Monday 26 August - Courcon - Isle d’Oleran - 65 miles

Tuesday 27 August - Rest Day.

My objective today was to get to the Isle d’Oleran just off the coast, one of series of islands that sit off the west coast north of Bordeaux.  Originally they will have been fishing islands, and salt producers.  These days they are very desirable holiday destinations, especially for the French.  I was planning a two night stay so that I could have a full day to rest up and do some personal admin and some maintenance work on the bike.  My original plan had been take to the ferry from La Rochelle to the island, and I was sure I had booked and bought a ticket, but when I went looking for it in my emails I could not for the life of me find it. Perhaps I didn’t buy it ?   So, I though I would just book another, but the evening sailing was fully booked.  So, Plan B, which was that one of my hosts, Phil, kindly offered to pick me up from Rochefort and bring me over the bridge to the island, which is what happened.  Better that way, because the roads out of Rochefort to the island, well, the only road, was very un-bicycle friendly, and I would not have cared to ride that particular road.  So, I got there, and was very nicely and well looked after by my hosts, Phil and Steve.  The weather was perfect beach weather, the island busy with French tourists.  Oysters were the highlight for lunch on my rest day, a baker’s dozen.  I love oysters, with a bit of tabasco and lemon, nice bread and butter, and a sharp white wine to complement the sea saltiness of the oysters.  So, all needs catered for.  And an opportunity to wash and dry some clothes and kit, including my tent which I had packed away after  its last outing still wet.  As you cross over the bridge to the island you can see the forts in the bay, presumably there to defend La Rochelle and Rochefort, big French naval bases, originally from Perfidious Albion / English.  One of them is Fort Boyard where they used to film The Crystal Maze reality TV programme, some years ago if I remember correctly.  They remind me of the forts in The Solent, still there, that you see as you leave Portsmouth on the ferry, built to defend Portsmouth and the Royal Navy from the French during Napoleonic times.  All in all, a pleasant rest in a lovely place. Looked after by generous hosts.  And oysters !

 Wednesday 28 August - Isle d’Oleron - Cognac - 70 miles

After a hearty breakfast I was off cycling across the island, which has good cycle paths, to the bridge to the mainland, then to head  inland and south to Cognac.  I don’t especially like cycling over bridges, something to do with the height and only a barrier of some sort to stop you ending up in the sea.  The bridge had a fairly decent shoulder which meant that is was safe for cycling, but even still, having cars pass on one side and the sea on the other side does not make for relaxed and enjoyable cycling.  Anyhow, I made it, and joined EuroVelo Route 3 which meanders through the marshes and then on in to wine country.  When I arrived in Cognac didn’t strike me as a particularly well kept town, not very big either, but there is evidence of the famous cognac houses, Martell particularly I recall. My destination was just outside the town over the River Charente (or maybe it was the Dordogne ?) , which I had followed for a good part of the afternoon, to a camping site that had everything I wanted, including a very acceptable little brasserie where I had my evening meal.  I had a little aperitif of Pineau de Charente, which is a local specialty in this Charente region, which I think is a mix of fortified wine and cognac.  I’ve kept away from the cognac, as much as I love it, just as I tend to keep away from whiskey these days, because it gives me indigestion. Must be an age thing.  Anyhow, all in all, the evening’s repas was very nice.  The weather was very warm and a bit sticky and I did wonder if there were storms in the offing.  Now, on the camping theme, I have noticed that in more than one of the camping places I have been staying, even ones with very nice ablutions, there is no toilet paper offered in the facilities.  You evidently need to bring you own.  Strange.  Anyhow, you have been warned.  Another of those rather strange French customs that still have the capacity to bemuse me.  I always carry wet wipes when travelling, so fear not, I have not been inconvenienced.  Wet wipes and zip ties, not that there is any connection there if you might try to think of one, are essentials when cycling.    Many a time I have been grateful that I have a supply of wet wipes for personal hygiene, and zip ties for quick maintenance and holding things together if they break or come loose.

