Friday 1st September 2006
Crowley's curse hung heavily over me on Tuesday. Alistair Crowley's curse says that once you have moved to Leamington Spa then you will never leave. And I was beginning to believe it.
The all-day session of the day before had in no way prepared me for Anne who had blubbed a farewell at 6.30 in the morn, bless her. I sat for several minutes in a bit of a daze before the enormity of the task before me roused me from my comfortable bed into a painfully retarded attempt at action.
I stumbled from one task to another; threw unnecassary junk away, packed, cleared the room, rummaged through discarded junk for necassary items and did all of the last minute tasks that I had failed to do through drunkenness and idiocy. I was in a rush to make it up to the Cask & Bottle for a free and early lunch before departing.
It was a mammoth task, but by twelve I was attaching the final bag upon my bike in time for the first drops of rain. Laughing manically at the gods, I set off.
Spent an hour in the pub coming to terms with just how rough I felt, picking my way through my last club sandwich and watching the rain hammer relentlessly down upon my bike. Eventually, I hauled myself up, said goodbye to Jane, the landlady, who hugged me in a way that only a publican who's losing one of their best customers can.
I picked up a couple of final things from the bike shop and then stood in their doorway, sheltering from an incredible deluge that the Weather Gods had decided to surprise me with. A Jamaican gentleman took refuge with me; he eyed my loaded bike and asked where I was headed.
"Spain," I informed him.
When he'd finished chuckling in that particularly Jamaican way , he said, "Well ya picked the wrong day to go."
I was beginning to believe it. It was already 2.30 and I still hadn't left. I could hear Crowley chuckling. Still, I'd said my goodbyes; how could I back out now and leave tomorrow just because it was raining? How could this intrepid adventurer (as I had been hopelessly portraying myself in the lead up to my departure) be put off by a bit, well a lot, of rain. How would I explain that I was wary about going because a Jamaican man had told me that it was the wrong day to go? Was there voodoo in Jamaica? I hunched myself against the easing rain and mounted my trusty steed.
I'd made it no further than half a mile before the gods, who had apparently been holding back before, unleashed an almighty crescendo of a deluge. Luckily I was right outside The Windmill pub, so I waited it out with a pint, I am on holiday after all. Thankfully it passed and became merely rain again. I supped up and left.
It was 3.30 by the time I left Leamington and I made 30 miles before I called it a day just outside Broadway in the Cotswolds, painfully aware that 30 miles is not even the distance that Anne cycles to and from work every day. I found a suitable field, got freaked out by an old blind rabbit that kept shuffling towards me in a manner which made me feel like it was about to talk to me, threw my tent up and read.
As I sit here now, typing away on my beloved virtual keyboard and listening to the howling wind from within the cosy warmth of Mike & Izzy's house, the forecast for the next few days still ringing in my ears, I'm beginning to realise what I've let myself in for. Still, one week more of cycling in the British weather, a few days debauched revellry at Bestival and I'll be in France. I'm still feeling good.
Wednesday's purchases: a new chain and some Ibuprofen. I leave you to make up the rest.
I'm in a pub in Brockenhurst, called The Forester's arms. I like Brockenhurst; it's pretty without being pretentious and it's set amongst some beautiful countryside in The New Forest. What's more, the pub sells a cracking pint called Fortyniner from the Ringwood brewery.
It's a gorgeous day and I'm feeling good, started to chill out instead of feeling like I have to keep moving, (must be the removal man in me) which is a shame as I'm only a few miles from Lymington (pronounced Limington as I have already been corrected), my destination to catch the ferry to The Isle of Wight from.
I left Ross on Friday, having been fed enough food at mum's to keep me going for a good week. Thanks mum. My intended early start had me leaving at about 11ish and I was in two minds about which way to go; I quite fancied cycling over the Severn Bridge even though it was a little bit out of the way. Still the dilemna was decided for me. Back in Leam, while still struggling with the consequences of the weekend, I had bought a large scale map of Britain from a cheap bookshop and torn out the relevant pages to my journey. Or so I thought. After a brief investigation, it turned out that I had omitted the map that would have got me to the bridge. Problem solved, although I am a little peeved that I didn't get to cycle through such places as Old Sodbury, Great Badminton, Petty France and Tiddlywink all of which would have been on my route. My alternative route took me through Gloucester and past some travellers that had set up home in a lay-by on the A40. I stopped near them to adjust my gears and was impressed with their leisure facilties which consisted of a dartboard on a telegraph pole, a punchbag and bench-press. I saw the farmer, whose farm entrance inconvenienced the travellers' set-up, shake his head at the recklessly parked vehicles as he maneouvered his tractor out on to the main road.
I'm sure he wasn't prepared to argue with a family who's only leisure time, it seems, is to build their muscles, hit a heavy bag and throw dangerously sharp objects.
Gloucester's cycle paths were an endless source of amusement as I traversed the city of my birth. Most ended at a (legally) parked car, while I also spotted several that were only 3 metres long and upon which I always desperately tried to get before sailing past. I also enjoyed the ones that appeared randomly and inaccessably at various places along the way that you could only wistfully ponder upon the meaning of as you pedalled by, meandering in and out of parked cars and angry traffic.
My taste buds were given a bit of a shock in Tetbury where I supped on a cask-conditioned cider rather than the cask-conditioned ale that I was expecting; still, it was quite good once the old buds had got used to the idea. Tetbury is a historic wool and market town which means that it's now dead posh and full of antique shops, immaculate old stone buildings and tea-shops. I tried to find a scuzzy pub that would be more sorted to, well, me. And when I did I was still charged £2.80 for my unexpected pint of cider. Favourite bit of eavesdropped conversation so far was in this pub; a lady who had been talking to her son on the phone for the entire time that I was there, about nothing in particular as far as I could tell, gave this as her parting line: "Anyway I'm going now, I'll see you in a minute". I threw the tent up in a field in Brinkworth that night; the longest village in Britain apparently, although I'm sure I've heard that said about a few places that I've been to. Ate some dinner and listened to the radio. You're rivetted aren't you?
