Diary

Stuff That Happens

 Updated 24 September, 2003

9 June, 2003

There's been an attempted coup in Mauritania. First Iraq, then the Congo flares up again, then they blow up Casablanca, now this; seems like every stop on the route is on the Foreign Office's 'Don't Go There' list. Hopefully they'll have sorted it all out by the time I get there, but this means getting insurance for the trip is a non-starter.

15 June,2003

Day -7: Dress rehearsal

Riding the bike in full kit from Ealing to Greenwich, a chance to do a final shakedown test on Besy, to scope out the departure point and to apologize cravenly to anyone who didn't get last weeks' cancellation email.
Over two hours on what must have been the hottest day of the year, along the tow path from Chiswick to Putney, through the streets of Battersea and Elephant and Castle and I was shattered - the last climb up Shooter's Hill nearly finished me. Cape Town has never seemed so far away. On top of that the GPS insisted that Greenwich was 3 km south of where it blatantly was; an irritation and object lesson not to completely rely on the things. Betsy, however, performed flawlessly.
Spent the rest of the rather lovely sunny day recovering in the park with friends, before facing the ride back again, which I really don't want to talk about.

22 June, 2003

Day 1:  Departure

It doesn't matter how long there is to prepare, it's something of a tradition to spend the last night before a trip in an insane panic of packing and tidying and organizing things that should have been done weeks ago. So, after a sleepless and very stressful night, then lugging Betsy through the Central and Jubilee lines (10 minute delay at Green Park because of a 'gap behind the train' - there are some things I won't miss about London), I got to North Greenwich tube station. Had to use the handicapped lifts to get out - like a dalek, Betsy doesn't do stairs; going up is simply impossible and trying to go down carries an unacceptable risk of casualties. The nice man in uniform told me bikes weren't allowed at that station and I wasn't to do it again. I promised I wouldn't.

It was a mercifully relaxed send off, a few friends, some token family, some cups of coffee, and then with a fond farewell I tottered off at lunchtime.  Started out along the A2 through Bexley, but it was unpleasantly busy with no hard shoulder, so crossed over to the A20 at Dartford. Through Farningham, past Brands Hatch, then around 5 o'clock found myself falling asleep at the handlebars.  Now this has never happened before, it's just  inconceivable; in a car, yes, easy, on a bike, never; but now I was struggling to keep the line. Spotted a patch of green behind some trees, about 10 km shy of Maidstone, and lay down for a snooze.  Woke up again at 11 and thought best call it a day, unrolled the bivi and tucked in.

23 June, 2003

Day 2: The white cliffs of Dover

The 8.30 evening ferry to Calais.  Funny, it's been bit of an anti-climax, after the years of build up, so far it's felt like little more than just another ride in the country.  It's only after last night, sleeping out in the open and getting rained on, and especially now, actually pulling away from England, that my psyche's got the first inkling that something has changed, something momentous is starting to happen.

Rolled into the centre of Calais in the middle of the night and sat under Rodin's 'Burghers of Calais'.  I remember this statue from a picture in my first history book at school, and it's probably the only thing worth seeing in this town.  Had to go another 20km at night before I found a forest to kip down in.

24 June, 2004

It's only Tuesday and already London seems a world away.  Been zigzagging a route along the minor roads south of the A26 autoroute. The roads here are excellent - there are the 'A' roads, Autoroutes or motorways, which are tolled and forbidden to cyclists, then the 'N' Nationales, the old inter-city roads, often parallel to the A's and fast, but usually busy, and then a dense network of 'D' Départementales and 'C' Communales, usually tranquil and passing through smaller towns and villages. Cycling is popular, and cyclists are considered to have a right to be on the road, unlike England where they don't even have a right to live.

It's always a pleasure cycling this region of France; tiny, neat and seemingly deserted villages and whitewashed, steep roofed farmhouses. France is familiar territory, comfortable; though I seem to have lost all confidence in the language - my first contact with a local was a stuttering struggle asking for a loaf of bread from the boulangerie.

This country is just so very civilised.

Betsy, basha and bicyclist.

25 June, 2003

Through the Somme and the killing fields of the First World War. Dozens of Commonwealth war cemeteries just off the road; tiny, often less than a hundred bright white headstones in neat serried rows; name, service, rank, serial number, occasional personal inscriptions from family. Perfectly maintained, lawns trimmed, they are beautifully peaceful despite the violence they represent and I couldn't resist taking breaks to wander around them. At one, in a corner away from the main square of stones there was a lone headstone, same as the rest but with Chinese lettering on it then 'Chinese Labour Corps, Known to be buried here'. One chap who died a very long way from home.
The French have their own war cemeteries; the Germans and Americans dug up their dead and took them back. Appropriately the poppies are in bloom; not in whole fields but, again gruesomely apt, sprinkled here and there among the wheat, bright red and shocking.

26 June, 2003

I'm using a fifteen year old map of France I borrowed, one million scale, so every day is something of a surprise. It's enough for long range navigation between big towns, and the route is a matter of joining the dots. They've been busy the past 15 years though, keep coming across autoroutes that aren't marked on the map.

