet back wheel...
Back Wheel: It seems that even with getting the bikeshop in Tours to re-grease my back wheel it still gets into difficulty in the wet. As we were travelling down this muddy road, after having got ourselves lost (the french do not make it easy sometimes), the wheel started squeaking quite badly, and vibrating the bike frame as well. It did not feel healthy at all. I was getting really worried about it, and wanted to get to the campsite as quickly as possible. However the region we were entering took on a completely different terrain from what we were used to, which also seemed to change the entire culture as well. It reminded me of the Lake District; dark stone, small rivers pouring into large ones, thick woodland. I noticed that this land changed the building materials of the buildings and it all seemed very different from the Normandy and Loire regions we had been through. Still very french though.
The Campsite and Town sat perched upon the top of a great hill overlooking a beautiful river valley (and in a few days time we would realise just how beautiful the river valleys could be in this region). When we reached the campsite, the reception was shut but we were intercepted by a friendly and helpful old French man (who was 86), and with my broken french he was able to communicate to me that the reception would open at 8am tomorrow morning and that the showerblock was shut, but that we were to use the restaurant toilets. I had a great time trying to explain to him where we had travelled and I think he understood some of it. My French was definately getting better.
Friday 4 April 2008
Day 15 - Cheapest Campsite Ever!
Another day, another morning after sleeping rough. No showers for us poor sods. Danny took a look at my brakes and replaced the front brake pads as they had completely worn down. It was a temporary fix as they really need a bit more work on them, but we wanted to get moving as quickly as possible.
The day promised to be really, really miserable. For the first couple of hours the rain kept itself skyward, but before long it just started to pour it down, so out came the waterproofs, and once again I was back into the world of wet shoes and wet socks. Our plan for today was the town of Montmorillon, where we hoped the campsite was open (seems things are a little less sure in France). We followed road east till we hit the Vienne river and then followed that south to Lussac-les-Chateaux.
To be honest I don´t remember much of today, it all seemed very dull. We picked up foods in an Intermarche and found our way to Montmorillon as the rain began to lessen. When we got to the campsite we sat on the steps and waited for the reception to open up again and for the rain to stop falling. We waited awhile but it was worth it. It was €3.50 for both of us, and the campsite itself was a delightful little place just sitting by a small river that flowed through it. Most of it was locked up, only the mens shower block was open, but seeing as there was almost nobody else there, that wasn´t a problem. I warmed myself against the radiators and waited for my things to dry as Danny prepared fooding. The shower was fantastic, and much needed, and it wasn´t long till most of my wet clothes were drying quite nicely. The rain had stopped by now, and Danny and I both curled up in our own tents to the biggest dinner yet. Good food, cheap wine, and sitting in the warmth and dry. Its such a luxury to have that nowadays. I slept well that night.
The day promised to be really, really miserable. For the first couple of hours the rain kept itself skyward, but before long it just started to pour it down, so out came the waterproofs, and once again I was back into the world of wet shoes and wet socks. Our plan for today was the town of Montmorillon, where we hoped the campsite was open (seems things are a little less sure in France). We followed road east till we hit the Vienne river and then followed that south to Lussac-les-Chateaux.
To be honest I don´t remember much of today, it all seemed very dull. We picked up foods in an Intermarche and found our way to Montmorillon as the rain began to lessen. When we got to the campsite we sat on the steps and waited for the reception to open up again and for the rain to stop falling. We waited awhile but it was worth it. It was €3.50 for both of us, and the campsite itself was a delightful little place just sitting by a small river that flowed through it. Most of it was locked up, only the mens shower block was open, but seeing as there was almost nobody else there, that wasn´t a problem. I warmed myself against the radiators and waited for my things to dry as Danny prepared fooding. The shower was fantastic, and much needed, and it wasn´t long till most of my wet clothes were drying quite nicely. The rain had stopped by now, and Danny and I both curled up in our own tents to the biggest dinner yet. Good food, cheap wine, and sitting in the warmth and dry. Its such a luxury to have that nowadays. I slept well that night.
Day 14 - Out of Tours
Made a big mistake in the morning for this day. Cycling into Tours, I was leading the way to get to the little supermarket where we were going to buy lunch, and Danny was following me. I made a quick jump across the junction, but didn´t realise that Danny hadn´t followed me. I cycled onto the supermarket, and waited for Danny. It took us 1 hour to find each other, and when we did Danny was not pleased about the whole escapade. Fair enough I guess. Whoops.
