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.
vendredi 27 juillet 2007
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.
Introduction
This is a hastily arranged blog to keep everybody up-to-date with what we have been up to on the cycle trip. My blog is supposed to be going on the Nottingham Evening Post website but I am not sure what is happening with that. Joe's blog is also on the Halifax Courier website.
My friend Joe and I are cycling through France from Roscoff to Bordeaux to raise some much needed money for pancreatic cancer.
Last summer I lost my Dad to this disease last summer and it has the highest mortality rate of any cancer.
My Dad and my family really like France, so this seemed to be the perfect way to raise some money and celebrate his life.
The trip got off to a disastorous start because the car I was getting a lift down to Plymouth in broke down. So I decided to get the train - it was going to take 7 hours but I would have got there.
So to celebrate leaving my Mum took us out for a meal. My sister warned me the lamb was under-cooked but with typical male bravado, I shrugged it off - "It'll be fine." I managed to get out of bed twice on Sunday.
A day late we finally set-off.
My friend Joe and I are cycling through France from Roscoff to Bordeaux to raise some much needed money for pancreatic cancer.
Last summer I lost my Dad to this disease last summer and it has the highest mortality rate of any cancer.
My Dad and my family really like France, so this seemed to be the perfect way to raise some money and celebrate his life.
The trip got off to a disastorous start because the car I was getting a lift down to Plymouth in broke down. So I decided to get the train - it was going to take 7 hours but I would have got there.
So to celebrate leaving my Mum took us out for a meal. My sister warned me the lamb was under-cooked but with typical male bravado, I shrugged it off - "It'll be fine." I managed to get out of bed twice on Sunday.
A day late we finally set-off.
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