Arrival

Sunday, August 30.

On the last day of the trip, I fitted new brake pads and and set off down the Gorge de L'Alagnon between Massiac and Lempdes. It was past 9.30am but the road was quiet.The cycling was beautiful, down a winding, well-surfaced road. I saw a buzzard from about six feet away, standing on a fence post.

Yesterday's sense of despair had lifted. The answer to the question, "why make the trip?" wasn't important. It was enough that I was coasting along through fine countryside and, by evening, I would be enjoying dinner in the company of family with a feeling of satisfaction. It wasn't why I had made the trip but it was all that mattered.

In Lempdes, I ate a custard Mille Feuilles and a croissant by the river for breakfast. I bought supplies and went indecisively from cafe to cafe trying to establish the best. I settled on the fullest and sat down for a coffee. A friend called to ask how I was getting on and suggested another reason for doing the trip: it would be a good story to tell.

I cycled for another couple of hours and stopped by a river for the final picnic lunch. I lingered longer than I had planned and it was past 4pm when I set off again.

I was now very close and as I cycled through the final few villages - Auxelles, Cunlhat, Les Gouttes - my pace picked up. From Tours-sur-Maymont, I followed a route I had ridden before on a day trip. At the top of a long, steady descent, I sat back in the saddle, tucked my body low out of the wind, shifted into the highest gear and wound my legs up until I was racing down the hill. I felt exuberant with the success, relief and achievement of reaching the end.

The final section was a two-kilometre climb up a steady, winding hill through conifers. My legs were tired but I was too excited to notice and stood on the pedals to charge up the hill in a high gear. I felt the end of two weeks of effort, the relief at success, the comfort of knowing the road and the anticipation of arrival.

The small village of Augerolles was empty but I was afraid, briefly, of a car knocking me off my bike and forcing me to walk the last 500 metres. Breaking a limb would have been OK so long as I could coast the short stretch to my Dad's house; buckling a wheel would have been terrible.

I rode down the short stretch from the village and round the side of the house, leaned my bike against a bench, walked in through the open back door and, in the kitchen I found Dad and Anthea and warm congratulations.


I've done it.

BC

Why did I do it?

Morning on the lake at St Etienne-Cantales

Today, for the first time since I began planning this trip, I asked myself, what was the point of this odd endeavour?

It was in the late afternoon. Long after I had stopped for a morning coffee in Jussac and watched the terrace fill with locals. Some drank beer, some drank coffee; some brought children, one brought a bike, one brought a child and a bike. It was after this.

It was after I had finished the second big climb of the trip, over the 1588m Puy Mary. I climbed the 11km without stopping, then went back a kilometre to photograph the climb.

Looking back down the second big climb of the trip

It was after I had sat in the grass in a wide valley eating lunch and wondering at how similar the landscape was to the Peak District in England, where I was brought up. It was after I fell asleep in the grass with the sun on me and after I woke up groggy.

I had pulled up onto a wide, high, barren stretch of moorland. Dry-stone walls divided large sections of tussocked grass. A cold headwind blew. The question came to me first as a sense of despair, of utter pointlessness.

The objective of this trip - a farm house in the countryside above Clermont Ferrand where my Dad and his wife, Anthea have lived for five years - has always been abstract. Each day had it's own objective. Day 1: reach Cogolludo; day 2: reach Almazan. Now that I was within a day's ride of the end, it was tangible and the pointlessness of the endeavour was thrown into relief. After all, why NOT just hop on a plane?

The despair ebbed away. I was pleased I had made the trip. But I couldn't answer the question, why had I done it? Neither, in fact, could I answer the question, why was I pleased to have done it? What would I get out of it? What, in the end, was the point of the whole endeavour?

A sense of achievement, yes. But it is hard to say what I have achieved. The Guinness Book of Records is full of people with a sense of achievement. A man holds the record for the longest time spent standing in a tree; his record is measured in years. Among the tree-standers of the world he is the Gold Standard and I have little doubt that he feels a huge sense of achievement.

No, not a sense of achievement. I do feel I have achieved something, but that's not the answer.

I have seen France and Spain, I have had an adventure, I have enjoyed it. I like the idea of leaving my house in Madrid on a bike and arriving at my Dad's in France. I like that the route almost links the geographical centres of the two countries. I like that it has been a physical and mental test of stamina.

All these are part of the answer but not the answer. None of them, alone or combined, seem to justify the effort.

I spent three hours searching for a satisfactory answer. I dropped down off the moor into the cold and unwelcoming town of Allanche. I watched men play boules in the square. I pulled up onto another high moorland and coasted for 20km into Massiac. All the while I mulled this question and all the while the answer eluded me. It still does.

In the end, if anyone asks me why did I cycle 1,250 km from Madrid to Augerolles, I will just have to say,

"I'm not sure, really."

Coasting off the moorland into Massiac, not sure why I had set off in the first place.

One day to go.

BC

Getting closer

Friday 28

I started the day early with a dip in the river at 7.30 and was on the road by 8.00. I had a long day ahead of me and wanted to arrive at my destination, a lake, in good time.