The next day I got really, really wet. Most demorallising of all though was as I trudged uphill through Wootton Bassett, hood up, grimacing at the driving rain, only to watch in dismay as a young girl on her paper-round passed me at speed wearing no waterproofs at all. I shook my fist at her and cursed all her future children, damn her for interrupting
my martyred hero illusions.
Tuesday 5th September 2006
After spending another night in The New Forest, I tootled off to Lymington and pottered around for a while before taking the ferry over to The Isle of Wight. It was a beautiful day and I thoroughly enjoyed the short mini-cruise over there. After sampling some genuine Isle of Wight beer in Yarmouth, which passed my rigorous tasting test, I decided to find a campsite. This would be the first time I had sought a proper campsite since leaving, but it had been four days since I'd had a shower and flies were beginning to befriend me.
I followed some signs for The Orchards campsite which thankfully took me off the main road. Any illsions I'd had of this island having very little traffic and idyllic country roads where people only drove Morris Minors at speeds of no more than twenty miles an hour were soon shattered. Small roads yes, but plenty of traffic. The Orchards turned out to be a very large holiday complex. I warily enqiuired about prices at reception and was told £14.
"£14," I whined, "but it's only little old me and my eeny weeny tent."
I knocked them down to a fiver and suspiciously asked to be shown where I would be pitched. We walked past TV rooms, games rooms "No Enjoying Yourself" signs, kids screaming and splashing in swimming pools until eventually we arrived at my four metre square patch of grass, hemmed in on all sides by glaring, shiny, white camper vans.
It's not really me," I said, scuffing my feet in the sand.
She looked me up and down and agreed. I realised then that she was wearing a hideous red and blue uniform and we stared at each other for a moment from opposite ends of the world.
"Know anywhere a bit more... basic?"
She directed me to Glebe Farm, which was much more my style. It was indeed a working farm and I was greeted by a pleasant lady in an apron, which is how all farmer's wives should look as far as I'm concerned. She led me to a lovely field where I was the only camper and I made my dinner while watching the sun go down. The shower, much to my satisfaction, was in an old caravan and was tempermental and sporadic. My biggest problem was the next morning, when it took me twenty minutes to find someone to pay my fiver to. I eventually paid a young lad whom I hoped was the son of the lady of the night before, and not a lingering youth on the make for a fast buck.
Wednesday 6th September
A lovely, relaxing morning and a leisurely ride into Newport where I spent a half an hour in my first ever internet cafe before having a pint in The Castle Inn, the oldest pub on the island so I am reliably informed by the menu. It's been licenced since 1550 and I'm pleased to see that even when Charles I was imprisoned at Carisbrooke Castle, just up the road, he still managed to pop down here for 'refreshments' with his guards. They had their priorities right back then, didn't they?
Over my pint, I formulate my plan for the day. One does need a bit of a plan otherwise one finds oneself in the pub all day. West Ham are playing Villa on Sunday, so I decide to find a pub close to the Bestival which will be showing the game. I can then watch Greeny's face as our new Argentinian internationals make a mockery of O' Neil's tired old tactics. This plan will of course involve cycling around a number of country pubs...I'm a martyr to the cause, I know.
Well it was a herculean effort, there's a lot of hills around Bestival, and I finished my loop of the area armed with the knowledge that there were disturbingly few pubs, none of which were showing The Hammers game. And as I sat in one of the Sky Sports bereft establishments trying to replenish the fluids I had sweated out on my mission, another more disturbing thought hit me, where was I going to watch the England game tonight?
I did another thirty or forty miles trying to find somewhere, and ended up in Sandown on the coast. English seaside towns never cease to depress me; old, tired and sick places, hopelessly trying to recapture the heydays of their youth while in the last convulsions of death. Old couples walk hand in hand along the promenade, desperatly trying to wring a last bit of romance out the place. It's a case in point for architectural euthenasia. Blow it all up and start afresh, no point in waiting for it to become fashionable again, it never will. Kitsch passed it by without so much as a lofty glance. Anyway, despite all that, I had fish 'n chips on the seafront as the sun went down and quite enjoyed it. The game wasn't really worth the effort though was it? Crouch eh? Won't have a word said against him.
It's been eight days since my last pint at the Cask.
Tuesday 12th September 2006
Having cycled the short distance to a campsite outside of Sandown with Andy and Stef, who were spending the week on the Isle of Wight, we awoke bleary-eyed and and did the only thing we could think of doing and headed to the nearest pub. Several beers and a round of single malts later and it was time for us to say our goodbyes. I left them to head North and they went south, which seemed a little odd. I hope they had a great time and did at least a little cycling amongst the drinking.
By half threeish I was in Portsmouth having bought my one-way ticket to Le Havre and wondering how to kill six hours... Six hours later I left the Surrey Arms, in no way prepared for the hassle I was about to get at the ferry port. After having spent twenty minutes queuing with the cars at check-in, the spotty youth in his little glass cubicle informed me that I would have to pay an extra tenner for my bike. A pointless and circular argument followed which went something along the lines of: "I told your colleagues that I had a bike" "Well it says here that you're a foot passenger" "Well in that case it's your mistake and not mine." "Well it says here that you are a foot passenger, so you'll have to pay a tenner for your bike." Eventually the lad, feeling like he had the upper hand, leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and said "Well you won't be able to board then." I in turn, leaned back on my bike (careful not to topple over the back of it), folded my arms and replied "Well then I'm not moving from this spot until you let me on.'' It was at this point that I and my adversary realised two things, the first was that I was serious, and the second was the palpable hatred emanating from the people in the cars behind me who were wishing that they hadn't got into this line behind one of those bloody nuisance cyclists.
