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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.
- "Yeah it's alright"*
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Great read. Santader is an awesome town though. Should have given it more of a chance.
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wow! Great trip. Trying to plan something similar for the end of October.
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Thanks, that's 15 minutes of my life I'm never getting back (I enjoyed sacrificing them).
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great write up, great riding
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Ta very much all - except you hippy. Take your mirth elsewhere.
It was written in delirium so forgive typo's.
Spenceey, I happen to be, technically, an idiot. So I have the GPS routes I created before I left (the ones you saw in the GPS thread) however we only used them as a rough guide and ended up zig-zagging all over the place particularly through France. I have the data I recorded on the trip but god knows how I do anything about getting it online given the debacle just to put those maps on the device. It doesn't matter as I doubt I have the energy at the moment anyway, maybe in a few weeks when work calms down and I'm healthy.
Santader is an awesome town though. Should have given it more of a chance.
Yeah you're probably right :) I think as much as anything we wanted to kid ourselves that we didn't miss out much as we only arrived there with a few hours to kill so just sat on the seafront sipping coffee. Which wasn't exactly shit :) -
Amazing posts. Good work!
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I think you should try and get this published in Cycle Touring. The CTC needs more write ups of tours like this
Our family used to regularly use that ferry for holidays , i never got an offer of an E during the cabaret or the other...
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I think you should try and get this published in Cycle Touring. The CTC needs more write ups of tours like this
That's part of the idea of this thread really - I'd love to see a compilation of other peoples trips in one place.. Maybe an LFGSS on Tour book. As it stands there's a paragraph here or a few pages there but nothing all together which would be A. great for people to read as a reference and B. great for people to read for pleasure.Our family used to regularly use that ferry for holidays , i never got an offer of an E during the cabaret or the other...
I'm exceptionally charming. And I have a chipped tooth. They love that.
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About
The Boast Post Thread - They're long but better than reading the Popcorn Thread.
Posted by
@CYOA
A thread for unnecessarily lengthy posts about memorable rides.
I'll start.
I meant to do a proper write-up of this as I didn't bring a book with me to read, but a notepad to doodle in and jot the days down. However I came back to a bit of a nightmare at work which lasted until about last Wednesday when I contracted ebola or something so I've been going stir crazy in bed since then. Euph.
Saint Malo to Santander
Van late. Van being my cycling buddy rather than a van which would drive us to Spain. We don't set off from Clapton until 11:45AM. We were both far too lazy to go on test-runs fully kitted out before hand - so to say the very least, we were wobbly. I was taking two rear panniers, a handlebar bag and a saddlebag by Scott.
Left pannier - tent, cooking gear, gas, larger clothing items. Right pannier - sleeping bag, sleeping matt, lighting, washbag, miscellaneous stuff, spares. Saddlebag - dry/clean clothes in a dry bag. Clothes - two pairs of bibshorts (wearing one) two cycle jerseys (wearing one) 3 t shirts, 1 pair of climbing trousers, 1 pair of shorts, 4 pairs of cycling socks, 1 hoody, a selection of fine hosiery. Handlebar bag - waterproof jacket, tools, playing cards, wallet, passport, spare tubes, travel adapter, first aid kit, salt and pepper dispenser, pocket-knife, printed extracts from a guidebook about cycling in France, hard copy of maps, other stuff. GPS (Garmin 605) strapped to the stem and the tent poles taped to the top tube. Bike - a modified Jamis Aurora Elite 2011 - new saddle, pedals and groupset. Also carrying a 2 litre camelbak.
"Janis"
Van's set up... christ... An absolutely clapped out ridgeback that in some parts was held together by electrical tape. Headset rattling and shaking. Pedals not rotating cleanly. Two rear panniers and lots of bungie cord to attach everything else. All to the back wheel. All of it. He looked like a sherpa. A stupid one who had give no thought to the fact that this was quite a long journey. Honestly, the weight distribution was astonishing and I have immense respect/disgust with him for the fact that he managed to complete, including the UK leg, just shy of 1000 miles riding his:
"Knightrider"
Then there was his kit... Tent, sleeping matt, sleeping bag - fine, no cooking gear or plates or anything useful for both of us, no tools or spares - no, I lie, he had, inexplicably, 5 spare inner tubes and 2 spare brake-pads. Clothes: 3 pairs of trousers, 6 t shirts, 2 jumpers, 3 pairs of shorts, 2 pairs of trainers, 1 pair of flip flops, 1 (actually fantastic) altura jacket, waterproof trousers. A powermonkey type chargeable battery thing, an ipod touch, travel speakers - no plug adapter though, and of course an aikido training sword strapped to his top tube.
