Chasing the Sun
Aplogies, This trip was undertaken before this website was ever thought of and so there are no photos with the trip. I did take an old camera with me which used films but most of them were either very poor quality or didn't come out at all. If I get time I'll put a map of the route on and maybe try to 'doctor' some of the photos
I stopped on the bridge, hauled my bike loaded with thirty kilos of camping gear onto its centre stand, looked down at the picturesque fast flowing stream and thought, “What the hell am I doing here?” I’d only just started day two of my supposed epic journey, I was part way up the climb to Shap summit on the Pennines and already my legs were screaming “What did we ever do to deserve this?” Decades of neglect had left my body out of condition and overweight at sixteen and a half stones; until two weeks prior to my departure I’d been having problems with a trapped nerve in my right leg and couldn’t drive my car or walk more than a few hundred yards – and of course the fact that I hadn’t ridden a bike for a quarter of a century may have had something to do with it too!
So why was I doing it? Mid-life crisis my youngest son said and to a certain extent he was right. It wasn’t that I was trying to prove to myself that I was still young; at the age of fifty four I had no illusions about that. However, a few years ago two of my friends had unexpectedly died and both were younger than me – it’s amazing how something like that clarifies your thinking. It doesn’t matter how old you get, you always think like you did when you were twenty five (or think you do!) and assume that you have plenty of time left to do the things in life that you always wanted to. Now it had been pointed out to me, somewhat forcefully, that maybe I didn’t and that tomorrow is promised to no one. And so, after twenty three years of teaching, my (long suffering) wife Karen and I packed in our jobs and set up a company buying, renovating and selling property – less stress, more flexibility – and drawing up our ‘wish list’ of things that we wanted to do before we were too old and decrepit. I started planning a bike ride.
Why a bike ride? Well when I was in my thirties I had been teaching in an under-funded Design Department (Woodwork, metalwork, plastics, electronics and graphics to the uninitiated!) and a colleague and I had been thinking of ways to raise finance. One of our ideas was a sponsored cycle ride to Monte Carlo. We even thought of asking Raleigh to sponsor us by lending us a couple of bikes. The thinking was that they would become Monte Carlo Raleighs – it seemed like a good idea at the time! Nothing came of the plan as we managed to raise finance for our department in other ways but the seed of a long bike ride had been planted in my mind, where it stayed for the best part of twenty years and had now started to grow.
I started route planning early but problems soon began to dawn on me, not least being, “What am I going to do when I get to Monte Carlo?” I could only afford the time to cycle one way and there was no easy way of getting home again – I would probably have to cycle back to Nice to catch a plane, having previously dismantled my bike and boxed it ready for flying. Whilst studying the maps I realised that the obvious solution was staring me in the face. We had recently bought an apartment in Alcudia, Mallorca. When I got to the bottom of France if I turned right instead of left, I could nip through into Spain where I could get a ferry from Barcelona to Alcudia, meet up with Karen and fly back with the bike. Simple. Only it didn’t seem so simple right now as I huffed and puffed my way up to Shap Summit.
Not having been lightweight camping since I was a boy I thought it wise to start planning early and so, using common sense and books by other cyclists to guide me, I started to gather together my equipment and found myself plunged into a whole new world. Although I already possessed a bike it was a cheap old mountain bike that my son had borrowed whilst his car was off the road and the tyres were now rotten and the chain rusted solid. I did take it to my local cycle shop where they put right everything that was wrong but a trip out on it with luggage soon persuaded me that it probably wasn’t up to the job (I could feel the frame flexing from side to side as I cycled along). So back to the bike shop I went and, in the January sales, became the proud owner of a new Saracen Skyline touring bike. This was a revelation to me; twenty four gears (once I’d figured out that the gear levers were now combined with the brake levers!) that went ‘snick-snick’ instead of ‘clunk-clunk’, Kevlar reinforced tyres and quick-release wheels (I never have figured out why you would want quick-release wheels on a touring bike – it just makes them easier to steal whenever you park. When car manufacturers started to fit expensive alloy wheels to cars the next thing they did was to fit locking wheel nuts. When bicycle manufacturers started to fit expensive wheels to bikes they fitted them with a system that allowed them to be removed in a few seconds – is it just me?). The only item on the bike that I didn’t get on with was the saddle. It was a very up-market Italian job and I soon realised that I didn’t have an up-market Italian bum! It was quickly changed for a Selle gel saddle and even that was covered with a gel seat cover before I left on my trip. Tents, I discovered, had also changed considerably over the years and now used plastic sheeting and bendy glass fibre poles in place of the canvas ridge tents I had used in my youth (The last tent that I had bought had tubular steel poles!). I decided a trial run might be wise and so loaded all my gear onto my bike and was horrified to discover that I could barely lift it off the ground. Nevertheless I set off for a not-too-distant campsite to try out all my gear. As I had not been camping for so many years (and never on a bike) it was a valuable exercise and helped me to establish a campsite routine – you can always tell the ‘new boy’ by how long it takes them to get their campsite organised. Most things worked fine but I soon discovered that mummy sleeping bags are not for me – I toss and turn too much in the night and soon felt like a grub in a cocoon. Several other items were either deleted from my kit list or replaced.
Once back home I commandeered the spare bedroom and laid all my gear out, popping in periodically to add or subtract from the display. I then resorted to what, at the time, seemed a little extreme and weighed every item individually on the kitchen scales, substituting lighter items wherever possible (funnily enough it seems to make a lot more sense when you’re slogging up a hill!). A plastic bag became my wash bag, pages were torn out of my map book, my towel got smaller, etc. This process allowed me to trim over four kilos off my luggage weight but it still totalled over 30 kilos – the Easyjet luggage allowance for two people!
I spent evenings route planning, even going to the extent of using Autoroute on the computer to check distances and Google Earth to look at the terrain I would be cycling through. The only ‘fly in the ointment’ seemed to be a rather large lump in between France and Spain called the Pyrenees but I hoped that I could nip round on the coast road and virtually avoid them. Either way, I would cross that bridge (hill) when I came to it.
None of this was helping me now. My legs were still in pain – I was so unfit.
The night before I left I packed my bags for the last time (I’d packed and unpacked several times before to adjust the weight in each bag and make sure that everything fitted!) and rode my trusty steed round the block to make sure that I was happy with the balance. I hadn’t done any training because of my leg pain but if I was honest I didn’t expect to get that far anyway. I had to try though (if I gave in before even setting off then I would never do it) and, worst case scenario, I would catch the train or plane home – depending on how far I had got!
The date chosen for my departure was the middle of August, the logic being that the weather would still be mild in the UK but not too hot by the time I arrived in Mallorca, and hopefully all the campsites would still be open by the end of September, my estimated time of arrival (Although many long distance cyclists camp wild I enjoy my simple pleasures too much – showers, bar, restaurant, shop, etc!). It meant a reasonable average of 50 miles per day bearing in mind i) my age ii) I was camping iii) I wanted to enjoy the trip.
Every Journey begins with a First Step (or peddle)
As I was waved off from home in Dumfries (taking two attempts to get my feet in the toe clips) the weather was fine and I cycled away wondering what excitement lay ahead. I didn’t have to wait long. Thirty miles into my journey I had to pass through what is known locally as the Cumberland Gap. This is a dual carriageway just over the border from Scotland into England that joins the M74 to the M6 and consequently squeezes three lanes of motorway traffic into two (Since my trip this has been improved, upgraded to motorway status and a service road provided). It’s classed as an ‘A’ road and so legally cyclists, pedestrians, horses, etc can use it but where the road crosses over bridges there’s no hard shoulder and articulated lorries thunder over two abreast at seventy miles an hour. There is an alternative route but it’s twelve miles longer (which would have made the distance to my campsite too far for the first day) and so I donned my helmet and pedalled like the clappers, using the hard shoulder wherever possible and prayed every time I had to cross a bridge.
I cycled into Carlisle where I was greeted with the only verbal abuse I received during the entire trip. I was merrily cycling along in nobody’s way when a passing motorist shouted out of his window (in no uncertain terms!) that I should be on the cycle path. What the gentleman (who was so generous with his wisdom) failed to realise was that the cycle path was littered with broken glass and that, even with my Kevlar lined tyres, there was no way that I was going to risk it. Poorly maintained cycle paths were to become a frequent problem as I cycled south through the UK. Councils claim to be encouraging cycling by providing cycle lanes but these usually consist of a yellow line painted eighteen inches from the kerb, forcing cyclists to ride across drains, stones, pot holes and broken glass and the lanes usually disappear at critical points such as narrow bridges and roundabouts. Later on in France I was to find some towns where the cycle lanes were almost as wide as the car lanes.
After my first day on the road and fifty four miles covered I arrived exhausted at the lovely market town of Penrith and spent the night at the Lowther Camp Site, which turned out to be the best (and cheapest) campsite that I stayed at in Britain. After a meal and a couple of pints in the site restaurant I had no problem sleeping.
Penrith, the birthplace of William Wordsworth and his future wife, was the capital of the Kingdom of Cumbria in the 9th and 10th centuries and was, as such, part of the Kingdom of Scotland until 1070 when it was incorporated into England. In the 14th century it was frequently raided by the Scots and a fire would be lit on the nearby Beacon Hill to warn of their approach. At the end of the century Penrith Castle was built as a more substantial form of defence for the Duke of Gloucester (Who later became King Richard 111). The town is now a much more peaceful place but still contains numerous ancient buildings including St. Andew’s church whose graveyard houses the giant’s grave where the 10th century giant King of Cumbria is said to be buried.
Next morning I met a guy who had arrived at the campsite late the following night. Despite weighing 22 stones he was cycle-camping from John O’Groats to Lands End having done it the other way round the previous year. He claimed that he never lost any weight whilst cycling but also admitted that he had stopped for a kebab with everything on it just before arriving at the site. He made me feel much better about my weight!
Day two was over the Pennines via Shap summit to Morecambe. It was a long and steep climb and my lack of training showed. I huffed and puffed my way to the top, stopping several times to get my breath back and getting off and pushing for some of the way. At the summit I was greeted by a stone memorial dedicated to those people who died trying to make the crossing! It dawned on me as I had been pushing my bike up the hill that my leg had not been hurting me. Whatever had been ailing me prior to leaving home had obviously been eased by the exercise. Mind you, I probably wouldn’t have noticed a pain in my leg as my bum was hurting so much. I adjusted my saddle angle in an attempt to relieve the pressure and whilst it helped it would be a while before my backside got used to the relentless pounding of the British roads, which were much worse than those of either France or Spain.
Morecambe (formerly known as Poulton-le-Sands) is a typical seaside resort, historically popular with people from Yorkshire and Scotland. Like so many other resorts it suffered greatly from the introduction of package holidays abroad and it is only in recent years that it has shown signs of permanent recovery. However it is well worth a visit, if only because of the size of the bay and the magnificent views it provides.
For my third and fourth night I headed for my dad’s house just north of Manchester which was a pleasant and reasonably flat ride. At lunchtime I was going through Preston on the lookout for food. The area I was in was mainly commercial – factories, offices, industrial units – no promising looking food shops. Then I spotted a McDonalds and, as I was hot and sweaty, decided not to go into the restaurant but went through the drive through instead. From the look on the assistants’ faces they don’t get too many cyclists through.
It was great to see my dad and his second wife Helen. I don’t see them as often as I should and Helen always dishes up great food which was a good excuse to refuel. I was also able to use some Araldite to repair my favourite sunglasses that had been shaken to pieces whilst hanging from my handlebars.
Before I had set out from home I had printed out a list of all the main towns and cities that I would pass through with the Autoroute mileage next to them. Even at this early stage of the journey I realised that I was clocking up more than the estimated mileage (about 15% more) due to taking alternative routes to those suggested by Autoroute (i.e. no motorways) and diverting from the route to reach campsites.
On day five I experienced the first real downpour of the trip which gave me an excuse to test out my shiny new fluorescent yellow cycling cape. It worked really well but I had the feeling that I must look like a Day-Glo batman! Still at least no car driver could argue that they couldn’t see me!
Later on in the day I had to pass though Stoke-on Trent – a town best avoided by cyclists – all hills, heavy traffic and poor signage – I’m sure I went round it twice! I thought that I would be clever and avoid the town by going round the bypass (uphill!) but then got directed back in the other direction down a lethal dual carriageway which, if the drivers’ looks were anything to go by, I suspect bicycles aren’t allowed on. Fortunately that night’s stop was not that far out of Stoke and so, after bargaining the price down to a more respectable £10 (from £14 – overpriced but I suspect that their close proximity to Alton Towers amusement park allows them to get away with it) I was able to pitch my tent and adjourn to the bar which was housed in a run down manor house.
Many British campsites use a simplistic pricing system by which it costs as much for me to camp with my bicycle and two metre square tent as it does for a couple with a big 4x4, a 20 foot long caravan and awning. Only a few enlightened sites offer a ‘backpacker’ rate which makes camping in the UK a sensible price for those travelling alone. Most site owners won’t negotiate and are quite prepared to watch you cycle away to their competitor’s site up the road, losing not only your site fee but also whatever you would have spent in their shop/bar/restaurant.
The next day consequently turned out to be quite a long one due to me once again refusing to pay £14 and the owner refusing to negotiate at my intended campsite. It’s not that I’m mean but I hate to feel that I’ve been ripped off. I tried to point out to the owner that at his price for my tent I could make a good living out of my front lawn but he refused to reduce his fee and so I pressed on and ended up paying £30 at a B&B instead (it seemed logical at the time!). I’d cycled on until I’d had enough for one day and, as there wasn’t a campsite nearby, stayed in a lovely farm B&B where I was given a family room to myself with a huge ensuite bathroom. Whilst it cost me more than twice as much as my intended campsite I justified it to myself as I was well under budget for the trip so far (I’d allowed myself £20 per day) and it allowed me to wash clothes in the sink and dry them on the radiator, fully charge my ‘phone, have a long soak in a bath, and a huge breakfast the next morning. An added bonus was that I’d denied the campsite owner of his rip-off fee.
As I was now ahead of schedule I decided to miss out my next planned campsite and push on to my next rest stop at my aunt’s house at Kennington, just outside Oxford. During the day, however, my bike started to show its first (and in fairness, its only) sign of weakness. I noticed a broken spoke in the rear wheel and then heard a ‘ping’ as a second one broke on the approach to Oxford. This set off a few alarm bells as, whilst I could obviously get them replaced, I had only cycled a few hundred miles and still had over a thousand to go and had visions of renewing spokes all the way to Mallorca. I had no alternative; I was going to have to spend my ‘rest day’ trying to find a bike shop to do the repair. I had to laugh at myself really as I’ve always said that I couldn’t understand why long distance cyclists take spare spokes with them as in all my years of cycling as a youngster I’d never had a broken spoke – now I had two of them.
