The trip is now over. We have cycled 820 miles in just under three weeks and somehow we managed to drag ourselves to Bilbao in mountainous northern Spain. Before the trip we never even joked of making it further than Bordeaux, we were more worried about getting there at all.
We left our beach-side Biarritz campsite on Saturday with a real sense of relief. The festival atmosphere seemed to have soured in only two days and the wall-to-wall partying youth showed itself to be nothing more than select groups of cliquey surfers strutting round showing off their new Smash-curl Rip-Raw Ding-Dong surf boards.
I am convinced most of them never went anywhere near the sea. I suppose it takes a lot of mirror-time to get that messy-look hair style and it would be a waste to go and ruin it in the sea.
The last 200 miles in France had been pretty flat and I had all but forgotten the mountainous traumas of the first couple of days. So Saturday really hurt.
Energised by having escaped Biarritz we powered on towards St Jean de Luz. The coastal road became immediately hilly but this was off-set against breath-taking mountainous views of the sea. A fair trade-off I thought.
We stopped in St Jean de Luz for a coffee and to collect our daily plantation-sized shipment of bananas to keep us going. While my time in the town was very brief I decided I liked it immediately. With Spain in my mind the town represented a gate post to the final leg of our journey. Being so close to the border, Spain’s influence upon the city was everywhere, particularly in the architecture.
But with a typically French stubborn assertiveness the town maintains its own identity, as if to say; ‘you can have a taste of what lies beyond the border but this is La France. If you want anything more, keep going south.’
This we happily did and having cycled for about an hour we noticed the road signs were in Spanish. A welcome to Spain sign had been crossed out and replaced with a Nazi Swastika, courtesy of the Basque separatist movement Eta.
We stopped in a little pleasure port town called Hondarribia for some lunch, where my prejudiced preconceptions of Spain were completely smashed.
I have only been to Spain twice and I have never been able to muster any affection for enormous concrete jungles shunted against beaches littered with rubbish.
I remember on one occasion I was walking down a street in Tenerife when somebody nearby exclaimed with lip-trembling excitement that “they even have a Tesco here – brilliant.”
In my mind that summed up Spain for me - Britain on a sun bed.
But Hondarribia changed all that. While it was very touristy, it was also quaint, dignified and had a sense of actually being Spanish.
Seeing this town open up before me in the foothills of the Pyrenees has changed my hastily formed misconceptions about Spain – or at least some of it.
I am not quite sure exactly when we decided Bilbao was going to be our final destination. I don’t think we decided for certain until we were 50 kilometres away.
To give ourselves a chance to make it in time we decided we should make it to St Sebastian Donostia by Saturday evening. It is was not far on the map and we had been going great guns up to there, so it should not be a problem.
Big problem.
By the time we got roughly as far as Pasaia the hills were getting steeper and more frequent but we pushed on all the same, until we were forced to a halt.
Joe and I had not got round to buying a map for Spain and the signs for St Sebastian seemed to have dried up.
We asked various bemused locals for help and their responses were consistent and worrying. To get to St Sebastian we either had to go onto the motorway or cycle up that hill over there.
We weren’t about to risk life and limb on a motorway so we thanked each of them and headed towards the hill but as we did, every one of them shouted us back and with a strained look of concern in their eyes told us not to go up there because “it is hard, very hard – you cannot make it on the bikes.”
A couple even advised going on the motorway as the more realistic option.
With a foolhardiness born out of a lack of food and a good night’s sleep for nearly three weeks, we decided these locals were a soft bunch and it could not be that bad.
So off we went.
All we knew was that we had to get to the church which we could see high up in the mountain and follow the road to the left.
As far as I was concerned this was all we had to do. Logic was telling me churches are built on top of hills so all I need to do is get there and then I can float along the top of the mountain and enjoy the view.
It took over half an hour of calf-cramping pain to get up to the church but having a target and a goal in sight made forcing my legs to push slightly easier.
When I finally made it the view of the town below certainly did not disappoint but the sight I met on that road to my left was crushing.
The road just went up and up as far as my quivering eyes could see. After another banana and a drink Joe and I started phase two of our assent.
With the church behind us we had no goal, no aim and no way of knowing how far up the mountain we were going to have to climb. We could only see what was directly ahead of us as we wound slowly and painfully forever upwards.
In the lower reaches of the mountain we were subject to the merciless Spanish sun slicing into our backs like cowardly daggers but after about half an hour the sun had slipped away to terrorise someone else and it was replaced by a thick all-encompassing fog.
I had never seen the weather change so quickly from one extreme to another. If you care to imagine the beautiful image of Joe and I, haggard and horribly sweaty on a sun-soaked mountain, everything was okay because we had only needed to worry about dehydration.
But when the sun beat a retreat, so did the heat, and we got very cold.
Forcing ourselves up through the fog I realised why so many people get into difficulties in the hills. The sudden change in temperature really affected my body and I had to stop regularly to eat and drink. Luckily we had plenty of supplies otherwise we might have had to go back down. Also we were cycling on the road so we could not really get lost, even though we could only see a few yards ahead. I would not like to have been hiking in the hills.
In a budget Hollywood sort of way I think I learned a bit about myself when I was going up that hill. It was a situation and a challenge the likes of which I never thought I would face. I was tired to the point of collapse and I had no idea how much further we would have to climb.
Throughout my life, like most people, I have seen a goal in the distance and worked towards it. From exams to playing computer games, the theory is the same.
But in the mountain I had to tell my brain not to aim for the big goal of getting to the top because every time I went round a corner to see yet more hill, my legs turned to wood.
Instead I managed to force myself to accept that I was on the hill and I was just going to cycle and that was it.
I forgot about goals and achievement and resigned myself to perpetual hills.
I also learned that eating nuts provides a brilliantly effective source of energy but buying salted nuts is a bad idea because they make you really thirsty which means you drink all your water.
Getting to the top was a feeling I will never forget. Even when we made it I was still stuck in my ‘perpetual pain’ mindset and I did not dare believe we had done it until I saw a sign which said Mount Jaizikibel 655 metres. I was astounded. A few months ago I would have been out of breath going up a couple of flights of stairs to my bedroom in my student house.
After a few minutes of delirious celebration we began an enthralling descent.
Climbing up the mountain my thoughts had been few and simple: “Must carry on…can’t carry on…going to die…pain…etc” but as I started the descent, thoughts and images flooded into my mind in a jumbled avalanche.
Most predominantly I felt proud of myself in quite a primitive way. Man tackles mountain and conquers against all odds, contrary to best advice. I ought to have been beating my chest and making indecipherable noises. Well maybe not.
At that moment I also felt that I could do absolutely anything I wanted - no challenge that would face me will ever be too big. As I started descending the hill, I honestly felt that when I got to the bottom I would be changed forever. We’ll see.
On a more practical level I had noticed ever-increasing amounts of Eta graffiti, the higher we climbed. As we ascended I could not care less about the increasing anger with which the graffiti was being displayed, but in the fog at the top of that barren mountain it became quite disconcerting.