Then the good stuff:
Being and Time - Martin Heidegger
Kant and the Problem of Metaphysics - Martin Heidegger
Metaphysics of Morals - Immanuel Kant
Critique of Practical Reason - Immanuel Kant
The Theory of Moral Sentiments - Adam Smith
and a couple of others I can't remember the names of.
When I was packing I tried so hard to justify bringing a book I was reading - a 350 odd page thing about the declaration of independence. In the end, I couldn't justify the weight so left it behind along with my ukelele. If only I'd known.
And so we set off wearing the novelty item we'd challenged each other to wear some months had forgotten. We had taunted each other with threats of flags or Game Of Throne costumes. In the end we both forgot and grabbed hipster sunglasses and ironic stares from the corner shop.
"Team Irony"
About a hundred yards down the road, my map fell out of the map holder on top of the handlebar bag. I stop to pick it up and we continue. About 200 yards later the velcro closing mechanism on the bag comes undone and my passport topples out. I find some electrical tape and wrap the bastard shut. Show 'em who's boss - that's my take on things.
Inordinately slow progress through London, stopping at just about every light. We got stopped at the crossroads with Theobolds Road and Bloomsbury way, a road I don't often head west on, by two police officers who pointed out a 'no cycling' sign that had apparently recently been installed. We dismounted and were escorted to High Holborn where we continued.
This was going well.
By some series of pleasant coincidences, south of the river was absolutely fine and before we knew it, we were in Portsmouth asking a local PCSO, who was trying to convince three aggressive heroin addicts not to murder her, which direction to the ferry port, she points west and we're on our way. It's at this stage in our journey that I suddenly realise I don't know any Spanish. I pick up an overpriced phrasebook from the ferry port. Spanish looks hard.
"In anticipation of great things"
3 hours later and we're on board and in our reclining seats. At first glance it looks like being in first class. We head to the bar and proceed to drink, fairly heavily.
There's some sort of cabaret show being put on. A woman in the table next to ours, probably in her 60s, asks if I want any ecstasy. I decline her kind offer, at which point she suggests a quickie in cinema downstairs. I say I'm enjoying the show too much to leave just yet.
The show itself consists of a number of dancers wearing chemiluminescent outfits and dancing/miming/performing tricks in a completely blacked out stage. Generally this is fairly harmless. For example, a small green worm being operated by a ninja-clad puppeteer that inches along the bottom of the stage, does an acrobatic dance, then inches off into the night.
But every now and then an act would come on that defied all explanation. For example, the luminous green and orange caricature of a golliwog doll that came on and sang a particularly joyful song about working on a plantation. I wondered if my drink had been spiked by the woman next to me, but apparently not We retired for the night. The novelty of our 'executive lounge, featuring reclining seats and a free water fountain' soon wore off.
It became evident that we were pretty much in steerage with the rats and the Scots. One of the more notable Scots made scant effort to either conceal his laborious vomiting between the hours of 11PM and 7AM, or to do it somewhere a little further away than the seat in front of me. This made the already difficult task of trying to sleep (in what is effectively an arrangement of Tetris cubes) that much harder.
The sight of land was a blessed relief at 7:30 the following morning. Overcrowding and a lack of a water cannon made for an agonisingly slow exit from the ferry to Saint Malo but eventually we managed it. It's at this stage I remember I took my camelbak off and left it under my seat upstairs. 'Fucks sake.
We walk through Saint Malo looking the road south east and when we see it we mount up and begin our quest in earnest. We take the wrong turn at a roundabout and end up in the hard shoulder of what I can describe, in no uncertain terms, as a motorway. We walk back to Saint Malo, get on the right road - and THEN we're on our way.
And it was worth it. Stunningly pretty Norman buildings, churchs, windmills overlooking gently rolling hills and salt-marhses. Cider orchards, lush green fields and the smell of the sea. Lovely. We make particularly slow progress to start off with as Van, who despite having lived in more countries than I can think of, hadn't ever been to France. Lots and lots and lots and lots of photos - by the end of the trip his camera read nearly as many photographs taken as miles covered..