The next day I ‘phoned a cycle shop that I found in Yellow Pages called ‘Behind Bars’ (get it?) and, once I’d explained my predicament and that I was on my way to Mallorca, they agreed to re-jig their schedule and fix my bike immediately. I cycled the twelve miles to their shop and 45 minutes and one coffee later my spokes had been replaced, my wheel trued and my derailleurs adjusted all for the bargain price of £10 with a couple of spare spokes thrown in. I also treated myself to a new pair of cycling gloves as my old ones looked as though they had been attacked by moths.
With my bike back to ‘as new’ condition I cycled off next day and headed for Winchester and a really nice campsite with a pub next door – sometimes town planners do get things right! Another cyclist at the site was using a bivvy bag – the first time I’d come across one but I instantly decided – not for me. They’re like canvas coffins with no room for you or your luggage. Whilst I’d tried to reduce my luggage weight as much as possible I had decided to use a two man tent with cooking extension so that I had plenty of room for me and all my luggage and was still able to cook under cover when the weather was bad. I also took an airbed to guarantee a good night’s sleep and a cafétière to ensure a decent cup of coffee (well you need a bit of comfort when you get to my age!).
Day 10 was a pleasant ride (apart from a strong headwind off the sea) cycling through beautiful villages where watercress was grown as a crop in huge ponds often in the centre of the village, kept fresh by water from the local river. In places the rivers were totally covered in watercress where it had obviously escaped from the ponds and become established in the wild.
I’ve decided that about a third of all Britain’s drains are blocked – it’s amazing what you notice as you cycle along! (Other things I’ve noticed are that the wind is always against you, no matter which direction you are cycling in and that hills go up much more frequently than they go down).
My arrival at the Portsmouth ferry port was beautifully timed. The rain that had been threatening all day had failed to materialise as I had been cycling along but as I pulled up under the Brittany Ferries office canopy the heavens opened in a terrific downpour. Fortunately this was short lived and so, having bought my ticket for St Malo I spent several hours cruising around Portsmouth and looking at the tall ships until I was due to be back at the ferry terminal. I was particularly fascinated by the shear size of the HMS Victory which must have been the marvel of its age. We think we live in such a clever age but when you see things like that, built without the use of any machinery, it makes you wonder if we’ve really made that much progress.
Whilst lined up at the terminal with all the other vehicles waiting to board the ferry a motorcyclist strolled over and asked me where I’d come from. He was amazed when I told him I’d cycled from Dumfries and even more so when I told him that I was on my way to Mallorca – “Hey, you must be really fit”. “No”, I said, “but I suspect I will be by the time I get there”.
The majority of people crossing the channel use the Dover-Calais ferry as it is the quickest and cheapest. I had decided to use the Portsmouth-St Malo crossing firstly because I could find no easy way around London without doing a huge loop and secondly because the crossing was about eight hours long, allowing me to have a sleep before arriving early in the morning. The crossing was smooth and the ship much better equipped than the last time I had made the crossing. I had a couple of pints whilst watching the live entertainment and chatting to a stonemason who’d been declared unfit to work and pensioned off after falling from scaffolding . He was on his way to Brittany to look for a house to renovate. I never did work out how he could be fit enough to renovate a house but not fit enough to work. I then retired to one of the quiet areas of the ship to sleep.
The next morning, as the ship was docking, I went to the bicycle storage area to recover Sky (by now I’d named it!) and met the others on the ferry who were travelling by bicycle. Most of us had bright shiny mounts apart from an old guy who must have been 75 and put us all to shame. He had a tatty old bike on which he reckoned to clock up a minimum of 10,000 miles a year (he no longer had a car) and regularly used for touring France.
Disembarking from the ferry felt like the real adventure had begun. It took me two attempts to get out of St Malo as whichever way you head they try to direct you on to a motorway, presumably to clear the ferry traffic as quickly as possible and prevent it from jamming up the town. Eventually I escaped and decided that, as I was in the area, I would divert slightly from my route and visit the monastery at Mont St Michel. The road leading to the monastery was jammed with hundreds of people doing the same thing as me – taking a photograph and then turning round and driving back!
It was noticeable that the French roads were smoother than in the UK (presumably because there’s less chance of icing) and it allowed me to pull a higher gear and maintain a higher speed.
I stopped quite early for the night at the municipal site in the pleasant little town of Antrain, just over halfway between St Malo and Rennes. I’ve always liked the French municipal sites as, not only are they cheap, but they are also well maintained and nearly always positioned in a nice spot close to the centre of the town or village. This one was no exception; it was a lovely spot with pleasant views over surrounding farms and only a few minutes from the local shops. It was also extremely quiet and so I took the opportunity to recharge my ‘phone in a shaver socket in the toilet block whilst no one was around. As it was warm and windy I also set up my washing line (from ground to bike crossbar, over the tent and down to the ground again).and took the opportunity to get some washing done.
The next day I headed for Chateaugiron, just south of Rennes. It was a short day at only 44miles and I felt guilty about it until I realised that it was supposed to be a rest day. I’d planned to cycle for three days and take the fourth day off to recover but I think that arriving in France had caused my subconscious to restart the sequence. The municipal site was, once again, very nice and cheap at £3 but had no loo paper in the toilets – thank god for my emergency supplies! Chateaugiron is a very trendy little town of timber framed buildings and quaint shops on a hill (complete with chateau) that I suspect is commuter belt for Rennes. I went looking for the supermarket only to find it was on the other side of town - this turned out to be the case more often than not throughout France. However I didn’t mind too much as without my 32kg of luggage it was like cycling on air!
Day 13 was certainly unlucky for me. I woke up feeling really grotty and so, as it was raining, I decided to have a rest day. My initial prognosis was that I’d not been eating enough food to replace the calories burned. I felt light headed for most of the day – like being drunk but fully conscious - really weird! Despite feeling very strange I decided to move on the next day and head for a site at Nozay which was not too far away but would at least be a little bit of progress in a southerly direction. As I headed out of the site I realised just how bad I was when I had to use the bike for support; I should probably have just turned around and headed back into the site but I stubbornly rode off. The route that I took was very quiet which was just as well because I was struggling to control the bike, swerving over to the wrong side of the road on more than one occasion. Fortunately I improved as the day went on. Later on in the day I noticed that my black cycling shorts were turning white – salt! I must be losing loads of it through sweating and I never take salt on anything (except chips!). That evening I got Karen to check the internet for the symptoms of salt deprivation and sure enough it came up with mine. Consequently I dissolved two sachets of salt (the only salt that I had with me was a few sachets that I’d ‘collected’ from the local pub one evening) in hot water, drank it down (ugh!) and waited to see what would happen. When I arrived at Nozay I cruised through the town looking for the campsite and passing two girls sat on a wall on the way in. As I didn’t pass the site I turned round and rode back through the town for a second attempt, passing the girls again who smiled. I still couldn’t find it so headed back into town, past the girls again who, by now, were highly amused. In the centre I managed to find a tourist street map of the town which clearly showed the campsite and so I headed back out again, past the two girls who were almost falling off the wall with laughter. When I finally located the site, which was well hidden down a track, it was closed and had clearly gone out of business several years ago – so much for the Michelin guide. The girls probably sit on that same wall every day just to watch the tourists going up and down the road looking for the site! I had no alternative but to press on to the next site I had found in the Michelin guide that I had initially dismissed as being too far away and which, due to my detour, was now even further.
The next day was spent trying to bypass Nantes. I’ve decided that big cities are like planets – they have a gravitational pull all of their own and if you get too close they suck you in. I must have missed a turn on my approach to the city and spent over an hour trying to get out. It made it seem like a long day. However the day after was even worse. It was raining heavily when I awoke and I should probably have just turned over and gone back to sleep. Instead I foolishly packed and set off. The rain continued and was accompanied by strong headwinds – it reminded me more of the north of Scotland than central France. I was also getting a bit fed up with all the hills; it was literally just up and down with virtually no flats at all. I suppose that the route I was taking was cutting straight across all the river valleys heading for the sea on the east coast. It wouldn’t have been so bad but there was usually a village or small town in the bottom of the valley (historically because of the water supply) with crossroads/roundabouts/traffic lights at the foot of the hill and so I was unable to take advantage of the downhill run to get me part way up the next climb.
Then, just to make my miserable mood complete, a spoke broke – I was at an all time low. If someone had offered me a way out I would have taken it. I removed the tyre and tube, replaced the spoke and then reassembled everything, shivering violently all the time due to being soaked to the skin and the high wind chill factor. Later on that day I realised that I had a slow puncture. I eventually arrived at my site for the night at Mervent, just north of Fontenay-le-Comte, a pleasant site in a pleasant village and, after setting up camp, adjourned to their restaurant. The food wasn’t great and was quite pricy but I didn’t care – it was hot! I decided to take the next couple of days off to sort the bike out and to get my head straight. In my miserable state I’d forgotten to get any food for breakfast so the next morning I headed to the site restaurant to see what was available – nothing! In fairness the site owner did say that whilst they did not open during the day she would rustle me something up if I wanted but I decided not to put her out. There were no shops in the village but as I was short of cash I would need to cycle the six miles into Fontenay anyway and could restock my food at the same time. During my little excursion my slow tyre leak gradually got worse and by the time I arrived back at the site I had to stop every quarter of a mile to blow it up. Still at least the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. It’s amazing how the weather affects your mood!
I had with me a large tarpaulin (12ft x 12ft?) that by night was used as a bike cover but by day was a ‘living room’ extension (I also planned to use it to cover my relatively untested tent if it leaked). I would peg it down in front of the tent and use it to sit out when it wasn’t raining – it weighed very little and proved to be one of my most valuable pieces of equipment. Now I spread it out in the sunshine and laid out all my sopping wet gear to dry (my panniers seemed to be waterproof in only one direction – they let water in but not out!). I also removed the tyre and tube from the back wheel of the bike and discovered the cause of the leak – small pieces of gravel that I’d obviously allowed to get into the tyre during my freezing spoke replacement had worn their way through the tube. I also re-routed the spoke that I had laced up incorrectly the previous day (A clear demonstration that even the simplest of tasks become difficult when suffering from the cold!). Puncture fixed, bike reassembled, ah well, at least I had a couple of days to make sure that both it, and I were fit and well. One plus point was the realisation that my bum no longer hurt but what I couldn’t decide was whether it was getting tougher or all the nerve endings in that area were dead!
That evening I walked up to the site restaurant again only to be told that it was closed that, and the next evening – great! The restaurant had been my main reason for staying there! The owner suggested that I try the only other restaurant in the village – guess what – it was closed too. They really couldn’t run a piss up in a brewery! You’d think that in such an out of the way place the site restaurant would be open when the village’s only restaurant was closed and that the site office would stock basic essentials for sale – things with a ridiculously long shelf life – particularly as they don’t provide toilet paper! Bread and jam for dinner.
I awoke the next morning to a clear blue sky, warm weather, and my tyre was still up! – by mid day it was 34C in my tent with its reflective skin. I spent the day washing and drying gear and lounging around in the sun – I was feeling much better. In the evening I went to the village restaurant as I’d seen it open at lunchtime when I went for a test ride. Unfortunately it was closed again so more bread and jam for dinner.
The next day, day 19, I cycled to the lovely town of St Jean d’Angely. It was supposed to be exactly 50 miles away but I ended up doing 56. This increase in mileage was happening on a daily basis as maps give mileages from town centre to town centre but these days you are often directed round a somewhat longer bypass and never see the centre. Campsites are also often situated a few miles out of town and these two factors were combining to add about 15% to my estimated mileage.
The day had started well. I packed quickly and was on the road early and although it was hot (35C) and the wind was against me, the roads were fairly flat and smooth and I made good time. For the second half of the day I had chosen a fairly direct route along a back road which turned out to be a big mistake. It was a rough road with nothing but ups and downs and as the day wore on I became increasingly concerned. I could tell that I was starting to suffer from heat exhaustion as I had no strength left at all, I was virtually out of water and the route that I had taken took me past no shops or houses – there weren’t even any cars to flag down. I had always told myself that if something like that happened that I would be O.K. as I would simply find a hidden corner in a field and camp for the night. I now realised that this would be pointless as the fields in this part of France were completely open and so would not hide or shade me and I was virtually out of water anyway. I just had to keep going. Just as I was reaching the ‘panic setting in’ stage I came across a lone house with two boys playing football in the garden. I got them to refill my water bottles, thanked them, casually cycled away and then as soon as I was out of sight, stopped and downed the best part of a litre of water in one go! Later on that day my back tyre went down again which turned out to be sort of my fault. When I’d previously repaired the punctures caused by the gravel in the tyre I’d been unable to chalk dust the repairs as the chalk block had been sodden. As a consequence one of the patches had stuck to the tyre as well as the tube and had slowly worked loose. I didn’t bother to fix it until later; I just changed the tube for my spare.
The site at St Jean d’Angely was beautifully situated in trees next to a lake and, as they had basic supplies in the office, I treated myself to an ice cream as compensation for my days’ cycling; put up my tent, showered, changed and went out to a restaurant that I had passed on the way in where I had one of the nicest meals I’d had in along time, sat at a table by the water’s edge. I worked out that I’d consumed over 5 litres of water whilst cycling that day.
When I first set out on my trip I tended to react to situations in a set pattern. So, as previously mentioned, I used very simple (and faulty) logic when it came to consuming my drinking water – I had two water bottles and was cycling roughly fifty miles each day so I limited myself to one bottle per twenty five miles but, as I had discovered, whilst it may have been enough in the cool UK, it certainly wasn’t now. In the same way, initially when I arrived at my campsite for the evening I would put up my tent and throw my bags inside (10 minutes maybe) and then rush off for a shower (Well I was hot and sweaty wasn’t I?). As I headed south and the daily temperature increased it soon became apparent that this was a mistake – I’d have my shower, dry myself off but by the time I’d got back to the tent I’d be drenched with sweat again. When you’ve been sweating hard for six or seven hours it takes a while for your body to wind down and so I changed my arrival routine. I would now put my tent up and all the luggage in but now I would lay all my gear out, putting it in places that I had by experience found to be the most convenient. I’d sit around and chill for a while, usually making myself a cup of coffee and planning the next day’s route. Only when I was sure that my body had calmed down would I go for a shower and change into ‘normal’ clothes.
The next day was hot, hilly and humid (again!). Many of the hills were too steep to cycle up, forcing me to get off and push (not very encouraging for getting over the Pyrenees!) and even the descents were slow because the wind was so strong – sometimes I could hear it whistling through my panniers. One hill that I climbed was very steep but I managed to slog my way up in bottom gear and, once at the summit, put my bike on its centre stand and lay down on the grass verge to recover. My bike stand sank into the soft grass and the bike fell over but I just lay there getting my breath back. After a few minutes I heard a vehicle drive past and then slow down. Sitting up to see what was going on I saw that it was an ambulance! They had obviously seen my bike and I sprawled across the verge and decided that I had been knocked off! It wasn’t until I gave them the thumbs up that they continued on their way.