Tip of the Day Finding water in France France is probably one of the easiest places in the world to find drinking water, there is an abundance of public water fountains, taps, springs - anything that doesn't explicitly say non potable is usually safe to drink. However, there are times when you might wander into a town and the place is deserted (usually around siesta time) with no obvious water and no-one around to ask. A good place to start is in the centre - find the petanque arena, every town and village has one, and there will often be a public loo and water tap or spring. Also excellent sources of water are cemeteries - usually on the outskirts of a town or up the nearest hill - these almost always have a tap connected to the towns mains. Occasionally there'll be a sniffy local ordinance about the water only being for cemetery patrons - ignore these. The dead are there to serve the living, not the other way round. Avoid taps that aren't obviously plumbed to the mains. Especially avoid the taps at petrol stations for filling radiators - these are often supplied from underground tanks and will be contaminated with fuel or biological nasties. (I've had comments to the effect of "Tsk tsk, you shouldn't be telling people to break the rules, you should respect the local customs".  Yes, well, that's exactly what I'm doing. The French have a long and honourable history of ignoring laws they deem stupid or irrelevant, which for instance explains the failure of most attempt to impose smoking bans in public places. )

27 June, 2003

Day 6: Paris

Parisian traffic is something else - an interweaving, organic flow, the cars moving in a manner similar to a school of fish, barely impeded by traffic lights or stop signs. The major junctions are uncontrolled free for all's - getting in lane is an unknown concept - with vehicles coming at you from every angle. Cycling in Paris, even with its' generous allocation of bus/cycle lanes can be, let's say, exhilarating.

At the heart of this organism, indeed the symbolic hub of the entire French road system is the Arc de Triomphe, surrounded by a vast roundabout of an indeterminate number of lanes. Going round this on a bicycle is a hair-raising thrill of a lifetime, like getting sucked into a whirlpool. At my first attempt I somehow managed to get stranded in the middle and was taking a breather under the arch when a couple of gendarmes walked up and asked me politely to move on, bikes were interdites. I tried to claim sanctuary but they insisted elegantly that as I had got myself there I could jolly well get myself out again. Caught between these two armed Scyllas and the motorized Charybdis there was no choice, was swept back into the maelstrom and by sheer fluke deposited, gasping, onto the right boulevard to get to the Eiffel tower.

The Eiffel tower was built for the 1889 World Fair by Gustave Eiffel, standing 320 metres ... blah blah.  Well there's nothing original I can say about Paris, it's as gorgeous, grandiose and elegantly slutty as ever. I took the tower as the official 'got there' point, sat down for the official 'got there' cigarette, and chatted to the Senegalese street sellers flogging Eiffel key-rings, lighters, and the same wind-up plastic flying pigeons that I played with when I was here as a kid, nearly a quarter century ago.

 Getting lost in Paris

28 June, 2003

Day 7:

Paul and Lylyanne are old friends of my parents and they live in a chateau south of Versailles. It's a 'faux' chateau, built in the 19th century on the site of a real 14th century chateau and bearing a remarkable likeness to the Disney castle. My room was in one of the towers and I slept, diagonally, in a four poster bed they bought from Charles Aznavour (I may be dating myself by saying I actually know who he was).

 Minnie Mouse's winter retreat

1 July, 2003

Day 10:

Turfed out of the chateau and back on the road again.

2 July, 2003

Pithiviers, a nondescript industrial town about 40 km North East of Orleans.  Crossed by railway tracks, looks like they make concrete here, but I was attracted by the smell of chocolate croissant wafting from across the fields from the town, so rolled in.  Apparently this town is twinned with Ashby de la Zouch, 740 km that way in the UK.  Never heard of the place but there's an old red BT telephone box in the town square, no doubt donated by the good citizens of Ashby DLZ. Wonder what they got in return. Bought some bread and a cherry flan from the boulagerie and moved on.

I need to reach the Mediterranean by the 10th to see Patrick and Rite who live in Mausanne, near Avignon.  The plan is to head south until I reach the Loire, then follow that East to the Rhône, and basically follow that river down to Avignon.  Hopefully that way I'll cut through the Alps and make it in a week.

3 July, 2003

Tip of the Day Head Cheese For all the wonderful food here, the French taste sometimes veers towards the macabre - frogs legs, snails (if you've ever nibbled the rubber end off a pencil you've pretty much had the escargot experience). One dish is especially grisly; they take the head of what was presumably a pig; ears, snout, eyelids, lips, brains etc. chop it up into large, almost recognisable bits, and mix it with jelly to make a kind of chunky, chewy paté. To cap it all they go and call this inexplicably popular culinary horror fromage de tête, 'head cheese'. Just say non.

Crossing the Loire

4 July, 2003

It's exactly 400 km to Avignon as the satellite flies, so 500, maybe 550 on the ground.  Good chance I'll make it to the south coast in 6 days.
Grey morning, a bit of drizzle.  Stopped off at a town called La Charité on the banks of the Loire for breakfast of goat cheese and tomato sandwiches, followed by chocolate nutty spread.  The rest of the day followed the canal that runs along the Loire, called logically Canal Latéral à la Loire, so it's been a mostly dead flat road.

6 July, 2003

Sitting in the centre, or what seems to be the centre of a rather dull little town called Montrond-les-bains, about 30 km north of St-Etienne.  It's lunchtime and it's also the two week mark and the computer reckons I've done 1078 km, not bad for a fat geek boy.  Looking for a route through the mountains that doesn't climb, and seems like I'll have to swing round after St-Etienne and go North East for a while until I reach the Rhône valley.  Then it should be straight down to Avignon.  Apart from a nasty little 550 m climb after Roanne it's been dead flat again.

Working my way through a baguette, some local paté that I didn't quite catch the name of, tomatoes and big chunk of brie. A group of boys are admiring one of their friends going round in circles on his motorbike - actually more of a moped dressed up as a motorbike with one of those annoying whiny two-stroke engines that are louder than anything else on the road. Nearby a group of girls is looking on, smoking and looking suitably unimpressed.

This rush to the south is makng me miss out a lot.  Not even stopping long enough to take pictures, defeating the purpose of the ton of equipment I'm carrying.

This struck me today - I got lost trying to avoid a one way entrance to the autoroute and ended up going through the centre of the town of St. Rambert.  The streets were lined with flags and people, waving and cheering as I cycled by; for a moment I thought I'd stumbled on the Tour de France. I'd actually wandered into the middle of the areas' summer carnival - from what I could make out from a rather tipsy chap it was called the Festival du Chant Animé. Found a little shaded spot on the street corner to watch the floats go by. But, despite the confetti thrown by the girls in wetsuits (the town's underwater club) and the water sprayed on me by the boys in cowboy outfits (representing, I think, the local real estate agents), I felt curiously...uninvited, and anyway in a hurry so after the first few floats I rolled off to find my exit. Was picking bits of confetti out of Betsy's knooks and crannies for weeks afterwards.