Tuesday 14th September 2006
While drinking coffee and writing out a birthday card for my mum, I hatched a plan for the day. Camembert was just down the road and close enough for a visit, and West Ham were playing Palermo in the UEFA cup this evening. I would attempt to see both.
Camembert is a tiny village that makes Radford Semele/ Weston-under-Penyard look like a sprawling metropolis. The museum was notable for the wealth of information upon its native cheese. I learned for instance, as I jostled for space with the other two visitors, that Camembert was a soft and creamy cheese, encased in a white and slightly furry crust. It was named after its location of origin and it came in a round, wooden container. Having digested all of this information I needed the toilet and on my way there past the information/help desk I noticed that the only source of entertainment for the poor lady manning this underwhelmed point of industry was her direct and uncluttered view of the gents toilet through its firmly wedged open door. I made sure not to disappoint.
Took some tiny little country lanes out of Camembert, one of which was fairly muddy and being meticulously scrubbed clean by a young farm hand; no mean feat since the road was at least a kilometre long. He seemed fairly happy in his work but I couldn't help but feel that it was the French farmers' equivalent of sending the new lad out for some dehydrated water.
Stopped off frequently in bars along the way, purely for cultural insight you understand. In one such place I asked for a glass of red wine. "What kind of red wine?" She asked. Looking thoughtful, scratching my chin and summoning up all of my knowledge of French wines I replied, "The one on the right."
I found a nice little campsite next to a lake in le Mele-sur- Sarthe and headed in to town, hopeful of watching the game. There was only one bar and of course it was showing the Marseille game. It wouldn't have mattered anyway within minutes of arriving I had been made to feel immensely welcome by the inebriated proprietor and David, a friendly English guy who had just bought a house over here. We were joined shortly by his wife, whose name I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten and Marco, a thoroughly interesting writer who had written screenplays for Luc Besson, 'The Big Blue' being one that I had seen and enjoyed. He was, though, keen to point out that there were a few scriptwriters working on that particular movie . He looked nowhere near his sixty three years and his English had been learned while he was living in London in the Seventies, hobnobbing with the likes of Annie Lennox, (then in the Tourists), His Holinesss Bob Geldof and Joe Strummer. All of this I may have taken with a pinch of salt had it been information volunteered, but it all came out in natural conversation and I believed him. It was a thoroughly enjoyable night, topped off by the wife, of the by now hammered barman, in her nightie taking control of matters such as bill payment and closing up.
Friday 15th September 2006
I lay in the tent listening to the rain hammer relentlessly on the thin material above my head. It isn't much fun cycling in the rain at the best of times, but when you're getting into a tent at the end of the day which is barely bigger than yourself and you have no clean clothes to change in to then it's bloody horrible. Still, I had nothing else to do; I didn't want to go back to the bar of the day before after having said all of my goodbyes last nght. So, in a brief easing of the rain I packed all my stuff up and squinted my way into the deluge.
I arrived in Mamers cold and wet and sat shivering in a bar, having lunch and trying to talk myself into getting a hotel room. It didn't take long; the thought of my first bed in three weeks and somewhere to dry and clean my clothes soon convinced me. Excited by my new plan, I eagerly waited until 2.30 when France opens again after lunch (even the hotels shut it seems...(?!)) and headed down to the hotel. It was still shut. I waited, waited some more (according to the tourist information office it was open, and not shut for the season) and waited. Finally, cursing the French and their relaxed work ethic, I got back on to my wet saddle, pulled my hood up and cycled on.
I arrived in Beaumont-sur-Sarthe a little later. The hotels were prohibitively expensive and I made do with a campsite. After a long hot shower, I headed in to town with a heap of dirty and wet clothes and took them to the laundrette. Feeling much better after passing the time in a bar, I took myself out for a big slap-up meal with the money that I didn't spend on a hotel
Saturday 16th September 2006
Happy Birthday Mum
Hills. What's the bloody point eh? they go up and then they just go back down again. Why can't we follow the Dutch example and just abolish them? God bless my hero Gus Van Hiljock who introduced the Fietsen Makelijk act (Easier Cycling Act) of 1875 which meant flattening all hills over four feet high; leaving only what were affectionately as "hiljocks" (thus our hillocks). An amazing race of people; they push out the sea to make more land for farming and ban hills to make cycling easier.
So anyway, despite the threat of more rain today, I decided to get going and acheived my highest mileage (kilometerage?) yet, of 98km (75miles). Passed throughand invariably stopped for a glass of wine in the disappointing and dead ghost town of Montford-le-Gesnois, Grand-Luce and through the beautiful but rather hilly Berce Forest. You're going to have to forgive my lack of accents above the relevant letters but I could be here all day trying to get those right. I was headed for Chateau-du-Loire which from its very name suggested ancient buildings jostling each other for space as they climbed narrow streets above the frothing River Loire while majestically overlooked by a gothic castle with crows and ravens circling its rounded turrets. Instead, it was just a normal looking town that was fairly close to the Loire. So, shunning the town and taking my own image of it away with me instead, I continued on to Vaas where I found a very nice campsite on the banks of that famous river.
