Word Of Mouse

Carcassonne, for anyone who hasnt been there, is a dramatic walled medieval city a few km east of the current modern city centre. When we found that our visit there would coincide with the arrival of the Tour de France cyclists, and with Bastille Day, we knew we had to stay. We spent happy hours wandering round the medieval city, and found a very good restaurant there "L´arbre de vie" which even went so far as to advertise a vegetarian menu. We made an excursion out to the small nearby lake for a swim, which was a bit disappointing after having ridden five miles through the heat to get there.

The Tour de France cyclists came through very quickly, preceded by a long procession of commercial vehicules crewed by people throwing out free things to the crowd: Ali dutifully scrambled for these along with the rest, and we managed to secure a selection of hats and other bits and pieces which we have now sent to my nephew and nieces in America. Some enterprising cycle tourists, including a couple on a tandem, managed to get themselves onto the cordonned off road to the finish line, and raised a cheer as they passed: we joked that maybe we should have done the same... The end of the race coincided with a brief but powerful thunderstorm. We headed back to the campsite along the river, seeing a family of ragondins along the way: that at least was the general concensus of opinion as to what they were. They looked like large furry water rats. Ali has just done some googling and it turns out they were coypu.

We also met a friendly Brit on the campsite called Justin, with his 15 pound tent bought off eBay that broke the first time he put it up. Luckily it didn´t rain hard that night. Justin runs a campaign in his off time away from the submarines called Give Cyclists Room, to which anyone who feels inclined is encouraged to add their voice.

From Carcassonne, we headed west. The first day´s cycling took us to Mirepoix along largely flat roads. As always the heat was trying. Star find of the day was quite by chance: a large organic supermarket, unexpectedly on the outskirts of a small village. We were both too tired on arrival at the unprepossessing Mirepoix campsite to do more than the usual routine of tent up, shower, washing, cooking supper.

Mirepoix to St Girons was a long blast along a good and large road which, although a major route (and hence taking a flat route though the terrain) had a wide and smooth hard shoulder that made cycling on it very easy. Plus it was Sunday and traffic was light.

The following day took us along a beautiful minor road beside the river to St Gaudens, a town sited on a small hilltop commanding a dramatic view of the Pyrenees. The town also commanded a dramatic view of the neighbouring gravel factory, which was a pity: however from the campsite, a mile out of town to the west, there was no such obstruction, and we could lie on the ground beside our tent watching the clouds forming over the summits. We took a day off here, we liked it so much, and had our hair cut in one of the thousands of hairdressers that work in the city. (It seemed like the St Gaudens economy was solely based on hairdressing, to judge by their number: it ws a miracle anyone in town had any left).

The next day´s ride took us over the hills to Bagneres de Bizorre. The ride was all going well, up and down through dramatic mountain scenery, until loud ominous rumblings started to make themselves heard. For once it wasn´t Ali´s stomach (we had already stopped for lunch) and soon the cause became clear as bit by bit the dramatic mountain scenery disappeared into greyness. The storm hit as we crested the hill, in the face of driving stinging rain and heavy wind. A lightning strike nearby made us both jump. We were relieved to get off the hill safely and descend into the spa town of Bagneres, where we rewarded ourselves with a three hour session in the thermal baths, complete with whirlpools, jacuzzis, turkish baths and saunas. The building was beautiful: a high hall with wooden beams that supported a glass ceiling, which in turn formed the base of a shallow open-air pool above, producing a lovely rippling cascade of sunlight over the interior. When we emerged, three hours later, we were so relaxed we could hardly walk: nevertheless we made it to the middle of town where a helpful local citizen told us the way to the campsite Les Tilleuls, which was very good.

Next day we set off over the mountain pass to Lourdes. While Ali was inside the supermarket doing the provisioning, I was accosted by our helpful friend of the day before, checking we had found the campsite OK. On the way up to the pass we met another tandem coming the other direction: we gave them the traditional tandem greeting of a shout and a cheerful wave.

Once over the pass, a long steady descent took us down into Lourdes, a maelstrom of traffic and coaches. Neither of us felt inclined to take in the religious sites, however significant they may be for those of faith: instead we elected to glide lightly through on the road northwest up the course of the Gave de Pau. Somehow, maybe the lightness of our sinfree souls, (or possibly a following wind) Bramble felt like she had wings: we flew up the gentler gradients in twelfth gear, barely slowing. As the countryside flattened out our speed increased: we shot past a group of cyclists trapped behind a tractor without a backward glance.

Our enjoyment suffered a setback when on arriving at the Pau campsite, we saw the dreaded notice "Ferme 2006". I wanted particularly to stay in Pau, a lovely town that I had visited a couple of times before, so we took a cheap room at a hotel in the centre of town. Too cheap, as it turned out: we had a hot and uncomfortable night and camping would have been much nicer. Still we were able to wander along the Boulevard des Pyrenees, taking the evening air and enjoying a nice meal in a Moroccan restaurant.

On the way out of Pau the following day, we happened to see a shop that looked like it specialized in tent and canvas repair. We thought this might be the opportunity we had been looking for ever since Devon to get the base of the tent waterproofed: I had previously tried a number of spray-on things but none worked. The elderly owner spread the tent out in the back room and handed me a paintbrush and a pot of some clear liquid. Ali was called in to assist, the tandem was parked in the shop, the front door was shut and the owner passed the time between watching us apply coats of this stuff by showing us first his large collection of postcards, then when those had been gone through, out came a large book of black and white postcards of 1900´s Pau. Somehow we didn´t get the impression that running a commercially successful business was high on his list of priorities.

We finally left the shop after an hour and a half twenty euros lighter, with a damp tent and seeing double from the effect of the fumes. I hoped against hope that this stuff would do the job but once we stopped for the night at Orthez, tired and hot, I did the "bum test" (pouring water on the groundsheet, putting the tent on top and sitting inside it). Sure enough, up came the water, just as happily as before. A bit dispiriting. I do think there must exist some product that can be applied to a nylon tent to leave an actual waterproof layer of rubber adhering to it, but we have not managed to find it after several tries and reluctantly we may ultimately have to replace the tent.

From Orthez, we had a long and for the most part flattish ride along the river, against a persistent and annoying light wind, to Bayonne. Despite being printed with a tent symbol on our map, the tourist office disclaimed all knowledge and sent us on to a campsite on the coast north of Biarritz. This was the worst we have ever stayed in: overcrowded, expensive, dirty, covered in litter and surfers. It was however very close to the justly famous surfing beaches of Biarritz and we had a happy late afternoon playing in the rolling waves.

We didn´t like the campsite much and elected to press on to Spain, along the busy roads thronging with summer tourist traffic that connect the two. Passing into Spain was something of an anticlimax: through an industrial estate, a right turn down a sliproad and over an unremarkable bridge, and suddenly that was it: we were in Spain, surrounded by unfamiliar roadsigns and language (neither of us speaks a word). We found the campsite El Faro fairly easily, on a headland opposite the French town of Hendaye, and decided to stay there for a couple of days to recover.