The Boast Post Thread - They're long but better than reading the Popcorn Thread.

The next day of cycling was fairly straightforward but hard. The heat was getting more and more pronounced the further south we traveled - my hand was still numb (turns out it's CTS and I still have Cycling Claw nearly three weeks after I've returned). Pain in feet and knees. Pain in neck (at that stage I couldn't work out whether it was a bad nights sleep or early stages of fucking sunstroke.) Most of that days journey was made up of A roads with substantial amounts of roadkill.

Probably my abiding memory of France will be roadkill. Countless creatures in various stages of decomposition. Some ultra fresh, others just puddles on the ground. Beavers, pine martins, herons, egrets, buzzards, owls, badgers, rabbits, foxes, cats, dogs, pigs, sheep, moles, hedgehogs, squirrels, mice, bats. Thankfully no cyclists which heartened us as we rolled into Royan.

Van had developed a craving for McDonalds and would rest until it was satiated. We camped on the beach pretty much and asked someone for directions to the nearest Golden Arches. "Le just around le corneur". He said. We walked about 9 miles before we found it. They had a strange system inside, a bit like a Tesco self-checkout over here where you type in on a computer what you want, pay by card and then collect it at the counter. But reassuringly a big mac was still a le big mac as hollywood had promised us. We ordered, each, 1 large big mac meal with about 3 litres of coke, 2 cheeseburgers and two hamburgers. In retrospect this was one of the more foolish moments of the trip - not least because I had to walk back about 10 miles in baking late afternoon heat carrying enough stodge in my gut that I can now happily sympathise with a heavily pregnant woman.

Not that I'm calling unborn babies 'stodge'.

We cross the straight the next morning with the ferry from Royan to Verdon-Sur-Mer. We have breakfast on the crossing consisting of a loaf of yesterdays bread and a new pot of jam which is empty by the time we dock, dipping chunks of the bread into the jar and scooping out great mouthfuls of sugary fruit. A fairly easy stretch of road along the coast through pine forests alive with the chorus of a million cicadas. However the heat is a killer - we recorded it at 35.4 and there was absolutely no shade.

I now understand why the naturist camps that fill that coastline are full of such tanned people. 'Euro-Nude', 'Nude Number Un', 'Nude-Central', 'Cote D'argent Nudist Camp' etc etc Site after site for about 40 miles. All surrounded by low wicker fences and all containing peering eyes staring out at the passers by. I need glasses for long distance but I could make out bronzed skin tones which was enough for me to realise my pasty tender flesh wouldn't be welcome.

Sadly this meant no views of the Atlantic yet until about 1PM when we came to this weird market street in the middle of sand-dunes that was absolutely packed with people. We dismounted and went behind the single street to a carpark and there it was.

Big. Blue. Beautiful.

After a late and long lunch we made a good pace and covered a last 30 or 40 miles before finding a farm and slipping the farmer a few euros to stay in his field.

At about 3AM there was an almighty explosion and blinding lights. Hurricane Katrina had somehow materialised itself in on the Atlantic Wall. This was the first serious test for my new tent which performed admirably. Dry as a bone in the morning, I was. Of course I had forgotten to bring everything in so apart from my handlebar bag and contents, everything else got drenched.

Oh well, that was nothing 65 miles of burning sun couldn't cure. 36 degrees and the rain had washed out any haziness in the sky. Running out of fluids by this stage was a pain in the arse. We pounced on a remote Pressé which clearly had supply and demand in the area sewn up. We bought 3 litres of water and 2 powerades each - 19 euros.

We zigzagged down towards Mimazan but I made an executive decision to stop in Parentis-En-Born which is an eerie bullfighting town filled with Spanish (Still a few hundred miles from the border) A very quiet place - the few people on the street stopped and stared at us as we rolled through looking for somewhere to stay. A far cry from Brittany where we had peds running up the hills with us clapping and cheering :)

These few days were gruelling cycling. It was flat as a pancake which was the only blessing. Scorchingly hot, no shade, no wind and the dullest scenery you'll ever come across as a cyclist - long, long, loonnnnnng straight roads - so long you can't see the end, just the curve of the fucking earth. With recently deforested land for about half a mile on either side.

Plenty of road kill and plenty of dippy drivers not giving enough space. Eventually after a couple of days of it however we decided to take a bit of a de-tour and head inland - narrow windy completely deserted lanes through forests, we started to see a few hills - lots of shade. Good road surfaces. Pretty little brooks. Glorious. Until we went on a slightly busier road for one stretch which was fairly fast road and quite hilly.

A little souped up Citroen filled with local Yoof honked at Van a hundred yards behind me, for some reason that I didn't see - then they honked and slowed and swerved into me leaning out trying to push me, one of them slapping the back of my head.

This annoyed me.

They sped off.

I began pursuit.