Sunday 17th September 2006
I took my morning coffee in the more satisfyingly gothic town of Le Lude, outside of a cafe and close to the main square. A market threaded its way through its admirably winding and narrow streets and I was kept entertained by a rather flash man speaking rather animatedly into a microphone. He was wearing a black suit with a silvery pattern that looked for all the world like it had been crawled over by slugs for the best part of the night. I have no idea what he was talking about as he strode up and down in front of me and my fellow spectators but every now and again he would direct a comment at me to which I would stare blankly back at him. It never phased him in the slightest and I'm pleased to say that I never did find out what he was talking about.
I'd intended on gettin to Noyant before stopping for lunch, but passed a stall selling a host of culinary delights as well as glasses of wine for just one euro and so I stopped on principle. I filled myself up on duck sausage in an onion sauce and chips and several glasses of wine; marvellous. As I sat back, allowing my food to digest and gazing in regal pleasure at my fellow diners, I was struck by something which had been nagging at me since I had begun cycling down through the pleasant countryside of France: I had seen a LOT of ugly people, and absolutely none that I would call good looking. I mean I'm talking pug ugly here: bulging or squinting eyes, extended and flapping ears, goofy teeth, twisted frames; people that could, without any make-up, join the cast of a Doctor Who episode and not look out of place. Now I've been to Paris and other major French cities and been in awe at the beautific delights therein, and so I wondered idly, as I picked food from my own perfect set of gleaming white teeth, if there was some kind of scheme cooked up by the French Tourist board whereby the beautiful people were carted out at an early age to the more tourist intensive towns and cities and the ugly ones were left behind to breed amongst their own.
Anyway I decided to head to Saumur, a resonably large and touristy town to partake in some serious leching. Unfortunately, being touristy, even the campsites were expensive. So I resigned myself to slumming it with the uglies. I looked around for somewhere to buy some wine for the evening and was horrified to discover that it was SUNDAY. Lulled in to a false sense of security by the festvities in Le Lude this morning, I'd forgotten that everything closes on a Sunday in France. In a panic I asked a few people, who invariably puffed out their cheeks and shrugged their shoulders in that particularly French way and said "Bof, en Dimanche...". Cursing the French and their casual approach to selling booze, I searched in vain around the streets of the town for somewhere to purchase some wine. Disgruntled, I mumbled and grumbled my way out of Saumur until Praise Be To The Oil Industry: a service station selling booze, God Blss 'em. Suddenly the world was a brighter and more colourful place. Never again would I allow myself to get so low on wine knowing that the French had an admirably lax attitude to shop opening times.
On I cycled until I reached the outskirts of a little village called Breze and found a lovely little picnic area next to a river and set up camp just in time for the rain, content in the knowledge that I had notched up a personal best for the day of 98km (78 miles). Went to sleep to the sounds of owls hooting in the tree above my tent. Bloody racket.
Monday 18th September 2006
So. Mondays aswell eh? Much as I admire the amount of time the French take off work, what about the poor weary traveller with a drink habit to feed? Not to mention food. Not even restaurants or bars were open today. I don't know about you, but if I have the day off, I want to go down the pub or out for a meal. What do you all do Raf/Angele/Emelyne? Where does everybody go? Everywhere is deserted! No wonder you all ended up in England...
I fell off my bike today. I was executing a u-turn, going no faster than 0.2km p/h. It's just as well all the French disappear on Sundays and Mondays as there was no one to see my fall. I have a nasty graze.
Anyway, it was a nice sunny day and I passed through the very pleasant towns of St. Generoux, Airvault (great name), St. Loup-Lamaire and Gourge before camping in a field outside of Parthenay with some of the largest bugs I've ever seen.
Tuesday 19th September 2006
Rained this morning and I spent most fof the day in Niort, drying out, writing up some of this rubbish and sorting stuff out at an internet cafe. Lunch was a club sandwich; Saxon (cook at the Cask) can rest easy as this was a rubbish club sandwich. It was two (untoasted) slices of cheap white bread consisting of a slice of turkey, lettuce and tomato. It was basically a turkey sandwich. Stayed at a campsite in Coulon, which was notable for its mysteriously inaccessable showers, and ate a fairly respectable spaghetti bolognese before retiring. Recorded my highest mileage (kilometreage?) of 105km (82miles).
Wednesday 20th September 2006
A very pretty morning's ride along a river, lunch on a quiet roadside listening to the radio and drinking wine before heading down an incredibly long, straight and surely Roman road into Rochefort. My fickle nature had wearied of rural french countryside and I'd decided to head for the seaside where it's always sunny and everyone is always happy. Really, there's only so much of that rustic, tumbledown stuff I can take before I have to a have a change of scenery. And Lo! What a pleasant change; bright white houses and terracotta roofing, sunshine and happy people.
I took an instant dislike to Rochefort after they hid the Tourist Information Office, ignored me in a snobby bar and deliberately closed the road I wanted to take out of town. I left the city in the most indignant manner that I could muster, which they of course ignored, and headed to a campsite in St. Nazaire-sur-Charente. As it turns out, the campsite was for camper vans only, but I put my tent up anyway and set about dinner. I wasn't the only hungry one; I was attacked by mosquitoes on all fronts (real ones Crabby). Determined to enjoy the sunset and not be driven in to my tent I sat stubbornly outside in a hooded, waterproof poncho and gloves until I began to breathe the bastard in, such were their numbers. There then followed a comic retreat into the tent with all my food and equipment, involving much waving of arms and shooing to prevent any of them entering my inner sanctum; mosquitoes as anyone knows will respond to a good shooing.
The cat that I had befriended that evening, before my tactical retreat, returned the favour of my feeding it fatty rind from my cold meat by attacking my tent several times in the middle of the night. I now have claw sized punctures in my little cocoon. I know you're responsible somehow Bimbo, I don't know how, but I know you are...