Swung round through the northern outskirts of St-Etienne into St-Chamond, and was making good pace through the town when a section of kerb jumped out of nowhere straight into my path. Braked too late, thumped over the kerb heavily and with a sharp creak of metal under stress. Got off and checked Betsy over but there wasn't anything obviously wrong, the front wheel was still round and the forks and front racks looked OK.  Still, that creak worried me and when I started off again noticed the front brakes were tighter than I remembered; looking down the barrel of the head tube saw that the fork blades (the two prong things that hold the front wheel) were at a slight angle backwards. For a moment thought that they were meant to be that way and I just hadn't noticed before - the ride hadn't changed, but they'd obviously moved back from where they were, pulling the brake assembly slightly away from the handlebars and tightening the brake cable. Damn.

7 July, 2003

Day 16: Into the Rhône valley

Final climb (OK, walk) up to 850 metres, and then a lovely swoop down from the Alps, through Pelussin and down to the Rhône.  On the N86 following the river south, lovely riding through orchards and vinyards and past nuclear power stations and cement factories.  The peaches and apricots are just ripe - the grapes have a few more months to go - and there's a delicious fruity cidery smell in the air.

8 July, 2003

Day 17: Sur le pont d'Avignon

Up at the crack of 10 o'clock, but a mistral tailwind and mainly flat roads made for a fast pace.  The sky is clear and the weather getting hot, but moderated by the cool northerly wind.

The Rhône valley

South on the Nationale to the walled city of Avignon, with its famous half a bridge. Took a photo, did a quick tour of the walls, and then off.

It was then I had my first, and hopefully last incident, a couple of hundred yards south of the main gate.  Stopped to look at a map when a teenager came up to be friendly. He was quickly joined by three of his friends, and they started to get interested in my luggage despite being warned off. They got a little over excited when they saw the video camera in one of the pouches and in the resulting kerfuffle I managed to lose the Leatherman pliers and got a slash in one of my back panniers, but otherwise no-one got hurt.  Bad stuff only happens in cities.

Through St-Rémy-de-Provence (birthplace, I believe, of Nostradamus) and then up a surprise 500 metre climb to Mausanne where, after wandering around looking for their house - it's been a very long time since I've been here, I had to be rescued by Patrick.

The clock says 143 km, a new trip record despite the late start. I sat with the Patrick and Rita on the patio looking out over their olive grove and tucked into a duck dinner.  After they retired I settled down and got through half a packet of cigarettes mulling over the day's events.  It's been a long day, one way and another.

10 July, 2003

Day 19: A week in Provence

A short day, 20 km ride from Mausanne to Arles which is the break off point.  From there I took the train to St-Raphael, to be picket up by my mum's neighbour in his Range Rover - Betsy and baggage won't fit into anything smaller.  Going to spend a few days here, sort out Betsy, then come back and pick up the route again from Arles train station.

First chance to check my weight since the start of the trip - 93 kg - I've lost 8 kg in two and a half weeks.  My cycling weight is around 83 kg (and my working in London weight has been creeping up to 110 kg over the years), but this is too much of a drop too soon. This sounds strange to many people on weight watchers, but I have to make a conscious effort to keep my weight up - for people who love their food it's one of the joys of cycle touring that you can stuff your face with everything on the menu and still shed weight - a phenomenon a friend called 'macho bulimia'. I need to put on a pound or two - no problem, a few days with my mother will fatten me up for the next stage.

14 July, 2003

The last few days have been lazy, on display to mother's friends and immersed into Provençal culture - Bastille day celebrations at the local town Fayence (fireworks to Ravel's Bolero and a Boney M revival band in the square) - rather charming outdoor family lunches that go on till midnight - playing and losing petanque with the locals (just imagine the principles of bowls and the nastiness of croquet, played with cannonballs).

There is a heavy ex-pat presence in the region; Brits, Dutch, Danes, Germans and retired urban French all in their cliques and with conversation revolving around the perennial problems of swimming pool maintenance and how new arrivals are spoiling the place.  Sometimes uneasy relationship with the locals - who have a noticeable accent, with a twangy, boingy sound, a bit like Portuguese.

15 July, 2003

Day 24: Back in, er, London

Made a snap decision that it would be more cost effective to take a cheap flight from Nice to London and take the forks back myself, rather than coordinate the whole thing from France.  Also gives me a chance to sort out a few loose ends I missed in the last frantic days before leaving.

They X-rayed my boots at the airport, but kindly allowed me to take them off first; more worryingly they made me check in Betsy's forks. If there was nothing wrong with them before there certainly will be now.

Gatwick is grim in the daytime, at night it's deserted and depressing, not helped by the jaunty tannoy announcements extolling the joys of airport shopping. Found the forks dumped on the middle of the floor of baggage reclaim and made my way out. Dodgy cab geezer at the exit - "No mate, this is Gatwick, buses to Heathrow only, no buses to London. I can take you to London, how much do you want to pay?" - "Yeh, right".  I didn't have time to explain that I wasn't (a) foreign or (b) stupid, so just walked away thinking 'Same old bollocks'. Still, an hour and a half on the bus and I might miss the last tube to Ealing so tried the train station - two windows open at the ticket office, one man angrily bashing his computer terminal and one rather weary looking woman. Reckoned my best chance would be with her - "There's a stopping train at 10:40, and a Gatwick Express at 10:50 for a few pound extra" - "Which'll get there sooner?", - she held up both hands with fingers crossed - "No telling Love, nothing's working right tonight". Sure enough the departure screen was full of cancelled and delayed trains. I love this country, I really do, but sometimes it's just the same tired old bollocks.

