Once again, it is that time of year again. It is that time of the year when you consider the possibilities, the options, the ifs and buts: the next trip. It is that time of the year when you have forgotten what the year before's trip was like. You managed 23 miles a day, moaned the whole way, had a raw arse, got the runs, puked up in a bar, had four punctures in one day and you didn't get to use that fancy £200 waterproof jacket at all. Yet now you're thinking seventy miles a day - again, just as you did this time last year and that it'll be fantastic - the views, the food, the night time frolics, just as you thought it would when it was that time of year this time of the year last year.
www.sillyjokes.co.ukSo: look at a map - look at all those vast plains extending towards knowingly warm, azure seas and accommodating fragrant gently undulating sun-kissed roads with barely a car to be seen as they are all bumper to bumper on a supermotorautobahnpista way back there somewhere. Cute sandstone churches stand like shepherds, surrounded by their flock of 18th century town houses. Road-side cafes basking in the afternoon sun - the sharp stab of fresh coffee; the lazy meanderings of a river as it slides across flood plains carpeted with the greenest grass and ripest corn. Forget all that! Head for the lung-busting mountains instead.
Last year was a failure. Without pointing fingers, circumstances beyond and within our control meant we never climbed Pico de Veleta. We never even reached the flat-lands in its shadow. We ended up doing a paltry few hundred miles around El Chorro and Ronda. It has cheesed me off ever since. But, ironically, returning from Box Hill the other day - my first visit to the very tame zig-zag, a sixty-five plus veteran of many foreign tours said Pico is pretty much impossible or impassable most of the time. So, let's try another obvious col - the Tourmalet.
Not as long or as high as Bonette but much steeper instead - check out the gory, graphic details at www.climbbybike.com
The Tourmalet of course is named after the Tour and the procedure that dealt with slouchers at the back of the field who, until as recently as the mid-seventeenth century, would be literally knocked out of the competition by a man with a mallet (malet being the French for mallet). That man eventually became known as a Tour-Malet and eventually Tourmalet became a surname, just as Butcher, Baker and Candlestickmaker did. The surname has propagated since those times so that one can come across persons of that surname who are completely unconnected with the Tour. I knew an Alan Tourmalet once, he was a very nice greengrocer.
Not as long or as high as Bonette but much steeper instead - check out the gory, graphic details at www.climbbybike.com
The Tourmalet of course is named after the Tour and the procedure that dealt with slouchers at the back of the field who, until as recently as the mid-seventeenth century, would be literally knocked out of the competition by a man with a mallet (malet being the French for mallet). That man eventually became known as a Tour-Malet and eventually Tourmalet became a surname, just as Butcher, Baker and Candlestickmaker did. The surname has propagated since those times so that one can come across persons of that surname who are completely unconnected with the Tour. I knew an Alan Tourmalet once, he was a very nice greengrocer.
As I have mentioned before, you can't train for the big hills of the world in south east England - unless you can find a way of cycling up and down a standard domestic staircase. There are plenty of little big hills 1-in-5s that pop out of nowhere and last a few yards, such as Swains Lane. There are a many 12%-ers of a mile, such as White Down Lane but none of the relentless, mentally draining 7%+climbs that go on for weeks. The next best thing is to cycle lots of little big hills in one go or cycle a long long way and leave the little big hills to last when you are completely knackered. Alternatively, build your own.
available from Harrod's Hill department
So, over the last few weeks, there have been 70-mile days out to Lewes, along the Thames to Windsor, out to St. Albans and Amersham, out to Hersham down to Box Hill and back - all done with lots of courteous pointing at nice things, stopping off for pots of teas for two and tidy boxes containing neatly prepared sandwiches. Cycle out to Watford and follow the canal around to Denham, though it is flat as a pancake but you'll get great practice at cycling along canals! First Great Western and Chiltern noddy trains don't charge an arm and a leg - Hayes and Harlington into Paddington costs £4.40 (2010 prices); Amersham to Marylebone £7; Lenny's Limmos £75 to Watford. Book in advance on Southern Trains and you can get back from Brighton for as little as £4.25 albeit at inconvenient times. Cycling out of London is one thing, cycling back in when you're tired and impatient is another and riding on the train displaying your sweaty throbbing thighs is a treat - though perhaps not for the other passengers.
Other little challenges - take a bit a weight in the panniers; keep going as long as possible, and, keep on going and pass your intended finish - and then do that unplanned little big hill.
Box Hill Industrial Zone with a bit of extra weight.There is nothing like cycling through the empty streets of London at 4.15 hundred hours O'clock am. Just as well really. These trips always start early. I'd had about an hour and a half's sleep but still managed to get on the bike the right way up for the short trip down to Pad Station for the four something or other on the Heathrow Connect (use your oyster).
The train journey, as always, gave me plenty of time to worry about checking the bikes into the hold. Night after night I'd had dreams in which the entire Terminal 5 BA staff crease up in laughter at our 1950's style bike packing and refuse to let us near their planes. But the problems started before I even got to T5. As I waited for a train from T4, I thought it would be smart to start fiddling about with the bike - as you do.
The previous day had seen me shell out 125 shells on a new drive set or whatever you call it after I'd fallen for the stretched chain scam. Although the shiny new chain and bits looked great, a superman bike maintenance man had seen fit to tighten my pedals up with a steam powered spanner two feet long and so, come 5am O'clock hundred hours, I could not get the things off and the hex axle bits were too tight for my spanner and they didn't budge.
And so, the dicey moment. Having wrapped the bikes up neat as could be, we boldly shuffled over to the line. The face of BA: the steely gaze, prefabricated hair, superstrong nylon uniform of a square-jawed woman who'd left her smile in a jar by the door. We were expecting the 'where do you think you're going with that' routine but, instead, got some rule change about the baggage allowance: sporting items were no longer in addition to the one bag so it was going to cost us £30 for the pannier. So I asked if we put the pannier on the bike inside the plastic bag - would that count as one? Yes. Done. Suggest you put a pannier on the drive-side to give some protection to the dee railer. Then on to the hole in the wall - sharp intake of breath from the outsize baggage guys at the sight of my pedals but they took the bike, which disappeared air-side.
Out the other end. Toulouse airport had ejected bikes onto the carousel last time but, since that visit, the airport had been redeveloped. We met a bunch of ppl hanging about for bikes all off the one flight: eleven bikes in all. The others were practising for an ETAP.
