At about 19:00 I took a turn to the left where a sign directed me to a campsite since it was the only one I had seen since leaving Pessac and soon it would become too late to go any further down the road in the hope of coming across another such sign.

The turning had been somewhere between La Barp and Belin on the N10. I should point out that shortly after leaving Bordeaux I had entered a National park area which in reality was a relatively straight corridor through a commercially forested area of conifer trees planted in regimental row after row, stretching just shy of Bayonne, my entrance to the Pyrenees. After cycling down this deserted lane far a further twenty minutes or so towards the campsite, as the sign allude to, my trust in French road signs began to take a further nosedive as the site failed to make itself known.

Due to the overcast weather twilight fell earlier than would have been usual, so I decided to find a secluded spot in the forest to set up the tent for the night and up sticks at dawn before the Park ranger (or some such authorative figure) had a chance to give me an earful. I came across a tiny little road off the one I had been travelling on where the grass had grown about 8 to 9” high, so I figured it hadn’t been used in sometime, or at least it wasn’t used very often. Down here I discovered an opening in the tree canopy, the ground there growing waist high with bracken to act as cover from the view point of the lane. In the middle of this area I uprooted enough of the bracken to clear a space large enough to pitch the tent. By this stage my trainers and feet were soaked through(the near constant rain fall since leaving Bordeaux having kept the undergrowth heavy with water), so it was a luxury to get a dry pair of socks on once inside the tent. Its surprising how, when there is a charge of context, something you usually pay little regards to can offer such comfort.

Sleep came soon enough but didn’t last long, waking at about one once the ground under the tent had soaked away enough of my body’s core heat to cause me to shiver uncontrollably. Once woken I couldn’t get back to sleep particularly after hearing a large dog barking close by in area far from any houses. With the paranoia that sometimes comes with nightfall, particularly when camping alone in the middle of a forest in a foreign country, the dog grew in stature in my imagination with each passing minute. It wasn’t long before I was conjuring some demonic wolf like beast with enormous salivating fangs on the prowl for some poor unfortunate to put the fear of god into, and convincing myself that it was coming closer! As soon as there was enough light on the horizon to see what I was doing I packed up and got back onto the open road, and in so doing, got back to civilized society (how the night can stimulate a suggestive mind)!

During the night I started doubting the whole venture. I thought about how I would have liked to have stayed longer in Paris and began to recognise my limitations and their implications. For example, if I even had a basic grasp of the French language I could possibly have asked the whereabouts of the mythical campsite, if I had met anyone that is. Standing dew damp by the roadside in the early morning the bike’s limitation also became apparent as the rear wheel seemed to be severely buckled. On closer inspection it transpired that five of the spokes supporting the left side of the rear wheel had little if no tension remaining. I guessed it was no coincidence that it was also the left side carrying the heavier pannier bag. Having never maintained spokes before I assumed the wheel would have to be taken off and both tyre and inner tube removed to access the trouble spots, so I settled on risking a day’s ride to a campsite where I would have a better opportunity to investigate the matter further.

That evening I reached the campsite at Vieux-Boucau, a slightly out of season costal town. They stung me with a fifteen euro overnight fee (I only found out later that I had been stung when I read that I should only have paid six euros) but the price wasn’t an issue since I was desperate for a good nights sleep and a refreshing shower to wash two days and a long night of travel from my body. After a can of raviolli and some fruit I saw the Atlantic from the French coast for the first time. The size of the waves suggested it might be a surfing magnet, but it was still raining so I didn’t stay long enough to notice any surf bums. Again, I was awake at around 1am shivering, and fell in and out of sleep fitfully. The sooner I got the lack of ground insulation situation sorted out the better.

I had originally intended to reach Bayonne and investigate the short strech of French coast below it until the end of the month, but the weather was lousy so I didn’t bother and headed east following the Pyrenees. Once I hit Bayonne the usual problem of the ambiguous road signs arose again. So, while consulting the map and compass, and with the bike stationary I took the opportunity to raise the pressure in the rear tyre since it was carrying the bulk of the load. I must have over done it though because once back in the saddle reaching the outskirts of Bayonne the rear inner tube blew. Since I had no choice but to take the wheel off and remove the tyre and inner tube to mend it I used the opportunity to sort out the spokes and in so doing made a discovery which made things a bit easier, namely that they can be tightened while the wheel is in one piece and attached to the frame. By now I wanted to get out of Bayonne as quickly as possible.