16 July, 2003

So, I'm officially in Arles, actually in London, and Betsy is mostly in Mons about 250 km east of Arles. Very, very odd to be back

22 July, 2003

Bad news on the Betsy front. The forks can be fixed, essentially by doinking them straight; in fact I'm told that if the same thing happens when I'm somewhere more remote then the blades can be straightened by, seriously, reversing the forks and crashing the bike in the same manner that bent them.  However there is obviously a limit to how many times Betsy will take this rather extreme abuse so, though they can be fixed, the consensus is that they will possibly be weakened.  I've no choice - anything else and I can make do with some duct tape and superglue but the frame, wheels and racks have to be 100%, especially this early in the trip. The boys at St.Johns are sending me a new set of forks; one thing, because it's a rush job they'll have to be painted black. Betsy will not be pleased.

27 July, 2003

On a ridiculously early flight from Gatwick (urgh) to Nice, new forks and Hob-Nobs clutched lovingly in my arms. 

Tip of the Day Hob-Nobs Though sometimes available in 'Ye Olde Englande' type shops in areas with large Brit ex-pat populations (along with things like Robertsons marmalade, Heinz baked beans and, for goodness sake, Marmite), Milk Chocolate Hob Nobs are strangely very difficult to find outside the UK. Take as many as you can carry, and set up a reliable supply chain to wherever you are.

30 July, 2003

Something about staying with my mother that regresses me to 17 years old again, lethargic, gaining weight (this time a good thing), and, she would say, becoming obnoxious. Apart from cigarette runs to the local village I've been out of the saddle for three weeks now, which, even with the jaunt back to London to sort Betsy out is a bit much. But Betsy is now pretty much back together, and actually not looking too bad with her handsome new black forks, and I'm set to move on back to Arles on Sunday. Honest.

Great view from here of the forest fires that have sprung up mysteriously between Fayence and the coast the last few days.  At one point there were three burning at the same time, two small ones and a huge fire that seems to be burning up a whole mountain and has been going on for days.  Also good view of the Canadair water-bombers convoying back and forth scooping up water from the nearby lake - St. Cassian - and then dumping their load in a spectacular, if sometimes ineffective fashion onto the flames.

The theory is that we're safe here because the surrounding forests are oak rather than the pine which is burning. Not entirely convinced by this so keeping one beady eye on the smoke and a bucket of water handy, just in case.

Tip of the Day Dogs Dogs and cyclists are natural born enemies. No one seems to know exactly why this is so but I've seen dogs, unconcerned by pedestrians or motor vehicles, wake up and go into a frenzy when a cyclist goes by. Some say it's the way a bicycle moves, or that it's the high-pitched hum from the spokes that excites dogs. Maybe it's the aroma; after a few days riding it's offensive enough to humans but must be a full-on assault to a nose as sensitive as a dogs'. Whatever, the enmity between cyclists and dogs is ancient and universal. In Europe this is not a problem, dogs are usually under control; behind a fence they can woof to their little hearts content. But in many areas of the world there are large numbers of semi-wild strays; usually on the outskirts of human habitation, surviving off leftovers and garbage. Living on the edge of survival these dogs are hungry, highly territorial and can be dangerous. There are few things more frightening than having a large, breedless animal appear out from under a bush and come tearing at you at greyhound speed snarling and barking wildly. 9 times out of 10 it stops at that, the mutt will simply run yapping alongside until it gets bored and trots away wagging it's stupid tail at how clever it's been; you just have to carry on grimly under a barrage of doggie abuse till you reach the edge of the its' territory. But once in a while you can sense that the dog means business, or see it squaring up for a snap at your calf - and a dog bite can put a very quick end your trip. Some cycle tourers carry pepper sprays or tear gas canisters, and some swear by electronic dog repellents that emit some kind of ultrasonic whistle. I have a dog-stick. It is not, as some dog-lovers have accused, for giving the dog a good thrashing, however much it deserves it. I can't abide cruelty to animals, even dumb canine ones. No, it's for extending between the dog and my ankle, giving it something else to think about and giving me enough time to deal with the it some other way. A squirt in the mush with a water bottle is often effective, and pretenting to throw something will make most dogs flinch. Almost always it's enough to slow down or stop - the dog, perhaps for the first time realising that I'm human, will break off the attack, back off to a safe distance and just continue barking, leaving me to move off slowly. I've never been bitten by a dog and, so far into this trip (apart from the dog unrelated incident in Avignon) the stick has stayed in its holster. (Note that in the UK and most countries in Europe the local plod will take a dim view of anyone carrying noxious sprays or batons.)

The Mons mountain rescue team. My mother is the one almost obscured by Betsy

7 August, 2003

Day 47:

A few more kilometres in the morning and I reached the pass, 1175 metres a new trip record. And onto the N85 heading north - a much better proposition - a bit of upping and downing but goes down the midde of a broad valley, rugged mountains either side.

Stopped for breakfast, and who should come roaring down the highway but my mother, with the friends she has staying. Not looking for me particularly, you understand, but just out for a day trip to the mountains. Kindly offered to take my panniers and we raced down the valley to the town of Castellane.

Castellane's main feature is it's 11th century chapel perched on top of a 180 metre pillar of rock which looks unclimbable without tackle. There are apparently paths up, and the more devout of the townfolk make this vertical pilgrimage some weekends.

It started raining when we got in, so we sat in a cafe and did a spot of motorized sightseeing. They deposited me at the camp ground and I said goodbye to my mother yet again. Think she might be having a little trouble letting go.