Thursday 29 August - Cognac - Libourne - 65 miles

The forecast for rain and storms was correct.  I awoke this morning about 5 am to the pitter patter of rain, and by 6 am it was still there, so I got up and did the uncomfortable business of packing up in the wet.  Not nice.  Throughout the day the rain became more and more persistent, so most of the day was wet and dreary, and I got wet.  However, it was warm wet, which isn’t that bad once you’ve got used to being wet.  Wet is wet and you don’t get any wetter.  At lunchtime I thought it was breaking, and I came to a town where there was a LeClerc supermarche which had a laundry facility, so I was able to dry out my tent in the dryer.  But, fortune was not shining on me, and it started raining again and I got wet again in the afternoon.  The route was pleasant in the afternoon, mostly on a Voie Verte along a repurposed railway line for about 30 miles.  The French are very good at these Voie Verte, and you come across many of them, a very extensive network, which makes for pleasant and traffic free cycling.  I’ve often wondered why we in the UK haven’t done likewise, for example the Grand Union Canal, or the Shropshire Union canal.  Some of it is okay, but you invariably end up on some muddy track.  We are so far behind.  Given that it was so wet, as was I, and even though it dried up in the later afternoon, I thought I’d forego camping for tonight, and booked an AirBnB in Libourne for the night.  Libourne is a wine town on the Gironde (I think - I get so confused as to what river I am on), and was a pleasant place for a night’s stay in the dry.  As I walked about Libourne looking for somewhere to eat, and being turned away from a restaurant that was complet, even thought most of the tables were empty and were apparently being held for diners at 9 pm whereas I was presenting myself at 7 pm (another example of French perversity and inability to be flexible and adapt !), I was aware of a strong presence of Arabic / Algerian people around the place, lots of Arab restaurants and shisha places, and Arabicy languages being spoken. I haven’t seen that further north in Normandy / Calvados / Bocage parts.  The Algerian history and heritage of France intrigues me.  I shall be on the lookout for more about it, although I think it is a touchy subject in France, and things are not settled or peaceful.  When I did find a place to eat, I had a wonderful steak tartare with raw egg on top, and an assiette de fromage.  And some Bordeaux wine.  Which in England we call Claret, apparently because the wine was imported into England in the Middle Ages and was known for it’s clarity, clairet, and so Bordeaux red is known as Claret.  I think !  There is a theme to many of these wine towns in the Bordeaux region, with a central square with covered walkways along the four sides of the square.  I’ve seen so many of them that have exactly the same layout and architecture.  Very attractive. Mostly using a white creamy stone.

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Friday 30 August - Libourne - Damazan - 70 miles

Libourne is on the River Dordogne, which used to be all the rage for the chattering British classes to have their holiday pads a few decades ago, not sure if that is still the case.  My route took me to Damazan, which is on the River Garonne which runs to Bordeaux, so I followed the Dordogne for a good part of the morning, then spend some hours crossing the ridge between the two rivers, and then followed to Garonne to Damazan, where I was to camp for the night.  There were quite a few other bicycle tourist campers at the site, I guess because it is on the EuroVelo 3 route, which I have been following in part.  Dinner was a kilometre or two away in Damazan where I had a nice Ceasar salad and some cheeses at a little restaurant in little covered square that is typical of these towns in this area, before heading back and into my tent just before a thunderstorm broke.  It only lasted about half an hour, and then it was dry until about 5 am when I heard the pitter patter of rain, so breaking camp was a bit damp and miserable the next morning.  Both along the Dordogne and the Garonne the cycling was pleasant along the Chemin de Halage which invariably follows these rivers.  I’ve noted that the vast majority of bicycle tourists along these routes are using electric assist bikes, so they are able to go fast than me, especially up an incline. It’s only the hard core riders like me that still use pure Shanks’s Pony.  I’ve nothing against the electric bike if it gets people out and about who would probably have given up cycling when they found it a bit sweaty and breathless.  Maybe the day will come for me.