The first thing that struck me upon reaching the open road the far side of Bayonne was (surprise, surprise) the magnificentce of the mountain range stretching away in front of me as far as I could see (which would have been more extensive had the weather permitted). The striking change in landscape felt like an invigorating breathe of fresh air, farmed private land growing grain and grazing sheep and cattle over gently undulating hills cut through by winding roads. However, the gentle nature of the hills soon fell by the wayside as I began to encounter the anticipated sight of snaking roads negotiating the steep incline of the Pyrenean foothills.

Worryingly, the few campsites encountered on route were closed. I suppose the end of May is not exactly peak season, and it wouldn’t be financially viable for the more isolated sites to open so early. The town I had intended to camp in that evening, Hasparren, has, according to the Rough Guide, two campsites open this early in the season. I spent two hours negotiating steep climbs up side roads to find the first one closed and that the second had closed years previously. So I kept on going until it got so dark that it became dangerous, even with lights on the bike. Coming down hills I could have easily hit a pothole and gone arse over tit before having a chance to spot it first.

All the nearby fields were in view of the farm buildings, and I didn’t think the local farmer would have been enthralled to find me camped on his/her land the following morning. I noticed that the grass between the roadside and the hedge grew about 30” or so in height an land roughly five feet in width on common land. So I put a couple more layers of clothes on, my waterproof top and bottom and wool hat (I knew it would be prudent to pack it) and lay down to sleep in the grass just out of sight of passing cars. Of course I only managed about an hour and a half sleep before the shivering woke me up. I listened to music on the two compilation tapes I had put together for the trip, however the shivering didn’t abate. Fortunately the rain held off.

In the present circumstances the logical thing to do to restore body heat would be to become active. The slight hitch in that plan was that when getting the walkman out of the smaller pannier bag I must have dislodged one of “s” hooks used to fix the pannier bags to the pannier rack and lost it in the grass. Without it I couldn’t go anywhere since the bag couldn’t be attached to the rack. There was nothing for it but to wait until it was light and hope that I could find it. Turning over to try to fall asleep on my side something sharp stabbed me in the leg, lo and behold the missing hook was missing no more.

05:30, with just enough light in the sky to show up any potholes, I hit the road once again. The roadside which I had used as a poor substitute for a bed the night before was the D14, about a quarter of the way between Hasparren and St. Palais. The section of the journey that filled the day ahead was a gruelling series of climbs worth it for the stunning views of steep farmed grassland and deciduous forested valleys backed by snow capped mountain tops, and rewarded by the much deserved free wheel downhill the other side.

Because I set off so early I got to Oloron with enough time to spare to keep going to the next town should the town’s campsite prove to be another fictious. This wasn’t necessary, it existed and was open, so I pitched tent, had a shower which felt luxurious, found a supermarket and had a good feed accompanied by a bottle of red wine. I have come across four main supermarkets so far: Atac; Super-U; Supermarche; and Lido. In the Oloron Super-U I made a wise investment by buying a foam roll mat, guaranteeing me an unbroken eight hours night sleep.

I’m annoyed with myself for having up until now packed my camera at the bottom of my bag, so I haven’t had the energy to dig it out when a suitable photographic opportunity arose. Hence, missing out on recording the buildings by the river Gave just before leaving Lestelle Betharram (before St. Pe) which, I think, were part of a monastery or convent . I also missed capturing the view of the old town of Oloron sprawling up the steep hill side rock face overlooking the white waters of the d’Oloron river below, with the snow capped Pyrenees as a backdrop.

Having slept rough for two nights it becomes such a relief to set up tent at the end of the day in a campsite. I can feel my body relax as I unload the bike and remove the crotch strangling cycling shorts, have a shower then go for dinner. In an attempt to combat the spoke problem I lightened the load on the rear wheel by first of all getting rid of the food I had been carrying with me, deciding to only carry enough for one lunch since I was never far from a shop, and secondly I suspended my clothes, books and tools from the handlebars using my sleeping bag sack to contain them, doubled up string tied from just under one break lever to the other upon which to rest the load, and two elastic ties (with metal hooks on each end) to secure the sack and its contains to the handlebars- and it worked like a charm.

The sleeping bag sack has had an interesting life so far (for a sleeping bag sack). Originally given to me as a present from my Parents (with a bulky sleeping bag). While fulfilling its original role it travelled between and lived in Chester, Glasgow, London and Dublin, and since London had become a dirty laundry bag which could possibly considered a demotion. Now its most interesting role has been left to its latter years, being carried through the magnificent of the Pyrenees then onto Spain in the role of a front pannier bag!

I planned to leave Lourdes at 9am but didn’t manage to exit the campsite until 11 because before I set off I decided to tighten the spokes again and while doing so the spanner slipped a couple of times, rounding the square base of those spokes making them impossible to tighten and leaving the wheel buckled. Wondering what to do next I remembered a cheap pair of fold away pliers I had packed art the last minute (just in case) and with them I was able to gain enough grip to remove the buckling, but the affair left the ends of some of the spokes knackered.

