Bilbao and no further

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