Art of Travel: Paris to Madrid
Day Four
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.
Just before hitting the sack that evening I spoke English to someone else for the first time since leaving Paris. A guy who I estimated was in his forties from a near-by campervan asked, with breath enveloping me in a ripe aroma of cigerette smoke and alcohol “Are you datch”?
“No, I’m Irish”
“Oh, ello, you’re a bloody tall fella aint ya”?!
Now, although our conversation must have lasted about another ten minutes or so, try as I may its topic never deviated from my “astonishing stature”! What do you say to someone like that? His teeth were all worn down and discoloured a brownish yellow, and he kept touching himself as if had picked up a dose of crabs.
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