8 August, 2003

9 August, 2003

 The view though, was worth it, just about; every few kilometres the road would come out of the trees and onto the edge of the canyon, with the Verdon river maybe 600 metres below. Finally the gorge opened up to a spectacular view of a hilly plain and the Verdon emptying out into the huge, dark blue lac de Saint Croix. The road ahead climbed for a short distance then started descending before disapearing round the ridge - this must be it, the end of the climb. Downed the last of the water and moved on up, with the GPS topping out at 1205 metres elevation, a new trip record (and it's going to stay that way if I have anything to do with it). But, almost as soon as I started the descent there it was - a vision, an oasis, a tiny piece of heaven. In the distance a motorbike couple were filling their canteen; it didn't look like much, just a piece of copper pipe sticking out of the mountain but with cold - cold! - water dribbling out the end, the Source de Vaumale, a mountain spring! Gulped down nearly 3 litres of the freshest, sweetest water in the world and soaked myself silly. Reluctantly left this little tube of loveliness and sloshed down the rest of the descent to the lake below.

God's Pipe

10 August, 2003

11 August, 2003

12 August, 2003

13 August, 2003

14 August, 2003

19 August, 2003

21 August, 2004

23 August, 2003

24 August, 2003

25 August, 2003

2 September, 2003

3 September, 2003

5 September, 2003

8 September, 2003

9 September, 2003

10 September, 2003

11 September, 2003

Pulled into Zaragoza in the morning, utterly drained. The numbers say it all; it's taken three days to do the 150 kilometres from Fraga, thirteen and a half hours riding time. I ache all over. Time for a day off and a change of plan - going to head north towards Jaca, then pick up the Santiago pilgrim route west from there rather than continue west through the plains.  Means going back into the Pyrenees and me and Betsy don't like mountains, we don't, but the plains are just plain scary.
Zaragoza is an island of civilization in comparison. Wasn't any room at the hostel so found a pension room, poky but clean, 10 eurobucks and near the centre, bargain.
Supposedly St. James was knocking around here a short while after the crucifiction when the virgin Mary popped down from heaven on a jade pillar for a chat. The pillar is now housed in a monumental basilica in the centre of town where pilgrims come from all over to kiss it through a small opening. Goya spent a lot of time here too and some of his work is dotted around, but rather more uplifting than either is the Aljafer64Aa, what used to be a Muslim palace, built opon over the centuries and turned into a fort, and now housing the Aragonese parliament. There's a reconstruction of the original Muslim courtyard, beautiful and light, scalloped arches and delicate filigree, and I'm starting to sound like a tour guide. Anyway the point is that as I move towards Morocco this is a first taste of the Moorish influence - since Barcelona was one of the few areas of resistance to the Islamic conquest.

13 September, 2003

Day 84: Heading North?

The westerly wind of the plains is now channelled up this valley into a lovely cooling tail-breeze, fairly whooshing along on flat road, warm weather, kipping down in pine orchards; this is what it's all about.

15 September, 2003

Day 86: Whoa there pilgrim

In the town of Jaca, nice little Romanesque cathedral and a star shaped castle-like citadel, still used as a garrison by the military. Deserved a brief moment of luxury before embarking on the pilgrim life, so forked out 0AC20 for my own room, choice of beds, tv, and a bathroom with, oh the decadence, a real bath!  Even had a plug and everything! My first soak in months. Pottered down to the church to get a Credencial de Peregino and I'm now officially a card carrying bona fide pilgrim.

Thesis of the Day The Camino de Santiago The Santiago pilgrimage is a big thing in mainland Europe but doesn't seem to be so well known in the Anglo world, the first time I heard of it was during the trip from ex-pilgrims and Spaniards I met along the way. The story goes that St. James the Apostle (Santiago), one of the big 12 and perhaps half brother to Jesus, came over to Spain to do some apostling and miracling, including bumping into the Virgin Mary in Zaragoza. He then went back to Palestine where he lost his head in one of the Christian purges, but his disciples floated him back to the coast of Galicia in a stone boat where his tomb was miraculously found nearly a thousand years later. At the same time the man himself came back from beyond to fight the good fight against Islam, wielding a sword on horseback - a drastic career change for a fisherman and earning him the rather unsaintly nickname of Matamoros - Moor Killer. Ever since the faithful have made the journey to pay respects, atone for their sins or reduce their time in purgatory, and the city of Santiago grew up around the site. Spoilsport historians would argue that there's no evidence that St. James ever set foot in Spain and that the discovery of his bones was conveniently timed at the start of the 'Reconquista'; a political act as part of the reintroduction of Spain into Christendom, or perhaps more the de-Africanization of the peninsula. And as a physicist I can tell you that stone just isn't boat material. Certainly you get the feeling that Spain is not quite so proud of its Islamic past and distinctly un-European history and they've somewhat overcompensated for this - there are more cathedrals, sites of miracles and bits of dead saint per square kilometre here than anywhere else. It's a process that in some ways still continues today; after decades of being left out in the cold under a stultifying dictatorship they are now the most enthusiastic Europeanistas. But the French racial slur that 'Africa begins on the Spanish border' still carries resonance, and rather more funnily this odd man out attitude is expressed in the (Spanish) definition of a Spaniard as 'Whatever annoys everyone else'. Anyway back to the point, the Camino de Santiago has got very popular in recent decades and every year thousands of  peregrinos pilgrims strike off on foot or by bicycle along defined paths; there are various routes but the most popular ones start in southern France, marked out by yellow arrows and dotted with refugios or albergues, pilgrim-only hostels at reasonable days hiking distance. The whole scheme is government sponsored and supported by volunteers, and is a nice little earner for some of the poorer regions of northern Spain.

 

Pilgrims doing it the hard way

16 September, 2003

Day 87: Yesa, No

Camping on a gorgeous little spot on a pine tree covered promontory over the Yesa reservoir, watching the sun go down over the water, a squadron (dragoon?) of dragonflies rattling over my head hunting mosquitos. Go at 'em chaps.
It's been a gentle climb into the Pyrenees, fairly tame mountains, past pine orchards and a clutch of artificial reservoirs - not altogether welcome by the locals from the 'Yesa, No' graffiti everywhere.