Saturday 31st August - Damazan - Mont de Marsan - 65 miles

I left rivers behind when I set out from Damazan and headed across country towards Mont de Marsan and Les Landes country, that being the  bit of France that stretches towards the coast south of Bordeaux.  I have cycled the Atlantic coast route of France, through Bordeaux and down south to Biarritz, and it is very pleasant, but is mostly pines forests and sand dunes along the coast, which can be a bit monotonous, and some vineyards a little further inland.  This time my route is a bit east of all of that, taking me through the Cognac, Armagnac and Bas Armagnac regions.  The route was very rural, with a couple of long stretches on repurposed railway lines and Voies Vertes, some of which were a bit rough.  The weather has become quite warm and sticky, and required frequent stops to rehydrate and to splash cool water over my face.  I was able to buy bottles of water along the way at the various Aldi and Lidl places I came across, something like a 1 Euro a big bottle, whereas if you stop in a cafe or petrol station, it will be 3 Euro for the same bottle of water.  I go through three or four bottles a day, so I like the bargain ! I quite like Vichy water, which has a natural petilance from its source, but can’t always find that, so usually go for Badoit.  Somewhere I stopped at a little patisserie / epicerie and bought a slice of a wonderful camembert and onion tart that weighted a ton and was so tasty.  One place I stopped was at Dax, and was struck by the number of African young men that were about the place, and then later in Mont de Marsan, I think lads from Chad / Niger and other ex French colonies in Africa.  I guess they are refugees / asylum seekers.  There are very few middle age and older ones, or females.  Presumably because it is the young who can make the arduous journey across the Sahara, and then the Mediterranean and then onwards in to Europe.  Libourne was very Algerian/ Moroccan / Arabic, further on it is very African.  I sense the local French are a bit ambivalent about their presence, there appears to be little interaction, and you can see suspicion in the eyes of both about the other.  People only leave their homes and family if they have to, and usually because of persecution, warfare, poverty, lack of opportunity and future.  I admire the people who think big on these issues, and rather than talking about stopping the boats (BoJo) and building walls (Trump), talk rather about root causes, namely, if we put resources, policy and effort in to making places peaceful, safe and hopeful, then people would not want to leave their own land in such numbers.  Idealistic, I know.  But, surely, it’s the only solution that will work to help people stay in their own country.  The trouble is, too many countries have vested interests in creating mayhem and war in these places, for power, for money, for resources etc.  And so people feel the need to flee to where they think they will be safe and have a future.  It’s probably what I would do.  It was forecast to thunder storm tonight, so I booked a small chamber d’hote and was greeted a very welcoming Marie and her husband in to a lovely house in Mont de Marsan, where all my needs were looked after, and a lovely breakfast the next day.  And it did thunder, lighting and rain from 10 pm onwards, as the forecast said it would !

Sunday 1 September - Mont de Marsan - Bayonne - 70 Miles

Bayonne - St Jean Pied de Port (train).