Only a few minutes later we saw two cars parked off the road and two men were close to one another apparently shielding something in their hands. As we approached they fixed us with a set of hatred filled glares, as if to say you should not have seen us here.
Possibly due to the thin air up there and dehydration, Joe became convinced they were going to drive us off the road and hide our bodies. So he started making contingency plans just in case.
Almost at the bottom of the mountain, incredibly, there was a bar. We swung in and had a well-deserved beer. There is no better way to toast a mountainous success.
It took another hour to get to St Sebastian by which time I was starting to feel dizzy and sick. The city looked like it could have been a lot of fun. There were loads of people, fun looking bars, a decent beach and even a free jazz concert. I could not think of anything worse.
The tourist office delivered what was the day’s hardest news. Despite being an enormous tourist resort there is only one campsite in the area, which benefits from beautiful mountain top views. Oh and when you get there it might be full.
The tourist office did not mention the view was from 14 miles up a mountain, which was probably wise because I would have slumped on his nicely arranged desk and slept there.
So, for the second time in a day we put our bodies through hell without the certainty of rest afterwards. Luckily the campsite had a couple of places left.
We were there less than 12 hours but we met some very strange characters including an alcoholic Spaniard, who having downed his umpteenth glass of wine at 9am decided he was going to take me to task for ordering coffee and croissants at the bar and promptly tried to start a fight with me. None of the bar staff seemed concerned, I think it must have been a regular thing for them. I won’t miss that place.
We met a British couple on the site, who were lovely people and heated up our dinner for us but they also had an abundance of that greatest of British traits – pessimism.
Having endured by far the most physically challenging day of my life they very nearly crushed my spirit.
“You’ll never make it to Bilbao in two days, you haven’t got a chance – more like two weeks.”
They were not trying to sap the last vestiges of energy and willpower from within us but it had that effect.
Before we left on Sunday they even had time to reiterate their stance. Great stuff.
We were expecting a torrid two days crossing endless impenetrable mountains and for a lot of it we were not disappointed.
But we pushed on and kept going and eventually we were rewarded with a fairly major road which was safe enough for us to use and would lead us all the way to Bilbao.
'Bilbao 101 Kilometres' was the first sign we saw after an hour’s cycling. This was a slight worry but the next 30 kilometres flew by.
There seemed to be more of a happy balance on this route. If we struggled for half an hour up a huge hill there would be a nice big descent afterwards, which would not be so steep that we were back at sea level within a few seconds.
We managed to complete our planned two day cycle to Bilbao in one day. It was one of the hardest days we have had on the bikes but it was not nearly as bad as Saturday, so it seemed that bit better. We also had regular road signs which counted down the kilometres to our final destination, which was pretty exciting.
I knew nothing of Bilbao but I had an image in my head of an exciting, bustling city full of imposing architecture and an exciting time to be had. As the kilometres fell off the signs, my impression got stronger.
By the time we got to within 10 kilometres I imagined I was passing through the outskirts of Rome rather than the scruffy suburbs of the region’s industrial capital.
My first feeling as I descended into the city was one of euphoria. As the windy slope levelled out, the Guggenheim museum presented itself before my tired eyes. After hours of hills followed by yet more, this building was an assault on the senses.
We stopped at the end of the road and had a couple of celebratory beers in the shadow of the magnificent building. Bilbao seemed the perfect place to end our trip. Unfortunately Bilbao does not seem to have much else to offer.
Having finished our beers and become accustomed to the site of the Guggenheim, it became less striking and we looked around for the rest of Bilbao.
It seemed to be a city without a centre, just endless lines of suburban streets, of banks and insurance companies.
There was the odd park and impressive building dotted around but it really felt like a soulless place better suited to the Truman Show.
There were no campsites in the area so we spent the last night of the trip in a hostel. I managed about 3 hours’ sleep and wished I was on the floor in my tent.
The only space they had was a top bunk in a room with three other lads on the sixth floor. I am not a light person and these bunk beds were not made of tough stuff. Every time I tried to move or turn, I could hear an imaginary Spanish court case playing out in my head: “So Mr Robinson, were you aware the bunk bed was a heap of rubbish and likely to collapse on Rodrigo, sleeping soundly below?”
You can’t go wrong with a tent on the floor.
With the trip over and Bilbao a big disappointment, we were keen to leave early on Monday and get back to Bordeaux where we were to meet my family.
A certain website said we could get from Bilbao to Hendaye, just inside the French border, where we could then get a TGV to Bordeaux. Far too simple.
For such a nothing town there are a lot of train stations. Three in fact. The first one did not have trains going the right way and after a dash across town we found the second, only to be told that we could not take bikes on the train.
The dulcit charmless woman at ‘Customer Services’ told us the only possible way we could get to Hendaye, a journey normally of two hours would be to book a sleeper couchette train down to Madrid, where we could then go straight up to Hendaye. The journey she calculated was to take 24 hours at a cost of 114 euros each.
We were utterly gutted. We pleaded with her, argued, hassled, walked away and came back but go nowhere. Eventually we decided to buy normal tickets off her colleague and risk it but the old hawk eyes caught us.
In desperation we started our campaign of hassle on the second lady. Some greater force must have helped because she cracked and let slip that there was a third train station in the city, which runs regular trains to Hendaye and has space for bikes.
We flew across the city and it turned out to be true. We got our tickets for the two-hour journey for 6.9 euros.
It turns out each station in the city is owned by a different company and they are in direct competition with one another. So the nasty piece of work on the customer service desk was happy to try to extract over 200 euros from us at the end of our charity bike ride, rather than tell us to get the train with a rival company. Utterly cynical.
We faced a similar problem at Hendaye because bikes are not allowed on the TGV and the inspector was not playing ball. But seeing the desperation in our eyes and enduring the sight of two Brits begging, he found a storage hold to put them in.
Bordeaux is a magnificent place, probably one of the finest places I have seen on this marathon tour but I feel I have rattled on for far too long already.
This trip has been an amazing experience for me. I have accomplished a huge challenge, seen some great places, met some interesting and bizarre characters and I have got quite a bit fitter.
Most importantly for me I think it has brought me closer again to my Dad. I am sure he has been watching down on the trip as we have gone along, laughing at all the pickles I have been in and holding his head in despair at my attempts to wriggle out of them.
I will certainly never forget this trip it has been an incredible experience. I am still getting used to staying in the same place without packing a tent and moving.
I am proud of the amount of money we have raised so far and I want to say a big thanks to everybody, the response has been amazing.
I am really hoping we can meet the fund raising target and the web page is still open. If anybody would still like to donate, you have time.
www.justgiving.com/bigtripfrance
vendredi 3 août 2007
vendredi 27 juillet 2007
Biarritz accomplished - The Spanish mountains await
Having finally left Arcachone on Monday we made short work of the rest of the coastal road down to glittering Biarritz.