Thursday 21st September
Not my favourite morning so far. I clambered out of my tent to discover that the mozzies were early risers, I had a lukewarm shower while the wind blew unwelcome draughts through the shower cubicles, discovered I'd left my favourite black top somewhere, rubbed tiger-balm onto my many bites and eye and headed off into a gale that was decidedly against me. Still, Brouage where I had morning coffee was a lovely little old fortified village, even if the waitress who served me was a sour faced misery. But then on the plus side, she did have a nice arse. Stopped off in Marennes town square for some lunch and then on to les Mathes where I did loads of typing up for the site before eventually getting to La Palmyre where I stayed in a campsite that was intended for mobile homes really. Still, thanks to the afrorementioned sporadic, whimsical and frankly admirable views on opening times that the French have, I have frequently stayed on these places for free; I arrive when reception is shut and leave similarly. I editted almost everything that I had written so far while drinking wine in my tent, so felt pretty satisfied with myself for getting all that done.
Friday 22nd September
I was happily cycling down a lovely and secluded coastal bike path this morning; it undulated perfectly so that you would hurtle downhill and have just enough momentum to get to the top of the next peak before plummetting down again. It was tremendous fun and while I was whooping my way along, a small part of my small brain must have been analysing my actions of the night before because these subconscious ruminations sent an alert to the conscious part of my brain that was busily keeping me upright on my bike. With a sudden sickening jolt, I realised what I had done; I had inadvertently deleted the three hour's work of typing and editting that I had been so proud of doing yesterday; I hadn't saved before I finished. Oh boy did I swear at myself. Many French people that day would have seen a mad cyclist, swearing profusely in English and banging himself over the head with his fists. I was so pissed off with myself.
In a foul mood I took the ferry from somewhere to somewhere else; I don't know where, my notes are so taken up with having a go at myself that I neglected to put any details of where I was or what I was doing. My mood was not improved after I arrived at the port of my destination, got off the ferry and went about 5km the wrong way and thereby down a long and straight road with the wind fiercely against me. I'll spare you the rantings from my journal which were directed at myself, the French, technology and anything else within my general orbit.
Happily, I found a lovely little bar in Vendays-Montalivet to re-type my entries, although they wiould never, of course, match the sheer genius and observational wit that the originals had been.I naturally attracted attention with the laser keyboard. It generally goes something like this: I switch it on and begin typing to the sound of a general hubub and bar conversation, somebody spots me and (although I can't understand the words, I can usually tell when it happens by the conspiratorial tone) alerts the others, the hubub becomes increasingly more quiet and eventually silence descends, at which point I look up. All eyes in the bar are on me and I smile wanly. Then the brave sole of the bar will come over to find out what kind of magic be this, before going back to the others to report on what he/she has found out.
Saturday 23rd September 2006
My companon in the tent for the evening was a mosquito whom I had suspected was in the outer sanctum of my fortress but had actually been feasting on me all night until it was so bloated with my blood this morning that it was unable to avoid my killer swipe.
Had coffee in the fine bar that I had been in the previous evening and studied my route. I had some very long, straight roads ahead of me for the next couple of days. Long and straight roads can be exceedingly boring and so I would don my headphones and listen to an audio book; they are a lifesaver when it's awful weather or you've got bored with the dull scenery; get your head down and you can have covered twenty kilometres before you know it. So everything would have gone swimmingly had THE DISK NOT DIED!!!!! The two gigabyte disk which held about eighty hours of entertainment for me, everything from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy to BBC documentaries, along with Spanish lessons had been irreperably corrupted, as it kept telling me. I was truly devestated. I had loved the idea of Sherlock Holmes stories being read to me while a storm blew fiercely outside my tent, of Captain Corelli seducing Pelagia as I rode through rocky and rosemary scented landscapes and of Alistair Cooke reading his Letters From America. All gone. I was seriously pissed off. Technology hated me. I cursed Sony Ericsson and his brother Sven, I cursed mysellf for relying on it and I didn't bother cursing my phone because it seems that somebody had already done so. Oh what a woefull few days. But I realised that it was technolgy that was causing me the grief and I promised myself not to be so reliant on it in the future.
So as I calmed down, and resigned myself to cycling along very long and boring stretches of road through pine forests that were cultivated for lumber and therefore planted in soul destroyngly straight lines at infuriatingly regular intervals, I kept myself occupied with calculating how far I had cycled in total. This was a tricky calculation for a simple minded fellow such as myself. My odometer had been set to miles while in England, of which I had done 340, but I had switched to kilometres on arriving in France for obvious reasons. As it turns out, I was about to complete even as I was figuring it out, my 825th kilometre which by my calculations (which I'm fully prepared to admit may be wrong) made it 1000 miles since leaving the Cask. Happily I was within spitting distance of a bar and so I popped in to celebrate.
Ended up in Bassin d'Archon, a bland seaside town, where the campsite tried to charge me nine euros for the nighlr until I whinged so much that they dropped it to four. I was obviously overdoing it a bit because the receptionist asked me if I thought they should be paying me for staying there.
Enjoyed Coq-au-Vin from a jar for dinner before heading into town to see what was going on. Well, not a lot; there was a bar open and that was it, so with nothing else to do I crow-barred myself in. My laser keyboard which henceforth shall be known as VKB brought me some unwelcome attention in this particular establishment when I was approached by a very effeminate young man who chose my choice of technology as a way of getting to know me a little better. After much eyelash fluttering on his part and some some curt answers from myself, he was still intersted enough to stand there looking at me through the increasingly long silences. Eventually I just carried on typing and ignored him and he went away.