Both our bikes arrived in one piece - on a caddy.
First stop was Decathlon for stove gas and for the simple joy of being in Decathlon. However don't go to the Bagnac one as it is tiny. We got directions to the massive store in Colimers from a bloke who also told us of the cycle path along the Canal Lateral to Bordeaux. We boasted that we were going over the mountains to Spain - almost laughing off his top tip - afterall, a canal is flat! It was two clock hundred o'hours pm and we had 50 miles to cover.
Despite weather forecasts offering rain, it was beautiful day and we cruised sou sou west sou west to Saint Lys where we had a choice of a bendy short route or a longer straight one. We took the latter. The green, voluptuous countryside gently rose with the Pyrenees parallel to the south. We got to Boulogne Sur Gesse at 7.50. All the shops and bars had shut. We had a packet of peanuts and raisins I'd brought with me from London. No booze. We did three reccies on the bike to make sure we hadn't missed anything - passing some highly amused locals who were sat on a petrol station forecourt. There was nothing. France is like that - beware. Most supermarches shut at 7.30. Stock up early. The sunset was a glorious overture for the fine weather we were to enjoy despite the gloomy forecasts of rain,rain and rain. 
More like the Marie Celeste Sur Gesse
D had been worried about the weather prospects - wondering how I had managed to persuade him of the advantages of June: cheaper flights, cheaper camping, untrashed campsites, cooler, longest evenings and we come back to the English summer after. ha ha, I laughed, my grin crimsony orange from the spectacular burning sky.
The train journey, as always, gave me plenty of time to worry about checking the bikes into the hold. Night after night I'd had dreams in which the entire Terminal 5 BA staff crease up in laughter at our 1950's style bike packing and refuse to let us near their planes. But the problems started before I even got to T5. As I waited for a train from T4, I thought it would be smart to start fiddling about with the bike - as you do.
The previous day had seen me shell out 125 shells on a new drive set or whatever you call it after I'd fallen for the stretched chain scam. Although the shiny new chain and bits looked great, a superman bike maintenance man had seen fit to tighten my pedals up with a steam powered spanner two feet long and so, come 5am O'clock hundred hours, I could not get the things off and the hex axle bits were too tight for my spanner and they didn't budge.
And so, the dicey moment. Having wrapped the bikes up neat as could be, we boldly shuffled over to the line. The face of BA: the steely gaze, prefabricated hair, superstrong nylon uniform of a square-jawed woman who'd left her smile in a jar by the door. We were expecting the 'where do you think you're going with that' routine but, instead, got some rule change about the baggage allowance: sporting items were no longer in addition to the one bag so it was going to cost us £30 for the pannier. So I asked if we put the pannier on the bike inside the plastic bag - would that count as one? Yes. Done. Suggest you put a pannier on the drive-side to give some protection to the dee railer. Then on to the hole in the wall - sharp intake of breath from the outsize baggage guys at the sight of my pedals but they took the bike, which disappeared air-side.
Out the other end. Toulouse airport had ejected bikes onto the carousel last time but, since that visit, the airport had been redeveloped. We met a bunch of ppl hanging about for bikes all off the one flight: eleven bikes in all. The others were practising for an ETAP.
Both our bikes arrived in one piece - on a caddy.
First stop was Decathlon for stove gas and for the simple joy of being in Decathlon. However don't go to the Bagnac one as it is tiny. We got directions to the massive store in Colimers from a bloke who also told us of the cycle path along the Canal Lateral to Bordeaux. We boasted that we were going over the mountains to Spain - almost laughing off his top tip - afterall, a canal is flat! It was two clock hundred o'hours pm and we had 50 miles to cover.
Despite weather forecasts offering rain, it was beautiful day and we cruised sou sou west sou west to Saint Lys where we had a choice of a bendy short route or a longer straight one. We took the latter. The green, voluptuous countryside gently rose with the Pyrenees parallel to the south. We got to Boulogne Sur Gesse at 7.50. All the shops and bars had shut. We had a packet of peanuts and raisins I'd brought with me from London. No booze. We did three reccies on the bike to make sure we hadn't missed anything - passing some highly amused locals who were sat on a petrol station forecourt. There was nothing. France is like that - beware. Most supermarches shut at 7.30. Stock up early. The sunset was a glorious overture for the fine weather we were to enjoy despite the gloomy forecasts of rain,rain and rain. 
More like the Marie Celeste Sur Gesse
D had been worried about the weather prospects - wondering how I had managed to persuade him of the advantages of June: cheaper flights, cheaper camping, untrashed campsites, cooler, longest evenings and we come back to the English summer after. ha ha, I laughed, my grin crimsony orange from the spectacular burning sky.
The next morning, a cool dew and a clear sky! Typical symptoms of brilliant weather. Those darned rainy forecasts! Ha! I could be a weather forecaster! All you gotta do is wear a cheap suit, point at an imaginary map behind you and make stuff up! D looked out at the cloudless blue saying he'd take back all he'd said about June weather. Five hours later, on one of those long straight uphill pulls where the church in the distance seems to be getting further away, and the cars groan at you as they pass one after another after another, I could just about distinguish the shadowy black peaks from the shadowy black clouds that had been dumping their contents on us for an hour. D chuckled away.
The terrain had been an undulating incline that brought us to a lumpy plateau south of Lannezeman. We then took a rapid descent down to Bagnères in the Adour Valley. D had opted not to bring his fabulously expensive Gore breathable, unsweatable, ultralightable, waterproof jacket that would have also done the washing up - because he'd believed me and my weather forecast.
My fancy new Shimano Deore gears that had replaced my Shimano Laughing gears, however, were making mincemeat of the hills - 22 front on 30 back was my super granny and I hadn't even got to her yet. Is there a point where you are going so slowly that you are in fact going backwards?
Then hurtling down the 8%-ers at a unhealthy 35mph - all seemed good with the trusty steed.
Wall available from Harrods Wall department
We constructed the tents at the further place du tentes - in Gerde - went to the South Africa match, came back ate then went back for the France against Uruguay event, after eating al fresco al dente à la wall.There was an Englishman who ran a B'n'B in the town for cyclists and told us of some humongous race that was heading up the Tourmalet the next day. Bagnères is kind of a cyclist's base camp and the the camp site we were in on closer inspection did contain many camper vans with shiny bikes attached.