17 September, 2004

Day 88: Buen Camino

Haven't quite got the hang of this pilgrim lark yet. Have yet to spot a yellow arrow and the pilgrim hostels are nowhere to be found. Was getting a bit hacked off towards the end of the day and about to start the hunt for a place to camp when a cyclist rode by with a friendly 'Buen Camino'. This was the first time I'd heard this communal greeting between pilgrims, and this expression of camino spirit cheered me up enough to do another 30 k's to the next town, Puenta la Reina. Easily found the hostel since there was a 5 metre high bronze statue of a rather wasted looking pilgrim next to it, and spent my first night in a real refugio.

18 September, 2003

Day 89: Urg

Bloody hell these pilgrims don't mess about, up at 6.30 some of them. It's pitch black out; what are they doing, walking by starlight? Rolled over and went back to sleep.

20 September, 2003

Day 91:  Bugger Burgos

Tone was set by the first local chap I met, a very polite, dignified gentleman, but the only Spaniard I met who was not entirely against the their involvement in Iraq. Burgos is the reactionary heart of conservative Castilla; and Franco's Nationalist junta was based here.
Burgos has one of the grandest cathedrals on the route, a big Gothic number with hollow, pointy spires. Inside the usual grim display of pain and gore, coin-operated LED candles, tombs of the rich and famous including that double-dealer El Cid, and a dusty, murky reliquary containing among other things a large chunk of Thomas Becket and bit of the crown of thorns. As a priest once said, or maybe I just made it up, if you put together all the existing splinters from the cross you'd have enough wood to rebuild the ark, and you could nail it together with all the spines from the crown of thorns.
Just behind the cathedral there's the church of San Nicol644s, with a very complex retablo chiselled entirely out of stone, a bit of a masterpiece.

The city pilgrim refuge was not terribly relaxed either. At 10 o'clock a whistle was blown - greeted by a jeer from the pilgrims, and everyone was herded into the very crowded barracks-like dorm and locked in. Half expecting a bugle reveille in the morning.

23 September, 2003

Day 94: Le64En

Between Burgos and Le64En and a bit further west is the meseta; dry, dusty, flat, featureless; for walkers its the infamous '70 km of nothing'; on a bike it's over quickly. Took a day off in Le64En, nice city.
Even though I'm cathedraled up to the gills the one here became my instant favourite; bright white Gothic thing it is, a huge acreage of stained glass - seems like there's more glass than stone, that fills the cathedral with colours, changing as the sun moves through the day.

24 September, 2003

Day 95: Rabanal del Camino

Cold morning, heated up a bit during the day but didn't get much above 20. The meseta has given way to a dry hills, steadily climbing, the camino runs along the road, passed small groups of trudging pilgrims; can't be much fun walking. I was feeling lazy, my mood blank. 'Buen camino'd' a group of pilgrims as I whizzed by and caught a flash of a broad, lovely smile, startling, the kind of smile that changes your whole day. Was positively chirpy after that, even when the uphill started getting serious. An hour later the uphill was getting very serious indeed so I detoured off the road to the nearest town for a bit of chocolate and ice-cream encouragement. Tiny one street village, not on my map, the only sound was the clanging of an old man sitting on a stool hammering an iron something. Walking Betsy up the stone road spotted a little pilgrim refuge; wasn't planning to stop but nosed in anyway.
Charming little place just made for sitting around nursing blisters and talking pilgrim talk, run by an English couple and an American doling out soup and pottering about making it their business to make the pilgrims welcome. Oh well, why not, knocked it on the head for the day. I didn't know it then but Rabanal is a major pilgrim stopping point with no less than three pilgrim albergues, its permanent population of maybe 30 at least doubled, sometimes quadrupled by the pilgrim itinerants.
Later in the dorm unpacking my toothbrush when a girl approached and perched herself in front of me. It was the same face, wearing the same radiant smile. "So just how much does your bike weigh then?" Ah yes, Betsy getting all the attention again.
And it only got better. Facing the albergue there's a small, tumbledown church, built by the Templars and now used by the town monastery with its grand total of three Benedictine monks, one of whom is off doing the camino himself. Went over to witness the evening vespers; inside the church is even more decrepit, half the plaster has come down, the walls cracked. The townspeople sat in front, the pilgrims filed in at the back, lessons read by pilgrim volunteers (I chickened out) in Spanish, French, German and English, and the two monks did some Gregorian chanting at each other. Watching this scene, no gold threaded preaching, no fancy altar or gilt retablo; just two monks doing their thing in front of a wooden table and a simple cross on the wall, big cracks in the windowless apse making it look like a cave; humble, unworldly, Christian. Enough perhaps to restore just a little, dare I say it, faith in religion.

25 September, 2003

Day 96: Knights Templar and the Cross of Iron

Yegads, 1505 metres, the highest point of the camino and a new trip record, marked by an iron cross and a small chapel. That one just crept up on me, it's been fairly gentle climb the last day or two and even the last fairly strenuous kilometre or two didn't sour the day; still charmed as I was by yesterday.

The Iron Cross

A few kilometres beyond, just as the road starts to dip there's a ramshackle pilgrim refuge, chicken and geese running about, a broken down land rover. It's run by a chap called Tom644s who reckons he's the last of the Knights Templar, flying a big Templar cross, ringing a bell whenever a pilgrim comes round the bend and handing out very welcome coffee and biscuits to the weary.

A day for records - the road then drops a thousand metres, positively hurtled down - and at one point touched a frightening 72 - to the city of Ponferrada. There's a big, squat, seriously warlike Templar castle here and not much else. Moved on to Vilafrance del Bierzo, nice little town and where most pilgrims stop before ascending the heights of Galicia. And with good reason - looking at the detailed guides that the better prepared pilgrims carry, the road soars up again, not as high as the iron cross but with some insane grades, 15, 20% in places. It's been a good couple of days but this will be be significantly other than painless.