I crested the hill and smiled - at the bottom of the hill the car/Yoof were stuck in what was probably the only traffic jam for 50 miles. I slowed down, reached in and grabbed the guy who hit me and asked if he still had a problem in flawless french that appeared out of nowhere. He didn't. They went very quiet.

"A victory for manliness"

That particular day, we were aiming for Capbreton but we struck this incredible cycle path that had a beautiful surface and took us almost to Bayonne. We came across a campsite run by an old Belgian couple. We upped tents under a willow tree by a lake and had some well earned beers.

"Mine"

"Van's"

Hopefully we'd reach the border by tomorrow. Though going on past days I wasn't getting my hopes up.

As it turned out, we cycled like Spartans. First it was the last leg of those long deforested roads all the way into a bizarre industrial estate just outside of Bayonne which seemed to be the start of a collection of small towns merging into one sprawling suburban area. Heavy traffic and we started to see a LOT of surfboards.

Cue Van getting excited.

The terrain was getting hillier by this stage and by the time we got to Biarritz it was very short but very steep hills in baking heat on narrow roads covered in glass being honked at or edged into the verge by dicks in lamborghinis. Safe to say, I wasn't impressed. We took the obligatory photo and pushed on.

"Obligatory Photo"

The route into Hendaye, on the coast at least, was beautiful - by now we were well and truly in Santiago de Compostela territory and were seeing lots of walkers - while I loved cycling the route I bet the walk must have been equally incredible - less hairy at times, too. Beautiful slow inclines and long sprawling descents overlooking a vast blue sea and in the distance across the curve of the coast was Spain and the Western Pyrenees. Slightly daunting to look at for a couple of tired cyclists - but like a moth to a flame we continued on.

• "Yeah it's alright"*
  
  

Out of nowhere we crossed a bridge across a little ravine and all of a sudden everything was in some crazy language. Spain! It was only about 3pm so we decided to throw caution to the wind and press on to San Sebastian which was one of our big milestones and where we planned to stop for a while.

Immediately we were ostensibly on another motorway - I don't think it was officially a motorway but it had two lanes of traffic, three in places, a shit load of flyoevers and roundabouts and the average speed of the vehicles, mostly lorries was about 90KM. Add to that, BIG hills, far bigger than anything we'd come across and a harsh sun. Pretty hideous.

We went through a tunnel that lasted about half a mile which completely screwed my vision after the glaring sun meaning I was squinting struggling to lower my sunglasses without falling under the axel of the 18 wheeler running along side of me. I emerge victorious, somehow, and pulled into a lay-by to wait for Van. We decide to walk for a bit as there's a footpath ahead overlooking a huge valley with a wide river below us and eagles soaring above - quite a sight.

Lucky for us that we were walking, as we see two other tourers pass on the same stretch looking even more uncomfortable and they're just about to make a left onto the motorway proper when a police car beeps them and directs them over to the hard shoulder. We watch them getting scalded for a bit and then given directions away. We go and have a chat with them after the police have moved on and it turns out they're also headed to San Sebastian so they ask to follow us. We got ourselves a convoy.

In no time at all using a side road at the bottom of the valley this time, not the A road, we hit Donostia / San Sebastian. And bloody hell is it nice. I was wowed by La Rochelle and was making a note of property prices there - I had my eye on a lighthouse in the centre of town which had been converted and was only 180,000 euros. Not that I have any money of course. I spent it all on bloody panniers. But if I was wowed by La Rochelle I was floored by San Sebastian.

"The ugly bit of town"

Mucho bueno - much bigger than I'd anticipated. It has quite a modern sprawling bit on the east and south of the town which looked like any modern large European town, but the old quarter on the north east corner was out-of-this-world beautiful. Van and I know immediately we're going to be here for a few days so find a cheapish Pension/guesthouse and settle down.

After grabbing a shower we head out to get something to eat - wow. Pinchos are the order of the day. Little tapas style sandwiches/slices of bread with tasty things on top with cocktail sticks through them/tortilla (of the omlette variety) arranged on every bar top in the district - normally around 2 euros each - some 1, some 3. and then at the end of it all you just show the bartender how many cocktail sticks you've got on your spotless plate.

Fish is a big deal here - the anchovies (either salted or marinaded) were mind-numbingly tasty. There was one particular 'dish' called Gilda which consisted of a cocktail stick onto which was skewered a green olive, a marinated anchovy, a salted anchovy and a couple of little pickly peppers.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

With a little hunk of bread to mop up all the delicious oil. Another one was basically a large tin of VERY good tuna which had been broken up into hunks and on top of which was drizzled a little pepper salsa. Fuck yeah.

Lot's of deep fried things - there was this little horn of filo pastry filled with cream cheese and a pepper. All of it, every single thing in that place was delicious - even what would they would call their cheap shit.

And to drink, beers were cheap and cold, coffees were less than a euro and they had this delicious quite strong and very dry cider which the bartender holds up high in the air and pours out to break it on the surface of the glass. Goes extremely well with all the disgracefully fresh seafood.