Finally got lunch and it was Danny´s turn to map read for us. We followed the river west for what seemed like hours, but we were unsure if we were on the right road. Finally we saw some signs we recognised and got onto the road south to Azay-le-rideau, L´lle-Bouchard, Richelieu, which we reached at about 5pm. Our goal was St. Cyr, where there was a campsite. It seemed like a long way south now. We picked up supplies in Richelieu and headed over the quickest route possible. Up and over country lanes, through tiny villages and rode hard with the dying sun giving us impetous. Without any water we needed to get to the campsite otherwise we would find ourselves hungry and cold that evening. Before long we found ourselves cycling in the dark, our back lights were on and we both brought out our new front led torches so we could see the road. Danny led with his more powerful head torch, while I followed gripping mine uncomfortably in my hands.
We had a small encounter with a group of french men in a white car, which was odd and probably quite dangerous. As we were cycling down into a small town, a white car came up beside me and kept moving from side to side, pushing me toward the further toward the kerb, it then did the same to Danny. It then stopped right in front of Danny and a french bloke leaned out the car door and started talking to Danny. We both said we didn´t understand, and it was difficult to read from his bodylanguage what he was trying to say. It might have been "We are really sorry for our bad driving", or it might have been "Give us all your cash". Difficult to say. It was kinda of a uneasy moment for both of us, and we don´t like cycling in the dark now because of it.
The road down to La Tricherie, where we were going to cross the river, was steep and it had become difficult for me to apply my brakes fully. It was at this point that my brakes failed completely. I wasn´t really getting any stoppage from either of them, and my ability to stop was quite, quite gone. Danny suggested that I put my foot down to help slow my descent, which I did for what seemed like forever. It was so painful on my legs, and it didn´t really help much but it was the only thing I could do. At the time it felt really really dangerous, and in retrospect, it was even worse than that. Night cycling is not the faint hearted.
Finally the hill ended, but it still took me great effort to slow in time to stop at the junction. Thankfully it wasn´t far to the campsite and I was badly in need of getting there. We crossed the bridge and saw the signs that we were looking for. We cycled past this odd building complex, and in the dark it was difficult tell if this was the campsite or not. We cycled in to find out; the lights were on and people were home. We could see people through the glass windows, but this was definately not looking like the campsite. Anyway, I went up to the door and a pretty, young french woman, who spoke very little english, eventually managed to tell us that the campsite was shut. Danny was not pleased. I redeemed myself however, by asking, in French, if we could fill our water bottles up. They kindly allowed us to fill them up and we said our goodbyes.
Oh well, another night sleeping rough. At least its cheap. We did a little reconnaisance of the campsite, which was nicely situated in a little activities park. The campsite was very erie though, it was completely dark, except for the reception that had a long dark corridor behind a glass door that was wierdly lit with faint green lights. Looked like something out of the X-files. We pitched our tents behind a little hill away from the road and Danny cooked a well deserved meal for us. Food, food, food.
Finally got lunch and it was Danny´s turn to map read for us. We followed the river west for what seemed like hours, but we were unsure if we were on the right road. Finally we saw some signs we recognised and got onto the road south to Azay-le-rideau, L´lle-Bouchard, Richelieu, which we reached at about 5pm. Our goal was St. Cyr, where there was a campsite. It seemed like a long way south now. We picked up supplies in Richelieu and headed over the quickest route possible. Up and over country lanes, through tiny villages and rode hard with the dying sun giving us impetous. Without any water we needed to get to the campsite otherwise we would find ourselves hungry and cold that evening. Before long we found ourselves cycling in the dark, our back lights were on and we both brought out our new front led torches so we could see the road. Danny led with his more powerful head torch, while I followed gripping mine uncomfortably in my hands.
We had a small encounter with a group of french men in a white car, which was odd and probably quite dangerous. As we were cycling down into a small town, a white car came up beside me and kept moving from side to side, pushing me toward the further toward the kerb, it then did the same to Danny. It then stopped right in front of Danny and a french bloke leaned out the car door and started talking to Danny. We both said we didn´t understand, and it was difficult to read from his bodylanguage what he was trying to say. It might have been "We are really sorry for our bad driving", or it might have been "Give us all your cash". Difficult to say. It was kinda of a uneasy moment for both of us, and we don´t like cycling in the dark now because of it.