We have done just over 700 miles now and we are setting our sights yet further afield for the last few days of the trip.
Ambling through beautiful woodland tracks, and stunning sea views the last few days of the ride have been a pleasure.
On Tuesday we decided to see how far we could get before disaster struck or we collapsed from heat exhaustion.
By the time we arrived at a little resort called Mimizan plage every camping space in the whole area had been taken by happy revellers, merrily swilling cold beer and pastis.
Sitting on a bike in the sweltering sun with nowhere to stay was not a great feeling.
Begrudgingly we sidled out of the town and continued to the next resort, which was also, surprisingly, full.
Resigned to a night spent in the woods we went for a beach-front-beer where a barman sent from heaven told us if we cycled 10 kilometres inland there were several rural campsites.
This we readily did and after the day's final calf-crippling strain we stumbled upon a quaint little site, immaculately clean, quiet and even offering hot showers, for the price of a couple of beers in Biarritz.
Having thought I would be spending the night in a mosquito-ridden forest this place will forever remain my Garden of Eden.
Wednesday was by far the hottest yet and as the forest receded, we were left exposed to the sun like two overlooked burgers barbeque.
I think I have got quite a bit fitter over the last two weeks and I am finding cycling easier but the sun certainly slows things down a lot. I also makes it all the more difficult to cycle past beach-front bars serving ice cold beer and tropical ice cream.
This trudge of a day also served as the prequel to one of the deifining moments of the trip so far.
Within the space of an hour I careered into my lowest ebb of the trip closely followed by a heart-rending act of kindness.
Sweaty, strained and stressed we arrived at Labenne-Ocean about 15-miles north of Biarritz.
With every unapologetic announcement that each of the numerous campsites in the town was full, a good few pints of life blood drained from my system, to be replaced by fatigue fuelled frustration.
Then as I went to try the final campsite, the wild card ace at the end of the road, I looked left to check it was safe to cross as a car came passed, and a good old French hoohaar kicked off.
The driver apparently took exception to me having made so bold an action and threw a giant beachball of hatred in my direction.
This was all the encouragement I needed. From close studies of a good old French hoohar, I was able to hold my own.
He stopped his car to remonstrate further and I fired straight back with an almighty arsenal of choice french phrases, accompanied with lashings of gesticulation and a few rage-inciting shrugs.
Sensing a hoohar stalemate, instead of the easy victory the driver predicted, he drove off.
I was fuming.
As soon as the fun was over Joe slipped off down the road to try and find somewhere to stay.
Only a few yards down the road he disappeared down a drive. He must have found a campsite or a scrap of land, so with a glint of hope I followed, only to find he had pushed his bike into somebody's back garden.
In disbelief I waited at the gate for him to return minutes later, with a thumbs up "we're staying here."
Timidly I wandered into the enormous back garden of a Swiss family who were contentedly eating their dinner.
I was at a loss for words. 'Sorry....thanks...very kind....err' - nothing seemed appropriate.
Within half an hour of arriving unannounced in the garden of their peaceful rented holiday villa, we were eating beautiful homemade sphagetti bolognaise and drinking fine red wine with them in the garden.
They seemed genuinely happy for us to be there and we were treated like old friends. With our wine glasses never allowed to be empty, we spent more than an hour chatting away.
The next morning we were greeted by a tasty breakfast with home made jam.
I have thought a lot about what they did and what I would do in a similar situation.
One minute two adults and two young children were enjoying a perfectly normal holiday, and the next two sweaty Brits turn up and pitch tent in their garden.
After the earlier hoohar it restored my faith in mankind. They had no reason to let us stay in their garden and treat us like they did, it was a completely selfless act, the likes of which are not often seen.
Yesterday we only cycled 15-miles to get to Biarritz and it would be fair to say we have landed on out feet again.
The kindly Swiss family said we should try to stay in Anglet, just outside Biarritz because there are no camp sites closer to the city.
With no idea where the campsites were, let alone whether there were any spaces left, we arrived in Anglet yesterday lunchtime and stumbled upon the perfect place.
Set about 200-yards up a hill from the beach is a campsite packed with energetic, fun surfers and party-goers from across Europe and beyond.
The site is full of young people wanting to have fun and it is just like being at a festival.
We turned up and managed to bag the last free pitch on the campsite - a stroke of good luck.
The beach is beautiful and the waves are enormous. I had never really understood the attraction of watersports like surfing, it always seemed to be fiddly and unproductive trying to stand and ride along a limp little swell in the sea. But down here it is quite something else.
Joe and I were determined to sample Biarritz's acclaimed nightlife, so reluctantly dragging ourselves away from the start of a great night at the site bar we hit Biarritz.
We decided the best plan would be to tag along with a group of Swedes from the site who were also going out.
After just one beer they decided they were going to a club and we obligingly followed.
But as Joe went down the steps ahead of me to the club, disaster struck - he slipped.
It was not a proper trip, he did not even fall but it was enough for the doorman to refuse him entry, advising him he was tired.
With no other bars still open with slunk back to get the bus home.
There were quite a few other people from the site waiting as well, so we thought us not knowing where the site was, would be okay.
The ride normally takes about 15 minutes but over an hour later we were all still sat on the bus, wondering how it had got to 4am and we still had not got home.
After a fraught discussion with the bus driver, he said he was doing another lap of the region and he would let us know when we should get off.
Biarritz was not the greatest night out I have ever had.
We are finishing the tour on Tuesday and tomorrow we are leaving Biarritz to try to cross the looming mountain range and get to Spain.
We decided we wanted one last challenge and I fear this could be the most difficult yet.
We have done just over 700 miles now and we are setting our sights yet further afield for the last few days of the trip.
Ambling through beautiful woodland tracks, and stunning sea views the last few days of the ride have been a pleasure.
On Tuesday we decided to see how far we could get before disaster struck or we collapsed from heat exhaustion.
By the time we arrived at a little resort called Mimizan plage every camping space in the whole area had been taken by happy revellers, merrily swilling cold beer and pastis.
Sitting on a bike in the sweltering sun with nowhere to stay was not a great feeling.
Begrudgingly we sidled out of the town and continued to the next resort, which was also, surprisingly, full.
Resigned to a night spent in the woods we went for a beach-front-beer where a barman sent from heaven told us if we cycled 10 kilometres inland there were several rural campsites.
This we readily did and after the day's final calf-crippling strain we stumbled upon a quaint little site, immaculately clean, quiet and even offering hot showers, for the price of a couple of beers in Biarritz.
Having thought I would be spending the night in a mosquito-ridden forest this place will forever remain my Garden of Eden.
Wednesday was by far the hottest yet and as the forest receded, we were left exposed to the sun like two overlooked burgers barbeque.
I think I have got quite a bit fitter over the last two weeks and I am finding cycling easier but the sun certainly slows things down a lot. I also makes it all the more difficult to cycle past beach-front bars serving ice cold beer and tropical ice cream.