Time was pressing on - well, in fact it wasn't it was only three-o-hundred hours but we had to find a campsite and get to a bar for the opening match of Coup Demand. If you enter Bagneres from the north on the D8 there is a campsite about 100m right at the traffic lights, a site which I recall was not signposted. There is one a mile or so north that is signposted left. The Intermarché is schlepp down that right at the traffic lights.
We constructed the tents at the further place du tentes - in Gerde - went to the South Africa match, came back ate then went back for the France against Uruguay event, after eating al fresco al dente à la wall.
The priority today was to get over to a bar and watch England play an ex-colony. All that stood between us and that bar was, at 2115m, the Col du Tourmalet. We were at a cozy campsite in Gerde at a lowly 570m - so the climb would notch up 1545m - 5000 feet - most of which is ascended in half of the 30km distance to the col at roughly 10%. In fact, if you are hard as nails, the climb is really just the last few km from La Mongie, the ugly ski resort way up the climb. In fact, in fact, you climb it from the west if you are totally hard.
At 7.30am hundred O'clock hours, the campsite and adjacent road were clacking to the sound of cleats cracking on tarmac. The bright lycra lit up the valley - it was like the tropics - all manner of yellows and purples and flame reds zipping about. The weather wasn't like the tropics. The grey sky a few yards above our heads was bulging with rain as we headed off up the valley just past 8am. It was smoothly
inclining until St Marie de Campan where we consumed half the boulangerie's stock of pain au this and pain au that and watched the gathering swarm of spandex-covered masochists. From there the D918 gradually got steeper and more congested with team cars, tourists, fast cyclists, nutters, caravanettes. At one corner a farmer held back his herd of cattle from the road - they were on their annual trip to the mountain pastures recently revealed as snows melted. Either that or they were off to be slaughtered.
On this particular day, aside from the day trippers, local races and practice races, there was a sportif of 240 miles - finishing in Bayonne - that was ascending the Col. We learnt this from a Spanish cyclist who breezed up along side us as if on a morning spin. The race was commemorating the 100th Anniversary of the Tour De France's first foray into the Pyrenees. All kinds of bikes were taking part including two 1910 boneshakers. There were also a pair with canvas panniers they must have bought with Green Shield Stamps many decades before. What an effort while all we were doing were 35 miles.
After the pleasant afforested valley, the hill got weird. The avalanche tunnels locked in the fog and became terrifying death traps as all and sundry lost all sense of the gradient.
Cars flew down as vans flew up, almost grazing shaky, tired cyclists, as they overtook.
At the top it was like a south coast resort in February: a damp, windswept car park full of rustling waterproofs - and a cafe serving a great egg'n'chips.
At 7.30am hundred O'clock hours, the campsite and adjacent road were clacking to the sound of cleats cracking on tarmac. The bright lycra lit up the valley - it was like the tropics - all manner of yellows and purples and flame reds zipping about. The weather wasn't like the tropics. The grey sky a few yards above our heads was bulging with rain as we headed off up the valley just past 8am. It was smoothly
inclining until St Marie de Campan where we consumed half the boulangerie's stock of pain au this and pain au that and watched the gathering swarm of spandex-covered masochists. From there the D918 gradually got steeper and more congested with team cars, tourists, fast cyclists, nutters, caravanettes. At one corner a farmer held back his herd of cattle from the road - they were on their annual trip to the mountain pastures recently revealed as snows melted. Either that or they were off to be slaughtered.
On this particular day, aside from the day trippers, local races and practice races, there was a sportif of 240 miles - finishing in Bayonne - that was ascending the Col. We learnt this from a Spanish cyclist who breezed up along side us as if on a morning spin. The race was commemorating the 100th Anniversary of the Tour De France's first foray into the Pyrenees. All kinds of bikes were taking part including two 1910 boneshakers. There were also a pair with canvas panniers they must have bought with Green Shield Stamps many decades before. What an effort while all we were doing were 35 miles.
After the pleasant afforested valley, the hill got weird. The avalanche tunnels locked in the fog and became terrifying death traps as all and sundry lost all sense of the gradient.
Cars flew down as vans flew up, almost grazing shaky, tired cyclists, as they overtook.At the top it was like a south coast resort in February: a damp, windswept car park full of rustling waterproofs - and a cafe serving a great egg'n'chips.
We flew down the other side - D caught up with what he described as 'The Pellion'. He hitched a ride on their slipstream all the way into Luz and apparently saw Cadel Evans. I don't like his music at all, I said but it turns out he's a top bicyclist. I meandered down taking photos, watching wildlife, picking daisies, washing beneath a mountain waterfall, eating heartily on bark and soil and a trout that I'd tickled. OK, maybe I just took a few snapshots.
We made Argelès Gazost and pitched tents at a family campsite, complete with swimming pool and discotheque. We legged into town in time to watch Robert Green make a complete tit of himself against the USA. Nuff said.
We made Argelès Gazost and pitched tents at a family campsite, complete with swimming pool and discotheque. We legged into town in time to watch Robert Green make a complete tit of himself against the USA. Nuff said.
The morning weather was threatening. It said to me: what you looking at, pal?! Not really a question at all - more rhetorical. Anyhow, the forecast was the same as it had been up to then and so, as it hadn't rained much to speak of, we figured that would continue. We were late leaving Argelès and immediately hit a steep D918. Whereas the Tourmalet was over and done quite quickly the Aubisque was reminiscent of the Bonnette as it was 30km from Argelès with another Col, the Soulor, in between. The sun lurked without throwing its hat into the ring - a ray here, a beam there. A steepish climb up a very pretty valley - lots of different trees hanging about and then a plateau surrounded by a wall of moutains and the cutesy village of Marsous.
That was left abruptly behind as the road rose steeply for the climb proper and, as with the Tourmalet, there were signs every kilometre with the altitude, gradient and distance to the col. The weather still held as we passed through the wooded moutainside and eventually wound our way up above the treeline into a severe last few hundred metres before the bus park at the Col du Soulor. The view towards the Aubisque was stunning.
After a brief descent, the road rose gently again but along the most vertiginous road I have been on. I have no idea what the drop was as I didn't look over the edge. The Soulor was the steep bit and this was the good looking stretch with a couple of short tunnels through the rock for effect.