The road down to La Tricherie, where we were going to cross the river, was steep and it had become difficult for me to apply my brakes fully. It was at this point that my brakes failed completely. I wasn´t really getting any stoppage from either of them, and my ability to stop was quite, quite gone. Danny suggested that I put my foot down to help slow my descent, which I did for what seemed like forever. It was so painful on my legs, and it didn´t really help much but it was the only thing I could do. At the time it felt really really dangerous, and in retrospect, it was even worse than that. Night cycling is not the faint hearted.
Finally the hill ended, but it still took me great effort to slow in time to stop at the junction. Thankfully it wasn´t far to the campsite and I was badly in need of getting there. We crossed the bridge and saw the signs that we were looking for. We cycled past this odd building complex, and in the dark it was difficult tell if this was the campsite or not. We cycled in to find out; the lights were on and people were home. We could see people through the glass windows, but this was definately not looking like the campsite. Anyway, I went up to the door and a pretty, young french woman, who spoke very little english, eventually managed to tell us that the campsite was shut. Danny was not pleased. I redeemed myself however, by asking, in French, if we could fill our water bottles up. They kindly allowed us to fill them up and we said our goodbyes.
Oh well, another night sleeping rough. At least its cheap. We did a little reconnaisance of the campsite, which was nicely situated in a little activities park. The campsite was very erie though, it was completely dark, except for the reception that had a long dark corridor behind a glass door that was wierdly lit with faint green lights. Looked like something out of the X-files. We pitched our tents behind a little hill away from the road and Danny cooked a well deserved meal for us. Food, food, food.
Tuesday 18 March 2008
Day 9 - The storm and Tours
After an incredibly windy night (in which I discovered that the wind not only blows right through the tent but also right through the sleeping bag too), we awoke to a morning of heavy driving rain, sporadically thankfully, and a wind that could turn a smart car over. Packing up with fair speed (watched at points by amazed and shocked locals walking by) we sidled out of town and made our way onto the road that would take us south to Tours. The wind was blowing hard into our right flanks (coming slightly from the front as well, to make the going not just dangerous but slow too). We were low in the valley though and on our left a wood kept us relatively still as we climbed out onto the hills between the Loir and Loire river valleys. Danny, as usual, raced ahead on his bike stopping at the crest of the hill where the wood stopped also.
Catching up to him he turned round and grinned, "It's a bit blowy." This is what is known as an understatement. In all honesty I should have instantly said we should turn back; the wind was non-stop and of a kind that must have been gale force at least. Danny suggested, with his usual nonchalance, that we walk on (you couldn't even get on the bicycle) and I foolishly assented. We pushed, at a pace not exceeding 2 mph, our bikes along the grassy verge has the wind whipped our faces and the rain came down so hard it hurt. I pray thanks to human ingenuity that only that morning, after the day of rain yesterday, I had discovered upon the brilliant idea of wrapping my socks bin liners before putting them into my soaking wet shoes - my feet stayed comparatively dry. After what felt like hours of walking through this hellish weather, but we had only travelled little over 200 metres, I made the suggestion that we turn back to the woods and shelter there. The going back was easier and we reached the woods in no time, where we sat and ate some bread, ham and cheese we had left over from the day before. After about 20 mins we noticed that the sky to the north was clearing so we cycled back into to town to wait out the storm in the comfort of a cafe.
When we reached town, the sky overhead was sunny and cloudless, and soon we were warming ourselves in the sun whilst we munched on custard pastries hastily bought from the local bakery before it shut. Final, at about half one we attempted the same journey south, and though still windy managed to make it largely unscathed and decidedly dryer into Tours. I can't really remember much of the trip there, as we both rode on auto-pilot.
Still wet, we finally made it across the Loire and into the centre ville of Tours, where we found the Tourist Information and inquired about accomadation. A slight note on the tourist information in Tours - lots of pretty french women work there, and we were much pleased. Danny insisted on a hotel, to allow him to dry off and actually have a matress under him, rather than a simple groundsheet. I assented, my tent was soaking and I really wanted to get it dry. So we were offered the hotel Regina and made our reservations.