I got lost in Saintes (having been sucked in again!) due to French signage which often seems to assume that you know where you’re going. Despite the fact that Bordeaux was in completely the wrong direction I was supposed to know that if I followed the Bordeaux signs I would eventually come to a junction where I could pick up the road I wanted. I found a tourist board office where I thought I’d get directions but it was closed (!) and so I had to resort to my trusty compass to find my way out. As I was feeling a bit tired I decided that I would stop for the night at the nice medieval town of Pons which the Michelin guide showed as having two reasonable campsites. I cruised around for a while but I’m damned if I could find either of them. I made the decision to push on to the next site at Jonzac as the site had a restaurant and the next day was Sunday (shops shut). As I cycled out of Pons I saw two signs for the same campsite pointing in opposite directions!
Upon my arrival at the site at Jonzac and booking in for two nights I was told that the restaurant was closed as they were holding a barbeque with live entertainment that I could join for €15. I decided not to. Instead, having set up camp using 6” nails instead of tent pegs as the ground was so hard (a tip I remembered from childhood days camping with my parents), I went in search of supplies. The supermarket was on the other side of town of course and, as I was staying two nights and the shops would probably be shut the next day, I bought loads of provisions. However it was only at the checkout that I discovered that bags were not provided and they wouldn’t let me take the basket outside to my bike – it took me several trips too and fro to ferry my purchases from the checkout to my panniers.
I used my rest day for just that – chillin’, catching up on my washing and resting my right leg which was suffering a bit after pushing the bike up so many hills. It had been in the back of my mind that at some point I might have to give up this adventure but I decided that I was going to try my damnedest to finish. I reasoned that if I packed it in I was probably going to have to cycle into Bordeaux, which would in itself be hell, if I wanted to catch a plane. Whereas if I carried on my route would join the railway line in a couple of days time and I could always catch a train through to Perpignan, where my friend Julia lived, if I felt that I couldn’t cope.
Day 22 was a pleasant ride – for a change. Most of the roads were smooth and some were even flat! I’d arrived at my campsite by mid afternoon – a first. The only downside was that I’d put my back out whilst folding the tent that morning. I wasn’t doing any thing strenuous, I must have just moved awkwardly. It doesn’t seem to affect my cycling but I suspect I look like Quasimodo when I walk.
I don’t know how France keeps going – everything seems to shut at 12.00 and not open again until the evening. I stopped at a supermarket that clearly said on the door that it was open until 12.30 but when I arrived at 11.50 it was closed (Maybe it was another example of French signage and I was supposed to know!). I ate my lunch (Pain au raisin – it’s become my staple diet for lunch whilst en route, along with bananas for snacks) in the small square at Montguyon. With the exception of the odd passing car I was the only one there, the shops were shut and all the windows shuttered; I couldn’t see a single person – you started to get the feeling that maybe the world had ended and nobody thought to tell you!
The campsite at Petit-Palais-en-Cornemps was very nice with the usual office/bar/restaurant/swimming pool setup and plane trees that you could camp under for shade but, unfortunately for the owners, it was very quiet with only about half a dozen people staying. The trouble is that whilst it’s in a lovely spot it’s well off the beaten track and definitely off any tourist route (mine excepted!) and you’d struggle to come across it by accident. Nevertheless I had my best site restaurant meal there which was cooked personally by the owners. I was the only one in the restaurant and felt sorry for them but they seemed to take great delight in going all out to produce really lovely food and I, for my part, went all out to really enjoy it!
Whilst I was at the site an English couple came over for a chat. They were moving to France and were living in their caravan until their French house deal went through which they reckoned could take up to another three months – they’d already been there for two!
Before I left home several people had asked me if I would be lonely travelling on my own and I would usually give some offhand reply like “Well at least I’ll stand a chance of winning an argument”, but, in all truth, I just didn’t know. However I soon discovered that lone cyclists aren’t alone for long. Car drivers in their metal boxes are unapproachable, couples are self contained, but lone cyclists are always fair game to have a chat with. I can’t remember a single day when someone didn’t stop for a talk, even if the conversation was limited by my knowledge of French.
The next day I ended up at the municipal site at Bergerac on the banks of the Dordogne. It wasn’t supposed to be Bergerac but about a mile after leaving Petit Palais I found another broken spoke and had to stop to change it. It was definitely okay when I left the site as I’d become paranoid about checking them. A kind Frenchman, whose house I’d stopped outside, invited me in to wash my hands only to discover that his water had been cut off. From his reaction I got the impression that this was not unusual – the things we take for granted in Britain! That was my last spare spoke and, based on the frequency at which I was breaking them, I was unlikely to finish the trip unless I could find some more and so I’d diverted to Bergerac in the hope of finding a cycle shop. I booked in for two nights, planning to use the next day to find the spokes and have a bit of a rest. My back was still occasionally playing up and when I came out of the local Aldi with supplies it gave way and I badly scratched my perfect leg tan with the box I was carrying. I decided that I would try to anaesthetise it – I went back into the shop and bought a bottle of Scotch! (A decision I would regret the next morning!)
The French have always been very keen campers but when I was a child, holidaying with my parents, they were pretty evenly split between tents and caravans with very few using motorhomes. Today that situation has completely changed; there are as many motorhomes being used by the French as there are tents and caravans combined. Some of them seem to be very plush inside and have satellite TV with a motorised self-seeking dish. As soon as the owners pull on to a pitch and take out the ignition key the dish powers up and down and round and round looking for the strongest signal and then locks on to it. When you put the key back in the ignition the dish self-stows. I had great fun watching one of these in action at Bergerac as the owner couldn’t quite decide on the best position for his motorhome and so kept on moving it a few feet, accompanied by the dish constantly flipping up and down and round and round.
I was getting to the stage where I wanted this journey to be over – not because I wasn’t enjoying it or concerns about myself but I was concerned about my bike. Up until then all the spokes that had broken had been in the rear wheel (as you would expect because of the load) on the opposite side to the gear cassette and so I’d been able to replace them. If one had broken on the cassette side I wouldn’t have been able to replace it without a gear extractor (which I didn’t have) and would have to hope that I could find a bike shop before too many broke and the wheel collapsed. It was the one thing that I hadn’t prepared for and was constantly on my mind. The joke was that according to my Autoroute distances I should have only had about 200 miles left to do but in reality I estimated it was nearer 400. Nevertheless I was determined to finish, even if I had to drag the bike.
The next morning I went to the site office and asked for a plan of the town. When I also asked about a bike shop I was told that there was one about 300 yards from the site entrance – I needn’t have stayed a second night! The bike shop was a really professional setup and they were soon able to fix me up with the size of spokes that I needed – although they only had three left (50 cents each) so I would have to hope that they would last.
As I now had time on my hands I went into town to explore. It was market day and I spent several happy hours exploring the different stalls before investigating the streets of Bergerac. It was a great town and one that I could have quite happily spent a week in. But it was time to move on and so the next morning saw me packing and moving on to St Sylvestre sur Lot. It was a pleasant day’s cycling but by now the daytime temperatures were constantly hitting the mid thirties and five litres of water a day was becoming the norm. I’d decided on quite a short day as, according to the Michelin guide, there were very few campsites after St Sylvestre (I was keeping my fingers crossed that this wasn’t because the river I was planning to follow was in a deep gorge and so unsuitable for campsites). That day I saw my first sign for Spain which, whilst being quite encouraging, was a bit optimistic as far as a cyclist was concerned as it was over a hundred miles away by the shortest route!
St Sylvestre is a beautifully located site on the edge of the river Lot with views over to the old town of Penne d’Agenais on the opposite bank. It’s quite small and very popular with the French and I was lucky to get the last pitch although it was easily big enough to fit three caravans and their cars on. For some strange reason, there were small leeks growing out of my pitch - I couldn’t decide whether it used to be a field or the site owners had been growing veg. in the ‘off’ season.
Quite a few French families seem to move on to a campsite for almost the entire season. I suppose it makes sense – the French school holidays are long and so the whole family can go away, the fathers commuting at weekends. St Sylvestre had its fair share of these families – they can usually be identified by the amount of equipment they have with them. The folks on the next pitch had their caravan plus awning plus gazebo plus large barbeque and potted plants! I overheard them tell a neighbour that they had been going there for sixteen years.
Whilst I was writing my diary that evening I watched as commercial jets flew frequently overhead. It took a while for it to dawn on me that, from their direction, they’re almost certainly heading for the Balearics as planes on that route head down through France, across the Pyrenees and then over Barcelona before heading out to sea (Virtually the same route as me – only a little faster!).It may have been a tenuous link but it made me feel that the end was not too far away.
My next site was at St Nicholas-de-la-Grave. The day’s cycling turned out to be really good. Although the first few miles into Agen proved to be the expected stiff climb, I found that I was able to use a low gear and plod steadily to the top without stopping. This was a turning point in the whole journey. My levels of fitness had steadily increased over the past weeks and I was finally reaping the benefit of this. I had some time previously realised that the reason I was having to stop on hills was because of lack of oxygen to my leg muscles and that by stopping for as little as 30 seconds solved the problem but now I wasn’t having to stop at all.
At lunchtime I pulled into a large lay-by at the side of the canal. There were several cars there and another cyclist but he kept himself to himself and his body language suggested that he did not want to make contact. He left a few minutes after I arrived. Later on that afternoon I passed him on the road, shouting a friendly “bonjour” as I cycled by. About an hour after arriving at the site at St Nicholas who should turn up but my cyclist friend. A while after he’d pitched his tent he came over for a chat. He talked for a few minutes in French until it dawned on us that we were both English – it turned out that he was a quantity surveyor from Whitby and had flown in to Bergerac four days previously.
St Nicholas itself is a cute town which endeared itself to me, not only for its quaintness but also for its cycle lanes which are almost as wide as the lane for cars. Unfortunately the campsite is a few miles out of town and too far to be convenient on a bike. It’s also fairly boring being not much more than a field with a toilet block and quite expensive compared to other sites – mind you, it did have toilet paper!
I decided that French cats are stupid. In Britain you rarely see a cat that has been run over but in France they are only outnumbered by flat hedgehogs. Every time I went past a squished cat I would spend the next few minutes trying to come up with a theory as to why so many had been hit.
The next day I had to get past Toulouse and on my map it looked horrendous. I also had the problem of finding a campsite for the night as my guide listed nothing along my route that was within a day’s riding. It should have been a fairly easy day as the roads were fairly flat but there was a strong headwind which got steadily worse as the day went on, often limiting me to a maximum speed of 10 mph. The wind, coupled with the heat, really drained me and I was getting through water at a record rate (7 litres by the end of the day).
Toulouse was the expected nightmare. First the signs tried to divert me onto a motorway – I was well down the slip road before I realised. I backtracked and used my compass to get into the city but then had trouble finding my way out – no signs! I ended up in an industrial estate with no way through. I backtracked (again!) and tried another route but it was soon running at 90 degs to the compass heading I wanted. In the end I headed off down a canal towpath which ran in the right general direction for several miles. Eventually the canal was crossed by a road that looked to be heading roughly south east (where I wanted to go) and so I hauled my laden bike up the embankment and within cycling a few hundred yards got a sign telling me that I was on the right road – talk about lucky!
Having lost time doing the scenic tour of Toulouse I realised that the site I had considered a feint possibility was now out of the question (It would have taken a record breaking run anyway). The sun would be going down soon and I needed to find somewhere to camp and so my priority was to clear the built–up area and find either an unlisted site or a quiet field somewhere. Less than ten miles out of the Toulouse suburbs I came across an unlisted site (in a small place called Deyme) and with the “Ah well, it’ll do for one night” attitude, I booked in. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a very attractive, clean and well organised site. It had a bar, a restaurant, and the office doubled as a shop. On top of all that, it was cheap. I instantly decided to stay for two nights, have a rest and catch up on some washing – my black shorts had turned white again!
That evening I treated myself to a meal in the restaurant – a starter of tomato and mozzarella salad on a couple of lettuce leaves with diced onions, mushrooms, olives and croutons with basil and oil dressing; a main course of duck breast with a green pepper sauce and diced deep-fried potatoes and a nice selection of cheese to finish. Pretty good value at £10, although by the time I’d added a pre-dinner beer, a bottle of wine, a post-dinner coffee and Cognac and tip I’d managed to push the final bill up to double that. It was still excellent value.
The site was very well run by a husband and wife team – they both had golf buggies and used them to whizz around making sure that everything was up to their standard and picking up any piece of litter that dared to fall on their site. The toilet block was cleaned for over two hours in the morning (very impressed). They had a vicious looking Alsatian, presumably to ward off undesirables, but he was actually as soft as pudding and used to ride around on the golf buggies (although not on his own!).
It was still very windy and I hoped that it would ease up before the next day otherwise it would be a hard slog in to Carcassonne.
The second evening at Deyme, whilst I was eating my tinned cassoulet (a bit of a comedown from my previous night’s meal) I listened to the sound of distant shotguns. I had heard them most evenings and weekends wherever I camped and it was only then that it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen much wildlife since arriving in France and now I knew the reason why – they’d shot it all!
During the early evening a motorhome with British number plates had pulled in adjacent to my pitch. It had caught my attention as, whilst it was obviously British, it was left-hand drive. Later on in the evening the owner came over to offer me a glass of wine and have a chat. He’d bought the motorhome with left-hand drive as he was offered it at a bargain price and, as it would spend most of its life being driven abroad, it seemed to make sense. He invited me to join him and his wife for wine and a barbeque but as I’d just eaten my cassoulet and finished my bottle of wine, I declined. Later on they invited me to join them at the bar. I felt guilty about turning down their repeated offers but I wanted an early start the next day and I was short of money.
Considering the French are so fanatical about cycling, I saw very few cyclists during the time I was in France apart from little old ladies and gents going to collect bread on bikes almost as old as themselves and, usually on Sunday mornings, Lycra-clad guys on their state-of-the-art racing bikes trying to do a Lance Armstrong impression. As these guys appeared to be out for a little weekend exercise I couldn’t understand why they’d spent all that money on the lightest and most efficient bikes – they’d have been much better off buying a cheap mountain bike for a hundred quid that would be harder to cycle and so much better exercise. I suspected that ‘street cred’ had a lot to do with it. The only touring cyclists I saw during my entire time in France were my Whitby friend in the lay-by and a group of four young lads from Belgium.
After my heat exhaustion episode I completely changed my water routine. I now left the campsite with both water bottles full (1.8 litres total) and drank as much as I wanted as I cycled along. As soon as I finished the first bottle I stopped at the first opportunity and bought a 1.5 litre bottle of water (usually chilled), swigged as much as I wanted, and put the rest into my bike water bottles. I was averaging about 5 litres a day and the ride to Carcassonne was no exception. The wind had unfortunately got worse (No, not caused by all the beans in the cassoulet!). It was head on and very strong, so much so that I had to use a low gear all day and was only able to maintain 7-9 mph. If I’d known how bad it was going to be I probably wouldn’t have set out. There was dust and debris flying around all day, and council workmen chain sawing a branch that had fallen on the road as I cycled into Carcassonne. It was also very hot. Not only was it a great day for drying washing, it was equally good for drying cyclists – I got through 5 litres of water during the day and several more during the evening.