But, a few specks of rain began to fall. I thought this was due to the altitude - 1700m - but it got heavier and heavier and by the time we reached the col we were soaked. It was 4pm and the weather had turned bad and we had a cold, with a wet descent to negotiate. There was no room for fancy antics on the way down and the brakes were on and off. My waterproof jacket did its job but my lower half and trainers were soaked - but hey - we figured we'd be out of the clouds and rain in a jiffy. We weren't and we just continued the hair-raising freewheel. I looked down to my right side front brake to see that it had dissolved and gunge oozed off the rim. We reached a town - a spa - Eaux Bonnes that appeared out of nowhere. It was dry there so we figured that the soaking was over but the rain was just behind and following us - we'd got ahead of it and now it was right on us again. We pushed on to Laruns and on the big bend above the valley was a campsite over looking the town. Again, the rain stopped - long enough for us to think it was clear and to put the tents up. I had been thinking about a hotel but the weak sunlight beguiled me. I even put out the washing line. The rain came and didn't stop. We had no booze or food so we splashed out 9.60 on two bottle from the campsite reception. We had no place to go - no disco here - so we hung about in the very basic but dry coffee area drinking the wine. The owners brought us in some ham, cheese and bread as we had no food either. D formulated a plan for reducing the effects of the rain by borrowing two promotional brollies and their bases to cover the tent doors.
This worked after a fashion but my tent invited the water to come in to get out of the rain. Two's a crowd so I left for the toilet block hoping the legendary Pyrenean bears were myths.
That was left abruptly behind as the road rose steeply for the climb proper and, as with the Tourmalet, there were signs every kilometre with the altitude, gradient and distance to the col. The weather still held as we passed through the wooded moutainside and eventually wound our way up above the treeline into a severe last few hundred metres before the bus park at the Col du Soulor. The view towards the Aubisque was stunning.
After a brief descent, the road rose gently again but along the most vertiginous road I have been on. I have no idea what the drop was as I didn't look over the edge. The Soulor was the steep bit and this was the good looking stretch with a couple of short tunnels through the rock for effect.But, a few specks of rain began to fall. I thought this was due to the altitude - 1700m - but it got heavier and heavier and by the time we reached the col we were soaked. It was 4pm and the weather had turned bad and we had a cold, with a wet descent to negotiate. There was no room for fancy antics on the way down and the brakes were on and off. My waterproof jacket did its job but my lower half and trainers were soaked - but hey - we figured we'd be out of the clouds and rain in a jiffy. We weren't and we just continued the hair-raising freewheel. I looked down to my right side front brake to see that it had dissolved and gunge oozed off the rim. We reached a town - a spa - Eaux Bonnes that appeared out of nowhere. It was dry there so we figured that the soaking was over but the rain was just behind and following us - we'd got ahead of it and now it was right on us again. We pushed on to Laruns and on the big bend above the valley was a campsite over looking the town. Again, the rain stopped - long enough for us to think it was clear and to put the tents up. I had been thinking about a hotel but the weak sunlight beguiled me. I even put out the washing line. The rain came and didn't stop. We had no booze or food so we splashed out 9.60 on two bottle from the campsite reception. We had no place to go - no disco here - so we hung about in the very basic but dry coffee area drinking the wine. The owners brought us in some ham, cheese and bread as we had no food either. D formulated a plan for reducing the effects of the rain by borrowing two promotional brollies and their bases to cover the tent doors.
This worked after a fashion but my tent invited the water to come in to get out of the rain. Two's a crowd so I left for the toilet block hoping the legendary Pyrenean bears were myths.Sandals with socks? Never - apparently. Sandals with Sainsbury's carrier bags over your feet, however, is derigueur. The weather. I was, despite my soaking, glad it wasn't baking hot - Cols and heat don't mix well with me. However, that was no compensation for the plain fact the rains had come. According to various media, Spain's weather was worse than France's and we still had to get over the mountains. I am a complete baby when it comes to rain and camping. My trainers should have been in quarantine. My kaks had a peculiar greasy feel to them and my carrier bag precautions for keeping clothes dry had failed - water gets everywhere. I also realised how small my tent was. Every movement I made produced water ingress: my bedding began to squelch. There were also the naughty panniers and miscellaneous stuff - all of which had been touching the sides of the tent during the night at Laruns. Everything was wet and in that kind of air, heavy with moisture, it stays wet. So, during the following morning, as the rain continued, we discussed several slight route changes. The first was go straight home as quick as possible and put the money saved to another trip in the summer - bottling out in other words; the second was get a train east to the Carmargue - too far away from Bordeaux and the weather wasn't that special either; go west to Biarritz - the weather was shit there too. The only settled area looked like Bordeaux - and the canal that the man had mentioned now looked like an attractive route and it was flat! So we'd head straight north to Les Landes then veer nor nor east nor to pick up the Canal Latérel and head into the Bordeaux region.
Yes, straight Nor Nor North, but first we needed a lava-ma-tique - a laundry. Orolon was the nearest big town so we made it there after a very late start.
The rain was light along the valley floor on the D240 but, like the occasional drip from a tap, was a wind up. Orolon was a quaint hotchpotch of new and old perched on the high walls of the confluence of the Aspe and the Ossau. We asked around for a laundry and, following much frowning and waving of hands, eventually found one. We stripped down to the waist and put everything in, even the bikes. Spirits livened as the warmth penetrated and exorcised the damp. So with a hop, skip and a jump, however tricky on a bike, we got to the campsite. I didn't bother with setting up inside the tent - I put it up to dry in the faint warmth of a light breeze and as we'd pitched up next to a covered patio that would serve as my bedsit.
D acquired a table and chairs, a job he excels in. Many a Beefeater restaurant in South West London was deprived of their patio sets when he was on the prowl.
This was our fourth trip and so we had fine tuned the eating and treat rations. One us had the bright idea of porage in the morning along with banana, honey and yogurt. This wallpaper paste kept us going beyond our wildest expectations and at least until the first boulangerie and the pain attack. I'd get the cafe-o-lays in while the hunter and gatherer foraged to source the pain. And was that pain good. And so to the evening's feast. This would start with a fantastic 2010 vin rouge in the price range of 1 to 1.5 euros with olives that had been carefully preserved in a tin can. This would be followed by tuna fish in tomato, fresh from the shelf, and peppers all lightly drizzled in pesto and served on a bunk bed of spaghetti. Desert would follow shortly in the form of bisquets. Then we would down another bottle of plonk and talk rubbish until one of us lost the will.