Catching up to him he turned round and grinned, "It's a bit blowy." This is what is known as an understatement. In all honesty I should have instantly said we should turn back; the wind was non-stop and of a kind that must have been gale force at least. Danny suggested, with his usual nonchalance, that we walk on (you couldn't even get on the bicycle) and I foolishly assented. We pushed, at a pace not exceeding 2 mph, our bikes along the grassy verge has the wind whipped our faces and the rain came down so hard it hurt. I pray thanks to human ingenuity that only that morning, after the day of rain yesterday, I had discovered upon the brilliant idea of wrapping my socks bin liners before putting them into my soaking wet shoes - my feet stayed comparatively dry. After what felt like hours of walking through this hellish weather, but we had only travelled little over 200 metres, I made the suggestion that we turn back to the woods and shelter there. The going back was easier and we reached the woods in no time, where we sat and ate some bread, ham and cheese we had left over from the day before. After about 20 mins we noticed that the sky to the north was clearing so we cycled back into to town to wait out the storm in the comfort of a cafe.
When we reached town, the sky overhead was sunny and cloudless, and soon we were warming ourselves in the sun whilst we munched on custard pastries hastily bought from the local bakery before it shut. Final, at about half one we attempted the same journey south, and though still windy managed to make it largely unscathed and decidedly dryer into Tours. I can't really remember much of the trip there, as we both rode on auto-pilot.
Still wet, we finally made it across the Loire and into the centre ville of Tours, where we found the Tourist Information and inquired about accomadation. A slight note on the tourist information in Tours - lots of pretty french women work there, and we were much pleased. Danny insisted on a hotel, to allow him to dry off and actually have a matress under him, rather than a simple groundsheet. I assented, my tent was soaking and I really wanted to get it dry. So we were offered the hotel Regina and made our reservations.
Day 8 - Out of Le Man and into a storm
We cycled out of Le Mans on the Sunday, but not before stopping at a very nice supermarche that had deigned to be open on the sunday morning (thank god). Picked up lots of tasty treats, and I also picked up a roll of bin-liners because I was worried about my sleeping bag and tent bag getting too wet in the rain. They work a treat.
We imagined that cycling out of Le Mans would be quite easy, but oh no, it is very easy to get lost in a city when you are on a bicycle. Coming into a city is very easy as all you need to do is follow the signs to the centre ville or tourist information place and you are there. Cycling out, however, seems to be far more difficult. Especially if you want to stay out of the way of the main red roads. We exited the centre ville quite easily, but soon found ourselves on a big nasty ring-road, but little sense of where the hell we where. We followed it round, but got caught up in busy junctions and instead followed a parallel cycle-path. This turned out to be not so parallel and we got a bit lost again. Finally we found a bus stop with a map and tried to make sense of where we were and where we wanted to be. We then got lost a bit more, found the road we wanted, then discovered it was the wrong road and then finally cycled back into Le Mans a bit to get the right road and then ... we were out. All in all, it took about 2 hours. Not a good use of our time.
The weather was very wierd, and we were struck with heavy rain, followed by the most beautiful weather we had had yet. Then the rain would strike again, and so on and so forth. Danny was map reading this time and took a wrong left turn down a tiny c-road that eventually wound up in this most amazing forest. Long straight roads sheltered on each side by long straight trees sparcely spaced with very little undergrowth. We found a map and also found a few campsites nearby so, Danny in lead, we attempted to find our way out of the forest. It was a beautiful day at this point, no rain, and the cycling was fantastic. At one point, in the distance, we saw what could only be described as a wall of road rising into the sky, or so it looked like. Actually it was a huge dip, almost like an enlarged skate-board half-pipe in the road. The way down was so fast, but I was not able to cycle up the opposite side as it was far too steep. Danny, strong-legged man that he is, managed with barely so much as a grimace.
The first town we came to was completely lacking in campsites, but we found another map of the Loir region and took down the names of a few places that had campsites nearby. The first place was shut, but we were still greeted by a black-lion of a dog, a huge beast.
Apparently dogs get riled by the sound the spoke makes (we cannot hear it because we don't noises at such a high pitch) - we've met lots of crazy dogs on this trip. A lot.
At the second place, La Chatre sur Loir, Danny ventured into an open bar to ask for some matches and managed to discover that the campsite was in fact shut. As we set off to see it with our own eyes, the bolt snapped clean off that was holding my rear carrier and rear mudguard over my rear wheel. With no chance of any more cycling for me we decided that our best bet was to settle down outside the closed campsite, which was away from the main road, and sleep it on the cheap for the night. All the water we saved was used to make a damn fine chilli con carne and rice, and after setting up my tent in the near dark we settled down for a cold, rainy, and very windy night. A storm was coming.