The campsite at Carcassonne is quite large and has loads of facilities but was not really my cup of tea - too big, too many families (i.e. kids!). It’s so big that they take your passport off you when you arrive so that they can keep tabs on whose there and to stop you doing a runner. I found the most sheltered spot that I could to pitch the tent and decided that, whilst the site restaurant looked a bit basic, after my day’s labours I would risk it (it actually turned out to be O.K.). Sat at the next table to me were two Spanish families. They ordered their meal and their wine was duly brought to their table. The two husbands disappeared with two of the kids for whatever reason and whilst they were away one of the wives poured herself a glass of red wine, tasted it and then poured the rest of it into the pot of the nearest plant in the restaurant. She then repeated this process with the white wine, pouring it into the same pot before refilling her glass again with red wine! There was a German guy at a table facing me and both he and I were highly amused by these goings on but this almost turned to hysterics when the husbands returned, the wives went to the toilet and one of the husbands repeated the entire process. They had no wine left by the time their meal arrived and had to order more!
Rain had been forecast for the next day. I managed to miss it but it was obvious that some areas had had quite a soaking (It was to catch up with me later!) and much of the Pyrenees were covered in low cloud as I cycled parallel to them. The next night I stayed at Narbonne, my most expensive campsite - €16.40 – but probably worth it. It had everything that you’d expect from a top of the range campsite but here they went one better – ensuite shower rooms! All the pitches were laid out in rows, with the usual hedges in between, but at this site each pitch had a small building at the back of the pitch to which you were given a key. In each building (about 2 x 3 metres) was your own toilet, shower and washand basin.
It dawned on me that this would be my last French campsite as the next day I would be cycling to just outside Perpignan to stay at a Julia’s house and from there it would be Spain. I hadn’t decided which route to take into Spain. I had a choice of two, a winding but low coast road or, a higher but more direct inland route. Thinking about it was giving me some grief as if I chose the wrong route and ended up on a road that was too steep I could be in trouble.
The next morning I set off under heavily overcast skies but at least the wind wasn’t against me. I’d only done a few miles when I was overtaken by a car and flagged down. Apparently Julia was having an horrendous storm with some roads flooded and was offering to collect me but she hadn’t been able to get in touch (I’d turned my mobile ‘phone off during the day to save the battery!) so she had ‘phoned Karen in Scotland who had ‘phoned the site and they’d sent somebody after me (not many sites would do that). Although the skies were not looking too good I decided to carry on under my own steam rather than ‘cheat’. A short while later I was questioning my decision – I was hit by one of the most horrendous storms I have ever experienced – and it just kept on. Torrential rain, thunder and lightning – the lightning sometimes so close that I wondered if a steel-framed bike was the best thing to have between my legs! My Day-Glo cycle cape, whilst keeping me completely dry, rapidly filled with water where it dipped between my body and the handlebars and I had to stop every few minutes to empty it out – I could have kept a couple of goldfish in there! Other than that (!), the ride was quite pleasant – reasonable smooth and flat and sunny, once the storm eventually passed. I arrived at Julia’s town of St. Laurent quite early (I’d been cycling fast!) and so I ‘phoned her up and got directions to her place – a sort of granny flat with a large balcony, attached to a large house. For the evening meal Julia cooked a pork dish – strips cooked with leeks, cream and chopped tarragon and served with mashed potato – not only delicious but a welcome change from cassoulet which had become my staple diet. She also served up a fascinating plate of nibbles which were simply destalked mushrooms filled with garlic and herb cheese which were then microwaved for about 90 seconds – delicious!
By the end of the day it was tipping it down again!
The next day we went to the market in St. Laurent which is typically French and had a ridiculously large range of local produce - I loved it! Some stalls were laden with a vast array of fruit, veg and herbs, beautifully displayed and beautifully fresh, some had local produce such as meat, poultry, honey, etc whilst others had cheeses of every imaginable type. I think if I lived there I would have to systematically work my way through it all. For lunch we went to a hotel restaurant that had become Julia and Michael’s ‘local’ since they moved to France (Unfortunately Michael has since died). This is because they bought a house ‘off plan’ and when they turned up on the given completion date it wasn’t ready and so the builder put them up in the hotel and paid for full board (I can’t see a British builder doing that). Julia and I had a very pleasant lunch, but the starter was excellent (I got Julia to ask what was in it) - mussels in a sauce of shallots, mayonnaise, Dijon mustard and tomato puree. When we left it was tipping it down again and so the hotel lent us a couple of umbrellas. In the afternoon Julia, knowing my penchant for DIY, took me to a French B&Q equivalent for a look around and then on to Carrefour where I found the same delicious wine that we had had with our lunch at €16 for six bottles. Bread and cheese (and wine!) in the evening – well someone’s got to help out with the European wine lake.
Julia had arranged for three of her friends to come for lunch the next day (I got the impression it was so that they could meet the mad Englishman) and so after a breakfast of coffee and croissants we spent the morning prepping the meal. The friends turned out to be a retired Swedish English teacher (who spent most of her time correcting Julia’s English) and a lovely couple from Aberdeen who have a holiday home in St. Laurent and spend much of their time there. They recommended that I should take the inland route into Spain which, whilst being considerably higher, they reckoned was a steady climb whereas the coastal road, although very scenic and considerably lower was all up and down. They sounded as though they knew what they were talking about and I decided there and then to take their advice.
The following day Julia took me into Perpignan for a look around the shops and for a great lunch at a restaurant that was basically a buffet/tapas place offering a vast array of food including smoked salmon, langoustines, chorizo and tortillas. I took the opportunity to fill up before my departure the next morning. Whilst we were in town I also bought a map covering my route from the Spanish border to Barcelona as I had nothing apart from an A4 map I’d printed off from the internet which showed very little detail. The map also showed campsites which was also useful as my Michelin guide would be useless once over the border (I left it at Julia’s to save weight). I was still unsure about what lay ahead of me the next day but I just thought that worst case scenario I would return to Perpignan and catch the train.
I made an early start and made quite good progress. For the first time in ages it wasn’t raining and the wind was almost in the right direction! I went the wrong way a couple of times (French signs!) and then the road that I was supposed to join had been upgraded to a motorway (they obviously forgot to tell the mapmakers) with no alternative route signposted. Fortunately I was able to work my way round the motorway using my trusty compass and joined my intended road further on. The climb up the Pyrenees wasn’t as bad as I feared it might have been and I found that I was able to sit in bottom gear spinning the peddles and slowly hauling myself up occasionally stopping for a rest (By now I’d sussed out that the reason that I usually need to stop was because my legs were hurting through lack of oxygen to the muscles. If I stopped, sometimes for as little as thirty seconds, then I was able to power on again). It was, at least, a steady climb with some great views and it was definitely the right decision to take that route rather than the ups and downs of the coast road. The border between France and Spain doesn’t really exist any more. The customs sheds are just being left to rust and you just ride straight through – my passport hadn’t been checked since Portsmouth as they didn’t want to see it at Calais either. Just over the top of the Pyrenees is a small town (almost a one street affair) where I stopped to buy a cold drink. As I came out of the shop and was organising the bike a guy walked up to me, looked at the heavily loaded bike, looked at me and gave me a big smile and a double thumbs up to show his appreciation of the climb I’d just done. The decent on the Spanish side was great – long and gentle – allowing me to freewheel for miles and make good time. Although I was sure there would be more hills ahead, at that point I just didn’t care – I’d conquered the Pyrenees!
I stayed at a nice site, set amongst trees, just outside the town of Figueres. The site had its own reasonably priced restaurant serving good quality food and once again I took the easy option and ate there rather than cooking (My justification was that I was celebrating!). From Figueres I headed down to the coast. There were still quite a few steep hills to climb and I probably made a mistake taking the Girona bypass which went up and over the hills instead of through the valley that Girona sits in. It also went through several long tunnels with effectively zero lighting which were a bit hairy to cycle through as cycle lights are pretty useless for seeing your way (well mine are). I just had to grit my teeth and cycle like the clappers, trying to get through before a truck ran me down and trying to avoid running off the road and into a massive drainage trench about a metre wide and deep.
On the approach to Girona I passed by a couple of pretty, scantily clad girls (skirts like belts) standing at the end of a farm track. I thought they looked a little out of place in the countryside but decided that this was probably Girona fashion and they were waiting for the bus into town (Was I naïve or what?). The further I travelled, the more similarly dressed girls I saw standing at the end of farm tracks and it slowly dawned on me that they were prostitutes hoping to pick up a passer-by. It brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘subsistence farming’. Some of the girls were extremely organised and had a folding chair, umbrella and cool box. Although several called out to me as I cycled past I managed to resist temptation.
I bypassed the hotel blocks of Lloret de Mar (yuk!) and ended up at a site at Santa Suzanna. The site was so big that there was no way that I could estimate how many pitches there were. It was massive and definitely not my cup of tea. However I was staying there by virtue of distance from Barcelona rather than choice. I wanted to stay a few hours cycle ride from Barcelona to give myself plenty of time to get to the ferry the next day.
After my restaurant meal the previous night I’d decided to cook for myself but as there were no shops nearby I was dependant on the campsite supermarket for supplies. Although it was big, the shop was very cleverly stocked (or was I being cynical?) with all sorts of things but nothing that was really suitable for making a meal from. I was effectively forced to eat at their restaurant which turned out to be a big mistake – only the beer was worth having (my first San Miguel of the trip!)
The next day I made a prompt start as I wanted to be at the ferry terminal in good time because I didn’t know whether or not I had to check in at least two hours before sailing, like at an airport. As I cycled along I caught up with a group of Lycra-clads on super-light bikes. These guys went one better than the Lycra-clads I had come across before – they were all sporting yellow streamlined helmets which made them look like budgies with their heads on backwards. The helmets didn’t seem to work – I still overtook them.
As the roads were fairly flat, I made good time and arrived at 2.30pm for my 5.00pm sailing. The road into Barcelona was interesting. It was dead straight for several miles, four lanes wide and one way, with a cycle lane on the left-hand side. It was great and I was just thinking how well planned out Barcelona was when another multi-lane road joined from the left, leaving me cycling down the middle of a now six lane race track!
I found the ferry office. “Can I buy a ticket for the ferry to Alcudia please?” I asked. “No”, I was told. “Out of season it only sails at weekends and it’s out of season”. So I had no option but to buy a ticket for Palma and accept that I would have to cycle across Mallorca. I was told that the ferry sailed at 11pm but that I should be back at the ferry office by 10pm to catch the bus that I was assured would take both me and the bike to the ferry – so I had seven and a half hours to waste. I cycled around Barcelona for a while doing a bit of sightseeing and then returned to the seafront where I’d seen quite a few interesting looking restaurants where I thought I’d get a meal before sailing – I didn’t know what would be available on the ferry. I spotted a good (and cheap) looking menu and was hovering outside when the owner recognised that I was concerned about leaving my bike (several people had warned me that Barcelona was infamous for thieves and pickpockets). He came out to me and insisted that I bring my bike in to his restaurant. So I sat and had a very pleasant meal with my bike parked next to my table, much to the amusement of the other customers.
I returned to the ferry office in good time and sat outside with other passengers on the benches provided and waited for the bus. When it got to 10.10 I went into the office only to be told that the bus had gone – I never did see it! The girls told me that it was quite a distance to the ferry but that I might just make it. They hastily drew me a map and I cycled off at top speed, whizzing down streets and around roundabouts. To my relief the ferry was still there and I was in such a rush to get on board that it dawned on me a few minutes later that I wasn’t even sure that I was on the right ship. I’d just cycled straight onto the ship unchallenged and hadn’t bothered to check its name. Fortunately it was the right ship but, unfortunately, in my haste to get on board I hadn’t really thought about what I was wearing and decided to stay in my cycling vest and shorts so that I would be ready for riding off the next morning. It was a big mistake. The ship was air-conditioned and I spent a very cold night on board.
Over 90% of the passengers were truck drivers and were obviously regulars, well known by most of the crew. I had always assumed that truck drivers were overweight because they didn’t get much exercise but I soon realised another reason. As truckers their tickets entitled them not only to a cabin but also to free food and drink. As soon as they had parked their trucks on the ferry they went straight to the bar for a drink. Then, when it was announced over the tannoy that the restaurant was open they all piled out of the bar and into the restaurant (some of them literally ran!) where they piled their trays high with food and, in many cases, half a bottle of wine and a couple of cans of beer. All this was downed in double-quick time before returning to the bar for more drinks – the Guardia Civil (local police) armed with breathalysers could have great fun at Palma docks!
I decided to have a drink to help me sleep in the cold. After I’d told the barman how far I’d cycled he gave me a huge brandy (about a quarter of a pint) charged me £1.30 and then gave me a free packet of peanuts!
Despite the brandy, I didn’t get much sleep on the ferry because it was so cold and it also dawned on me that I didn’t have a map of Mallorca. Having driven many times from the airport to our apartment in Alcudia I knew that I could find my way once out of Palma, but I hadn’t a clue how to get from the docks, through Palma, and out onto the right road.
In the morning I asked at the ship’s Information Desk for a map of Palma but the only one they had was really intended for visitors and shoppers and gave no clues as to directions to other towns. Once again my compass proved to be invaluable. As I’m used to driving from the airport, I used the compass to make sure that I was riding along the seafront in the right direction (towards the airport). I knew that the road I wanted ran at roughly 90 degrees to the seafront and I knew roughly how far from the airport it was. All I needed to do was cycle along until I guesstimated that I was in approximately the right place and then turn left and plough straight through the city of Palma with my fingers crossed. As luck would have it I emerged unscathed and on the right road.
The ride across Mallorca was excellent with no wind, warm weather and smooth roads. The motorway from Palma only used to go half way across the island to the town of Inca but has recently been extended and now goes virtually right across to the north coast, leaving the old road as a service road. It’s ideal for cyclists as it’s almost deserted but, unlike many service roads, has a smooth surface allowing me to make excellent time and get right across the island to our apartment by 10.20 in the morning. The only downside was that my bike wouldn’t fit in the lift and I had to haul it, fully loaded, up two flights of stairs!
Epilogue
Before I’d set off on this trip people had told me that if I was going to cycle such a distance that I should get sponsorship and raise money for charity. With hindsight they may have been right but I hadn’t done so for the simple reason that when I had set out I’d thought that there was a fair chance that I wouldn’t make it and would end up catching a train or a plane. After all, I’d done no training due to the trapped nerve in my leg and I wasn’t exactly fit. Friends also asked me if I was daunted by the prospect of cycling so far. Perhaps somewhat illogically I always replied that I only intended to ride about 50 miles each day and I had already managed to do that. I just had to do it thirty times over and, when compared to the cycle journeys of some others, mine was a mere drop in the ocean.
For about the first two-thirds of the trip I was regularly ‘hitting the wall’ but as my level of fitness improved so did my enjoyment of the trip. By the time I arrived in Alcudia I could have quite happily turned around and cycled home again. I was ten kilos lighter and felt ten years younger.