I haven't mentioned my buckled wheel. I blame the French. Today, not to be caught out as I was last week, I bought enough provisions to see me through Sunday and Monday. Well it was too much weight and my back wheel buckled. I refuse to believe that it had anything to do with the three litres of wine that I strapped on there. Of course Saturday evening is entirely the wrong time to have anything like this happen in France BECAUSE EVERYTHING SHUTS!!!
Having procured a spoke tightening tool from a bike shop that was about to shut FOR TWO WHOLE DAYS
I felt confident I could fix the problem in the morning.
Sunday 24th September 2006
Awoke to the sound of childeren playing, which to me is akin to a mosquito's buzz; it warns me they're there. Up I got and tackled the problem of the buckled wheel. Unfortunately all of my skills as a bike mechanic could not fix a broken spoke. It would have to wait until the next city which was a long way away and anyway it was only Sunday. I figured if I took it easy I'd be alright. I balanced the wheel as best I could and set off. Headed towards Biganoas along a cycle track through the forest and happily witnessed the steam emanating from the path as the sun set to work on what the rain storm had deposited. A more unwelcoming sound though, was the slap of my wine bag (I'd removed the bag from the box of wine that I'd purchased, for ease of carriage) as it hit the ground behind me. When I returned to where it had fallen, I found the bag wounded beyond repair, its blood seeping into the cracks in the cycle path. I cursed my stupidity once again but couldn't help but feel that it was my bike's attempt to shed ballast. I cursed my stupidity yet again for probably not the last time a little later on that day when I realised that I could have poured away my 1.5 litre bottle of water and filled it with the remnants of my stricken wine bag; I still had other water bottles which I could have filled up easlily along the way. A note in my journal tells me to stop doing stupid things.
Anyway aside from that, it was a fairly pleasant bike ride to St-Paul-en-Born and along the way I saw a load (pride, gaggle, pack, flock?) of wild boar of which I took many photos. And then at my campsite I sat eating my dinner while a young deer grazed no more than twenty or thirty meters away from me. Having that peculiarly human trait of wanting to get closer to these cuddly creatures, I stalked it with my camera. It was thoroughly entertaining, each time the poor deer heard me I would freeze as it looked in my direction until it decided that all was clear and then I would creep a little closer. I actually got quite close before it got truly spooked and bounded off.
And then it pissed down.
I was alittle bit sick of straight roads. Admittedly I hadn't seen a hill in three days, Gus had obviously been at work, but long straight roads had their own evils. For a start it's quite boring, you put your head down and try to get some kilometres in, but when you look up, the scenery is exactly the same and it appears that you have made no progress at all. Now you know where you are with your common or garden hill, there's usually a few corners involved to keep your interest up, and you know that once you've reached the top you invariably have the reward of going downhill. Yep, I was beginning to miss the little blighters. Of course the other thing about long and straight roads is that if the wind is against you, there's no let up, no coasting, just a hard relentless slog. The beautiful relationship that I had had with the Weather Gods over the years now seemed to be in tatters because for the three days that I had cycled those roads, the wind was always against me. How jealously I glared at those cyclists going in the opposite direction to myself, cast along as they were by the prevailing wind, their feet up on their handlebars, filing their nails for wont of anything else to do
.
Anyway, I stopped for lunch in Castets, and it's here that I wish to dispel a few myths; I realise I may offend a few people in the process and for that I am sorry, but it must be said; feel free to skip to the end. Now anybody that knows me will probably be aware that I would be the last person to defend the British catering industry and I'm not about to start now; it's over legislated, over expensive, often pre-packaged and microwaved, uninteresting and generally tasteless. The Cask of course being an exception. But this idea that France is a haven of gastronomic delights, whose culinary arts are a bastion to the rest of the world is frankly misleading snobbery and just plain wrong. Having now just spent the best part of a month cycling the length of this beautiful country I think I'm suitably qualified to pass a judgement; I've eaten in a wide variety of places, from snack bars to hotels, restaurants and brasseries and so haven't restricted myself to a particular type of establishment. The food has mostly been OK, but that's it, not excellent, fantastic or even really nice. At times it has been awful and occasionally it has been good. I have been served chips with every meal without ever being given a choice in the matter up until today when I was served sauteed potatoes (sauteed potatoes should be part boiled and then sliced before being fried in a pan in hot oil and butter, these were deep-fried from raw. And the green beans were over-cooked and mushy) and only once have I seen jacket potatoes and these were being eaten by the staff. Which brings me to the service; with very few exceptions it has been rude and arrogant when it has not just been plain ambivalent. I'm prepared to concede that at times there may have been misunderstandings which could be put down to my poor French and lack of cultural knowledge but still, not all of the time. Another thing, if you turn up to eat before 12.30, you will usually find the entire staff of the place sat down eating their lunch and receive disapproving looks from one and all as one of them hoists themselves out of their chair to serve some pesky Englishman. And at the other end of the scale, if you turn up after 2.30 you are likely to find them clearing away and receive the same disapproving looks. When you're cycling between towns it's very difficult to time your lunch stops so precisely; and if you happen to be travelling on a Sunday or Monday you'll be lucky to find somewhere open. Maybe in Paris and the major cities the food is exceptional, but I would maintain that this is true for any country. Surely a country should be judged on what is served in the normal places, and if it is then I'm afraid that France does not live up to its reputation. I'm not saying it's bad, but it ain't great. Rant Over.
Stopped off a few times after lunch, rain and a sore arse being the usual reasons (how much cycling do you have to do before that stops?). I particularly liked one place where the proprietress had a fag perenially hanging out of her mouth while she scrubbed and cleaned the premises. When I asked for a glass of wine she just brought me a bottle and a glass and left me to it. My reputation had obviouly preceeded me.