"Yeah it's alright."
At about 2pm we realise we haven't covered very far at all. We stop off somewhere and pick up some bread, sausage, tomatoes and cheese and have a quick lunch.
"Sarnies"
We set off with a bit of vigour and cover, in one hour, more distance than we've done all morning. We cycle on for another couple of hours and decide to camp in the municipal site in the centre of a small town right on a riverbank.
Camping next to a river is lovely in some aspects. But not others. One of the shittier things is that mosquitos etc tend to lay their bastard offspring in water. I didn't notice during the evening when we were playing a bit of 'Liar' that I was having quite significant amounts of blood drained from me.
Taking it in turns to cook I was looking forward to Van's cooking for me, as he looked particularly pleased with himself when he came out of the shops earlier.
"Stodge"
I swiftly cancel our arrangement for cooking in turns.
The next morning we wake up pretty early - 7ish - and set off. A lot of bumbling around town with a GPS that doesn't like built up areas meant for a pretty slow start, but soon we were away. By 2PM we had done 75 miles - absolutely stormed it, somehow. We had a brief break to eat mars bars and drink orangina and then it was long straight roads all the way to Plessé where we sat in a pub with omlette and beer. Maybe we should have warmed down and up again as the next 30 miles were probably the toughest parts of the entire trip.
All two days of it.
Lungs burning and legs siezing up steepish but not killer hills, we stumble across another municipal camping site and crash. I read some of the extracts I'd printed out about cycling in France. Specifically a piece about Bidot and Leducq in the 1930's getting up after awful sounding crashes and pushing on. It puts things in perspective somewhat. That said, I could feel my left knee (old climbing injury) starting to twinge..
Believing we deserved a lie in, we slept till 8 and slowly packed up camp, not leaving until 10am. But it was only a short ride to the destination for that day.
40-45 miles max.
Fffffffuuuuuuu. GPS problems turned 45 into 74. Baking heat made it feel like 150. I managed to lose the feeling in my lower left hand - stupidly I had forgotten my gloves and bumpy roads and poor hand positioning. We near what we think is our destination at about 2pm and decide to forgo lunch in favour of a big dinner on the beach at Sables des Olonnes. By 5pm that sinking feeling has hit that we're way off course. We decide to press on though we eventually bail at a campsite with showers at 35 euros for a night... It was 8pm by this stage. Never has a tent been erected so quickly, nor food consumed so fast. With shaking hands we head for a beer.
"Van's first application of chamois cream was met with smiles all round"
The place is like I imagine Butlins to be, shit entertainment and hundreds of screaming children and surly teenagers staring you out. Factor in thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of mosquitos and you have an idea of this place. There was a patio outside of the bar with lights on tall poles. I was too tired to tilt my head up and lay slumped on the table. Van warned me: "Ed, don't look up." I looked up. Swarm is too light a word. Infestation is too light a word. Plague is no good. Apocalypse is getting there. An incomprehensible number of mosquitos buzzed around in a panicked state - panicked at being given so much fresh blood and not knowing what the fuck to do with all of it.
I whimpered and downed the rest of the beer and went to bed, keeping low as I moved.
We set off early after a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and make slow distance. We're aching from the past two days and the heat is fierce. To see if I can go easy on my knee, my cadence is very spinny. Polo spinny. Have you ever tried to cross a country on a polo bike? Don't bloody do it.
We stop for lunch at 2ish in what looks like a Tuscan village on a short, 14% hill. A strange setting as it's the only hill for miles - the rest of the area is salt marshes and nature reserves. A good long lunch of fresh bread, croissants, coffee, beer, orangina, brie, tomatos, mars bar ice-creams and we were on our way.
"More please"
Not far from La Rochelle now. We cross a nasty little bridge which is very narrow and on a very fast stretch of road and then head towards a roundabout. I signal to the route and look round to check Van has seen. Van nods and waves. I head down a quiet lane which should in theory take us all the way to the city and Île de Ré. It's pretty rural, no side-roads, just a simple road into the city so I decide I'll pick up the pace a little and set off.
About 5 miles down the road I stop and wait for Van. No Van. I wait some more. No Van. Nearly 40 minutes has passed with waiting and cycling since that roundabout. A horrible thought crosses my mind.