We imagined that cycling out of Le Mans would be quite easy, but oh no, it is very easy to get lost in a city when you are on a bicycle. Coming into a city is very easy as all you need to do is follow the signs to the centre ville or tourist information place and you are there. Cycling out, however, seems to be far more difficult. Especially if you want to stay out of the way of the main red roads. We exited the centre ville quite easily, but soon found ourselves on a big nasty ring-road, but little sense of where the hell we where. We followed it round, but got caught up in busy junctions and instead followed a parallel cycle-path. This turned out to be not so parallel and we got a bit lost again. Finally we found a bus stop with a map and tried to make sense of where we were and where we wanted to be. We then got lost a bit more, found the road we wanted, then discovered it was the wrong road and then finally cycled back into Le Mans a bit to get the right road and then ... we were out. All in all, it took about 2 hours. Not a good use of our time.
The weather was very wierd, and we were struck with heavy rain, followed by the most beautiful weather we had had yet. Then the rain would strike again, and so on and so forth. Danny was map reading this time and took a wrong left turn down a tiny c-road that eventually wound up in this most amazing forest. Long straight roads sheltered on each side by long straight trees sparcely spaced with very little undergrowth. We found a map and also found a few campsites nearby so, Danny in lead, we attempted to find our way out of the forest. It was a beautiful day at this point, no rain, and the cycling was fantastic. At one point, in the distance, we saw what could only be described as a wall of road rising into the sky, or so it looked like. Actually it was a huge dip, almost like an enlarged skate-board half-pipe in the road. The way down was so fast, but I was not able to cycle up the opposite side as it was far too steep. Danny, strong-legged man that he is, managed with barely so much as a grimace.
The first town we came to was completely lacking in campsites, but we found another map of the Loir region and took down the names of a few places that had campsites nearby. The first place was shut, but we were still greeted by a black-lion of a dog, a huge beast.
Apparently dogs get riled by the sound the spoke makes (we cannot hear it because we don't noises at such a high pitch) - we've met lots of crazy dogs on this trip. A lot.
At the second place, La Chatre sur Loir, Danny ventured into an open bar to ask for some matches and managed to discover that the campsite was in fact shut. As we set off to see it with our own eyes, the bolt snapped clean off that was holding my rear carrier and rear mudguard over my rear wheel. With no chance of any more cycling for me we decided that our best bet was to settle down outside the closed campsite, which was away from the main road, and sleep it on the cheap for the night. All the water we saved was used to make a damn fine chilli con carne and rice, and after setting up my tent in the near dark we settled down for a cold, rainy, and very windy night. A storm was coming.
Monday 10 March 2008
Days 6, 7 - Longny-au-Perche to Le Mans
Friday started out well. We woke late, because its cold, and packed up fairly sharpish. I picked up some lunch in the boulangerie (the brownie once again found its way into my pack), and breakfasted on p-a-c (pain au chocolat). Cycled out and enjoyed some hilly, desolate, but quiet roads before we joined the main d-roads south toward Loungy-au-perche and our campsite destination. Stopped for some food in a chanpion supermarche in Damville. The odd thing about french supermarches is that we don't know which ones are posh and which ones aren't - which ones an asda and which ones a Waitrose. Cycled toward Venieule-sur-avre and then went off into the french wilderness (the white roads on the michelin maps) to get to Longny-au-perche as quick as possible.
The sky was dim at this point, but it had looked like that all day so we hoped for no rain. However the faint patters bagan just as I punctured my tyre on a big fat rock in the middle of the road. To be fair my back tyre (for it was my back tyre that burst) was a little low on the pressure, which may have contributed to the big hiss of air I heard, but I think it was mostly bad luck. As we hastily tore my bags from the bicycle's frame (my bags are all neatly attached to the back carrier) the rain started falling in buckets and I cursed all the dangerous debris on all the roads in France. We eventually got the spanner on and the wheel off and I tore off the tyre to get at the inner-tube. My hands were freezing and it took a while to get the new inner tube out of the box and onto the wheel. Then I just got pissed off and Danny took over, while I took to waterproofing my panniers (those yellow over-protectors are awesome, dad.)