This trudge of a day also served as the prequel to one of the deifining moments of the trip so far.
Within the space of an hour I careered into my lowest ebb of the trip closely followed by a heart-rending act of kindness.
Sweaty, strained and stressed we arrived at Labenne-Ocean about 15-miles north of Biarritz.
With every unapologetic announcement that each of the numerous campsites in the town was full, a good few pints of life blood drained from my system, to be replaced by fatigue fuelled frustration.
Then as I went to try the final campsite, the wild card ace at the end of the road, I looked left to check it was safe to cross as a car came passed, and a good old French hoohaar kicked off.
The driver apparently took exception to me having made so bold an action and threw a giant beachball of hatred in my direction.
This was all the encouragement I needed. From close studies of a good old French hoohar, I was able to hold my own.
He stopped his car to remonstrate further and I fired straight back with an almighty arsenal of choice french phrases, accompanied with lashings of gesticulation and a few rage-inciting shrugs.
Sensing a hoohar stalemate, instead of the easy victory the driver predicted, he drove off.
I was fuming.
As soon as the fun was over Joe slipped off down the road to try and find somewhere to stay.
Only a few yards down the road he disappeared down a drive. He must have found a campsite or a scrap of land, so with a glint of hope I followed, only to find he had pushed his bike into somebody's back garden.
In disbelief I waited at the gate for him to return minutes later, with a thumbs up "we're staying here."
Timidly I wandered into the enormous back garden of a Swiss family who were contentedly eating their dinner.
I was at a loss for words. 'Sorry....thanks...very kind....err' - nothing seemed appropriate.
Within half an hour of arriving unannounced in the garden of their peaceful rented holiday villa, we were eating beautiful homemade sphagetti bolognaise and drinking fine red wine with them in the garden.
They seemed genuinely happy for us to be there and we were treated like old friends. With our wine glasses never allowed to be empty, we spent more than an hour chatting away.
The next morning we were greeted by a tasty breakfast with home made jam.
I have thought a lot about what they did and what I would do in a similar situation.
One minute two adults and two young children were enjoying a perfectly normal holiday, and the next two sweaty Brits turn up and pitch tent in their garden.
After the earlier hoohar it restored my faith in mankind. They had no reason to let us stay in their garden and treat us like they did, it was a completely selfless act, the likes of which are not often seen.
Yesterday we only cycled 15-miles to get to Biarritz and it would be fair to say we have landed on out feet again.
The kindly Swiss family said we should try to stay in Anglet, just outside Biarritz because there are no camp sites closer to the city.
With no idea where the campsites were, let alone whether there were any spaces left, we arrived in Anglet yesterday lunchtime and stumbled upon the perfect place.
Set about 200-yards up a hill from the beach is a campsite packed with energetic, fun surfers and party-goers from across Europe and beyond.
The site is full of young people wanting to have fun and it is just like being at a festival.
We turned up and managed to bag the last free pitch on the campsite - a stroke of good luck.
The beach is beautiful and the waves are enormous. I had never really understood the attraction of watersports like surfing, it always seemed to be fiddly and unproductive trying to stand and ride along a limp little swell in the sea. But down here it is quite something else.
Joe and I were determined to sample Biarritz's acclaimed nightlife, so reluctantly dragging ourselves away from the start of a great night at the site bar we hit Biarritz.
We decided the best plan would be to tag along with a group of Swedes from the site who were also going out.
After just one beer they decided they were going to a club and we obligingly followed.
But as Joe went down the steps ahead of me to the club, disaster struck - he slipped.
It was not a proper trip, he did not even fall but it was enough for the doorman to refuse him entry, advising him he was tired.
With no other bars still open with slunk back to get the bus home.
There were quite a few other people from the site waiting as well, so we thought us not knowing where the site was, would be okay.
The ride normally takes about 15 minutes but over an hour later we were all still sat on the bus, wondering how it had got to 4am and we still had not got home.
After a fraught discussion with the bus driver, he said he was doing another lap of the region and he would let us know when we should get off.
Biarritz was not the greatest night out I have ever had.
We are finishing the tour on Tuesday and tomorrow we are leaving Biarritz to try to cross the looming mountain range and get to Spain.
We decided we wanted one last challenge and I fear this could be the most difficult yet.
lundi 23 juillet 2007
Biarritz - The new Bordeaux
Yesterday I managed a whole day off without once dragging my acheing rear onto the unforgiving bike saddle. Bliss.
We spent the day just like any other tourist would. We wandered around the lovely town centre, had a coffee and then slumped on the beach for the afternoon.
Joe and I also decided that having already passed Bordeaux, we wanted a new challenge.
So between now and a week on Tuesday we are going to try and make it all the way down to Biarritz, near the Spanish border.
Madness? Quite probably.
It is strange to think about it and even more bizarre now that I am writing it down but I am really excited about going yet further.
Getting this far has been such a huge challenge and one that I never thought I would achieve so quickly. After every long day on my bike I have felt a real sense of achievement in a way that I have never done before.
On one level feeling the tiredness in my legs in the evening, while sipping a beer and looking over our route on the map, is an amazing feeling of having conquered against the odds.
More importantly I feel that in doing this ride and meeting the challenge, I am for the first time doing something directly for my Dad.
Raising lots of money will help in the fight against pancreatic cancer but facing the challenge of the trip itself, enjoying the fun parts and keeping going when I'm desperate to stop, is something I feel I am doing for him.
When he became ill my family and I stuck together and made last summer the very best it could possibly have been. Most of that, I now realise, was due to my Dad who showed bravery and strength I never knew possible in anybody.
We did all we could for him but really it was him who did much more for us than we ever realised, by making our last summer together such a perfect one.
Since he has gone I have not been able to do anything for him but sit and think of the past.
This trip for me is the closest I have come and probably ever will come to doing something that I really feel is for him.
I'd love to know what he would have to say about the trip but even more I'd love to see his face when I told him I had managed to drag his creaking twenty-odd year-old racer, loaded with equipment most of the way through France. I think that would be the biggest shock for him.
We are supposed to be leaving about now to start the new leg of our journey but several hours of continuous rain has delayed our departure.
Well, on to Biarritz.......eventually
We spent the day just like any other tourist would. We wandered around the lovely town centre, had a coffee and then slumped on the beach for the afternoon.
Joe and I also decided that having already passed Bordeaux, we wanted a new challenge.
So between now and a week on Tuesday we are going to try and make it all the way down to Biarritz, near the Spanish border.
Madness? Quite probably.
It is strange to think about it and even more bizarre now that I am writing it down but I am really excited about going yet further.
Getting this far has been such a huge challenge and one that I never thought I would achieve so quickly. After every long day on my bike I have felt a real sense of achievement in a way that I have never done before.
On one level feeling the tiredness in my legs in the evening, while sipping a beer and looking over our route on the map, is an amazing feeling of having conquered against the odds.