The rain was light along the valley floor on the D240 but, like the occasional drip from a tap, was a wind up. Orolon was a quaint hotchpotch of new and old perched on the high walls of the confluence of the Aspe and the Ossau. We asked around for a laundry and, following much frowning and waving of hands, eventually found one. We stripped down to the waist and put everything in, even the bikes. Spirits livened as the warmth penetrated and exorcised the damp. So with a hop, skip and a jump, however tricky on a bike, we got to the campsite. I didn't bother with setting up inside the tent - I put it up to dry in the faint warmth of a light breeze and as we'd pitched up next to a covered patio that would serve as my bedsit.
D acquired a table and chairs, a job he excels in. Many a Beefeater restaurant in South West London was deprived of their patio sets when he was on the prowl.This was our fourth trip and so we had fine tuned the eating and treat rations. One us had the bright idea of porage in the morning along with banana, honey and yogurt. This wallpaper paste kept us going beyond our wildest expectations and at least until the first boulangerie and the pain attack. I'd get the cafe-o-lays in while the hunter and gatherer foraged to source the pain. And was that pain good. And so to the evening's feast. This would start with a fantastic 2010 vin rouge in the price range of 1 to 1.5 euros with olives that had been carefully preserved in a tin can. This would be followed by tuna fish in tomato, fresh from the shelf, and peppers all lightly drizzled in pesto and served on a bunk bed of spaghetti. Desert would follow shortly in the form of bisquets. Then we would down another bottle of plonk and talk rubbish until one of us lost the will.
The first of two long days to get the canal. First stop: cafe olay. I went to the Soviet Union a couple of times and, no matter where you were, the price of 'coffee', or anything else for that matter, was always the same. The fact you would not want to drink the 'coffee' unless under threat of a Gulag is irrelevant in this simple economic modelling. In France I figure the price of a cup of coifee is quoted on the Bourse and is subject to constant speculation and thus price fluctuation, or, they simply saw us coming. The cheapest was a paltry 1.10 - the most pricey, 3.25. D had the logical solution to this fleecing: purchase a coffee boiler thingamabob - the brushed aluminium one you put on the hob. Why not drag a AGA dual use Taste of Scandinavia range along too?More hills topped by cornfields as we followed the D24 then D502 through Saint Faux for Lescar to the west of Pau to get to a monster Decathlon. D had purchased - from the clothing equivalent of Colorado Fried Chicken on Turnpike Lane - a fetching rubberised trouser suit in navy blue as protection from the rain. I'd declined that in favour of a cape. Said item was to be found at said superstore along with more Coleman gas for my sooper dooper sunnigas stove.
I also invested in a pair of Quechua trousis for the increasingly unsummery chilly evenings, and the entry level Tikkina Petzl headlight - which beats trying to hold a plastic bike light in your mouth.
The route flattened out as we headed NW on the D945 from Lescar towards the mysterious Les Landes - an enormous flat area extending eastwards from the coast to the hills and to the Garonne and north beyond Bordeaux - maybe 10,000 square miles of sandy acid soil covered with pine forests. But, before that we took a red road, the D933, en route to Hagetmau.
Up to now we had kept well clear of red roads and ten minutes of fu**ing great big juggernauts flying past you at 50 mph was ten minutes too long. Some roads have a metre wide hard shoulder that bikes can occupy but not this one. I read today of a cyclist killed on the A303 in southern England. He was hit from behind by a car in broad daylight. But, you have to wonder how he managed to be on that road which is the alternative route (to M4/M5) to the South West from London. English A roads should be avoided at all costs on a bike - they're too narrow, hemmed in by high hedges, bend all over the place, hit hills, and have absolutely no space at the side. French A roads (red ones according to Michelin though often still a D) tend to be straighter so while perhaps safer in theory they put the shits up as the they are full of fast trucks. Stick to the yellow ones - Red- lorry; Yellow - not lorry! The French and English, despite trivial differences, share the same love of roundabouts. If you hadn't kakked your pants on the road, take the second exit on un grand point to make sure. I would slow down and wave a precariously free hand at approaching voitures to make darned certain we were reading the same signpost, so to speak.
Hagetmau was an instantly forgettable village. We were the only people to have visited the campsite for a couple of days. The manager and his peculiarly flirty daughter and shrunken wife gave the place the air of the Bates Motel. We asked the man about the weather and he joyously told us it was going to plue a lot. The campsite was in the town behind the massive sports complex and took the prize for the most expensive site at 22 euros. For this though, the pitch was en suite having its own mini toilet block. It was another damp evening with little chance of the damp clothing and bedding becoming less damp. In fact the damp gear was damper for having been hung out in the damp air. We walked into the deserted village and found a bar that was as homely as Rockall. I can't remember what match we saw there but there was alternative entertainment in the form of a grunting, toothless neanderthal with a voice from a gravel pit who performed the routine of a gesticulating, French drunk as if it were an audition for a role in a 'Allo, Allo'.
Back to the tents and vino and peanuts.
It was my birthday today. I jumped up and down in the exclusive en suite pitch listening to old favourites on my gadget. It took three hours to get away from the campsite despite getting up at 7.15 hundred O'clock am hours. This was due, in part, to the effect of the heavy damp air dampening our movements. It was as if we were packing up our tents underwater. We were slo-mo. Actually it was more a case of clowning. Moving this and that about with an air of actually doing something when in fact all we were doing was moving things about from one place to another. This procrastination was due entirely to the fact neither of us particularly wanted to seize this wet slippery day. So, I made a bold statement to gee myself up at the cusp of the beginning of my next year (I popped out at 6.45 shillings imperial time pm): hotel tonight.
Up the D933 some more in 'sprinklings' of rain, artics passing. The Doppler effect: life is like that too. The attitude to what is coming is always different to your attitude once it has been and gone - especially in the case of this camping holiday: sun block, swimming trunks, rod and reel, light clothing. I will return home with waterproofs, freezer bags, trousers and no stories of the one that got away. We took a right up into some nice hills, again covered with corn and another crop that we couldn't identify - like we started to pretend we were Ray Mears and knew this shit. In fact, I suddenly seemed an expert on rural matters. 'This is probably the first crop - that field is fallow - that's a cross between a cow and horse - a corse'. My wisdom and knowledge of Mother Earth's bounty gave me an air of a spirit floating on the breeze - and that, combined with my newly purchased waterproof garment, endeared me to the new name of 'Billowing Cape'.