I had one of those existential decisions to make today, about how best to tackle The Pyrenees.  I’m not shy of hills and mountains, and climbs, but when you are carrying touring weight you have to be sensible.  So, rather than going directly from Mont de Marsan to St Jean Pied de Port in the foothills of The Pyrenees, on the French side of the mountains and  from where I would begin the climb over the mountains in to Spain, and a long ride of 90 miles from Mont de Marsan itself, I decided to head for Bayonne at a sensible distance for a day’s riding, and then take the train the 45 minutes to St Jean.  Which I did.  The ride to Bayonne was pleasant, much of it along a Via Verde / old railway line, and then along the River L’Adour that goes in to the sea after Bayonne.  I was able to take the train to St Jean, along with all the other Camino people who were heading there to start their pilgrimage to Compostella.  It is a traditional starting off point for those who are hard core Camino walkers, and the town evidently does very well out of them.  Of course, even harder core Camino people start their walk where they come from, and all over Europe you find Camino signs indicating the route.  These were the routes that our ancestors took when they had no option to walk from where they were. I was late getting accommodation in St Jean, so what was available was nice but expensive, and a little eccentric, with lots of rules about what you could and could not do, and especially the wearing of little house slippers like you get on an airplane, which made walking very slippy and difficult on the Madame’s nice wooden floors and stairs.  The Madame and I did not get off to a good start with the slippers, but we were best of friends by breakfast and she evidently liked my fiesty and non-compliant attitude.  The rest of the guests were a bit flaky, I thought, especially one young girl who spoke EuroEnglish and was heading off up the mountains without a clue, I thought, about what she was getting in to, as if she was going for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne.   Madame evidently thought so as well, and was giving her all sorts of emergency phone numbers - whether mobiles would work up in the mountains, I know not.  And then some strange Americans who looked like they were going to do Camino lite, with luggage and backpacks being transported by mini bus, and clearly going to leap frog along the route just enough to get their Camino passport stamped in the right places, and then be able to talk about it back home over lunch with the ladies at the Country Club.  The bits of France that I have been travelling through these last couple of days are the French Basque territories, so signs are in both lingos, there are men wearing Basque berets and looking oh so cool, and there are also bull rings, although here they let the bull live to fight another day.

Monday 2 September - St Jean Pied de Port - Pamplona - 55 Miles

And so, on Monday morning I was off up in to the mountains, on my way in to Spain, with the end point for the day being Pamplona, as in running the bulls through the streets.  Hemingway stuff.  Who, I think, made lots of things up.  The climb to the top of the mountains was just over 1,000 meters / 3,000 feet, so it was a long hard slog, initially along a road on the French side which was a bit busy for my tastes, but then calmed down on the Spanish side.  The Spanish roads are much better than the French ones, especially the smaller roads.  Lots of EU money spent by the Spanish on their roads and infrastructure.  The Spanish side of the mountains is Basque territory as well, so again lots of berets and men with beards and walking sticks, and indecipherable signs in Basque, which bears no relation whatsoever to any other language that I’ve seen.  Lots of K and Z and B.  There was a time when the Basques were all trouble and outrages and bombs, a bit like the IRA, but that seems to have calmed down.  Didn’t the IRA guys used to wear berets ?  Maybe they were trying to be cool like the Basques, but I don’t think Gerry ever made it. Every now and again I would see graffiti on the road and buildings which I took to mean ‘Freedom for the Basques’ or something like that. Or it could have meant ‘Have a Nice Day’, so unintelligible to me is the Basque language.  Food changes as well when you cross that border, and it is more little snacking things, tapas, and lots of stuff on toothpicks.  And cheaper.  Spain is still cheaper than France.  I would say by at least 30 %.  A coffee in France in 3.50 Euro, in Spain it is barely 2 Euro.  Beer and wine likewise.  The ride up the mountains was long and hard, and I treated myself to a campground on the outskirts of Pamplona, which had all I required, but as soon as I put up my tent, the heavens opened.  Note to self -  check the weather forecast before camping.  It had been nice during the day, but a storm was on its way.  So, it was a wet night and next morning.  I retired to the brasserie and had a meal and met up with a young Dutch guy, Edwin, who was putting his tent next to mine, and was cycling the Camino from the Netherlands.  His English was perfect.  His work language, apparently, is English, in the computer chip business.  Wasn’t Edwin an Anglo-Saxon king sometime ? We ate and drank wine, until we had no option but to go back to our tents in the rain.  That rain was the start of a couple of days of bad weather in this part of the world.  A storm from the Atlantic was working its way over these parts of Spain.  Anyhow,  I had tackled The Pyrenees and I was now in Spain !