The Templar Castle at Ponferrada

26 September, 2003

Day 97: Galicia

Snorers are the bane of dormitory living and last night my room had the mother of all nose rippers. A constant snoring you can deal with, the brain has a way of filtering out regular noise, but this one would be silent for maybe a quarter minute and then just explode in a cacophony of croaks, snorts, wheezes, grunts, coughs - nothing human could have made that noise, like a dinosaur's death rattle. It would end in a diminuendo of whimpers and sighs, almost like he'd woken himself up, then silence again until the next round.
And I had the bunk above him, right on the mouth of the volcano. Now you know it's not their fault, and they deserve sympathy, but by two in the morning I hated him. By three I was clutching the edges of my pillow thinking 'Who would know?'

Perhaps because I was expecting it, perhaps because it was cool and drizzly, perhaps I've lost weight, perhaps, lord knows, I'm a little fitter, but the climb wasn't as bad as I feared. Had to walk large sections of it and took a siesta halfway, but reached O Cebriero, the gateway town to the final Galician stretch of the camino, in less than devastated state. Knackered, yes, but a little rest and a snoop around the quaint little town and I was ready to roll down the other side of the mountains. Galicia is the hilly, drizzly, coasty bit at the top left of Spain, very green, hilly, with its own language - Galego, a Scrabble winning version of Spanish with a lot of x's and z's added. And there are a few hills too.

27 September, 2003

Day 98: Nearly there

Teamed up with three Basques on bikes to do the last stretch, reaching a lovely albergue, Ribadiso de Baixo, in a valley on a river by a little stone village, mist in the morning, the works. No room in the dorm so we slept on the floor of the outdoor office. One of the nicest albergues I've seen, and unusual too in that there was a rip-roaring party in the dining area until the small hours.

Tip of the Day Presta-Schraeder Converter If your wheels use Presta valves (most do), always carry a Presta to Shraeder converter - best place to keep it is on the wheel as a valve cap. This gadget, available at all good bike shops for under a pound, lets you use car pumps on your tyre. This can be a life saver if your pump fails, but also, where petrol stations provide free air, lets you keep your tyre pressure topped up effortlessly.

28 September, 2003

Day 99: Santiago

Approaching cities the nice, cycle friendly roads converge into nasty dual carriageways, sometimes off limits to cycles - without detailed maps getting in and out of cities is often a mission. For Santiago there's the camino which takes a round the houses approach to the city, bouncing up and down every hill. But at this stage speed isn't the issue and it's nice to end the thing together with the walkers.

Got into Santiago to the sound of, of all things, bagpipes. Galicia (and Asturias to the east) are Celtic provinces, and like other Celtic nations they have folk music, wet weather and dodgy plumbing.
The main square outside the cathedral was dotted with piles of rucksacks and bikes; walkers hugging each other, bikers high-fiving, a lot of pilgrims just sitting in a daze.

I'm going to miss the camino. The pilgrims I met where, as they say, from all walks of life, some in their 20's and 30's, all the way up to 60's; groups of friends doing the camino in sections every year, professionals taking a sabbatical, students on holiday, retirees. Many Spanish, French, Germans, Austrians, Quebequois Canadians; a few South Americans and only a smattering of English, American, Irish (surprisingly few). As many reasons for doing it as there are pilgrims, as they say again, but usually a mixture of the challenge, testing their limits, meeting people from around the world, finding themselves, losing themselves, because their friends did it and had a great time. Many for vaguely spiritual reasons but the only one who explicitly mentioned religion was a young American who was, like, getting closer to God.
The camino is no stroll in the park, the walkers do 25, 30, even 40 km days over sometimes difficult terrain in all weathers, and some albergues resembling field hospitals with all the walking wounded; tendonitis, horrific blisters and fatigue related illnesses taking a toll. And not just the older pilgrims, often the tough old birds yomped over distances that would cripple the younger walkers.
Maybe 1 in 10 on bikes, which still made a lot of them. Many on lightly loaded all terrain machines stick religiously to the marked paths, tracks and trails of the walkers camino; others, like me, just too heavy for off-roading, go along the nearest available tarmac. There are cultural differences between the cyclists and the walkers. The walkers often meet the same people at the albergues every day for weeks, group up sometimes, separate then meet up again. Walking is anyway a more social activity. Bikes are obviously faster, covering 2 to 3 times the distance - some off-road nutters doing 100 plus kilometres a day - which means that interaction with the walkers is limited to one evening at the albergues or a chat at a water-fountain. The cyclists tended to be younger, more individualistic, sporty types, sometime in groups but sticking together. A standard topic at the albergues is what makes a 'real' pilgrim, and cyclists often come off worse.

Oh and had a rolling conversation with a French pilgrim on a bike - "Oh yes, you're the one. I heard about this guy on a super-equipped bike going to Africa". Hah, fame at last.

One more thing, after averaging a puncture every 250 km, I haven't had a single one for the whole 900 km of the camino. Spooky.

30 September, 2003

Day 101: The End of the World

Though Santiago is, by definition, the objective of the camino, many pilgrims carry on to the coast at Cabo Finisterre. Nothing much there except a small, pretty fishing town and a 3 km walk down to the cape with a lighthouse and a closed hotel. Despite the name it's not the westernmost point of mainland Europe, it's not even the most western point of Spain but since I've just spent the last two weeks chasing after the bones of a chap who isn't there who am I to get persnickety. Dodgy 10th century geography and archaeology aside, the cape certainly has the feel of the end of something, and is a most definite, absolute end of the camino. Perhaps sometimes the truth is more important than the facts, and the truth is that there is something just a little bit special about the camino, something that transcends the adventure tourism and church-spotting. Sometimes, in between the splendid tombs of the warmakers and noisemakers there are graves of those with stories of lives spent actually helping people. There's the refuge with the 'pay what you can or take what you need' contribution box, and the quiet, understated Christianity of the monks vespers. For every cyclist speeding down the camino for the freebies there are old geezers doing the pilgrimage for reasons perhaps they don't fully understand but strong enough to suffer arthritis, blisters and real hardship for. And there's some really rather nice pilgrim girls.