Aplogies, This trip was undertaken before this website was ever thought of and so there are no photos with the trip. I did take an old camera with me which used films but most of them were either very poor quality or didn't come out at all. If I get time I'll put a map of the route on and maybe try to 'doctor' some of the photos
I stopped on the bridge, hauled my bike loaded with thirty kilos of camping gear onto its centre stand, looked down at the picturesque fast flowing stream and thought, “What the hell am I doing here?” I’d only just started day two of my supposed epic journey, I was part way up the climb to Shap summit on the Pennines and already my legs were screaming “What did we ever do to deserve this?” Decades of neglect had left my body out of condition and overweight at sixteen and a half stones; until two weeks prior to my departure I’d been having problems with a trapped nerve in my right leg and couldn’t drive my car or walk more than a few hundred yards – and of course the fact that I hadn’t ridden a bike for a quarter of a century may have had something to do with it too!
So why was I doing it? Mid-life crisis my youngest son said and to a certain extent he was right. It wasn’t that I was trying to prove to myself that I was still young; at the age of fifty four I had no illusions about that. However, a few years ago two of my friends had unexpectedly died and both were younger than me – it’s amazing how something like that clarifies your thinking. It doesn’t matter how old you get, you always think like you did when you were twenty five (or think you do!) and assume that you have plenty of time left to do the things in life that you always wanted to. Now it had been pointed out to me, somewhat forcefully, that maybe I didn’t and that tomorrow is promised to no one. And so, after twenty three years of teaching, my (long suffering) wife Karen and I packed in our jobs and set up a company buying, renovating and selling property – less stress, more flexibility – and drawing up our ‘wish list’ of things that we wanted to do before we were too old and decrepit. I started planning a bike ride.
Why a bike ride? Well when I was in my thirties I had been teaching in an under-funded Design Department (Woodwork, metalwork, plastics, electronics and graphics to the uninitiated!) and a colleague and I had been thinking of ways to raise finance. One of our ideas was a sponsored cycle ride to Monte Carlo. We even thought of asking Raleigh to sponsor us by lending us a couple of bikes. The thinking was that they would become Monte Carlo Raleighs – it seemed like a good idea at the time! Nothing came of the plan as we managed to raise finance for our department in other ways but the seed of a long bike ride had been planted in my mind, where it stayed for the best part of twenty years and had now started to grow.
I started route planning early but problems soon began to dawn on me, not least being, “What am I going to do when I get to Monte Carlo?” I could only afford the time to cycle one way and there was no easy way of getting home again – I would probably have to cycle back to Nice to catch a plane, having previously dismantled my bike and boxed it ready for flying. Whilst studying the maps I realised that the obvious solution was staring me in the face. We had recently bought an apartment in Alcudia, Mallorca. When I got to the bottom of France if I turned right instead of left, I could nip through into Spain where I could get a ferry from Barcelona to Alcudia, meet up with Karen and fly back with the bike. Simple. Only it didn’t seem so simple right now as I huffed and puffed my way up to Shap Summit.
Not having been lightweight camping since I was a boy I thought it wise to start planning early and so, using common sense and books by other cyclists to guide me, I started to gather together my equipment and found myself plunged into a whole new world. Although I already possessed a bike it was a cheap old mountain bike that my son had borrowed whilst his car was off the road and the tyres were now rotten and the chain rusted solid. I did take it to my local cycle shop where they put right everything that was wrong but a trip out on it with luggage soon persuaded me that it probably wasn’t up to the job (I could feel the frame flexing from side to side as I cycled along). So back to the bike shop I went and, in the January sales, became the proud owner of a new Saracen Skyline touring bike. This was a revelation to me; twenty four gears (once I’d figured out that the gear levers were now combined with the brake levers!) that went ‘snick-snick’ instead of ‘clunk-clunk’, Kevlar reinforced tyres and quick-release wheels (I never have figured out why you would want quick-release wheels on a touring bike – it just makes them easier to steal whenever you park. When car manufacturers started to fit expensive alloy wheels to cars the next thing they did was to fit locking wheel nuts. When bicycle manufacturers started to fit expensive wheels to bikes they fitted them with a system that allowed them to be removed in a few seconds – is it just me?). The only item on the bike that I didn’t get on with was the saddle. It was a very up-market Italian job and I soon realised that I didn’t have an up-market Italian bum! It was quickly changed for a Selle gel saddle and even that was covered with a gel seat cover before I left on my trip. Tents, I discovered, had also changed considerably over the years and now used plastic sheeting and bendy glass fibre poles in place of the canvas ridge tents I had used in my youth (The last tent that I had bought had tubular steel poles!). I decided a trial run might be wise and so loaded all my gear onto my bike and was horrified to discover that I could barely lift it off the ground. Nevertheless I set off for a not-too-distant campsite to try out all my gear. As I had not been camping for so many years (and never on a bike) it was a valuable exercise and helped me to establish a campsite routine – you can always tell the ‘new boy’ by how long it takes them to get their campsite organised. Most things worked fine but I soon discovered that mummy sleeping bags are not for me – I toss and turn too much in the night and soon felt like a grub in a cocoon. Several other items were either deleted from my kit list or replaced.
Once back home I commandeered the spare bedroom and laid all my gear out, popping in periodically to add or subtract from the display. I then resorted to what, at the time, seemed a little extreme and weighed every item individually on the kitchen scales, substituting lighter items wherever possible (funnily enough it seems to make a lot more sense when you’re slogging up a hill!). A plastic bag became my wash bag, pages were torn out of my map book, my towel got smaller, etc. This process allowed me to trim over four kilos off my luggage weight but it still totalled over 30 kilos – the Easyjet luggage allowance for two people!
I spent evenings route planning, even going to the extent of using Autoroute on the computer to check distances and Google Earth to look at the terrain I would be cycling through. The only ‘fly in the ointment’ seemed to be a rather large lump in between France and Spain called the Pyrenees but I hoped that I could nip round on the coast road and virtually avoid them. Either way, I would cross that bridge (hill) when I came to it.
None of this was helping me now. My legs were still in pain – I was so unfit.
The night before I left I packed my bags for the last time (I’d packed and unpacked several times before to adjust the weight in each bag and make sure that everything fitted!) and rode my trusty steed round the block to make sure that I was happy with the balance. I hadn’t done any training because of my leg pain but if I was honest I didn’t expect to get that far anyway. I had to try though (if I gave in before even setting off then I would never do it) and, worst case scenario, I would catch the train or plane home – depending on how far I had got!
The date chosen for my departure was the middle of August, the logic being that the weather would still be mild in the UK but not too hot by the time I arrived in Mallorca, and hopefully all the campsites would still be open by the end of September, my estimated time of arrival (Although many long distance cyclists camp wild I enjoy my simple pleasures too much – showers, bar, restaurant, shop, etc!). It meant a reasonable average of 50 miles per day bearing in mind i) my age ii) I was camping iii) I wanted to enjoy the trip.
Every Journey begins with a First Step (or peddle)
As I was waved off from home in Dumfries (taking two attempts to get my feet in the toe clips) the weather was fine and I cycled away wondering what excitement lay ahead. I didn’t have to wait long. Thirty miles into my journey I had to pass through what is known locally as the Cumberland Gap. This is a dual carriageway just over the border from Scotland into England that joins the M74 to the M6 and consequently squeezes three lanes of motorway traffic into two (Since my trip this has been improved, upgraded to motorway status and a service road provided). It’s classed as an ‘A’ road and so legally cyclists, pedestrians, horses, etc can use it but where the road crosses over bridges there’s no hard shoulder and articulated lorries thunder over two abreast at seventy miles an hour. There is an alternative route but it’s twelve miles longer (which would have made the distance to my campsite too far for the first day) and so I donned my helmet and pedalled like the clappers, using the hard shoulder wherever possible and prayed every time I had to cross a bridge.
I cycled into Carlisle where I was greeted with the only verbal abuse I received during the entire trip. I was merrily cycling along in nobody’s way when a passing motorist shouted out of his window (in no uncertain terms!) that I should be on the cycle path. What the gentleman (who was so generous with his wisdom) failed to realise was that the cycle path was littered with broken glass and that, even with my Kevlar lined tyres, there was no way that I was going to risk it. Poorly maintained cycle paths were to become a frequent problem as I cycled south through the UK. Councils claim to be encouraging cycling by providing cycle lanes but these usually consist of a yellow line painted eighteen inches from the kerb, forcing cyclists to ride across drains, stones, pot holes and broken glass and the lanes usually disappear at critical points such as narrow bridges and roundabouts. Later on in France I was to find some towns where the cycle lanes were almost as wide as the car lanes.
After my first day on the road and fifty four miles covered I arrived exhausted at the lovely market town of Penrith and spent the night at the Lowther Camp Site, which turned out to be the best (and cheapest) campsite that I stayed at in Britain. After a meal and a couple of pints in the site restaurant I had no problem sleeping.
Penrith, the birthplace of William Wordsworth and his future wife, was the capital of the Kingdom of Cumbria in the 9th and 10th centuries and was, as such, part of the Kingdom of Scotland until 1070 when it was incorporated into England. In the 14th century it was frequently raided by the Scots and a fire would be lit on the nearby Beacon Hill to warn of their approach. At the end of the century Penrith Castle was built as a more substantial form of defence for the Duke of Gloucester (Who later became King Richard 111). The town is now a much more peaceful place but still contains numerous ancient buildings including St. Andew’s church whose graveyard houses the giant’s grave where the 10th century giant King of Cumbria is said to be buried.
Next morning I met a guy who had arrived at the campsite late the following night. Despite weighing 22 stones he was cycle-camping from John O’Groats to Lands End having done it the other way round the previous year. He claimed that he never lost any weight whilst cycling but also admitted that he had stopped for a kebab with everything on it just before arriving at the site. He made me feel much better about my weight!
Day two was over the Pennines via Shap summit to Morecambe. It was a long and steep climb and my lack of training showed. I huffed and puffed my way to the top, stopping several times to get my breath back and getting off and pushing for some of the way. At the summit I was greeted by a stone memorial dedicated to those people who died trying to make the crossing! It dawned on me as I had been pushing my bike up the hill that my leg had not been hurting me. Whatever had been ailing me prior to leaving home had obviously been eased by the exercise. Mind you, I probably wouldn’t have noticed a pain in my leg as my bum was hurting so much. I adjusted my saddle angle in an attempt to relieve the pressure and whilst it helped it would be a while before my backside got used to the relentless pounding of the British roads, which were much worse than those of either France or Spain.
Morecambe (formerly known as Poulton-le-Sands) is a typical seaside resort, historically popular with people from Yorkshire and Scotland. Like so many other resorts it suffered greatly from the introduction of package holidays abroad and it is only in recent years that it has shown signs of permanent recovery. However it is well worth a visit, if only because of the size of the bay and the magnificent views it provides.
For my third and fourth night I headed for my dad’s house just north of Manchester which was a pleasant and reasonably flat ride. At lunchtime I was going through Preston on the lookout for food. The area I was in was mainly commercial – factories, offices, industrial units – no promising looking food shops. Then I spotted a McDonalds and, as I was hot and sweaty, decided not to go into the restaurant but went through the drive through instead. From the look on the assistants’ faces they don’t get too many cyclists through.
It was great to see my dad and his second wife Helen. I don’t see them as often as I should and Helen always dishes up great food which was a good excuse to refuel. I was also able to use some Araldite to repair my favourite sunglasses that had been shaken to pieces whilst hanging from my handlebars.
Before I had set out from home I had printed out a list of all the main towns and cities that I would pass through with the Autoroute mileage next to them. Even at this early stage of the journey I realised that I was clocking up more than the estimated mileage (about 15% more) due to taking alternative routes to those suggested by Autoroute (i.e. no motorways) and diverting from the route to reach campsites.
On day five I experienced the first real downpour of the trip which gave me an excuse to test out my shiny new fluorescent yellow cycling cape. It worked really well but I had the feeling that I must look like a Day-Glo batman! Still at least no car driver could argue that they couldn’t see me!
Later on in the day I had to pass though Stoke-on Trent – a town best avoided by cyclists – all hills, heavy traffic and poor signage – I’m sure I went round it twice! I thought that I would be clever and avoid the town by going round the bypass (uphill!) but then got directed back in the other direction down a lethal dual carriageway which, if the drivers’ looks were anything to go by, I suspect bicycles aren’t allowed on. Fortunately that night’s stop was not that far out of Stoke and so, after bargaining the price down to a more respectable £10 (from £14 – overpriced but I suspect that their close proximity to Alton Towers amusement park allows them to get away with it) I was able to pitch my tent and adjourn to the bar which was housed in a run down manor house.
Many British campsites use a simplistic pricing system by which it costs as much for me to camp with my bicycle and two metre square tent as it does for a couple with a big 4x4, a 20 foot long caravan and awning. Only a few enlightened sites offer a ‘backpacker’ rate which makes camping in the UK a sensible price for those travelling alone. Most site owners won’t negotiate and are quite prepared to watch you cycle away to their competitor’s site up the road, losing not only your site fee but also whatever you would have spent in their shop/bar/restaurant.
The next day consequently turned out to be quite a long one due to me once again refusing to pay £14 and the owner refusing to negotiate at my intended campsite. It’s not that I’m mean but I hate to feel that I’ve been ripped off. I tried to point out to the owner that at his price for my tent I could make a good living out of my front lawn but he refused to reduce his fee and so I pressed on and ended up paying £30 at a B&B instead (it seemed logical at the time!). I’d cycled on until I’d had enough for one day and, as there wasn’t a campsite nearby, stayed in a lovely farm B&B where I was given a family room to myself with a huge ensuite bathroom. Whilst it cost me more than twice as much as my intended campsite I justified it to myself as I was well under budget for the trip so far (I’d allowed myself £20 per day) and it allowed me to wash clothes in the sink and dry them on the radiator, fully charge my ‘phone, have a long soak in a bath, and a huge breakfast the next morning. An added bonus was that I’d denied the campsite owner of his rip-off fee.
As I was now ahead of schedule I decided to miss out my next planned campsite and push on to my next rest stop at my aunt’s house at Kennington, just outside Oxford. During the day, however, my bike started to show its first (and in fairness, its only) sign of weakness. I noticed a broken spoke in the rear wheel and then heard a ‘ping’ as a second one broke on the approach to Oxford. This set off a few alarm bells as, whilst I could obviously get them replaced, I had only cycled a few hundred miles and still had over a thousand to go and had visions of renewing spokes all the way to Mallorca. I had no alternative; I was going to have to spend my ‘rest day’ trying to find a bike shop to do the repair. I had to laugh at myself really as I’ve always said that I couldn’t understand why long distance cyclists take spare spokes with them as in all my years of cycling as a youngster I’d never had a broken spoke – now I had two of them.