More empty villages, apart from occasional boy racers on their mopeds. Miscellaneous squeaks and bangs greeted our arrival as shutters shut with townspeople scurrying and disappearing around corners like rats. Spaghetti Ouest-ern.
We eventually came down from the hills, having passed through pretty Grenade Sur L'Adour and deathly Villeneuve de Marsan. Onwards on the D11 and into St Justin, the border town between the hills and Les Landes. The dark green dripping pine forest topped by a badly painted grey sky looked about as inviting as something that is not very inviting at all. We took a route through the forest as the only alternative was a red road - the D933 again - which was just as busy and treacherous as it had been the day before. We cut in to Vielle Soubrian for the 30 mile schlep to Casteljaloux through Losse, Allons and Pinderes.
By now it has been raining constantly for two or three hours and the grey sky showed no sign of change. The road was often dead straight for three or four miles - the sky, trees, and road all blurring into nothingness in the damp distance ahead. There was not much to look at after the first tree. It was one of those days when you just had to grin and bear it. The legs just kept on going as long as you told them to: mind over matter. Each dash between the disheartening hamlets was just one less to do. There was no place to stop and eat or take in a nice view - just a wet straight road with a hint of a pine fresh freshness that became sickly. I imagined what this godforsaken place could be like in the height of summer. There was not a lot of money, there were more beat up cars and shot gun shacks than fancy stuff; no hotels, no shops, no bars. I figured the windless stagnant air would be thick with horse flies or midges and I imagined the stifling heat and having no water. Get to a hotel! The place freaked me out.
Casteljaloux and hotel. All the kit was splayed on every available space to dry. We ate pizza in the street and watched another forgettable match.
A most unusual day's cycling.
More empty villages, apart from occasional boy racers on their mopeds. Miscellaneous squeaks and bangs greeted our arrival as shutters shut with townspeople scurrying and disappearing around corners like rats. Spaghetti Ouest-ern.
We eventually came down from the hills, having passed through pretty Grenade Sur L'Adour and deathly Villeneuve de Marsan. Onwards on the D11 and into St Justin, the border town between the hills and Les Landes. The dark green dripping pine forest topped by a badly painted grey sky looked about as inviting as something that is not very inviting at all. We took a route through the forest as the only alternative was a red road - the D933 again - which was just as busy and treacherous as it had been the day before. We cut in to Vielle Soubrian for the 30 mile schlep to Casteljaloux through Losse, Allons and Pinderes.
By now it has been raining constantly for two or three hours and the grey sky showed no sign of change. The road was often dead straight for three or four miles - the sky, trees, and road all blurring into nothingness in the damp distance ahead. There was not much to look at after the first tree. It was one of those days when you just had to grin and bear it. The legs just kept on going as long as you told them to: mind over matter. Each dash between the disheartening hamlets was just one less to do. There was no place to stop and eat or take in a nice view - just a wet straight road with a hint of a pine fresh freshness that became sickly. I imagined what this godforsaken place could be like in the height of summer. There was not a lot of money, there were more beat up cars and shot gun shacks than fancy stuff; no hotels, no shops, no bars. I figured the windless stagnant air would be thick with horse flies or midges and I imagined the stifling heat and having no water. Get to a hotel! The place freaked me out.
Casteljaloux and hotel. All the kit was splayed on every available space to dry. We ate pizza in the street and watched another forgettable match.
A most unusual day's cycling.
I look out of the hotel room's window and there is a hint sunshine may be building irrepressibly behind the weakening grey cloud cover - cracks appearing in its gloomy edifice. Everything is dry so it's back to square one.On the D9 and more hills - the barrier between the Garonne and Les Landes - which must have been under the sea many zillions of years ago (or last week, if you're a Seventh Day Adventist) and the best place for it now. The hills, once more, were covered in dense corn fields and lush green woods.
Down the other side to a cutesy olde worlde village Le Mas d'Agenais and the most expensive coffee. We dropped down onto the Canal Lateral and to a tarmac cycle path, with only the occasional hill in the form of a bridge or lock.
The canal cuts out big bends in the Garonne, which, at times, was nowhere to be seen and at other times, right by the towpath. There are a good 100 miles of canal from Castelnaudry through Toulouse on the Canal du Midi and then onto the Lateral to twenty miles short of Bordeaux. It's flat with lots of villages, though campsites were very rare.
We took a couple of hours to complete the 35 miles or so to Castets-en-Dorthe, where the canal discharges into the massive Garonne. After 10 miles of mixed roads we crossed the river at Langon having been faced with a choice of two red roads either side. D suggested the D10 on the north bank, which turned out to be quite empty and we knocked of the miles passing vineyards and chateaus and 'caves'. Cadillac has a walled old town and was probably worth hanging out in but we had to get on to get supplies and get to the campsite at Creon. We popped into a supermarche at Langoiran before turning north up a slightly inclined D20 to Creon.
The campsite is two km west of Creon on the D671. The site had a nice fancy, gravelled pathway area with nice chalets but we were directed to a field sloping away. The weather was threatening again - black clouds chomping their way towards us through the defenceless blue sky to our exposed pitch.
The rain came and so we cooked beneath the overhanging roof of the toilet block before watching France play their second match. Back to the tents and a wine and peanut nightcap.
There are many different ways of demonstrating to your cycling buddy that you are, at present, not speaking to them. One is to cycle on miles ahead in dramatic fashion, another is to deliberately fall behind. There are the more brutal, close combat methods - as they talk to you from just in front or just behind, you simply do not respond. Wearing headphones does the job as does singing to oneself. Equally effective is telling them to shut up. As to why you are presently not speaking, well, there any number of reasons. Perhaps you cherish the silence - absorbing yourself in your surroundings and succumbing to your smallness against the enormity of nature. Or, you're talked out from the night before and there is half a bottle of cheap red lodged awkwardly in your brain. You may even be deep in thought about fundamental issues. More than likely though, there has been discord: bad behaviour, bad idea, said the wrong thing. Poor sleep and aforesaid cheap wine make for a touchy start to the day anyhow. Then there is the general vibe - rain and wind ain't too good just as boiling temperatures, no breeze and low rations don't help. Gotta keep a treat someplace to share.