The Atlantic looks especially vast from this point, the Americas ten thousand kilometres over the horizon. For all the end of camino vibe among the pilgrims I'm getting another feeling altogether, a realisation, perhaps for the first time, of just how big, really bloody big this thing is that I've started. And it's just a little bit scary.

Pilgrims at the End of the World

2 October, 2003

Day 103: Santiago a go go

Just for fun I went to the pilgrim mass today at the Santiago cathedral, and was lucky enough to witness the swinging of the 'botafumeiro', which only happens on special occasions. This thing must be the largest censer in the world, it takes six priests to haul it up and then swing it at great speed along the whole length of the transept, spluttering flames and incense over the heads of nervous pilgrims. Apparently the last time it actually went flying off was in the mass to celebrate the marriage of Catherine of Arag64En to Henry VIII - a bad omen if ever there was one.

On the 'ed, Bish.

4 October, 2003

Day 105: Pontevedra

Wandered around Santiago, had a last look at the cathedral, smiled wistfully at the pilgrims drifting in and finally, reluctantly started south about lunchtime. I'm not a perigrino any more.
60 k of fairly easy going later reached the town of Pontevedra. What I should have done was another 40 k and camp short of the Portuguese border but it was already late and, OK, I couldn't face camping just yet. The camino has made me soft.
Glad I stopped over - the old town centre of Pontevedra is a ten block pedestrianised zone, attractive buildings all made of granite, charming plazas, looks like the whole town is out in the streets this evening. Sipping a café con leche in a lovely little plaza watching the folks wander around shooting the breeze, kids kicking a football around, teenagers checking each other out; good way to spend my last night in Spain. Pontevedra, top town.

Day 113. Another day another pilgrimage.

Couple of days ago I noticed groups of people walking along the roadside, reminding me of the Santiago walkers. Similar, but not quite - mostly locals, not so much gore-tex, walking boots and big rucksacks, more tracksuits, plastic macs, baseball caps, cheap trainers - a surprising number walking in slippers.
Indeed, I'd stumbled across another pilgrimage - to the town of F644tima, where the Virgin Mary made an appearance in 1917 sitting in a tree and prophesying the Bolshevik revolution and the attempted assassination of John Paul II in 1981 - though the Vatican rather took the edge of the last prophesy by keeping it a secret until 2000, perhaps embarrassed that they hadn't supplied him with a bullet-proof jacket.
In a show of pilgrim solidarity I detoured inland to see what it was all about and reached F644tima today - by chance one of the annual days of the pilgrimage. Big open air mass after dark, no idea how to judge these things but there must have been 50,000 there, filling the huge esplanade (twice the size of St. Peter's piazza in Rome, it says here), and waving candles in the chilly night - like ballad time at a rock concert.
Touching, if only for the obvious devotion of the pilgrims - some of them doing the last few hundred metres on their knees in penance.

13 October, 2003

On a recommendation I continued the deviation inland to the town of Tomar. A bit of history - Tomar was founded in 1162 by Gualdim Pais, the first Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar, and was the political headquarters of the Templars and their successors the Order of Christ for 400 years. Having already met a Knight Templar in person I thought I should check it out. The town itself is very pleasant, whitewashed buildings, narrow cobbled streets, cafe's, one of the nicest I've come across in Portugal. Up on the hill is the Convento de Cristo, an amazing hotchpotch of military and religious buildings. The spiritual heart of it is a circular chapel, where the Templars would attend mass on horseback in a circle around an octagonal altar. The complex was extended over the centuries in successive styles, Romanesque, then something called Manueline - a version of Gothic architecture with very elaborate, fanciful stonework, then a more restrained Renaissance neo-classical style. OK, going to stop gushing now, I seem to have become an architecture geek - but go see it, well worth a day or two.

18 October, 2003

Day 118: The Algarve

Fell foul to some fresh cheese which might have matured prematurely in my panniers. Nothing erupted, but my usually bullet-proof stomach has been feeling heavy the last two days and stiff joints and fatigue have slowed me down.
It's been 9 straight days riding, and a week of wild camping - been getting a touch road happy, characterised by excessive muttering to myself and more than usual grumpiness, so I'm taking a day off in Lagos, a tourist and British ex-pat port town on the bottom left of Portugal.
Otherwise the riding has been steady, uneventful - sticking to the plains close to the coast; through pine and eucalyptus forests, dairy farms, the road occasionally breaking through to the cliffs, coves and beaches of the Atlantic. Some rain but usually sunny, though with a chilly wind coming off the ocean, mist in the mornings and evenings. Rounded the corner of Portugal, crossing the Serra de Monchique mountain range, and there was a very noticeable rise in temperature as I descended to the south-facing coast of the Algarve.

Osborne Bull, Andalucia

24 October, 2003

Day 125: Sevilla

There's no legal, or more importantly safe way into Sevilla on a bike approaching from the west. Nothing but multi-lane dual carriageways, high speed intersections and fly-overs - you have to swing round to the south of the city and over a small road and bridge. Even then you hit an impenetrable ring of blocked off carriageway and have to go north again, through what used to be a park but which has been strangled by the motorways into a desolate patch of wasteland, before you find a pedestrian crossing to breach the barrier. Took an hour to find the youth hostel, way out of the centre and off all the maps, and it was full. First pension didn't have room for a single, and I was seriously considering giving Sevilla a miss and heading out for Cadiz. Met an Austrian chap here to do a Spanish course, led me to a pension in town, crummy but cheap. First impressions of the city not good.