I pulled up at a farm campsite in Montford-en-Chalosse at the same time as another long-haul cyclist; after a few exchanged French pleasantries we discovered we were both English. We were both kitted out almost exatly the same, down to the baguette bungeed to the top of our panniers. He too had cycled down through France, from Dieppe and was headed to Bilbao. We payed the owner for our pitches and then, being English, we sloped off to different ends of the campsite to respect each other's privacy.
Glad to have those horrible straight roads out of the way, I was happily winding my way to Pau and enjoying the scenery. I was staring ahead at the misty blue haze as it merged with the deep blue sky and white fluffy clouds. After a while I began to notice that the blue misty haze had jagged peaks. I blinked a couple of times before realising that I was seeing the Pyrenees solidify before my eyes. Oh how I laughed; a giggle which turned into a hearty guffaw and was followed hot on its heels by a more crazed and manic kind of laugh. Pity the fool who would attempt those mothers on a fully-loaded bike. By crikey they're big. I entered Pau with tears in my eyes.
Pau is the last city on my route before hitting the Pyrenees. I had decided I would have a pit-stop here, get my wheel sorted out, splash out on a hotel, do some laundry, hit the internet cafe and generally chill out a bit before hitting that big range of mountains barring my way to Spain. I arrived at the Tourist Information office at four and it was just being locked for the day (you really can't predict the opening hours of these Frenchies). I'd like to say that I charmed the gaggle of young ladies that were departing from said office, into opening the office back up so that they could give me some hotel and bike shop information. But in fact all I did was wave my arms about in a panic while blurting out a string of nonsensical and possibly French words. Still, it seemed to do the trick and I left a few minutes later armed with brochures and relevant information. Satisfied, I retired to a bar to consider my options. After much deliberating I went for the cheapest and closest hotel and I'm very glad that I did. It was an ancient place situated over a boulangerie, smack bang in the centre of the city. The owner was a little grey-haired old lady who looked every inch the French landlady and despite her years, insisted on helping me with my many heavy bags up to the reception on the second floor. I did protest, honest I did. It was a fantastically quirky building that had been built on and added to over the years, so that parts of the inside had quite obviously been on the outside at some point or another. The dining room where I put my bike was looked upon by the kitchen window of one resident and at the other end was the bathroom window, the door of which had no lock, just a polite notice to knock. It reminded me of Swan Street. My room had a double and single bed within which would have had Andy and I squabbling and betting over to see who ended up with which, back in our long distance removal days. The floor to ceiling balcony windows could be wrenched open to look out over the drunks and crack addicts below. It was, in other words, perfect.
So, deliriously happy at having my own room, I set about distributing my belongings about it in a suitably untidy fashion. I showered, put on trousers, socks and shoes for the first time since that wet day in Mamers and went out on the town feeling rather urbane. I dined at a posh restaurant, had a little bit too much wine and went back to my room. There, I put on some Nina Simone and relaxed in my first bed in over a month. Bliss.
I was awoken at 2 in the morning by an irate French lady yelling at me to turn the bloody music down.
Took my bike to be repaired and serviced and then went for a lengthy stroll around town, gulping at the Pyrenees as I went. It was lovely to have a day of not moving; to walk about without thinking about where to put my bike and how safe my stuff was. Remembering that I'd forgotten to tell the bike man to replace the brake blocks, I returned to the shop. I was in time for him to show me the destroyed axle that had been barely supporting me and my baggage. The lack of hills over the last few days that I could have been hurtling to my death on now seemed fortuitous. Luckily he had another wheel of my size; and I had to re-think the weight I was carrying.
I spent the rest of the day trecking around town looking for front panniers with which to spread the weight. None of the bike shops in the city sold them for some reason and so I resorted to purchasing a Camelpak; this (for those of you who don't know) is a backpack containing a water resevoir with a tube which can be inserted into your mouth so that you can drink while cycling. At least I could save some weight by not having my water supply on the back rack, it a had pockets in which I could store my provisions for the day. I then returned to the hotel and began discarding what I really didn't need. To be fair, there wasn't a lot but I reluctantly parted with my world band radio that was basically defunct now that I had lost Radio 4 and European World Service had been disbanded. I got rid too, of the one book I had that wasn't related to Spain which was The Arabian Nights. A couple of other items went and I repacked; it looked and felt better. I was ready for the Pyrenees...
When I'd picked up my bike from the shop yesterday, the bike-man was all smiles and he assured me that he'd serviced it and that everything was running perfectly. That's what I thought he'd said, but I now realise that what he'd actually been saying was "Hah! You shall die on the road and rot in the gutter where you belong by my own hand you mad dog English pig'" and that smile was actually a dastardly twisting of the ends of his waxed moustache accompanied by a cackling evil laugh. On my way out of Pau it had felt like my bike wasn't running as efficiently as usual, so just outside the city, in the pretty village of Gan I stopped to investigate. My back brakes had been adjusted so tightly that the wheel wouldn't turn around freely, so I re-adjusted it and continued along my way up the ever steeper road towards the Pyrenees. But I still felt that I was having to put in more effort than usual. And then, at one of those crucial gear-change moments as you are about to go up a very steep and narrow bend in the road, the chain came crunching off, thereby forcing me to swerve wildly and dangerously in to the middle of the road. Upon further investigation, it seems that the evil bike-man had 'adjusted' the gears out of all recognition and no longer bore any resemblance to how they should be. I hadn't even asked him to touch the gears, they were perfect before. Cursing him and several generations of his family I pulled into a bar in Rebenacq to undo all of his diabolical deeds while having a glass of wine. With the bike upside down I also noticed that the new wheel had a slight wobble; so not only had he deliberately tried to murder me, he hadn't solved the very problem that I had gone in for. To be honest it wasn't that bad a buckle but that wasn't the point.
