We were just 140 kilometres to the north of the Spanish border, and weighing up our options for the days to come. It was the 26th of July, and we could see that the time we had set aside for travelling was gently ebbing away.
Having taken in a great many horizons on our trip, we had to decide between another mountain assault on the Pyrenees or setting out to close the loop that we had traced around Europe by trekking northwards. Whilst the former prospect was incredibly enticing, it was by far the more expensive of the two options, limiting as it would our return options to the port of Bilbao.
Also holding sway over the decision was the not insignificant weather warning – forecasts of 48 degrees sweeping across Spain and Portugal, staying put meant remaining at the mercy of one of Europe’s most intense heat waves of all time.
This prospect was less than ideal.
As we bathed in the Mediterranean, hoping to escape the 36 degrees that were already smouldering in the air, we analysed our options. As shoals of sardines struck up silvery light in the sun, we refined our plan to escape the hubbub of the beach, to hotfoot it away from the heat, and to make our ground north.
First though, we needed to escape a town on a lagoon, bottled off by a huge main road and an equally busy local road that lead for a boring 17 kilometres to the south. Fraught and frustrated with the heat, we took the third route – the iron horse to Béziers.
Getting on the train was all routine enough, and cheating the 25kms to Béziers gave us a small wedge of time on an air conditioned carriage, which was a mighty fine luxury. Arriving in town, we proceeded to pedal onwards another 14kms to Capestang – another tiny town offering the equal luxury of a cheap municipal campsite. We got there in good time and made our modest carbohydrate centred dinner before getting some sleep – tomorrow was due to be a big day.
The alarm went at 6, but, we decided to listen to it only at 8, and by 10am, we began paying for our laziness with a brazen and beating sun. We carried on, tackling winding roads and small lumpy sections as we surged onwards to Carcasonne. In a narrow valley, the small rises gave slight glimpses of the Pyrenees that we had cowardly run away from. Still through the heat of the day, we continued until we made it the shade of a small town square in a town that we can neither now pin on a map. Having tackled mirages to get there, it is possible that it was truthfully a hallucinated stop.
Nevertheless, we continued on, and skirted the north of one of France’s most southerly cities, and ploughed on up the valley, past sunflowers and to Villepinte, a mere 15km short of Castelnaudary and the end of the valley road. We found a wild spot in the shelter of a hedgerow and made our camp, with all of 130 kilometres in our legs.
The next day, we set about reinforcing this sort of distance pattern. As we moved away from the coast, we ran into the rolling hills around Toulouse. The morning though saw us court the edge of Castelnaudary, taking in the splendid sight of a main road as we scouted out the local Lidl just before opening hours. In the process however, whilst examining the road’s dusting of litter, we stumbled upon a beret – how French!
This though was not just a beret. In a velour green hue, the badge on the front proclaimed it to be one of the French Foreign Legion’s caps, and therefore, quite a little piece of memorabilia. Bagging it and fearing for the fella who had lost it, we carried on, performed a whirlwind tour around the aged in Lidl and set out into the hills.
Up, down and around under an ever greying cloud, a windy day on the road inhibited our progress as we took in small agricultural towns on the way around Toulouse and towards the town. Having found the relative flat of the river, we pursued it for the last kilometres of the day, looking for a spot. Walking under one bridge, we nearly settled for a spot among the reeds, but, after having walked past a rather ragged and rough looking chap sat in a car, the finding of large animal bones made us a little uneasy.
As we pushed our bikes back up to the bridge, the very same fellow tipped us of a nice little lake just to the north…”Secluded….No-one will bother you…”
We were a little reticent to take the advice of an at-the-time presumed murderer, but, we thought it worth checking out the spot. Our legs sapped from another 110km day, we made it to the banks to be surprised and slightly humbled by our preconceptions. Indeed it was a lovely spot. A quiet place, nicely sheltered, and with a scenic sweep of willow and poplar lining the lake – it was, excluding the beret, one of our nicest finds.
The town we had finished in went by the name of La Magdelaine Sur Tarn, and it was from here that we woke once more for a long day on the road. This one though, was to prove exceptional in distance thanks in no small part to the Canal du Midi. Linking Sète and Bordeaux, the canal at this section was lined with sufficiently good enough surfaces to allow for easy and quick passing on two road bikes.