The next day I ‘phoned a cycle shop that I found in Yellow Pages called ‘Behind Bars’ (get it?) and, once I’d explained my predicament and that I was on my way to Mallorca, they agreed to re-jig their schedule and fix my bike immediately. I cycled the twelve miles to their shop and 45 minutes and one coffee later my spokes had been replaced, my wheel trued and my derailleurs adjusted all for the bargain price of £10 with a couple of spare spokes thrown in. I also treated myself to a new pair of cycling gloves as my old ones looked as though they had been attacked by moths.
With my bike back to ‘as new’ condition I cycled off next day and headed for Winchester and a really nice campsite with a pub next door – sometimes town planners do get things right! Another cyclist at the site was using a bivvy bag – the first time I’d come across one but I instantly decided – not for me. They’re like canvas coffins with no room for you or your luggage. Whilst I’d tried to reduce my luggage weight as much as possible I had decided to use a two man tent with cooking extension so that I had plenty of room for me and all my luggage and was still able to cook under cover when the weather was bad. I also took an airbed to guarantee a good night’s sleep and a cafétière to ensure a decent cup of coffee (well you need a bit of comfort when you get to my age!).
Day 10 was a pleasant ride (apart from a strong headwind off the sea) cycling through beautiful villages where watercress was grown as a crop in huge ponds often in the centre of the village, kept fresh by water from the local river. In places the rivers were totally covered in watercress where it had obviously escaped from the ponds and become established in the wild.
I’ve decided that about a third of all Britain’s drains are blocked – it’s amazing what you notice as you cycle along! (Other things I’ve noticed are that the wind is always against you, no matter which direction you are cycling in and that hills go up much more frequently than they go down).
My arrival at the Portsmouth ferry port was beautifully timed. The rain that had been threatening all day had failed to materialise as I had been cycling along but as I pulled up under the Brittany Ferries office canopy the heavens opened in a terrific downpour. Fortunately this was short lived and so, having bought my ticket for St Malo I spent several hours cruising around Portsmouth and looking at the tall ships until I was due to be back at the ferry terminal. I was particularly fascinated by the shear size of the HMS Victory which must have been the marvel of its age. We think we live in such a clever age but when you see things like that, built without the use of any machinery, it makes you wonder if we’ve really made that much progress.
Whilst lined up at the terminal with all the other vehicles waiting to board the ferry a motorcyclist strolled over and asked me where I’d come from. He was amazed when I told him I’d cycled from Dumfries and even more so when I told him that I was on my way to Mallorca – “Hey, you must be really fit”. “No”, I said, “but I suspect I will be by the time I get there”.
The majority of people crossing the channel use the Dover-Calais ferry as it is the quickest and cheapest. I had decided to use the Portsmouth-St Malo crossing firstly because I could find no easy way around London without doing a huge loop and secondly because the crossing was about eight hours long, allowing me to have a sleep before arriving early in the morning. The crossing was smooth and the ship much better equipped than the last time I had made the crossing. I had a couple of pints whilst watching the live entertainment and chatting to a stonemason who’d been declared unfit to work and pensioned off after falling from scaffolding . He was on his way to Brittany to look for a house to renovate. I never did work out how he could be fit enough to renovate a house but not fit enough to work. I then retired to one of the quiet areas of the ship to sleep.
The next morning, as the ship was docking, I went to the bicycle storage area to recover Sky (by now I’d named it!) and met the others on the ferry who were travelling by bicycle. Most of us had bright shiny mounts apart from an old guy who must have been 75 and put us all to shame. He had a tatty old bike on which he reckoned to clock up a minimum of 10,000 miles a year (he no longer had a car) and regularly used for touring France.
Disembarking from the ferry felt like the real adventure had begun. It took me two attempts to get out of St Malo as whichever way you head they try to direct you on to a motorway, presumably to clear the ferry traffic as quickly as possible and prevent it from jamming up the town. Eventually I escaped and decided that, as I was in the area, I would divert slightly from my route and visit the monastery at Mont St Michel. The road leading to the monastery was jammed with hundreds of people doing the same thing as me – taking a photograph and then turning round and driving back!
It was noticeable that the French roads were smoother than in the UK (presumably because there’s less chance of icing) and it allowed me to pull a higher gear and maintain a higher speed.
I stopped quite early for the night at the municipal site in the pleasant little town of Antrain, just over halfway between St Malo and Rennes. I’ve always liked the French municipal sites as, not only are they cheap, but they are also well maintained and nearly always positioned in a nice spot close to the centre of the town or village. This one was no exception; it was a lovely spot with pleasant views over surrounding farms and only a few minutes from the local shops. It was also extremely quiet and so I took the opportunity to recharge my ‘phone in a shaver socket in the toilet block whilst no one was around. As it was warm and windy I also set up my washing line (from ground to bike crossbar, over the tent and down to the ground again).and took the opportunity to get some washing done.
The next day I headed for Chateaugiron, just south of Rennes. It was a short day at only 44miles and I felt guilty about it until I realised that it was supposed to be a rest day. I’d planned to cycle for three days and take the fourth day off to recover but I think that arriving in France had caused my subconscious to restart the sequence. The municipal site was, once again, very nice and cheap at £3 but had no loo paper in the toilets – thank god for my emergency supplies! Chateaugiron is a very trendy little town of timber framed buildings and quaint shops on a hill (complete with chateau) that I suspect is commuter belt for Rennes. I went looking for the supermarket only to find it was on the other side of town - this turned out to be the case more often than not throughout France. However I didn’t mind too much as without my 32kg of luggage it was like cycling on air!
Day 13 was certainly unlucky for me. I woke up feeling really grotty and so, as it was raining, I decided to have a rest day. My initial prognosis was that I’d not been eating enough food to replace the calories burned. I felt light headed for most of the day – like being drunk but fully conscious - really weird! Despite feeling very strange I decided to move on the next day and head for a site at Nozay which was not too far away but would at least be a little bit of progress in a southerly direction. As I headed out of the site I realised just how bad I was when I had to use the bike for support; I should probably have just turned around and headed back into the site but I stubbornly rode off. The route that I took was very quiet which was just as well because I was struggling to control the bike, swerving over to the wrong side of the road on more than one occasion. Fortunately I improved as the day went on. Later on in the day I noticed that my black cycling shorts were turning white – salt! I must be losing loads of it through sweating and I never take salt on anything (except chips!). That evening I got Karen to check the internet for the symptoms of salt deprivation and sure enough it came up with mine. Consequently I dissolved two sachets of salt (the only salt that I had with me was a few sachets that I’d ‘collected’ from the local pub one evening) in hot water, drank it down (ugh!) and waited to see what would happen. When I arrived at Nozay I cruised through the town looking for the campsite and passing two girls sat on a wall on the way in. As I didn’t pass the site I turned round and rode back through the town for a second attempt, passing the girls again who smiled. I still couldn’t find it so headed back into town, past the girls again who, by now, were highly amused. In the centre I managed to find a tourist street map of the town which clearly showed the campsite and so I headed back out again, past the two girls who were almost falling off the wall with laughter. When I finally located the site, which was well hidden down a track, it was closed and had clearly gone out of business several years ago – so much for the Michelin guide. The girls probably sit on that same wall every day just to watch the tourists going up and down the road looking for the site! I had no alternative but to press on to the next site I had found in the Michelin guide that I had initially dismissed as being too far away and which, due to my detour, was now even further.
The next day was spent trying to bypass Nantes. I’ve decided that big cities are like planets – they have a gravitational pull all of their own and if you get too close they suck you in. I must have missed a turn on my approach to the city and spent over an hour trying to get out. It made it seem like a long day. However the day after was even worse. It was raining heavily when I awoke and I should probably have just turned over and gone back to sleep. Instead I foolishly packed and set off. The rain continued and was accompanied by strong headwinds – it reminded me more of the north of Scotland than central France. I was also getting a bit fed up with all the hills; it was literally just up and down with virtually no flats at all. I suppose that the route I was taking was cutting straight across all the river valleys heading for the sea on the east coast. It wouldn’t have been so bad but there was usually a village or small town in the bottom of the valley (historically because of the water supply) with crossroads/roundabouts/traffic lights at the foot of the hill and so I was unable to take advantage of the downhill run to get me part way up the next climb.
Then, just to make my miserable mood complete, a spoke broke – I was at an all time low. If someone had offered me a way out I would have taken it. I removed the tyre and tube, replaced the spoke and then reassembled everything, shivering violently all the time due to being soaked to the skin and the high wind chill factor. Later on that day I realised that I had a slow puncture. I eventually arrived at my site for the night at Mervent, just north of Fontenay-le-Comte, a pleasant site in a pleasant village and, after setting up camp, adjourned to their restaurant. The food wasn’t great and was quite pricy but I didn’t care – it was hot! I decided to take the next couple of days off to sort the bike out and to get my head straight. In my miserable state I’d forgotten to get any food for breakfast so the next morning I headed to the site restaurant to see what was available – nothing! In fairness the site owner did say that whilst they did not open during the day she would rustle me something up if I wanted but I decided not to put her out. There were no shops in the village but as I was short of cash I would need to cycle the six miles into Fontenay anyway and could restock my food at the same time. During my little excursion my slow tyre leak gradually got worse and by the time I arrived back at the site I had to stop every quarter of a mile to blow it up. Still at least the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. It’s amazing how the weather affects your mood!
I had with me a large tarpaulin (12ft x 12ft?) that by night was used as a bike cover but by day was a ‘living room’ extension (I also planned to use it to cover my relatively untested tent if it leaked). I would peg it down in front of the tent and use it to sit out when it wasn’t raining – it weighed very little and proved to be one of my most valuable pieces of equipment. Now I spread it out in the sunshine and laid out all my sopping wet gear to dry (my panniers seemed to be waterproof in only one direction – they let water in but not out!). I also removed the tyre and tube from the back wheel of the bike and discovered the cause of the leak – small pieces of gravel that I’d obviously allowed to get into the tyre during my freezing spoke replacement had worn their way through the tube. I also re-routed the spoke that I had laced up incorrectly the previous day (A clear demonstration that even the simplest of tasks become difficult when suffering from the cold!). Puncture fixed, bike reassembled, ah well, at least I had a couple of days to make sure that both it, and I were fit and well. One plus point was the realisation that my bum no longer hurt but what I couldn’t decide was whether it was getting tougher or all the nerve endings in that area were dead!
That evening I walked up to the site restaurant again only to be told that it was closed that, and the next evening – great! The restaurant had been my main reason for staying there! The owner suggested that I try the only other restaurant in the village – guess what – it was closed too. They really couldn’t run a piss up in a brewery! You’d think that in such an out of the way place the site restaurant would be open when the village’s only restaurant was closed and that the site office would stock basic essentials for sale – things with a ridiculously long shelf life – particularly as they don’t provide toilet paper! Bread and jam for dinner.
I awoke the next morning to a clear blue sky, warm weather, and my tyre was still up! – by mid day it was 34C in my tent with its reflective skin. I spent the day washing and drying gear and lounging around in the sun – I was feeling much better. In the evening I went to the village restaurant as I’d seen it open at lunchtime when I went for a test ride. Unfortunately it was closed again so more bread and jam for dinner.
The next day, day 19, I cycled to the lovely town of St Jean d’Angely. It was supposed to be exactly 50 miles away but I ended up doing 56. This increase in mileage was happening on a daily basis as maps give mileages from town centre to town centre but these days you are often directed round a somewhat longer bypass and never see the centre. Campsites are also often situated a few miles out of town and these two factors were combining to add about 15% to my estimated mileage.
The day had started well. I packed quickly and was on the road early and although it was hot (35C) and the wind was against me, the roads were fairly flat and smooth and I made good time. For the second half of the day I had chosen a fairly direct route along a back road which turned out to be a big mistake. It was a rough road with nothing but ups and downs and as the day wore on I became increasingly concerned. I could tell that I was starting to suffer from heat exhaustion as I had no strength left at all, I was virtually out of water and the route that I had taken took me past no shops or houses – there weren’t even any cars to flag down. I had always told myself that if something like that happened that I would be O.K. as I would simply find a hidden corner in a field and camp for the night. I now realised that this would be pointless as the fields in this part of France were completely open and so would not hide or shade me and I was virtually out of water anyway. I just had to keep going. Just as I was reaching the ‘panic setting in’ stage I came across a lone house with two boys playing football in the garden. I got them to refill my water bottles, thanked them, casually cycled away and then as soon as I was out of sight, stopped and downed the best part of a litre of water in one go! Later on that day my back tyre went down again which turned out to be sort of my fault. When I’d previously repaired the punctures caused by the gravel in the tyre I’d been unable to chalk dust the repairs as the chalk block had been sodden. As a consequence one of the patches had stuck to the tyre as well as the tube and had slowly worked loose. I didn’t bother to fix it until later; I just changed the tube for my spare.
The site at St Jean d’Angely was beautifully situated in trees next to a lake and, as they had basic supplies in the office, I treated myself to an ice cream as compensation for my days’ cycling; put up my tent, showered, changed and went out to a restaurant that I had passed on the way in where I had one of the nicest meals I’d had in along time, sat at a table by the water’s edge. I worked out that I’d consumed over 5 litres of water whilst cycling that day.
When I first set out on my trip I tended to react to situations in a set pattern. So, as previously mentioned, I used very simple (and faulty) logic when it came to consuming my drinking water – I had two water bottles and was cycling roughly fifty miles each day so I limited myself to one bottle per twenty five miles but, as I had discovered, whilst it may have been enough in the cool UK, it certainly wasn’t now. In the same way, initially when I arrived at my campsite for the evening I would put up my tent and throw my bags inside (10 minutes maybe) and then rush off for a shower (Well I was hot and sweaty wasn’t I?). As I headed south and the daily temperature increased it soon became apparent that this was a mistake – I’d have my shower, dry myself off but by the time I’d got back to the tent I’d be drenched with sweat again. When you’ve been sweating hard for six or seven hours it takes a while for your body to wind down and so I changed my arrival routine. I would now put my tent up and all the luggage in but now I would lay all my gear out, putting it in places that I had by experience found to be the most convenient. I’d sit around and chill for a while, usually making myself a cup of coffee and planning the next day’s route. Only when I was sure that my body had calmed down would I go for a shower and change into ‘normal’ clothes.
The next day was hot, hilly and humid (again!). Many of the hills were too steep to cycle up, forcing me to get off and push (not very encouraging for getting over the Pyrenees!) and even the descents were slow because the wind was so strong – sometimes I could hear it whistling through my panniers. One hill that I climbed was very steep but I managed to slog my way up in bottom gear and, once at the summit, put my bike on its centre stand and lay down on the grass verge to recover. My bike stand sank into the soft grass and the bike fell over but I just lay there getting my breath back. After a few minutes I heard a vehicle drive past and then slow down. Sitting up to see what was going on I saw that it was an ambulance! They had obviously seen my bike and I sprawled across the verge and decided that I had been knocked off! It wasn’t until I gave them the thumbs up that they continued on their way.