It was an exhausting day’s ride to a large degree through quiet, narrow roads with steep climbs and corresponding decents. A lot of the roads still had the paint markings from last year’s Tour de France, but navigational markings for the riders warning them of oncoming hazards or turns, and riders names painted in adoration by fans.

Today was cloudless and 30° C. Whilst stopping to catch my breath halfway up a hill climb all I could hear was the call of crickets combining with the clamour of the resonating ring of bells alerting me to an unseen heard of grazing cattle in the valley below. I thought how it might be more interesting if the farmer used bells with a range of tones, perhaps spanning an octave. This way you would have a continuous random melody composed in the meadow by a collective of composers unaware of there creativity. I hope they are unaware of their creativity, I mean that they grow to ignore the bell’s presence otherwise it could drive them to insanity and acts of a devient nature out of character for your common everyday domestic bovine. Maybe it acts as a comfort, comfort in familiarity? I mean, perhaps they don’t remember a time without the sound from the bell around their necks causing its presence to become noticable only by its absence? Its surprising how you can get use to some noises to the point of no longer noticing them when they are still clearly audible to those unfamiliar to it.

A case in point occurred a few weeks before leaving Dublin on the bus into town to work one morning. Sitting on the double seats across from me on the upper deck lounged a guy about my age with his feet up on the little shelf at the base of the front window reading a book and breathing heavily through his nose so loudly it was causing visible signs of aggitation on the faces of those around. It was as if he had been running for half an hour. To be honest it didn’t bother me because I knew I’d be getting off the bus in fifteen minutes or so, but can you imagine having to live with someone like him. I speculated that he had probably developed an immunity to the sound of his heavy breathing to the point of no longer noticing it, but his poor flatmate or partner!

So, from Lourdes to Montrejeau the roads were fairly secluded from heavy traffic, and the towns and villages small and sedate. La Barthe was no exception on first entering the village, so I was a little surprised to see a campsite open, and even more so to see how busy it was, with teenagers. Just around the bend from the campsite a barrier blocked the road to traffic but I could see a hub of activity a little further beyond the road block from where I could hear the sound of music. Rather bizarrely I had stumbled upon a music festival that was, for some reason, staged in a small Pyrenean village. A seven piece thrash/funk band were giving it beans in the marque and playing quite a tight set in their sequenced dayglo shorts, but they weren’t attracting much of a crowd. Neither were the ubiquitous mix of “alternative” market stalls. Most of the kids seemed to be doing their own thing under the sun back at the campsite. It was only about two in the afternoon, perhaps they were saving themselves for the main acts. It was rather a surreal interlude.

He told me that last year he cycled from Land’s end to John ‘O Groats in 18 days, which is when he decided to take it easy when travelling from points A to B. He said that on the first couple of days on that trip he nearly killed himself due to the amount of miles he was trying to eat up, but slowed his pace down when he remembered that he was suppose to be enjoying the journey. For my liking he had gone to the opposite extreme. So I said I’d probably meet him cycling past me at the next hill, and shot off. We didn’t meet again, but that night I dreamt I saw him cycling past my campsite chatting happily with his two friends.

I rolled into St. Gaudens at about 16:00 feeling fairly zapped of energy. The blazing sun really drains it from you. On reaching the far side of the town I had to consult the map and compass to try to work out which road to take to St. Girons. A quick scan of the map informed me that I had another 40km or so to go. The revelation left me feeling momentarily deflated- I didn’t think I had the reserve of energy to make it. In need of a boost I remembered the Snickers bar I had bought a couple of days previously still lying on stand-by in the pannier bag.

While munching away by the roadside and both thinking about the distance I had covered that day (about 80km) and the 40km I had left to get me to St. Gaudens I registered a road sign for a campsite the far side of town which I had passed on the way through so I knew it existed, and better still, had seen that it was open. Taking a cue from the mentality of the English mountain biker I thought that if I’m exhausted why try to cover another torturous 40km, particularly when the present town had an open campsite waiting for me.

When I spoke to the Dutch couple in Lourdes they told me that they were talking a day of rest so, although it may sound a bit stupid, I thought “hey, I could take a day off too”! After all, I was doing well for time and it was suppose to be a holiday. So I took the Sunday in St. Gaudens off as my day of rest. A great deal of time was spent writing up this journal, which was a shame because days after the the journeys the finer details of thoughts and memories tend to fall out of focus and become lost.

 

Last updated- 26th of August