Ploughing onwards, we made it some 75 kilometres into the day before we took lunch. We carried onwards, and made town-fall in Agen, a small river bound town known for figs and an aqueduct that crosses the Garonne. Stopping to enjoy the spray of integrated lamp post vaporisers, we left with a new, albeit short lease of life in the legs, and motored onwards to Aiguillon. We settled down in a small municipal campsite and made sure to shower after the effort. We had made it 136 kilometres and in just three days, we had distanced ourselves over two hundred miles from the sea – this was some good going.
The next day our aim was to make it level with Bordeaux – the next marker of progress, and the end of the south of France. This meant that we had targeted the town of Sainte Foy La Grande, nestled in the Dorgdogne. Tired legs though meant that this was to be a little bit of a rest day, allowing us to recover from the accumulated early starts and late nights.
As we crept out of Aiguillon, we made good early ground again on the canals, but eventually, we had to leave them behind, and soon, the rolling vignobles of one of France’s most renowned wine regions came into sight. As we scrambled up the gentle slopes and whipped down the cotes, we made a modest distance of 75 kilometers. Rolling into the Dordogne, the significant British presence soon manifested in the presence of yellow number plates and Union Jacks on supermarket billboards. Clearly, we were in vogue.
Our new found fame afforded us the chance to procure a quality peanut butter for the first time in 2 months, since Stef’s mum had kindly made and brought her own offering to Germany from London. We fell down into the Dordogne valley by around 5pm and after a shop, decided upon the luxury of a campsite. Upon arriving though, it was clear that the pricing had anticipated the arrival of Englishers, and faced with the steepest price yet for a nights sleep, we were doubtful. The campsite owner though, took heart and searched in vain for a close municipal camping. Finding no such thing existed, he took a full €10 off of the bill for us, and told us to keep hush.
Celebrating, we wallowed around on our 5 square metre patch of grass, and being in wine country, sampled two bottles of the nearest supermarket’s finest most reasonably priced.
And so, we were in a valley with a road that stretched on and on to the north. We again battled hills and made ground, once more achieving another 100 km, but pulling some muscles on the path towards Barbezieux Sainte Hilaire. As we made it to town late and tired, we browsed haphazardly for a spot to sleep, and almost unable to push further, struck upon a basketball court slap bang in the middle of town. Clearly asking for trouble, this sleepy town wasn’t forthcoming in delivering it, and we cooked, slept and made coffee undisturbed in a most surreal of nights under street lights.
Following the rather odd dawn experience, we rose and rode accompanied by the sun. Once more steering our way through, around and across vineyards, we passed the town of Cognac, taking more than our fair share of pesticides in as we cycled past spray laden farmers. Following our bearings north, we kept on, through tiny towns to Niort. Young and with an old centre, we made a small tour of town before heading to another campsite, once again feeling owed some comfort after another 120 kilometres on the bike. Through some gorgeous little towns barely frequented by tourists, we made it to a small campsite and put up our tent, slept deeply and rested fully.
As we rose that day, we had hoped to make it another 100km to the north, but, seemingly, our hearts weren’t in it. The heatwave was just about to come into full effect, and temperatures were topping 36 degrees. Not conducive to riding far, fast or for a long period of time, we were gulping our way through litre after litre of water. From Niort though, we carried on, persevering as far as Pouzauges. This town was quaint and sleepy, but offered gradients topping 25%.
Such kindness.
Regardless, we found ourselves at the top of town and chanced upon a car park with plenty of grass. With only one idle, deserted car, we stopped to cook dinner. In the act of making pasta tuna sweetcorn however, we were found by a policeman who pulled into the car park. Eyeing us up, it took one neat and chirpy “bonjour!” to send him on his way towards the abandoned car.
After a knock though, it was clearly not abandoned. As the gentleman and lady occupants resumed their seats in the front of the car, we sat quite quietly watching the drama unfold. With the policeman leaving promptly after, we took this as a nod that we were good where we were, and so foolishly put up the tent…
All through the night, car after car arrived, spotted the tent, and wheelspin-ed out of the car park, sure that their spot had been commandeered by some equally seedy types in a tent. With skids numbering over 12 for the night, we were rather impressed at the virility of Pauzaugians.
