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.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
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.
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