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.