To top it all off, the atmosphere of the whole town was so relaxed. It was a party town but not in a grotty Brighton/Bournemouth sense. Good clean fun. Case in point: Rather than have a slimy kebab at the end of the night, people gather round and buy an ice-cream and eat it overlooking the harbour.

"I can think of worse lifestyles"

A few days later and sad to leave San Sebastian we set off heading inland at first for 50 odd miles and then hook back to the coast. We wind up somewhere called Zarautz (which we find out on a map later is only about 15 bloody miles from San Sebastian) - and when we stumble across a campsite there that night, by god had we earned it.

Almost immediately outside of San Sebastian and we hit some nasty hills. They were long and narrow averaging I'd say 15%. Thankfully no traffic as no-one in their right mind would live at the top of them. Perhaps a trifle if we'd been on plastic-fantastic road bikes - but when we were carrying 40KG of kit plus bike on a bloody hot day, it was hard going.

"Dropout represents"

We were however ahead of schedule so stopped in Zarautz for another day and surfed on a lovely beach at the bottom of the hill.

Waking up late we have breakfast in a quiet cafe on the beach. Fresh juice, hot chocolate and churros overlooking the Atlantic. Yeah, not bad I guess.

We prepare ourselves for a pretty seriously hilly day and set off. First off it was probably my favourite stretch of cycling for the trip - the N634 along the north coast. Long but pleasant climbs along the bottom of some very high cliffs but still high enough from sea level that you wouldn't want to fall over the edge. Wild seas below in a cooling drizzle with fantastic road surface and wide cycle lanes to the right of traffic. Really great stuff and reinforces my idea that this area is a top notch place to live. Then after a while we headed inland and followed the river Deda. A very tall canyon-like gorge of a river with the road running at the bottom snaking its way upstream. Again, the same fantastic road surface and width. The rains started to appear this stage.

We laugh in the face of your windy and wet hills, Spain. We laugh.

We absolutely bloody demolished it. We had already done 50 or so miles in the morning, we did another zig-zaggy-more-than-we-needed-to 80 in the afternoon including cresting some pretty substantial peaks that had absolutely postcard views of the Pyrenees. Unfortunately (sort of) we were making such headway we didn't get too much photos.

Before we knew it, we were rolling into beautiful Bilbao.

Much to our disbelief.

We fell into a lovely old Pension in the centre of the old quarter which was half the price of San Sebastian and immediately booked it for 3 more nights. We showered. Not together. And promptly fell asleep. Woke up around 9PM and wandered out into the streets for more Pinchos at local bars - even cheaper than San Sebastian. This is seriously a lifestyle I could get used to. We found a flight of stairs that was seemingly eternal and harder on my legs than climbing during the day, but eventually we reached the summit and found ourselves in a tiny park at the top of an incongruous hill in the centre of town. There was a basketball court with a game in full swing and we found ourselves sat on a ledge overlooking the court watching them and the sun going down in the distance behind over the city listening to some musicians in the corner giving the game an even more Spanish soundtrack.

Several days later we emerged victorious and made our way to Santander, which can only be described as a shit-hole. Sorry Santander - maybe I didn't give you enough of a chance? Maybe we'd just had enough by then. But I think it really was just a bit shit.

That was alright though, we had a ferry to look forward to - 24 hours this time, rather than the paltry 12 hours of the first crossing.

"Real men"

There's a lot of shit you can do in 24 hours stuck on a large boat. For example. You can go to the cinema and watch Shoot 'Em Up dubbed into Spanish. The mark of any worth film, I feel, is that it's still comprehensible without dialogue. Shoot 'em Up is that film. Without understanding a single word, I knew exactly what was going on.

There's Clive Owen, yeah? And he really likes carrots. He's also exceptionally good with guns, presumably due to his healthy diet of carrots and nothing else. He effectively steals a baby, though I'm sure he would argue it was for the childs own protection. He is protecting it in this case from that bloke what was in Sideways. The one who doesn't want to drink any fucking merlot. I reckon he's got bigger things to worry about like trying to murder children.

So he'd probably drink merlot.

At a push.

Monica Bellucci is in it as a prostitute. Or a nun. I couldn't quite tell. She likes Clive Owen. And his carrot. And basically loads of people end up getting shot - mostly by Clive Owen. There are some double entendres which is the mark of a particularly special film if you can manage to spot them in a different language. For example, during a drawn out sex scene between Owen and Bellucci, they are attacked by assassins. Still... attached... they begin an elaborate dance which involves Clive Owen killing everyone else, all the while Bellucci's orgasmic screams get louder. Just before the climax of the scene while Owen thinks he's killed everyone and he very evidently has one bullet left in the chamber, one of the shot assassins aims his gun at the couple only to have his head blown off by Owen. Owen then utters something, probably in English, but the Spanish version was essentially "Hey! I hadn't shot my load yet." Or words to that effect. Then he ejaculates.

And that pretty much sums up the ferry home.