Tuesday 3 September - Pamplona - Logorno - 70 Miles

It was a wet start !  The plan today was to move further in to Spain, in to the Rioja region, so at least I would have a better chance of reading the road signs and the graffiti than I did in Basque territory.  Even though I was riding through Rioja land, I didn’t notice that many grapes, so maybe they grow them in another part of the region.  The day was a succession of climbs and descents, which is most depressing when you are on a bike, because you go up only to go down, so never seem to make headway.  I prefer a long, gentle climb to the summit, and then a long ride down.  But today was not like that.  Towards the end there were some spectacular views of the Ebro valley, the River Ebro being the main river of the Rioja region, I think, and I am presuming along its banks is where most of the grapes are grown.  I like Rioja wine, as I do a good Bordeaux, and a fine Pinot Noir.  My plan had been to head for the camping ground in Logorno, but this time I checked the weather and could see that the rain was going to come, so I booked an AirBnB in Logorno.  I was wondering how Edwin was getting on, because he also was heading for the camping ground in Logorno, and I thought that he might be happy of somewhere dry.  But, I hadn’t come across him on the road and didn’t have his contact details. Anyhow, just coming in to Logorno, he came up behind me, and I told him about the AirBnB and that there was a sofa there as well, and he was welcome to avail himself if he wanted.  I don’t think there was much to think about, given the rain that was on its way.  So he came with me, and after navigating stairs with bikes up to the third floor, we had Japanese for dinner, and drank more wine, and then he took to the sofa, or maybe the floor on his sleeping mat, and I had the nice bedroom.  And, it did rain, so it was a good decision for both of us.  I’ve not much to report about Logorno, but like lots of Spanish towns, there is a wonderful choice of lovely food shops that sell colourful fruits and vegetables, charcuterie, deli stuff, fish, etc.  All there, beautifully presented, and so enticing.  And there will be markets most days.  So wonderful, compared to the poor fare I have to put with back in Brum.  If I want nice fish, I can get it on Wednesday from the travelling fish man, but other than that it’s the indoor market in town where all they seem to sell are frozen exotic stuff for the Chinese community.  There is only one small deli where I can occasionally get guaciale di porco, if he has it.  I mean, what can you do if you can’t get guanciale when you need it ?!  So, Spain is a foodie heaven for me.  Not to mention the tapas grazing that you can do throughout the day.  And they do.  I was in one place and I saw this middle age guy come in and eat pig ear with a glass of rosado, just as an in between meal snack.  They eat parts of the animal which most people back home would shy away from.  I had tripe one night.  Lovely.  Pig’s ear I am not sure about, though.

Wednesday 4 September - Logorno - Soria - 60 Miles

The weather was wet when leaving Logorno, and Edwin and I went our separate ways, he towards Burgos on the Camino route, and me heading south on my way to Madrid.  The day was cold and blustery, with some rain, and there was a long 1,000 meter / 3,000 feet climb, but at least it was gentle and straight up without going up and down, so every turn of the pedal I made at least I was going up in the right direction and not having to repeat the climb successive times.  If you get my drift !  The range of mountains I was crossing are, to the best of my knowledge, The Piqueras and the final bit was through a two and a half kilometer tunnel  which brought me out on to the other side of the mountains, where suddenly the sun was shining !  I was a bit doubtful about whether I should have cycled through the tunnel, even though it was very quiet from the traffic point of view and had a very generous shoulder that I could cycle along, but my mind was put to rest when I saw a sign advising drivers that there was a cyclist in the tunnel and to take care, so somebody must have know I was there, and it must have been okay.  Anyhow, I was very grateful for the long tunnel, because it spared me even more vertiginous climbing.  The ride down to Soria was a long downhill route, with the wind behind me, and the sun shining, so I was happy.  Soria, well, I can’t say I know much about it, but there was a rather squat, solid looking main church, very much as I have seen in lots of the places recently in Spain I have gone through.  I think it is sort of church militant architecture, at a time when the church needed also to be a place where you could sit out an attack from an enemy.  My enemy of the day was some bossy finger wagging lady of a certain vintage, all dyed hair and done up to the nines with little dog in toe, who accosted me at my AirBnB and told me, I think, that the bike couldn’t come in.  I just smiled and wagged my finger at her and, after she had taken a picture of me in my Mamil Lycra and my bike, presumably to make some kind of report to whomsoever, she went off all a-puff, and I did what I wanted.  The Spanish, I observe, can be very autocratic / dictatorial / fascist and like to tell you what you can and cannot do.  I guess it goes back to Franco and all that clerico / catholic / fascist nonsense, perhaps even further, but they do make a fool of themselves when they get all directive, as this woman did, because I simply don’t take any notice.  The Guardia Civil, however, I would not mess with. They are the archetype of fascist / authoritarian, and you see them along the roads at check points. Mind you, find it hard to take them seriously when they wear those silly traditional Spanish hats, which look as thought they have got them sitting on their heads the wrong way around.  It’s a culture of authority and control that we don’t see back in the UK, and one that is not very pleasant, and which I’m glad I don’t have to put up with on a daily basis.  But, when in Spain….  By the way, the AirBnB was very modern and comfortable and I had a good night there, with a tapas grazing dinner in the square, including some type of tripe that was very tasty.
 