I got lost in Saintes (having been sucked in again!) due to French signage which often seems to assume that you know where you’re going. Despite the fact that Bordeaux was in completely the wrong direction I was supposed to know that if I followed the Bordeaux signs I would eventually come to a junction where I could pick up the road I wanted. I found a tourist board office where I thought I’d get directions but it was closed (!) and so I had to resort to my trusty compass to find my way out. As I was feeling a bit tired I decided that I would stop for the night at the nice medieval town of Pons which the Michelin guide showed as having two reasonable campsites. I cruised around for a while but I’m damned if I could find either of them. I made the decision to push on to the next site at Jonzac as the site had a restaurant and the next day was Sunday (shops shut). As I cycled out of Pons I saw two signs for the same campsite pointing in opposite directions!
Upon my arrival at the site at Jonzac and booking in for two nights I was told that the restaurant was closed as they were holding a barbeque with live entertainment that I could join for €15. I decided not to. Instead, having set up camp using 6” nails instead of tent pegs as the ground was so hard (a tip I remembered from childhood days camping with my parents), I went in search of supplies. The supermarket was on the other side of town of course and, as I was staying two nights and the shops would probably be shut the next day, I bought loads of provisions. However it was only at the checkout that I discovered that bags were not provided and they wouldn’t let me take the basket outside to my bike – it took me several trips too and fro to ferry my purchases from the checkout to my panniers.
I used my rest day for just that – chillin’, catching up on my washing and resting my right leg which was suffering a bit after pushing the bike up so many hills. It had been in the back of my mind that at some point I might have to give up this adventure but I decided that I was going to try my damnedest to finish. I reasoned that if I packed it in I was probably going to have to cycle into Bordeaux, which would in itself be hell, if I wanted to catch a plane. Whereas if I carried on my route would join the railway line in a couple of days time and I could always catch a train through to Perpignan, where my friend Julia lived, if I felt that I couldn’t cope.
Day 22 was a pleasant ride – for a change. Most of the roads were smooth and some were even flat! I’d arrived at my campsite by mid afternoon – a first. The only downside was that I’d put my back out whilst folding the tent that morning. I wasn’t doing any thing strenuous, I must have just moved awkwardly. It doesn’t seem to affect my cycling but I suspect I look like Quasimodo when I walk.
I don’t know how France keeps going – everything seems to shut at 12.00 and not open again until the evening. I stopped at a supermarket that clearly said on the door that it was open until 12.30 but when I arrived at 11.50 it was closed (Maybe it was another example of French signage and I was supposed to know!). I ate my lunch (Pain au raisin – it’s become my staple diet for lunch whilst en route, along with bananas for snacks) in the small square at Montguyon. With the exception of the odd passing car I was the only one there, the shops were shut and all the windows shuttered; I couldn’t see a single person – you started to get the feeling that maybe the world had ended and nobody thought to tell you!
The campsite at Petit-Palais-en-Cornemps was very nice with the usual office/bar/restaurant/swimming pool setup and plane trees that you could camp under for shade but, unfortunately for the owners, it was very quiet with only about half a dozen people staying. The trouble is that whilst it’s in a lovely spot it’s well off the beaten track and definitely off any tourist route (mine excepted!) and you’d struggle to come across it by accident. Nevertheless I had my best site restaurant meal there which was cooked personally by the owners. I was the only one in the restaurant and felt sorry for them but they seemed to take great delight in going all out to produce really lovely food and I, for my part, went all out to really enjoy it!
Whilst I was at the site an English couple came over for a chat. They were moving to France and were living in their caravan until their French house deal went through which they reckoned could take up to another three months – they’d already been there for two!
Before I left home several people had asked me if I would be lonely travelling on my own and I would usually give some offhand reply like “Well at least I’ll stand a chance of winning an argument”, but, in all truth, I just didn’t know. However I soon discovered that lone cyclists aren’t alone for long. Car drivers in their metal boxes are unapproachable, couples are self contained, but lone cyclists are always fair game to have a chat with. I can’t remember a single day when someone didn’t stop for a talk, even if the conversation was limited by my knowledge of French.
The next day I ended up at the municipal site at Bergerac on the banks of the Dordogne. It wasn’t supposed to be Bergerac but about a mile after leaving Petit Palais I found another broken spoke and had to stop to change it. It was definitely okay when I left the site as I’d become paranoid about checking them. A kind Frenchman, whose house I’d stopped outside, invited me in to wash my hands only to discover that his water had been cut off. From his reaction I got the impression that this was not unusual – the things we take for granted in Britain! That was my last spare spoke and, based on the frequency at which I was breaking them, I was unlikely to finish the trip unless I could find some more and so I’d diverted to Bergerac in the hope of finding a cycle shop. I booked in for two nights, planning to use the next day to find the spokes and have a bit of a rest. My back was still occasionally playing up and when I came out of the local Aldi with supplies it gave way and I badly scratched my perfect leg tan with the box I was carrying. I decided that I would try to anaesthetise it – I went back into the shop and bought a bottle of Scotch! (A decision I would regret the next morning!)
The French have always been very keen campers but when I was a child, holidaying with my parents, they were pretty evenly split between tents and caravans with very few using motorhomes. Today that situation has completely changed; there are as many motorhomes being used by the French as there are tents and caravans combined. Some of them seem to be very plush inside and have satellite TV with a motorised self-seeking dish. As soon as the owners pull on to a pitch and take out the ignition key the dish powers up and down and round and round looking for the strongest signal and then locks on to it. When you put the key back in the ignition the dish self-stows. I had great fun watching one of these in action at Bergerac as the owner couldn’t quite decide on the best position for his motorhome and so kept on moving it a few feet, accompanied by the dish constantly flipping up and down and round and round.
I was getting to the stage where I wanted this journey to be over – not because I wasn’t enjoying it or concerns about myself but I was concerned about my bike. Up until then all the spokes that had broken had been in the rear wheel (as you would expect because of the load) on the opposite side to the gear cassette and so I’d been able to replace them. If one had broken on the cassette side I wouldn’t have been able to replace it without a gear extractor (which I didn’t have) and would have to hope that I could find a bike shop before too many broke and the wheel collapsed. It was the one thing that I hadn’t prepared for and was constantly on my mind. The joke was that according to my Autoroute distances I should have only had about 200 miles left to do but in reality I estimated it was nearer 400. Nevertheless I was determined to finish, even if I had to drag the bike.
The next morning I went to the site office and asked for a plan of the town. When I also asked about a bike shop I was told that there was one about 300 yards from the site entrance – I needn’t have stayed a second night! The bike shop was a really professional setup and they were soon able to fix me up with the size of spokes that I needed – although they only had three left (50 cents each) so I would have to hope that they would last.
As I now had time on my hands I went into town to explore. It was market day and I spent several happy hours exploring the different stalls before investigating the streets of Bergerac. It was a great town and one that I could have quite happily spent a week in. But it was time to move on and so the next morning saw me packing and moving on to St Sylvestre sur Lot. It was a pleasant day’s cycling but by now the daytime temperatures were constantly hitting the mid thirties and five litres of water a day was becoming the norm. I’d decided on quite a short day as, according to the Michelin guide, there were very few campsites after St Sylvestre (I was keeping my fingers crossed that this wasn’t because the river I was planning to follow was in a deep gorge and so unsuitable for campsites). That day I saw my first sign for Spain which, whilst being quite encouraging, was a bit optimistic as far as a cyclist was concerned as it was over a hundred miles away by the shortest route!
St Sylvestre is a beautifully located site on the edge of the river Lot with views over to the old town of Penne d’Agenais on the opposite bank. It’s quite small and very popular with the French and I was lucky to get the last pitch although it was easily big enough to fit three caravans and their cars on. For some strange reason, there were small leeks growing out of my pitch - I couldn’t decide whether it used to be a field or the site owners had been growing veg. in the ‘off’ season.
Quite a few French families seem to move on to a campsite for almost the entire season. I suppose it makes sense – the French school holidays are long and so the whole family can go away, the fathers commuting at weekends. St Sylvestre had its fair share of these families – they can usually be identified by the amount of equipment they have with them. The folks on the next pitch had their caravan plus awning plus gazebo plus large barbeque and potted plants! I overheard them tell a neighbour that they had been going there for sixteen years.
Whilst I was writing my diary that evening I watched as commercial jets flew frequently overhead. It took a while for it to dawn on me that, from their direction, they’re almost certainly heading for the Balearics as planes on that route head down through France, across the Pyrenees and then over Barcelona before heading out to sea (Virtually the same route as me – only a little faster!).It may have been a tenuous link but it made me feel that the end was not too far away.
My next site was at St Nicholas-de-la-Grave. The day’s cycling turned out to be really good. Although the first few miles into Agen proved to be the expected stiff climb, I found that I was able to use a low gear and plod steadily to the top without stopping. This was a turning point in the whole journey. My levels of fitness had steadily increased over the past weeks and I was finally reaping the benefit of this. I had some time previously realised that the reason I was having to stop on hills was because of lack of oxygen to my leg muscles and that by stopping for as little as 30 seconds solved the problem but now I wasn’t having to stop at all.
At lunchtime I pulled into a large lay-by at the side of the canal. There were several cars there and another cyclist but he kept himself to himself and his body language suggested that he did not want to make contact. He left a few minutes after I arrived. Later on that afternoon I passed him on the road, shouting a friendly “bonjour” as I cycled by. About an hour after arriving at the site at St Nicholas who should turn up but my cyclist friend. A while after he’d pitched his tent he came over for a chat. He talked for a few minutes in French until it dawned on us that we were both English – it turned out that he was a quantity surveyor from Whitby and had flown in to Bergerac four days previously.
St Nicholas itself is a cute town which endeared itself to me, not only for its quaintness but also for its cycle lanes which are almost as wide as the lane for cars. Unfortunately the campsite is a few miles out of town and too far to be convenient on a bike. It’s also fairly boring being not much more than a field with a toilet block and quite expensive compared to other sites – mind you, it did have toilet paper!
I decided that French cats are stupid. In Britain you rarely see a cat that has been run over but in France they are only outnumbered by flat hedgehogs. Every time I went past a squished cat I would spend the next few minutes trying to come up with a theory as to why so many had been hit.
The next day I had to get past Toulouse and on my map it looked horrendous. I also had the problem of finding a campsite for the night as my guide listed nothing along my route that was within a day’s riding. It should have been a fairly easy day as the roads were fairly flat but there was a strong headwind which got steadily worse as the day went on, often limiting me to a maximum speed of 10 mph. The wind, coupled with the heat, really drained me and I was getting through water at a record rate (7 litres by the end of the day).
Toulouse was the expected nightmare. First the signs tried to divert me onto a motorway – I was well down the slip road before I realised. I backtracked and used my compass to get into the city but then had trouble finding my way out – no signs! I ended up in an industrial estate with no way through. I backtracked (again!) and tried another route but it was soon running at 90 degs to the compass heading I wanted. In the end I headed off down a canal towpath which ran in the right general direction for several miles. Eventually the canal was crossed by a road that looked to be heading roughly south east (where I wanted to go) and so I hauled my laden bike up the embankment and within cycling a few hundred yards got a sign telling me that I was on the right road – talk about lucky!
Having lost time doing the scenic tour of Toulouse I realised that the site I had considered a feint possibility was now out of the question (It would have taken a record breaking run anyway). The sun would be going down soon and I needed to find somewhere to camp and so my priority was to clear the built–up area and find either an unlisted site or a quiet field somewhere. Less than ten miles out of the Toulouse suburbs I came across an unlisted site (in a small place called Deyme) and with the “Ah well, it’ll do for one night” attitude, I booked in. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a very attractive, clean and well organised site. It had a bar, a restaurant, and the office doubled as a shop. On top of all that, it was cheap. I instantly decided to stay for two nights, have a rest and catch up on some washing – my black shorts had turned white again!
That evening I treated myself to a meal in the restaurant – a starter of tomato and mozzarella salad on a couple of lettuce leaves with diced onions, mushrooms, olives and croutons with basil and oil dressing; a main course of duck breast with a green pepper sauce and diced deep-fried potatoes and a nice selection of cheese to finish. Pretty good value at £10, although by the time I’d added a pre-dinner beer, a bottle of wine, a post-dinner coffee and Cognac and tip I’d managed to push the final bill up to double that. It was still excellent value.
The site was very well run by a husband and wife team – they both had golf buggies and used them to whizz around making sure that everything was up to their standard and picking up any piece of litter that dared to fall on their site. The toilet block was cleaned for over two hours in the morning (very impressed). They had a vicious looking Alsatian, presumably to ward off undesirables, but he was actually as soft as pudding and used to ride around on the golf buggies (although not on his own!).
It was still very windy and I hoped that it would ease up before the next day otherwise it would be a hard slog in to Carcassonne.
The second evening at Deyme, whilst I was eating my tinned cassoulet (a bit of a comedown from my previous night’s meal) I listened to the sound of distant shotguns. I had heard them most evenings and weekends wherever I camped and it was only then that it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen much wildlife since arriving in France and now I knew the reason why – they’d shot it all!
During the early evening a motorhome with British number plates had pulled in adjacent to my pitch. It had caught my attention as, whilst it was obviously British, it was left-hand drive. Later on in the evening the owner came over to offer me a glass of wine and have a chat. He’d bought the motorhome with left-hand drive as he was offered it at a bargain price and, as it would spend most of its life being driven abroad, it seemed to make sense. He invited me to join him and his wife for wine and a barbeque but as I’d just eaten my cassoulet and finished my bottle of wine, I declined. Later on they invited me to join them at the bar. I felt guilty about turning down their repeated offers but I wanted an early start the next day and I was short of money.
Considering the French are so fanatical about cycling, I saw very few cyclists during the time I was in France apart from little old ladies and gents going to collect bread on bikes almost as old as themselves and, usually on Sunday mornings, Lycra-clad guys on their state-of-the-art racing bikes trying to do a Lance Armstrong impression. As these guys appeared to be out for a little weekend exercise I couldn’t understand why they’d spent all that money on the lightest and most efficient bikes – they’d have been much better off buying a cheap mountain bike for a hundred quid that would be harder to cycle and so much better exercise. I suspected that ‘street cred’ had a lot to do with it. The only touring cyclists I saw during my entire time in France were my Whitby friend in the lay-by and a group of four young lads from Belgium.
After my heat exhaustion episode I completely changed my water routine. I now left the campsite with both water bottles full (1.8 litres total) and drank as much as I wanted as I cycled along. As soon as I finished the first bottle I stopped at the first opportunity and bought a 1.5 litre bottle of water (usually chilled), swigged as much as I wanted, and put the rest into my bike water bottles. I was averaging about 5 litres a day and the ride to Carcassonne was no exception. The wind had unfortunately got worse (No, not caused by all the beans in the cassoulet!). It was head on and very strong, so much so that I had to use a low gear all day and was only able to maintain 7-9 mph. If I’d known how bad it was going to be I probably wouldn’t have set out. There was dust and debris flying around all day, and council workmen chain sawing a branch that had fallen on the road as I cycled into Carcassonne. It was also very hot. Not only was it a great day for drying washing, it was equally good for drying cyclists – I got through 5 litres of water during the day and several more during the evening.