D and I have our barneys and it was a relief, in a way, to see others at it...
Being in foreign lands can lead to careless talk. After a while it's just you and your buddy who understands English, especially if you talk fast to one another with a dash of vernacular. 
Sometimes it even feels as if you are unseen. 
So, as it happens, a couple had turned up on bikes the night before and in the morning, as D and I stood around procrastinating, waiting for the tent and panniers to pack themselves, we noticed that the couple were in separate tents. Fair does. Can get a bit smelly and little too intimate in some of these two-person tents. There was not a lot of chit chat going on. He fiddles about with his very small wheeled bike while she packed up her gear in a very purposeful manner: gritted teeth, veins a-popping on her temple etc. I stood like a lummox, not yet fully acquainted with this new day with yet another half bottle of wine lodged up there somewhere. I began a commentary for D, who was in his tent mopping his groundsheet with a tissue - about as speedy as painting the Forth Rail Bridge with a nail varnish brush. I speculated, as I described the action before me. Girlfriend or daughter? What kind of father takes his adult daughter on this kind of trip? What kind of daughter goes on one? But, before I could say anymore, the woman is ready and starts to push her bike up the field past the man.
He mumbles something and she gives him the finger while looking straight ahead! Fantastic, I tell D. The man briefly looks forlorn as she trundles her laden bike up the grassy hill and out of the site before he returning to his fiddling. Men spend a lot of their lives fiddling. I watched the man for a while and informed D of his fastidiousness about his very small wheeled bike.
Sometimes it even feels as if you are unseen. 
So, as it happens, a couple had turned up on bikes the night before and in the morning, as D and I stood around procrastinating, waiting for the tent and panniers to pack themselves, we noticed that the couple were in separate tents. Fair does. Can get a bit smelly and little too intimate in some of these two-person tents. There was not a lot of chit chat going on. He fiddles about with his very small wheeled bike while she packed up her gear in a very purposeful manner: gritted teeth, veins a-popping on her temple etc. I stood like a lummox, not yet fully acquainted with this new day with yet another half bottle of wine lodged up there somewhere. I began a commentary for D, who was in his tent mopping his groundsheet with a tissue - about as speedy as painting the Forth Rail Bridge with a nail varnish brush. I speculated, as I described the action before me. Girlfriend or daughter? What kind of father takes his adult daughter on this kind of trip? What kind of daughter goes on one? But, before I could say anymore, the woman is ready and starts to push her bike up the field past the man.He mumbles something and she gives him the finger while looking straight ahead! Fantastic, I tell D. The man briefly looks forlorn as she trundles her laden bike up the grassy hill and out of the site before he returning to his fiddling. Men spend a lot of their lives fiddling. I watched the man for a while and informed D of his fastidiousness about his very small wheeled bike.Eventually I needed to get water for the porage. I dawdled over in the dank air, my sandals kicking up cold spray off the wet grass that alighted on my toes and trickled down. As I filled the bottles at the communal tap, Fiddling Man came over and asked: 'Is that water?' It was too early for me to respond wittily. He was English and said he'd heard us talking in English which meant he'd heard all my commentary about he and his friend's morning bust up.
We chewed the cud and he explained that his friend had 'gone on ahead'. He proudly showed me his bike - another variation on the Brompton style with pushchair wheels - I almost asked him if it had stabilisers. It was a bike you didn't fancy going down hill fast on with its back and front panniers. The Tourmalet on a Brompton. No ta very much. He also proudly showed me his tent: a Terra Ferma that accommodates ten people, their bikes and kit, a full-sized Olympic swimming pool, a nine-hole golf course and a mini-bar, and which folded up neatly to fit snugly into his back pocket. I pointed out that D and myself were budgeteers and a bit slapstick, and that we'd got our Noddy tents for less than the cost of one his tyres. He enquired about our route and advised of a cycle path all the way to Bordeaux and one beyond that took you to the ocean. It turns out he had not set wheel on road at all and had managed to cycle from who knows where on itsy bitsy lickle bike paths. Anyhow, once we'd packed and left, we took his advice and the tarmac path, which followed an old railway through leafy glades and meadows all the way to the Garonne just south of Bordeaux. The path became intermittent from then on, passing through some ugly industrial areas until we rose onto one of Bordeaux many bridges which took us over the river and to the magnificent old city and its strand, a truly immense river front - akin to the Bund in Shanghai.
A fine looking city - a World Heritage Site, in fact. But, for the cyclist who has been on itsy bitsy lickle cycle paths and deserted D roads, arriving in a big city can be a bit fraught especially when the city has trams. Fortunately, there was a campsite in Bordeaux. Unfortunately, it was miles away. Fortunately, all you had to do was follow the tram line northwards until the Lac. Unfortunately, the tram line had trams running on it. It is all a challenge. Lots of side streets, vanishing cycle paths and a tram line to trap your front wheel. This particular day rendered all those minor quibbles irrelevant because today was the day England played Algeria. The very new campsite was was well out of Bordeaux centre - a thirty minute ride - and had the worst terrain of all bare soil interspersed with islands of hard clumps of grass. We set up camp before heading back into Bordeaux to find a Irish Bar. We ended up at the Charles Dickens on the corner of block on the strand. This was an English with English bitter - Bombardier etc - run by a Welshman, Rhys. We endured the Eng Alg game after enjoying happy hour prices - 3.50 for .8 of a pint - 5 normal price.
The Monday coming was host to the annual music day in France - though some places used the Sunday - and so we aimed to get back for that and the Charles Dickens was putting on a Northern Soul night. Back to the site and the usual.
It took me an hour on the cycle path to realise why Fiddling Man got the finger from his 'friend'. We'd already done 40 miles of the forests of Les Landes and we were now going to do another forty of a seemingly endless cycle path. It was boring. She musta been bored out of her skull and the minute he'd mentioned the words 'I've found the cycle path on my map...' the finger popped out.
It was one of those days.
Lacanau Ocean was a cheesy beach resort full of surfboards, wetsuits and flip flops. We spent the night in the fancy mega site with its wood chip pitches. By now we were both shipshape when it came to rain - everything was in plastic bags - and neatly stacked away from the tent sides and so, despite, the heavy downpours, we would awake the next morning reasonably dry.
It was one of those days.