Finally we got back on the bikes, and continued on our way through the freezing cold rain and I wih no over-shoes so before long it felt like I was cycling in a swamp - my feet were soaked. It was not a good day. Finally we made it to Longny-au-perche, a which point it stopped raining, and we finally found our way to the campsite; both of us tired, frustrated and not in good moods. I say campsite ... Monaco Parc (for that is its name) is actually a huge town made of caravans and mobile homes - there are even street names there! We were led down to the pitch where we were to set up our tents, which was nothing more than a grass verge next to a gravel road - this is a campsite not recommended for the camper. Everything was damp so I went to the shower block, which reminded me of a toilet in an airport but smelt like a chemical toilet, and sat in there to wait for all my clothes to dry. The showerblock was quite unique as the mens urinals was directly opposite the unisex basins (which is odd) and there was a vending machine that dispensed cans of heineken (which is slightly cool). There were also hairdryers on the wall, which I used to great effect the next day to dry my shoes out. While I was inhabiting the showerblock, like Tom Hanks in that film where he lives in an airport, Danny, brave man that he is, was cooking the most awesome beef curry I have ever tasted. We supped on that in the dark and the damp and prayed for a rain free morning.
The next day was still damp as it had rained throughout the night, and once again we both had had little sleep. We woke late in order to have a dry start and packed our gear up with more finesse than we had done in recent days - practice was certainly making perfect. We were only down the road, my hands freezing in the cold air and wet gloves, when suddenly Danny's back tyre burst and bad. A big bit of glass tore through the rubber and punctured his inner tube. He expertly took it off and brought out a handy spare (one of two), which he then broke by pumping to hard; the valve tore right off. So two tyres down, he did a bit of shifting and finally got both wheels working again, and once more we tore off in the direction of Le Mans. Tired, cold and miserable, though with the prospect of a youth hostel and a proper bed stopping us from spiralling into a malaise, we lunched in Belleme, where we were inspected by the locals and even had a small chat with the local rocker with his deliberately french hair-cut (crop top, with a slight mullet).
I was getting tired by this point, and the weather had not improved my mood. My feet were wet and my whole body was cold, so I cannot imagine I was good company. Finally, at about 6pm we made it into Le Mans, but without knowing where the Youth Hostel was, we had to wait until Danny's Mum could text us the address, for it was she who had booked us the rooms. Finally we found our way there, and poured, bags and all into the lobby. The woman in reception was a very nice, old dear who had only a little better understanding of english as we do of french, so it took a little time to confirm our reservation. But finally we were able to make our way upstairs and to our rooms.
With a warm room and warm, if somewhat creaky, beds, our next concern was food. On the way in Danny had espied a Pizza restaurant, so we went in there and I ordered the most expansive pizza on the menu (in the strong belief that expense means lots of stuff). Moderately filled, we found an internet cafe and set down for a little bit of internetting.
If you plan on going to Le Man and need a cheap place to stay I heartily recommend the Youth Hostel we stayed in, it was 10.40 per night per person, for your own single room. It was called La Fleure, or something like that. Very nice.
On Sunday we were to begin our trek to Tours, which we wanted to do in a day, but what with getting lost in Le Mans and then again just north of the Loir River, the chances were slim.
I was getting tired by this point, and the weather had not improved my mood. My feet were wet and my whole body was cold, so I cannot imagine I was good company. Finally, at about 6pm we made it into Le Mans, but without knowing where the Youth Hostel was, we had to wait until Danny's Mum could text us the address, for it was she who had booked us the rooms. Finally we found our way there, and poured, bags and all into the lobby. The woman in reception was a very nice, old dear who had only a little better understanding of english as we do of french, so it took a little time to confirm our reservation. But finally we were able to make our way upstairs and to our rooms.
With a warm room and warm, if somewhat creaky, beds, our next concern was food. On the way in Danny had espied a Pizza restaurant, so we went in there and I ordered the most expansive pizza on the menu (in the strong belief that expense means lots of stuff). Moderately filled, we found an internet cafe and set down for a little bit of internetting.
If you plan on going to Le Man and need a cheap place to stay I heartily recommend the Youth Hostel we stayed in, it was 10.40 per night per person, for your own single room. It was called La Fleure, or something like that. Very nice.
On Sunday we were to begin our trek to Tours, which we wanted to do in a day, but what with getting lost in Le Mans and then again just north of the Loir River, the chances were slim.
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