At this stage I should inform you, dear reader, that neither of us had a working mobile phone. I took mine with me of course, but since about halfway across the Channel, it hasn't wanted to acknowledge the fact that it is a mobile phone. Just a battery hog of an MP3 player and, if there was wifi, a portable email thingy.
Van simply didn't have a phone.
I cycled as quickly back to the roundabout as I could. He wasn't there. There were three exits. One - the way we had come from. Two - the way I went and signalled for. Three - the motorway. But it's OK. Because Van's not an idiot. No, sorry, what I meant to say was, 'Van's an idiot'. Van did indeed cycle straight on to the third exit - the motorway.
I will now take a break from this narrative to tell the story from his perspective:
Ed's not an idiot surely? He wouldn't have actually gone on the motorway, he had a go at me on the first day for leading us onto the motorway outside Saint Malo - why would he change his tune? Christ, better catch him up by cycling faster than I've ever cycled in my life. Puff, puff, pant, pant.... Fucking hell, where is he? Is he going at the same fucking speed as these cars? They're honking a lot. Puff puff, pant, pant... I'm going to kill him. If he's not already dead. Puff puff, pant, pant. Has he got a lift in a truck or something? Puff puff, pant, pant. Dick. Puff puff, pant pant, ok ok, let's think here - I've got a tent and some money, I can stay somewhere tonight and in the morning find an internet cafe in La Rochelle and send him an email - he might be a dick who's led me onto a motorway, but he's not THAT big a dick not to realise that our only form of communication if we split up is email. He'll read it and we can arrange to meet up tomorrow. Puff puff, pant, pant. Fuck, it's hot. Puff Puff, pant, pant - Ok, coming into La Rochelle now... puff, puff, pant, pant Wait. There was a roundabout back there. There was a turning to the right. puff, puff, pant, pant. Fuck. Puff, puff, pant, pant. I'd better go back and meet him. About turn. Puff, puff, pant, pant.
Ok, back to my account:
Van IS an idiot. I know he's an idiot. And I'm going to shout at him when I catch up with him. puff, puff, pant, pant. Where the fuck is he. He cycles at a glacial pace normally - always out of the saddle looking like someone on a cross trainer puff puff, pant, pant he's not in front of me. what's going on?? Puff, puff, pant, pant. Fuck. Puff, puff, pant, pant. There sure is a lot of roadkill, but I haven't spotted Van in amongst it yet, puff, puff, pant, pant. Why are there vultures? Puff, puff, pant, pant fuck - how am I going to contact him? Puff puff, pant pant, email, puff, puff, pant, pant. I'm staying in a fucking five star hotel tonight if I survive this, puff, puff, pant, pant. I'm an idiot, puff, puff, pant, pant. Thank christ - a sign for la rochelle - Wait who are these guys? (a convoy of about 300 hells angels appeared out of nowhere and escorted me into town in one of the more surreal moments of the trip) puff puff, pant, pant, OK, I'm in La Rochelle - now to find a hotel - wait. There's Van on the opposite side of the road cycling out of town.
By this stage we're both too exhausted and hysterical to be annoyed with each other so we dismount and walk through the parks of an absolutely beautiful town. It was like unwrapping a really awesome series of matryoshka dolls - each part got better and better, first it was stunning parks, then gorgeous old french townhouses, then we stumbled onto the harbour and the old quarter. Absolutely beautiful and for the most part, bar a few too many grubby and angry cyclotourists, a lovely atmosphere. We decide on a cheap hotel rather than camping it up and I've now gotten over my desire for a five star hotel when I see the prices of the only one star with a twin room available. Not that bad, but considering it was supposed to be a cheap trip, £100 quid for 2 nights in a tiny room at the top of 5 flights of stairs seemed a bit much.
Too tired to argue we unpacked our stuff, showered and collapsed. A burger and a beer and we were feeling slightly more human. Recharging both our bodies and Vans electronics was a good idea.
"La Rochelle"
Decent enough coffee and fantastic croissants for breakfast, steak for lunch, buy some gloves from a Decathalon store, crepes as an afternoon snack, a sort of seafood bisque for dinner. Expensive, but well earned I reckon and good preparation for the 3 more scheduled days it'll take us down to Spain where we can relax a bit.
We set off with renewed vigour. Van definitely did.
"Renewed vigour"