More importantly I feel that in doing this ride and meeting the challenge, I am for the first time doing something directly for my Dad.
Raising lots of money will help in the fight against pancreatic cancer but facing the challenge of the trip itself, enjoying the fun parts and keeping going when I'm desperate to stop, is something I feel I am doing for him.
When he became ill my family and I stuck together and made last summer the very best it could possibly have been. Most of that, I now realise, was due to my Dad who showed bravery and strength I never knew possible in anybody.
We did all we could for him but really it was him who did much more for us than we ever realised, by making our last summer together such a perfect one.
Since he has gone I have not been able to do anything for him but sit and think of the past.
This trip for me is the closest I have come and probably ever will come to doing something that I really feel is for him.
I'd love to know what he would have to say about the trip but even more I'd love to see his face when I told him I had managed to drag his creaking twenty-odd year-old racer, loaded with equipment most of the way through France. I think that would be the biggest shock for him.
We are supposed to be leaving about now to start the new leg of our journey but several hours of continuous rain has delayed our departure.
Well, on to Biarritz.......eventually
dimanche 22 juillet 2007
To Bordeaux and beyond
Rural France has not yet caught up with the idea of l'internet - it's something "pour les jeunes" from the city, so I have not written for a while.
With my puncture problems behind us we have been flying down the coast. We have managed just over 200 miles in the last three days, including a marathon 85 mile stint yesterday.
We have also picked up a third member of the group, a 32-year-old fitness enthusiast called Greg who we overtook on Thursday. He has been with us ever since.
Greg is a great bloke and we have had a good laugh but he has also clearly planned his trip in advance. So he thought to bring for example, a single gas burner and lots of maps. Joe and I have eaten like kings the last few days and we have rarely got lost.
Greg is going his own way tomorrow - he will be sadly missed.
When Joe and I were sitting shivering outside the Pen & Wig pub in Cardiff discussing this trip I wasn't sure I would be able to do it. Then fundraising took over and I put the cycling to the back of my mind. The end of my exams spelt the end of any semblance of a training regime, so I was quite concerned I might not make it.
But we have already made it to Bordeaux more than a week-and-a-half early. We are actually in Arcachone, which is on the coast further south than Bordeaux.
After a much-needed rest today we are going to plough on and see how far south we can get.
Since I last wrote we have passed through La Rochelle, which is a stunning old walled town. When we got to the town we had been cycling through the open countryside for about forty miles and to suddenly be greeted by thousands of enthusiastic tourists bustling about snapping photos and running around was just too much - we had to get out. If you want to appreciate La Rochelle, go in the car.
We managed to get about 20 miles out of La Rochelle before our resolved broke and we found a campsite in a town which I think is called Chateaulien.
Dead on our feet we set up our tents in the usual robotic routine without really looking around or taking in our surroundings.
I wondered why the owner of the site apologetically asked if we would like to have a look around the site before we decided.
This campsite I think could be best described as a tourist graveyard. There was a caravan morgue where broken, un-loved caravans were left scattered and abandoned. The most telling sign of decay was a huge delapidated tourist bus which had been dumped right in the centre of the site.
We Crossed the mouth of the Girondins river on the car ferry, which was a blissful experience although I felt slightly guilty I was not peddling.
Yesterday we cycled for over 9 hours, of which almost the whole time was spent going through woodland.
The French are brilliant at providing safe tracks for cyclists and this track was beautful. However spending that long going through a forest can send your mind a bit loopy.
For almost 9 hours the landscape never changed. After a few hours it was as if I was not moving at all but the scenery was whizzing along - like a budet film.
It was also the second hardest day we have endured on the trip. I never thought I could manage 85 miles in a day, through terrain which was a lot more hilly than I would have liked. A few tired old cliches would not describe how I felt when we arrived.
Arcahone seems to have everything; a beautful beach, woodland tracks and a picturesque centre ville, unspoilt by the toutists who flock here.
We are going to relax on the beach today before heading out into the woods again tomorrow.
Donations - www.justgiving.com/bigtripfrance
With my puncture problems behind us we have been flying down the coast. We have managed just over 200 miles in the last three days, including a marathon 85 mile stint yesterday.
We have also picked up a third member of the group, a 32-year-old fitness enthusiast called Greg who we overtook on Thursday. He has been with us ever since.
Greg is a great bloke and we have had a good laugh but he has also clearly planned his trip in advance. So he thought to bring for example, a single gas burner and lots of maps. Joe and I have eaten like kings the last few days and we have rarely got lost.
Greg is going his own way tomorrow - he will be sadly missed.
When Joe and I were sitting shivering outside the Pen & Wig pub in Cardiff discussing this trip I wasn't sure I would be able to do it. Then fundraising took over and I put the cycling to the back of my mind. The end of my exams spelt the end of any semblance of a training regime, so I was quite concerned I might not make it.
But we have already made it to Bordeaux more than a week-and-a-half early. We are actually in Arcachone, which is on the coast further south than Bordeaux.
After a much-needed rest today we are going to plough on and see how far south we can get.
Since I last wrote we have passed through La Rochelle, which is a stunning old walled town. When we got to the town we had been cycling through the open countryside for about forty miles and to suddenly be greeted by thousands of enthusiastic tourists bustling about snapping photos and running around was just too much - we had to get out. If you want to appreciate La Rochelle, go in the car.
We managed to get about 20 miles out of La Rochelle before our resolved broke and we found a campsite in a town which I think is called Chateaulien.
Dead on our feet we set up our tents in the usual robotic routine without really looking around or taking in our surroundings.
I wondered why the owner of the site apologetically asked if we would like to have a look around the site before we decided.
This campsite I think could be best described as a tourist graveyard. There was a caravan morgue where broken, un-loved caravans were left scattered and abandoned. The most telling sign of decay was a huge delapidated tourist bus which had been dumped right in the centre of the site.
We Crossed the mouth of the Girondins river on the car ferry, which was a blissful experience although I felt slightly guilty I was not peddling.
Yesterday we cycled for over 9 hours, of which almost the whole time was spent going through woodland.
The French are brilliant at providing safe tracks for cyclists and this track was beautful. However spending that long going through a forest can send your mind a bit loopy.
For almost 9 hours the landscape never changed. After a few hours it was as if I was not moving at all but the scenery was whizzing along - like a budet film.
It was also the second hardest day we have endured on the trip. I never thought I could manage 85 miles in a day, through terrain which was a lot more hilly than I would have liked. A few tired old cliches would not describe how I felt when we arrived.
Arcahone seems to have everything; a beautful beach, woodland tracks and a picturesque centre ville, unspoilt by the toutists who flock here.
We are going to relax on the beach today before heading out into the woods again tomorrow.
Donations - www.justgiving.com/bigtripfrance
mercredi 18 juillet 2007
Sun and stars
We have travelled just over 300 miles now and we are taking the coastal road through the Vendee. This is my favourite part of the trip so far - the sun is shining, the roads are flat and there is a relatively little chance of us getting lost. All we have to do is keep the sea on our right hand side. Easy.