Lacanau Ocean was a cheesy beach resort full of surfboards, wetsuits and flip flops. We spent the night in the fancy mega site with its wood chip pitches. By now we were both shipshape when it came to rain - everything was in plastic bags - and neatly stacked away from the tent sides and so, despite, the heavy downpours, we would awake the next morning reasonably dry.
We went west to the ocean because it was there, and then we came back again. What ever possessed us to spend two days cycling through the forests of Les Landes, possessed us again as we spent a third day in the godforsaken place. It was, finally, a beautiful sunny day.
We were aiming for the Medoc - on the eastern bank of the Gironde - a combination of the Dordogne and Garonne. This required a seemingly simple ride up north by the dunes. Instead we followed a cycle path in to the pine covered dunes only for it to disintegrate into a line of bricks. Lurching around on a suddenly unwieldy bicycle in the un-cyclable sand was funny for about three yards.
I guess, finally, that Les Landes would be of interest to somebody - just don't let me get stuck next to them on a train.
We popped out of the dunes at Hourtin Plage, probably 20
miles from Lacanau, and this had taken three hours. From there we belted along east then south to Hourtin and took the D2, possibly, east to Paulliac, and eventually found ourselves amongst billions of vines as we passed through the Rothschild estates.Paulliac sat along the river and everything was shut apart from a hotel bar and a petrol station. We acquired a bottle of vino from the latter. There was a picture house and the featured film below could be worth a view.
The campsite, 14 euros in total, was perhaps the best of many a trip: soft ground, good crappers and a lava machine. We got everything washed and it dried super quick in the warms breeze off the Gironde.The sunset was great and I love big rivers.
For once we got out of a campsite before nine. It was the kind of weather we'd missed and the prospect of the vineyards and chateaus beneath a perfect sky put a zip in our legs on what was our last day in the saddle. Colours were intense and so was the morning coffee at a bar. They had run out of the requisite pain au this and pain au that and, intead, served us some pain avec confiture. I never eat jam but, with the butter, french bread and coffee, I'd reconsider. It was just after ten, as some youngsters in their early twenties knocked back the vin. I can't even drink in the afternoon let alone when fresh breakfast remnants are still lodged between my teeth.
As the vineyards sailed by I tried to calculate how many vines there were in a field: a kilometre square with a metre apart one way and two between each row = half a million with approximately two bottles per vine. A lot of wine and one helluva big harvest - with the whole region doing it at the same time. There's money in them there grapes.The vineyards fell away to suburbs and my attention turned to a pressing problem - my pedals. 
I still could not remove them and I would run the risk of the bike being refused on the following day's flight or inflicting damage on the bike. I stopped at a quiet sports superstore, Sports et Loisirs, grabbed a pair of 16 euro pedals and asked, innocently, if the man could swap them. He tried his regular spanner, huffed and puffed, scratched his head, and ummed and aahed. I feared the worse but he had an idea. He went of to his workshop and returned with some tools to get more leverage and after more huffin and puffin dislodged the offending pedal. Had I been in England I would have had to pay out. That bridge crossed, we sped off into Bordeaux, hooking up with that darned bike path which took us to the roundabout just south of the campsite we'd pitched up at before - 17 euros for two - it still being the only one in town. The site had filled up with musicians from far afield - an urban choir from Marseilles - and tourists coming to see the festival, who, I guess, included us. We spent hours choosing what to wear from our extensive wardrobes - and again: socks with sandals? Crowds packed the streets and bars on a sultry Monday evening - smaller bands in the side streets - sounds systems on the junctions. The Dickens put on a Wag/Blow-Up style Mod/Northern night. I slid across the talc free floor in my Berkies. D and I had fuelled up with cheap bottles of wine we'd stashed in our packs and by 1 am were talking gibberish. We walked the bikes and met French revellers talking French gibberish. The last night finished as most of nights had done with peanuts and wine - and a bit of soberly mumbo jumbo replaced the gibberish.
I still could not remove them and I would run the risk of the bike being refused on the following day's flight or inflicting damage on the bike. I stopped at a quiet sports superstore, Sports et Loisirs, grabbed a pair of 16 euro pedals and asked, innocently, if the man could swap them. He tried his regular spanner, huffed and puffed, scratched his head, and ummed and aahed. I feared the worse but he had an idea. He went of to his workshop and returned with some tools to get more leverage and after more huffin and puffin dislodged the offending pedal. Had I been in England I would have had to pay out. That bridge crossed, we sped off into Bordeaux, hooking up with that darned bike path which took us to the roundabout just south of the campsite we'd pitched up at before - 17 euros for two - it still being the only one in town. The site had filled up with musicians from far afield - an urban choir from Marseilles - and tourists coming to see the festival, who, I guess, included us. We spent hours choosing what to wear from our extensive wardrobes - and again: socks with sandals? Crowds packed the streets and bars on a sultry Monday evening - smaller bands in the side streets - sounds systems on the junctions. The Dickens put on a Wag/Blow-Up style Mod/Northern night. I slid across the talc free floor in my Berkies. D and I had fuelled up with cheap bottles of wine we'd stashed in our packs and by 1 am were talking gibberish. We walked the bikes and met French revellers talking French gibberish. The last night finished as most of nights had done with peanuts and wine - and a bit of soberly mumbo jumbo replaced the gibberish.
The flight was late in the afternoon which gave us plenty of time to take an age to pack up. There was also the monster of a 'camper van' to marvel at. We rolled out of the site at midday, following coffee and pain au tasties ordered the night before. The sun was burning hot - typical of the final day of a holiday. The town was already cleared up from the night before as we sauntered down the riverfront to amble about.
There was just the small matter of getting to the airport - a simple straight road until it got to busy dual carriageways and hair-raising roundabouts. Bikes were packed after pedals came off easily. A pannier and the tent were left on my bike but stupidly I put my stove in my carry on bag - I'd had no problem at Heathrow but Bordeaux security deemed it to be a lethal weapon and so, as I would have to have paid 42 euros for the 'extra bag', I dumped the trusty stove in a bin. We sat on the plane and watched a baggage handler remove the bikes from a buggy down on the concrete. D's bike went off with the man leaving mine to fall off the buggy. It looked dramatic but back at Gatwick - where the bikes were delivered on a buggy and didn't arrive on the carousel - it was still in one piece.
470 miles