Upon waking, we packed the tent and were taking a coffee when a dog walker arrived. After completing her circuit, she kindly informed us that there was a tap and a loo no less than 100 meters from where we had stopped for the night.
She lied.
Further investigation revealed that there was also a picnic table and a quiet wooded clearing. Oh hindsight….
Now, the following day saw us set wheels towards the town of Cholet. Not more than 30kms in distance, the only notability of the place lies in Will’s 4 month’s as a language assistant in the town. This being the case, Will looked upon the visit as a homecoming of sorts, and wanted nothing more than to see some of the old haunts.
Rolling into town, we soon noticed the bunting and chalk scribblings that greeted the tour as it swept through town. For us though, the order of the day was lunch. After nibbling away, we all too soon started wandering about, with Will pointing out streets and recounting the old days to a nodding Stef. As the heat died and we once more looked for a place to rest our heads, we made our way out of town to the north and to the aerodrome that Will used to give English lessons at.
As we sat on the steps, the humming of a distant plane became stronger, louder and fuller. Soon enough, a yellow and black plane came into sight, and down to rest on the runway. Taxiying to where we were say, whilst one occupant got out, the other shouted over – “Want to go flying?”
Of course we did.
Stef got in first, clambering into the small plane with a complete stranger with nothing in the way of a safety announcement, we went for a tour of the town from above, seeing the cathedral, the town square, the industrial sprawl and the fields beyond. Simply put, it was brilliant.
Upon landing and taking off the buzzy headsets, we started talking. As it turns out, our two pilot friends were old alumni of the school in which Will had taught. With Will some 30 years their junior, it was a bizarre situation. With one, Philippe, the president of the local flying club, we were soon invited into the hangar for a beer. This offer though soon extended to a bottle of wine.
Soon enough, we were blowing up our bedding and locking up the hangar ourselves as we slept a night among the aeroplanes and the flight maps that occupied every available space. Shower supplied by a hose pipe, a toilet and crucially, a roof, we slept for the first time in bricks (or tin) and mortar since near Avignon. It was wonderful.
Upon waking and rubbing our eyes fanatically upon seeing the planes once more, Philippe even went so far as to bring us some croissants. Upon waving goodbye, we set off again, past a helicopter lifting off.
Yet, we weren’t done with Cholet quite yet. Exploring the countryside around town, we made 40km to the town of Clisson. After a little walk around, we booked into a campsite and were soon on a train to sample the delights of Nantes.
Not all too delighted by it, we returned shortly after, and within no time, were back in our tent enjoying the quiet.
Returning to Cholet the next day, we endured heat of up to 38 degrees in the shade, and thanked the lord we made the decision to head north. After lounging around the public park, Warm Showers provided with our second consecutive roof in the form of Estéban. Talking over adventures past and present, we shared a meal and a bottle of wine before going our own ways.
The following day though saw us once again go west, but this time, just 10kms. Will had arranged a meet up with Jacotte and Odile, friends from his time as a language teacher. After a good old chin wag, catch up, and fantastic food, we were getting used to life indoors once more, and we were about to continue the pattern.
The proceeding morning, we went north, crossing the Loire and swapping vineyards for cows. We went through more quaint farming towns and villages, as the blur of cattle, crops and crow-scarers continued. After putting another 100kms into our tyres, we made it to Chateaubriant, from where, after only another 10 kilometres, we made it to Will’s grandmother’s house.
Grandmother herself out of town at that moment, we were able to hop from one roof to another and enjoy another handful of nights sheltered from the unwelcome weather fronts stringing themselves out across the west of France. After two days fully indoors though, the need to move ever onwards was an itch we had to scratch.
We left, with our day’s target the coast, and the postcard in the waves that is Le Mont Saint Michel. Another 60 miles to the north, we traced a path through tiny roads, which steadily weaved, rose and fell more in a typically English manner. After hours in the sun, a faint haze illuminated our destination – which is always a sight to behold. After a quick stroll around town, we slide around the side of the tourist hotspots, found ourselves a little field, and made a meal in the dark, with only the enlightened isle’s glow for to see by.