Yesterday was a day of contrasts. Having bought new tyres and and a whole arsenal of puncture equipment I thought my frustrated hours stranded at the side of roads were over.
My bike lasted about 30 miles before the valve on my tyre gave up the ghost. At least it was a diffeent problem - it keeps things interesting.
Having wasted a few angry hours trying to get my bike on the road, we took to the coastal road once more. We passed through some beautiful woodland and a few kiss-me-quick seaside towns, before we found a stunning beach to stop at for the evening.
We had already bought a disposable bbq, meat and a couple of strong beers.
Watching a perfect sun set over the sea, we sat and ate our burgers.
We planned to camp in the sand dunes but neither of us could be bothered to put the tent up, so we got our sleeping bags out and slept under the stars.
I have always thought doing this was one of those great cliches better suited to some cheap hollywood film. But sleeping under the stars with the sound of the sea lapping the beach was a great experience. A dip in the sea at 9 this morning helped get the day going too.
We haven't got a map at the moment so we are just heading down the coast, hoping for the best.
Yesterday was a day of contrasts. Having bought new tyres and and a whole arsenal of puncture equipment I thought my frustrated hours stranded at the side of roads were over.
My bike lasted about 30 miles before the valve on my tyre gave up the ghost. At least it was a diffeent problem - it keeps things interesting.
Having wasted a few angry hours trying to get my bike on the road, we took to the coastal road once more. We passed through some beautiful woodland and a few kiss-me-quick seaside towns, before we found a stunning beach to stop at for the evening.
We had already bought a disposable bbq, meat and a couple of strong beers.
Watching a perfect sun set over the sea, we sat and ate our burgers.
We planned to camp in the sand dunes but neither of us could be bothered to put the tent up, so we got our sleeping bags out and slept under the stars.
I have always thought doing this was one of those great cliches better suited to some cheap hollywood film. But sleeping under the stars with the sound of the sea lapping the beach was a great experience. A dip in the sea at 9 this morning helped get the day going too.
We haven't got a map at the moment so we are just heading down the coast, hoping for the best.
Bastille day fun and games
We left Pont Aven in southern Brittany on Friday and cycled 65 miles down to Vannes, which is right in the south of the region.This was easily the best day I have had so far. I managed to go a whole day without something on my bike collapsing or puncturing.Vannes is a beautiful old walled city of windy cobbled streets and quaint little cafes but on Friday it was brimming with people who had come for the Bastille Day celebrations. This caught us completely off guard because Bastille Day was not until Saturday. We were standing outside a street cafe nursing a demi biere when I turned to my left and saw a huge dragon careering towards us, with fiery eyes intent on death. It was followed by an enormous procession of weird and wonderful characters. It would have been a great day to be a burgular because the whole of the town must have been involved in the procession, from children just old enough to walk, to elderly ladies dancing the Waltz.Just as we were about to return to the bar the fire works started. The display was incredible and the atmosphere was even better. I have only been in France on Bastille Day once before and I was working on a campsite so all I got was a scaled-down packaged version of these magnificent celebrations. For the French Bastille Day really is something. Everybody was excited, the French flags were flying and the town was buzzing. I didn't realise how much of point of pride this day is for les Francais. I cannot imagine anything which comes close to this in Britain. Politicians have recently been bounding about the idea we should have some sort of 'Britain Day' but it would be hollow and meaningless compared to this.
The next day within five miles of leaving the city I got my second puncture of the trip - this time the front tyre went. We were better prepared this time, I had bought spanners and more replacement inner tubes so I thought we were safe. Needless to say as I re-fitted the tyre my cheap spanner snapped. So with no spanner and no more spare inner tubes I have since been praying that I do not suffer a third puncture in four days on the road. After finally persuading a friendly Frenchman to lend me a spanner to finish the job we set off again several hours late.We managed about 40 miles on Saturday and stayed at a quiet little seaside town called Penestin. After a day's cycling I fancied nothing more than a dip in the sea, so bounding in I went. It was only after re-surfacing with a splutter that I noticed the water was green, slimy and had a certain stench about it. There were children in the water so I am sure it was safe but it took a long time to get the slime off my back. So the sea bathing wasn't a success but we heard a really good lband playing nearby, so we thought we'd have a look at that. Everything looked perfect and before long we had been given a free drink. We had slime all over our clothes but things were finally starting to look up. But it soon became clear something was not right. There were probably 200 at the gig and they all seemed to know each other. THey all seemed to be observing a strange ritual of forced pleasantness. I started to think we had unwittingly stumbled into a cult from which we would never escape.As panick set in, we were discovered. "Erm non we are not from your group" - I felt my words burning in their ears. We managed to talk our way out of becoming an ingredient for the evening's broth by saying we thought it was a Bastille celebration. We were advised/instructed to buy tickets which we readily did, to ease the tension. It turned out that the party was to celebrate the 30th birthday of a youth hostel and the tickets could be exchanged for drinks.So it wasn't a cult but it still wasn't easy to escape. Just as we thought we might be able to make for the gate a crowd of people surrounded us and we found ourselves on the front row of a female cabaret quartet. We sat for what seemed a lifetime listening to bawdy French show songs we barely understood. We managed to find a camping rurale to stay for the night, which consisted of a field, a toilet and a shower. For two euros it was a bargain. Yet again some greater force seemed to be acting against us. Having escaped the bawdy show songs and downed a couple of drinks to calm the nerves we settled into the tent for the night.Within ten minutes the rain started, followed by the thunder and lightening. I have always really enjoyed a good storm but this was something different. The thunder seemed to be crashing above and all around us for endless hours. The lightening flashed everywhere and the rain was constant. We were right in the middle of a viscious storm with a tired old tent with aching poles and missing pegs. Thankfully it held out.The next day the owner of the field a Madame Bernard, a lady of considerable years, proclaimed with a look of genuine concern in her eye, that she had never in her life seen weather like that. Who am I to question authority like that?Before we left the soggy field yesterday my bike had time for another mishap. This time the valve gave up on one of my tyres, so another hour was lost fixing that. It also turns out my front wheel has buckled slightly. But I managed to ride it 55 miles yesterday to get to our current destination Pornic, on the Loire coast. A new wheel is going to be high on my shopping list.We have now done 250 miles and until yesterday we had not had any hot food since Thursday, so we decided to have a day off. Pornic is only about 40 miles from Nantes and it is a hugely popular tourist town. It seems strange to find such a hive of holiday making without the presence of at least a few easy-living Brits. I thought we managed to get everywhere. There is a beautiful chateau here and lots of quayside bars and restaurants. We were hoping to go spend our free day on the beach but we spent the morning buying yet more parts for my bike and it has been pouring with rain ever since.We are staying on a lovely little campsite aptly called Le Bon Acceuil. It is cheap, close to town and it even has a tiny swimming pool. I think our arrival caused a bit of a stir among our fellow holiday makers. I suppose it is not everyday two weather-beaten Brits slump through the gates on antique bikes. We had an audience of kids throughout the time we unpacked and put up our tent. They said nothing but giggled to one another whenever I tried to speak to them. We are leaving Pornic tomorrow and it will be with regret that I go. I think it is partly because the town is has a lot to offer and I would like to see more. I also never got the day on the beach I promised myself as I slugged along roads yesterday. It has also been really refreshing to wake up in the morning and having to put down the tent and pack all my things. We are going to stick to the coast from now, so the ride should be pretty picturesque and hopefully nice and flat. The rain has stopped so we are going to attempt a barbeque in between downpours.