Thursday 5 September - Soria - Ucero - 55 Miles

My intention now is to tack towards Madrid for the weekend and to have a pause and a little R&R before heading on south.  I’m a day or two ahead of my original planning so I will have some short days so that I stay on track.  I have never been to Madrid, so a day or two of looking around will give me an idea of whether I’d like to spend a bit more time there one day.  So, tracking towards Madrid I have decided more or less to follow the El Cid Trail.  El Cid was some kind of 11th century Spanish knight who seemed to have battled with everybody including the Christians and the Muslims, and there is a route that takes me past amazing hilltop / mountain top castles keeping watch over the valleys and the plains.  This bit of Spain is very different to the northern mountainous part that I have come through since The Pyrenees, all high plains and deep valleys and stupendous views and castles.  Ucero is an El Cid town with a Knights’ Templar castle, formidable looking, and I am camping, although the weather is not the best.  It rained shortly after I got there, and then again in the morning.  They had huge storms in the days before, and the ground was a bit waterlogged, so I was going to get a bit wet anyhow whether it rained or not.  The camping place had a rather relaxed eating place, which didn’t begin serving until at least 8:30 pm and it was 9:30 before I got any real food.  Spaniards really do eat late.  Anyhow, all needs were met, and apart from it being a bit of a damp night, I got the required rest and sleep to face in to the next day.

Friday 6 September - Ucero - Atienza - 70 Miles

I’m still following the El Cid route with its castles, and today’s riding was initially pretty much all flat or down hill, but then came the payback and some tough climbs in the afternoon, albeit with stupendous views of the surrounding countryside. The road was quiet, and well kept, with a decent shoulder, so it was more or less pleasant cycling.  And, the really good news is that the sun has decided to come out and things have warmed up and life is much more pleasant.  My object today was to get to Atienza where, after my rather soggy experience yesterday, I had booked a little hostal.  The town of Atienza didn’t look to have very much to offer, but the hostal said that it had a restaurant, so I was hoping that I would find all the I needed to keep me happy.  And I did.  The hostal was simple, but the restaurant was stupendous.  It was called Miramar, and had  wonderful views over the surrounding countryside.  The food was excellent.  I think I had what I decided in translation was some kind of borage thick soup with truffle shavings to start with, then really tasty beef cooked with raisons and juniper berries and some kind of finishing off with a liquor.  To find such wonderful cooking in such a remote area is amazing, but evidently the Spaniards take these things seriously.  The restaurant didn’t open until 8:30 pm, and for the first half hour or so another guy and I were the only people, but then from 9 pm and as late as 10:30 pm people were coming in and taking tables, most of them with small children.  Back home you would get reported to the safeguarding people for having children out so late.  For such a small, unprepossessing place, the Miramar really was great.  Oh, there is an El Cid style fortress there, if you can be bothered to go up the 500 extra feet to get to it.  There were some other cyclists, but I think they were Spanish, and didn’t do the usual cyclist talk with me, and there was a guy I met in the morning who was all togged out for walking;  he was walking some route from Valencia to Compostella, the Camino del Levante.  That’s a serious walk.  He will have a lot of mountains to go over.

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