The campsite at Carcassonne is quite large and has loads of facilities but was not really my cup of tea - too big, too many families (i.e. kids!). It’s so big that they take your passport off you when you arrive so that they can keep tabs on whose there and to stop you doing a runner. I found the most sheltered spot that I could to pitch the tent and decided that, whilst the site restaurant looked a bit basic, after my day’s labours I would risk it (it actually turned out to be O.K.). Sat at the next table to me were two Spanish families. They ordered their meal and their wine was duly brought to their table. The two husbands disappeared with two of the kids for whatever reason and whilst they were away one of the wives poured herself a glass of red wine, tasted it and then poured the rest of it into the pot of the nearest plant in the restaurant. She then repeated this process with the white wine, pouring it into the same pot before refilling her glass again with red wine! There was a German guy at a table facing me and both he and I were highly amused by these goings on but this almost turned to hysterics when the husbands returned, the wives went to the toilet and one of the husbands repeated the entire process. They had no wine left by the time their meal arrived and had to order more!
Rain had been forecast for the next day. I managed to miss it but it was obvious that some areas had had quite a soaking (It was to catch up with me later!) and much of the Pyrenees were covered in low cloud as I cycled parallel to them. The next night I stayed at Narbonne, my most expensive campsite - €16.40 – but probably worth it. It had everything that you’d expect from a top of the range campsite but here they went one better – ensuite shower rooms! All the pitches were laid out in rows, with the usual hedges in between, but at this site each pitch had a small building at the back of the pitch to which you were given a key. In each building (about 2 x 3 metres) was your own toilet, shower and washand basin.
It dawned on me that this would be my last French campsite as the next day I would be cycling to just outside Perpignan to stay at a Julia’s house and from there it would be Spain. I hadn’t decided which route to take into Spain. I had a choice of two, a winding but low coast road or, a higher but more direct inland route. Thinking about it was giving me some grief as if I chose the wrong route and ended up on a road that was too steep I could be in trouble.
The next morning I set off under heavily overcast skies but at least the wind wasn’t against me. I’d only done a few miles when I was overtaken by a car and flagged down. Apparently Julia was having an horrendous storm with some roads flooded and was offering to collect me but she hadn’t been able to get in touch (I’d turned my mobile ‘phone off during the day to save the battery!) so she had ‘phoned Karen in Scotland who had ‘phoned the site and they’d sent somebody after me (not many sites would do that). Although the skies were not looking too good I decided to carry on under my own steam rather than ‘cheat’. A short while later I was questioning my decision – I was hit by one of the most horrendous storms I have ever experienced – and it just kept on. Torrential rain, thunder and lightning – the lightning sometimes so close that I wondered if a steel-framed bike was the best thing to have between my legs! My Day-Glo cycle cape, whilst keeping me completely dry, rapidly filled with water where it dipped between my body and the handlebars and I had to stop every few minutes to empty it out – I could have kept a couple of goldfish in there! Other than that (!), the ride was quite pleasant – reasonable smooth and flat and sunny, once the storm eventually passed. I arrived at Julia’s town of St. Laurent quite early (I’d been cycling fast!) and so I ‘phoned her up and got directions to her place – a sort of granny flat with a large balcony, attached to a large house. For the evening meal Julia cooked a pork dish – strips cooked with leeks, cream and chopped tarragon and served with mashed potato – not only delicious but a welcome change from cassoulet which had become my staple diet. She also served up a fascinating plate of nibbles which were simply destalked mushrooms filled with garlic and herb cheese which were then microwaved for about 90 seconds – delicious!
By the end of the day it was tipping it down again!
The next day we went to the market in St. Laurent which is typically French and had a ridiculously large range of local produce - I loved it! Some stalls were laden with a vast array of fruit, veg and herbs, beautifully displayed and beautifully fresh, some had local produce such as meat, poultry, honey, etc whilst others had cheeses of every imaginable type. I think if I lived there I would have to systematically work my way through it all. For lunch we went to a hotel restaurant that had become Julia and Michael’s ‘local’ since they moved to France (Unfortunately Michael has since died). This is because they bought a house ‘off plan’ and when they turned up on the given completion date it wasn’t ready and so the builder put them up in the hotel and paid for full board (I can’t see a British builder doing that). Julia and I had a very pleasant lunch, but the starter was excellent (I got Julia to ask what was in it) - mussels in a sauce of shallots, mayonnaise, Dijon mustard and tomato puree. When we left it was tipping it down again and so the hotel lent us a couple of umbrellas. In the afternoon Julia, knowing my penchant for DIY, took me to a French B&Q equivalent for a look around and then on to Carrefour where I found the same delicious wine that we had had with our lunch at €16 for six bottles. Bread and cheese (and wine!) in the evening – well someone’s got to help out with the European wine lake.
Julia had arranged for three of her friends to come for lunch the next day (I got the impression it was so that they could meet the mad Englishman) and so after a breakfast of coffee and croissants we spent the morning prepping the meal. The friends turned out to be a retired Swedish English teacher (who spent most of her time correcting Julia’s English) and a lovely couple from Aberdeen who have a holiday home in St. Laurent and spend much of their time there. They recommended that I should take the inland route into Spain which, whilst being considerably higher, they reckoned was a steady climb whereas the coastal road, although very scenic and considerably lower was all up and down. They sounded as though they knew what they were talking about and I decided there and then to take their advice.
The following day Julia took me into Perpignan for a look around the shops and for a great lunch at a restaurant that was basically a buffet/tapas place offering a vast array of food including smoked salmon, langoustines, chorizo and tortillas. I took the opportunity to fill up before my departure the next morning. Whilst we were in town I also bought a map covering my route from the Spanish border to Barcelona as I had nothing apart from an A4 map I’d printed off from the internet which showed very little detail. The map also showed campsites which was also useful as my Michelin guide would be useless once over the border (I left it at Julia’s to save weight). I was still unsure about what lay ahead of me the next day but I just thought that worst case scenario I would return to Perpignan and catch the train.
I made an early start and made quite good progress. For the first time in ages it wasn’t raining and the wind was almost in the right direction! I went the wrong way a couple of times (French signs!) and then the road that I was supposed to join had been upgraded to a motorway (they obviously forgot to tell the mapmakers) with no alternative route signposted. Fortunately I was able to work my way round the motorway using my trusty compass and joined my intended road further on. The climb up the Pyrenees wasn’t as bad as I feared it might have been and I found that I was able to sit in bottom gear spinning the peddles and slowly hauling myself up occasionally stopping for a rest (By now I’d sussed out that the reason that I usually need to stop was because my legs were hurting through lack of oxygen to the muscles. If I stopped, sometimes for as little as thirty seconds, then I was able to power on again). It was, at least, a steady climb with some great views and it was definitely the right decision to take that route rather than the ups and downs of the coast road. The border between France and Spain doesn’t really exist any more. The customs sheds are just being left to rust and you just ride straight through – my passport hadn’t been checked since Portsmouth as they didn’t want to see it at Calais either. Just over the top of the Pyrenees is a small town (almost a one street affair) where I stopped to buy a cold drink. As I came out of the shop and was organising the bike a guy walked up to me, looked at the heavily loaded bike, looked at me and gave me a big smile and a double thumbs up to show his appreciation of the climb I’d just done. The decent on the Spanish side was great – long and gentle – allowing me to freewheel for miles and make good time. Although I was sure there would be more hills ahead, at that point I just didn’t care – I’d conquered the Pyrenees!
I stayed at a nice site, set amongst trees, just outside the town of Figueres. The site had its own reasonably priced restaurant serving good quality food and once again I took the easy option and ate there rather than cooking (My justification was that I was celebrating!). From Figueres I headed down to the coast. There were still quite a few steep hills to climb and I probably made a mistake taking the Girona bypass which went up and over the hills instead of through the valley that Girona sits in. It also went through several long tunnels with effectively zero lighting which were a bit hairy to cycle through as cycle lights are pretty useless for seeing your way (well mine are). I just had to grit my teeth and cycle like the clappers, trying to get through before a truck ran me down and trying to avoid running off the road and into a massive drainage trench about a metre wide and deep.
On the approach to Girona I passed by a couple of pretty, scantily clad girls (skirts like belts) standing at the end of a farm track. I thought they looked a little out of place in the countryside but decided that this was probably Girona fashion and they were waiting for the bus into town (Was I naïve or what?). The further I travelled, the more similarly dressed girls I saw standing at the end of farm tracks and it slowly dawned on me that they were prostitutes hoping to pick up a passer-by. It brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘subsistence farming’. Some of the girls were extremely organised and had a folding chair, umbrella and cool box. Although several called out to me as I cycled past I managed to resist temptation.
I bypassed the hotel blocks of Lloret de Mar (yuk!) and ended up at a site at Santa Suzanna. The site was so big that there was no way that I could estimate how many pitches there were. It was massive and definitely not my cup of tea. However I was staying there by virtue of distance from Barcelona rather than choice. I wanted to stay a few hours cycle ride from Barcelona to give myself plenty of time to get to the ferry the next day.
After my restaurant meal the previous night I’d decided to cook for myself but as there were no shops nearby I was dependant on the campsite supermarket for supplies. Although it was big, the shop was very cleverly stocked (or was I being cynical?) with all sorts of things but nothing that was really suitable for making a meal from. I was effectively forced to eat at their restaurant which turned out to be a big mistake – only the beer was worth having (my first San Miguel of the trip!)
The next day I made a prompt start as I wanted to be at the ferry terminal in good time because I didn’t know whether or not I had to check in at least two hours before sailing, like at an airport. As I cycled along I caught up with a group of Lycra-clads on super-light bikes. These guys went one better than the Lycra-clads I had come across before – they were all sporting yellow streamlined helmets which made them look like budgies with their heads on backwards. The helmets didn’t seem to work – I still overtook them.
As the roads were fairly flat, I made good time and arrived at 2.30pm for my 5.00pm sailing. The road into Barcelona was interesting. It was dead straight for several miles, four lanes wide and one way, with a cycle lane on the left-hand side. It was great and I was just thinking how well planned out Barcelona was when another multi-lane road joined from the left, leaving me cycling down the middle of a now six lane race track!
I found the ferry office. “Can I buy a ticket for the ferry to Alcudia please?” I asked. “No”, I was told. “Out of season it only sails at weekends and it’s out of season”. So I had no option but to buy a ticket for Palma and accept that I would have to cycle across Mallorca. I was told that the ferry sailed at 11pm but that I should be back at the ferry office by 10pm to catch the bus that I was assured would take both me and the bike to the ferry – so I had seven and a half hours to waste. I cycled around Barcelona for a while doing a bit of sightseeing and then returned to the seafront where I’d seen quite a few interesting looking restaurants where I thought I’d get a meal before sailing – I didn’t know what would be available on the ferry. I spotted a good (and cheap) looking menu and was hovering outside when the owner recognised that I was concerned about leaving my bike (several people had warned me that Barcelona was infamous for thieves and pickpockets). He came out to me and insisted that I bring my bike in to his restaurant. So I sat and had a very pleasant meal with my bike parked next to my table, much to the amusement of the other customers.
I returned to the ferry office in good time and sat outside with other passengers on the benches provided and waited for the bus. When it got to 10.10 I went into the office only to be told that the bus had gone – I never did see it! The girls told me that it was quite a distance to the ferry but that I might just make it. They hastily drew me a map and I cycled off at top speed, whizzing down streets and around roundabouts. To my relief the ferry was still there and I was in such a rush to get on board that it dawned on me a few minutes later that I wasn’t even sure that I was on the right ship. I’d just cycled straight onto the ship unchallenged and hadn’t bothered to check its name. Fortunately it was the right ship but, unfortunately, in my haste to get on board I hadn’t really thought about what I was wearing and decided to stay in my cycling vest and shorts so that I would be ready for riding off the next morning. It was a big mistake. The ship was air-conditioned and I spent a very cold night on board.
Over 90% of the passengers were truck drivers and were obviously regulars, well known by most of the crew. I had always assumed that truck drivers were overweight because they didn’t get much exercise but I soon realised another reason. As truckers their tickets entitled them not only to a cabin but also to free food and drink. As soon as they had parked their trucks on the ferry they went straight to the bar for a drink. Then, when it was announced over the tannoy that the restaurant was open they all piled out of the bar and into the restaurant (some of them literally ran!) where they piled their trays high with food and, in many cases, half a bottle of wine and a couple of cans of beer. All this was downed in double-quick time before returning to the bar for more drinks – the Guardia Civil (local police) armed with breathalysers could have great fun at Palma docks!
I decided to have a drink to help me sleep in the cold. After I’d told the barman how far I’d cycled he gave me a huge brandy (about a quarter of a pint) charged me £1.30 and then gave me a free packet of peanuts!
Despite the brandy, I didn’t get much sleep on the ferry because it was so cold and it also dawned on me that I didn’t have a map of Mallorca. Having driven many times from the airport to our apartment in Alcudia I knew that I could find my way once out of Palma, but I hadn’t a clue how to get from the docks, through Palma, and out onto the right road.
In the morning I asked at the ship’s Information Desk for a map of Palma but the only one they had was really intended for visitors and shoppers and gave no clues as to directions to other towns. Once again my compass proved to be invaluable. As I’m used to driving from the airport, I used the compass to make sure that I was riding along the seafront in the right direction (towards the airport). I knew that the road I wanted ran at roughly 90 degrees to the seafront and I knew roughly how far from the airport it was. All I needed to do was cycle along until I guesstimated that I was in approximately the right place and then turn left and plough straight through the city of Palma with my fingers crossed. As luck would have it I emerged unscathed and on the right road.
The ride across Mallorca was excellent with no wind, warm weather and smooth roads. The motorway from Palma only used to go half way across the island to the town of Inca but has recently been extended and now goes virtually right across to the north coast, leaving the old road as a service road. It’s ideal for cyclists as it’s almost deserted but, unlike many service roads, has a smooth surface allowing me to make excellent time and get right across the island to our apartment by 10.20 in the morning. The only downside was that my bike wouldn’t fit in the lift and I had to haul it, fully loaded, up two flights of stairs!
Epilogue
Before I’d set off on this trip people had told me that if I was going to cycle such a distance that I should get sponsorship and raise money for charity. With hindsight they may have been right but I hadn’t done so for the simple reason that when I had set out I’d thought that there was a fair chance that I wouldn’t make it and would end up catching a train or a plane. After all, I’d done no training due to the trapped nerve in my leg and I wasn’t exactly fit. Friends also asked me if I was daunted by the prospect of cycling so far. Perhaps somewhat illogically I always replied that I only intended to ride about 50 miles each day and I had already managed to do that. I just had to do it thirty times over and, when compared to the cycle journeys of some others, mine was a mere drop in the ocean.
For about the first two-thirds of the trip I was regularly ‘hitting the wall’ but as my level of fitness improved so did my enjoyment of the trip. By the time I arrived in Alcudia I could have quite happily turned around and cycled home again. I was ten kilos lighter and felt ten years younger.