I should quickly warn anybody thinking of cycling anywhere near Saint Nazare - don't. The town is grotty and horrible and it is a death-trap for cyclists. The only reason we went was because it was the only point we could cross the Loire. The Pont de Saint Nazare was the only route we could take. Apparently a two-lane motorway with tiny little fences stopping us dropping into the ocean in the high gales is "safe for cyclists." At the top of the bridge we were so high I spotted a tiny little speck of a cruise liner being built below. I would not even fancy it in a car.
The next day within five miles of leaving the city I got my second puncture of the trip - this time the front tyre went. We were better prepared this time, I had bought spanners and more replacement inner tubes so I thought we were safe. Needless to say as I re-fitted the tyre my cheap spanner snapped. So with no spanner and no more spare inner tubes I have since been praying that I do not suffer a third puncture in four days on the road. After finally persuading a friendly Frenchman to lend me a spanner to finish the job we set off again several hours late.We managed about 40 miles on Saturday and stayed at a quiet little seaside town called Penestin. After a day's cycling I fancied nothing more than a dip in the sea, so bounding in I went. It was only after re-surfacing with a splutter that I noticed the water was green, slimy and had a certain stench about it. There were children in the water so I am sure it was safe but it took a long time to get the slime off my back. So the sea bathing wasn't a success but we heard a really good lband playing nearby, so we thought we'd have a look at that. Everything looked perfect and before long we had been given a free drink. We had slime all over our clothes but things were finally starting to look up. But it soon became clear something was not right. There were probably 200 at the gig and they all seemed to know each other. THey all seemed to be observing a strange ritual of forced pleasantness. I started to think we had unwittingly stumbled into a cult from which we would never escape.As panick set in, we were discovered. "Erm non we are not from your group" - I felt my words burning in their ears. We managed to talk our way out of becoming an ingredient for the evening's broth by saying we thought it was a Bastille celebration. We were advised/instructed to buy tickets which we readily did, to ease the tension. It turned out that the party was to celebrate the 30th birthday of a youth hostel and the tickets could be exchanged for drinks.So it wasn't a cult but it still wasn't easy to escape. Just as we thought we might be able to make for the gate a crowd of people surrounded us and we found ourselves on the front row of a female cabaret quartet. We sat for what seemed a lifetime listening to bawdy French show songs we barely understood. We managed to find a camping rurale to stay for the night, which consisted of a field, a toilet and a shower. For two euros it was a bargain. Yet again some greater force seemed to be acting against us. Having escaped the bawdy show songs and downed a couple of drinks to calm the nerves we settled into the tent for the night.Within ten minutes the rain started, followed by the thunder and lightening. I have always really enjoyed a good storm but this was something different. The thunder seemed to be crashing above and all around us for endless hours. The lightening flashed everywhere and the rain was constant. We were right in the middle of a viscious storm with a tired old tent with aching poles and missing pegs. Thankfully it held out.The next day the owner of the field a Madame Bernard, a lady of considerable years, proclaimed with a look of genuine concern in her eye, that she had never in her life seen weather like that. Who am I to question authority like that?Before we left the soggy field yesterday my bike had time for another mishap. This time the valve gave up on one of my tyres, so another hour was lost fixing that. It also turns out my front wheel has buckled slightly. But I managed to ride it 55 miles yesterday to get to our current destination Pornic, on the Loire coast. A new wheel is going to be high on my shopping list.We have now done 250 miles and until yesterday we had not had any hot food since Thursday, so we decided to have a day off. Pornic is only about 40 miles from Nantes and it is a hugely popular tourist town. It seems strange to find such a hive of holiday making without the presence of at least a few easy-living Brits. I thought we managed to get everywhere. There is a beautiful chateau here and lots of quayside bars and restaurants. We were hoping to go spend our free day on the beach but we spent the morning buying yet more parts for my bike and it has been pouring with rain ever since.We are staying on a lovely little campsite aptly called Le Bon Acceuil. It is cheap, close to town and it even has a tiny swimming pool. I think our arrival caused a bit of a stir among our fellow holiday makers. I suppose it is not everyday two weather-beaten Brits slump through the gates on antique bikes. We had an audience of kids throughout the time we unpacked and put up our tent. They said nothing but giggled to one another whenever I tried to speak to them. We are leaving Pornic tomorrow and it will be with regret that I go. I think it is partly because the town is has a lot to offer and I would like to see more. I also never got the day on the beach I promised myself as I slugged along roads yesterday. It has also been really refreshing to wake up in the morning and having to put down the tent and pack all my things. We are going to stick to the coast from now, so the ride should be pretty picturesque and hopefully nice and flat. The rain has stopped so we are going to attempt a barbeque in between downpours.
I should quickly warn anybody thinking of cycling anywhere near Saint Nazare - don't. The town is grotty and horrible and it is a death-trap for cyclists. The only reason we went was because it was the only point we could cross the Loire. The Pont de Saint Nazare was the only route we could take. Apparently a two-lane motorway with tiny little fences stopping us dropping into the ocean in the high gales is "safe for cyclists." At the top of the bridge we were so high I spotted a tiny little speck of a cruise liner being built below. I would not even fancy it in a car.
Black Mountains - The first few days
The first couple of days of our trip have been eventful to say the least.
I was welcomed to Roscoff by an icy, whipping wind and driving rain - things never really got any easier.
Our planning for the first leg of the journey consisted of a cursory glance at the map during the ferry crossing and a heavy reliance on a print-out from a website that apparently offers appropriate routes for cyclists. Thinking I could simply go on the internet and save the hassle of planning a route is a mistake I will not be repeating.
Within a few miles we had taken a wrong turn but a market trader in St Pol-de-Leon set us straight. “Go down that road there and just keep going.” We should have wondered why laughter could be heard ringing out from the market place as we sped off.
Having corrected that mistake our inadequate online guide told us to take a right down a narrow track between two fields. Having searched up and down the road for the proper turning we decided this must be it.
After half a mile of mud, stones and sand we bumped into a bemused farmer, who clearly wasn’t used to seeing weather-beaten Brits trailing down his track on racers laden with luggage. He was riding a quad bike, which was entirely more suitable for the track.