Well it was beautiful scenery all the way to Laruns, which was right at the foot of them thar hills. I was headed there for the night before the serious slog over the top tomorrow. Laruns itself was a cute little town that was preparing itself for its cheese festival at the weekend; apparently it's quite famous for its goats cheese. I found a nice little refuge as they called this particular bar/restaurant; refuge from what I have no idea (murderous cycle mechanics maybe?) I sat there for quite some time trying not to talk myself in to having dinner there. I'd spent way beyond my budget in Pau and had a perfectly good can of beans and day old baguette back at the tent. It didn't half sound good though: quiche or potage for starters, followed by Beef Bourginon and then apple tart. Well, what do you think I did? It was my last meal in france after all. I went for the potage as nothing can really compare to Raf's quiche and it was all absolutely fantastic with excellent and friendly service....
Friday 29th September 2006
It was a beautiful morning and the Pyrenees almost looked enticing, I had a couple of coffees to get the heart racing just that little bit faster and departed. It was straight uphill from Laruns, no more pansying about, this was the real stuff. Fantastic scenery, the first part being mainly lush forest and narrow winding roads, unobtrusive waterfalls cascading casually by the side of the road, the occasional cloud bubbling up and wrapping itself around a peak before being gently herded on by a breeze; now and then a truck driver with evil in his eyes would hurtle around a corner, the blood from the last cyclist still fresh upon his windsecreen. Actually there wasn’t that much traffic, which was a relief as there wasn’t an awful ot of room for maneouvre on the initial part of the journey; then above the tree-line the claustrophobic scenery gave way to alpine meadows with crystal clear rivers running through.
I was at first annoyed at the signs which appeared every kilometre and informed you of how high you were and how much further you had to go, along with a percentage of the gradient you would be fighting against for the next kilometre. When you’re near the bottom, you’re already tired, and the sign informs you that you’ve climbed only 500 metres and you still have1294 to go (a couple of hundred metres higher than Snowdon), and oh by the way, the next kilometre will be a 9% gradient, you can’t help but feel that the sign is mocking you somehow. But near the end I was living for those signs, I would think no further than the next one and was deliriously happy to see it; they were my friends, my companions, I loved them dearly. I had a welcome break near the top when a couple of sheperds blocked the road with their herd. They were very friendly, (the sheperds and not the sheep who were rather rude and sullen) but I’m sad to report that today’s sheperds wear flourescent yellow jackets which I feel is really not in keeping with the spirit of things; surely a cloak and a hooked staff.
Thankfully there were a couple of bars along the way and I thought it would be rude to pass them by, there was one right at the very top too, just inside the Spanish border. I would have shouted for joy if I had had the breath, as it was I could barely nod my thanks to the group of people who gave me a round of applause as I peeled myself from the saddle. After a celebratory glass of wine, I happily freewheeled for a very long time from and coasted to a stop next to a cliff overlooking a lake, where I had a delicious lunch of creamy goat’s cheese and anchovy baguette with dried apricots and chocolate. I have to inform you that cheese and anchovy sandwiches are the best thing in the world ever.
I found a campsite and ate my dinner while watching a French couple try to level their brand new caravan, something they’d obviously never attempted to do before. It went on for quite sometime and I was tempted to go over and offer to help but the proceedings had reached the stage where the woman was offering continuous verbal advice which the man was steadfastly ignoring apart from the occasionally restrained shake of the head. Either she was whittering a load of unhelpful rubbish which he was ignoring while trying to sort the problem out himself or she had put her finger right on the problem and he was ignoring it because this was man’s work and he wouldn’t admit to a woman being right. Either way it was a vipers’ nest into which I wasn’t prepared to tread.
Saturday 30th September
What a fantastic day. It didn’t start off that way, it was hammering down when I woke up and continued to do so for quite some time. I decided to go and take a long hot shower in the extremeley plush shower block and hope it had eased off by the time I’d finished. It was glorious sunshine when I emerged all cleaned and preened, so I must try that tactic again in the future.
After stopping off for breakfast in Sabinango (a cheese and anchovie sandwich), I turned off the main highway on to the tiny A1604 to Boltana. I’m so glad I did because it was some of the most amazing scenery I’ve ever seen. The road initially followed the Rio Guarga for several kilometres which was superb scenery in itself; golden rocky canyons and ancient and decrepit buildings hanging precariously over the river and various waterfalls which fed the Guarga. Then the road began to climb; it was at times much steeper that the route I’d taken over the Pyrenees (I suppose that these technically were still part of the Pyrenees) and I was forced into getting off and pushing. The pass was at 1291metres and the view was spectacular. I literally did take an involuntary breath. I could see range upon range of mountains stretching off as far as I could see, a few towered over the one that I was on and some were lost in cloud. I stood there fore ages drinking in the view and the silence was broken only by the tinkling of cow-bells and the occasional fly. If I saw nothing else on this trip it would have been worth it for that vista.
I spent the night in Boltana at a quiet campsite and had a wander around the old town, which was hanging on to the side of a very steep hill. In the past, the Spaniards seem to have had the attitude that there was no point in building a town on the level if there wasn’t a perfectly good steep hill to slap it on to the side of. Anyway it was very nice nonetheless, with narrow winding streets leading inevitably to the fortified church at the top. A crane stood ominously behind it all as if ready to cast each house, one by one in to the river below. Still, my legs were beginning to rebel at all the unnecassary exercise and so I took them to a bar for a well deserved rest. I managed to drink and eat for the entire night for the princely sum of three euros so I think they may have made a bit of a mistake there but I didn’t like to point it out.