To my delight he confirmed that if we kept on going it would lead us to the town we sought. That euphoria was short-lived. With the sight of a real concrete road ahead I picked up the pace but as I did it all became more laboured. Then I noticed I was feeling the contours of the road rather too keenly.
A puncture – not a big deal I thought. I’ve got spare inner tubes and while I have never changed a rear wheel inner tube before myself, Joe is bound to have done. It very quickly became clear neither of us had ever done this before. I really regret having talked my Dad into fixing a puncture for me to get my cycling proficiency badge at cubs.
To make matters worse my bike is so old, none of Joe’s spanners would fit, so we couldn’t get the wheel off anyway.
Stranded in the Breton countryside we could not believe fate had dealt such a cruel blow so early in the trip. To our delight we saw a big group of cyclists emerge in the distance. Dragging my bike as quick as I could we positioned ourselves to intercept them. They were from a Cornwall based cycling group The Chodski Indians and recognising our desperation, they changed the tyre. A big thanks to them for helping us out a bit of a spot there.
Before I left my Mum, who knows Brittany well said the journey through the area should be fine as long as we avoid the Black Mountains. I readily agreed I did not fancy cycling over any mountains especially ones which sound like the setting of a cheap horror film.
Again naively I assumed our trusted website would not lead us to a certain death on a mountain top.
My heart sank when I saw that our road ahead was winding slowly up an enormous mountain of death. If there had only been one it would have been fine but we spent the rest of the day climbing endless winding mountains. The worst thing was not being able to see the top because there was no goal and nothing to aim for. All there ever seemed to be was a bend in the road followed by yet more calf wrenching slopes.
Much like myself my gears did not appreciate the extra strain being placed on them. I only had ten to start with but several gave up early leaving me with four to choose from for most of the mountain stage.
Then as we neared the end of the day’s cycling a wire snapped and I was down to two gears.
Having cycled 50 difficult miles and with Joe, me and my bike on the verge of collapse we decided to stay at a beautiful town called Chateauneuf-du-Faou.
It is a small town with only 3,000 inhabitants but it is a stunning little place with dramatic mountain views.
We stayed on a campsite next to a river, in a valley below the town. After a day of cycling up hills, the place seemed perfect.
We staggered to a nearby bar for a well-earned beer in the late-evening sun before heading to a handily placed pizzeria further down the river. I had never before eaten a calzone without pausing for breath.
There was even a bike shop and the bushy-moustached chap who ran it, agreed to fix my bike for free.
I am not the best sleeper and I was worried that even after a day of slugging my way up impossible hills, I would not be able to get a good night’s sleep on a roll-up mat in the tent. It didn’t help that I had not brought enough pegs, which meant the tent looked like it would collapse if the slightest breeze crossed the valley.
So I had a couple more beers just to make sure but I need not have worried.
At the moment I am just outside the picturesque town of Pont Aven in southern Brittany. Tomorrow we are leaving to travel through the final part of Brittany. We are hoping to find a lively town or city to join in the Bastille Day celebrations on July 14.
I was welcomed to Roscoff by an icy, whipping wind and driving rain - things never really got any easier.
Our planning for the first leg of the journey consisted of a cursory glance at the map during the ferry crossing and a heavy reliance on a print-out from a website that apparently offers appropriate routes for cyclists. Thinking I could simply go on the internet and save the hassle of planning a route is a mistake I will not be repeating.
Within a few miles we had taken a wrong turn but a market trader in St Pol-de-Leon set us straight. “Go down that road there and just keep going.” We should have wondered why laughter could be heard ringing out from the market place as we sped off.
Having corrected that mistake our inadequate online guide told us to take a right down a narrow track between two fields. Having searched up and down the road for the proper turning we decided this must be it.
After half a mile of mud, stones and sand we bumped into a bemused farmer, who clearly wasn’t used to seeing weather-beaten Brits trailing down his track on racers laden with luggage. He was riding a quad bike, which was entirely more suitable for the track.
To my delight he confirmed that if we kept on going it would lead us to the town we sought. That euphoria was short-lived. With the sight of a real concrete road ahead I picked up the pace but as I did it all became more laboured. Then I noticed I was feeling the contours of the road rather too keenly.
A puncture – not a big deal I thought. I’ve got spare inner tubes and while I have never changed a rear wheel inner tube before myself, Joe is bound to have done. It very quickly became clear neither of us had ever done this before. I really regret having talked my Dad into fixing a puncture for me to get my cycling proficiency badge at cubs.
To make matters worse my bike is so old, none of Joe’s spanners would fit, so we couldn’t get the wheel off anyway.
Stranded in the Breton countryside we could not believe fate had dealt such a cruel blow so early in the trip. To our delight we saw a big group of cyclists emerge in the distance. Dragging my bike as quick as I could we positioned ourselves to intercept them. They were from a Cornwall based cycling group The Chodski Indians and recognising our desperation, they changed the tyre. A big thanks to them for helping us out a bit of a spot there.
Before I left my Mum, who knows Brittany well said the journey through the area should be fine as long as we avoid the Black Mountains. I readily agreed I did not fancy cycling over any mountains especially ones which sound like the setting of a cheap horror film.
Again naively I assumed our trusted website would not lead us to a certain death on a mountain top.
My heart sank when I saw that our road ahead was winding slowly up an enormous mountain of death. If there had only been one it would have been fine but we spent the rest of the day climbing endless winding mountains. The worst thing was not being able to see the top because there was no goal and nothing to aim for. All there ever seemed to be was a bend in the road followed by yet more calf wrenching slopes.
Much like myself my gears did not appreciate the extra strain being placed on them. I only had ten to start with but several gave up early leaving me with four to choose from for most of the mountain stage.
Then as we neared the end of the day’s cycling a wire snapped and I was down to two gears.
Having cycled 50 difficult miles and with Joe, me and my bike on the verge of collapse we decided to stay at a beautiful town called Chateauneuf-du-Faou.
It is a small town with only 3,000 inhabitants but it is a stunning little place with dramatic mountain views.
We stayed on a campsite next to a river, in a valley below the town. After a day of cycling up hills, the place seemed perfect.
We staggered to a nearby bar for a well-earned beer in the late-evening sun before heading to a handily placed pizzeria further down the river. I had never before eaten a calzone without pausing for breath.
There was even a bike shop and the bushy-moustached chap who ran it, agreed to fix my bike for free.
I am not the best sleeper and I was worried that even after a day of slugging my way up impossible hills, I would not be able to get a good night’s sleep on a roll-up mat in the tent. It didn’t help that I had not brought enough pegs, which meant the tent looked like it would collapse if the slightest breeze crossed the valley.
So I had a couple more beers just to make sure but I need not have worried.
At the moment I am just outside the picturesque town of Pont Aven in southern Brittany. Tomorrow we are leaving to travel through the final part of Brittany. We are hoping to find a lively town or city to join in the Bastille Day celebrations on July 14.
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