I made satisfactory progress along quiet roads, still following the river. I stopped in a village around 9 and bought a few supplies for lunch and a slice - more of a slab - of apple tart for breakfast, which I ate by the river in the morning calm. The sun hadn't yet reached this deep in the gorge and only a few people went about their morning business. Two young boys arrived, running, and played quietly on a nearby seesaw.

I left to get a coffee. I passed two cafes in the village but both were closed so I carried on to the next village. This village didn't have a cafe at all, nor did the next. I spent the morning hoping for, but not finding, an open cafe.

Just before 12, nearly three hours after my search had begun, I rolled into the town of Figeac and found a restaurant which would serve me a coffee by the river.

I stayed for a second coffee. I'd had an early start and made reasonable progress so I needn't hurry.

After Figeac, I carried on to the town of Maur where I'd planned to have lunch but I couldn't find a pleasant square to sit in so I headed out of town.

I found a spot with a small rock to sit on where a small river fed into a larger one. I unpacked my picnic then cooled off in the river. I climbed out of the river but the water had been so nice that I got back in again.

As I was sitting on the rock eating my lunch three boys turned up. Two were the same age, ten or eleven and one was younger. Maybe eight.

They had been fishing for freshwater crabs and were taking their catch back home to eat. They wondered where I'd come from when I told them, Madrid, it didn't really register with them. They knew it was in Spain but didn't have a sense of the distance. The boys identified more clearly with the 60 km I had cycled this morning and the 14 days I had been cycling for in total. They were astonished to the point of disbelief that I hadn't needed to change a tire. When I think about it, this comes as a surprise to me too.

After lunch the road rose steadily through thick woodland for close to an hour. As I was climbing the hill I noticed something familiar about the landscape. At the top, I passed a sign advertising produce from the Auvergne, the region where my Dad lives. I am two days' cycling away.

I ended the day with a swim in a lake, dinner on the hotel terrace and a hot bath.

BC

[edit: I changed the title of this post because I realised that the original title could have been read to mean this was the last post, which it isn't. I had meant "close" as in near, not "close" as in shut.]

Casting judgement

Thursday 27

After lunch, I cycled along the river Lot.

The Lot is about the width of the Thames at Barnes and cuts a tightly winding furrow through limestone. The road clings to a limestone cliff and in places is cut into the cliff side. The cycling was good with pleasant and changing views.

Fine cycling along the River Cele.

In fact, throughout the day I had enjoyed very good cycling.

The cliff-side road along the Cele

In Cabrarets I found a campsite by the river Cele - a tributary of the Lot - and took a long time to find a space. Eventually I settled on one, stripped to my shorts and cooled off in the river.

The village of Cabrarets

An elderly couple was sitting outside their motorhome watching a gameshow on television with a portable satelite dish.

I marvelled at the logic of driving such a cumbersome vehicle out to a campsite only to sit and watch television. It would be cheaper and more relaxing to stay in a hotel.

As I climbed up the bank, the wife asked if the water was cold. I replied that it was fresh and the husband laughed and explained that the river is shaded from the sun all day. In fact, the water had been very pleasant.

Later, as I crawled into my open-air sleeping quarters, beside a bike on which I had ridden close to 1,000 kms over the past two weeks, I reflected that this wasn't everybody's idea of fun either and that I was in no position to judge how other people spend their holidays.

BC

Wine country

Thursday 27

Yesterday was a rest day in Valence-en-Agen.

Valence is a nice enough place but has no obvious attractions and I spent the day wondering whether to be pleased to have found the "real" France or disappointed that there was not more to see. In the end it didn't matter much - I was too tired to have made much of the sights, had there been any.

Getting into bed last night I felt the same nervousness about leaving that I had felt in Sadaba. My day in Valence hadn't been remarkable in any way at all, but it was unnerving to be striking into the unknown again.

The feeling didn't last this morning and within a few minutes of leaving Valence I was enjoying myself and making steady progress, although my legs were stiff from the day off.

I wanted to make ground quickly this morning so opted for an A-road with plenty of get-outs in case it was too busy. It wasn't busy and meandered attractively through fields of apple trees arranged in rows, like vines.

The sun was shining in a clear blue sky and I enjoyed being on the road again. It took about an hour and a half to make the medieval town of Lauzerte, which sits on a rise above the shallow valley, where I'd promised myself a coffee.

I sat for nearly an hour in a well-kept square eating pastries, drinking coffee and listening to the holiday conversations of the English middle classes. A girl had a year to go before her law degree; a woman in her forties had lived in New York when she was younger but grew tired of it; a family wanted a more substantial lunch than they served here, so they left.

I chose a minor road for the next section to Cahors. It was a good choice as the surface was good and there wasn't much traffic.

After twenty minutes the green, rolling farmland abruptly became harsher and soon I was climbing the side of a limestone plateau through small oak trees. At the top I was in wine country. Neat rows of vines stretched across white, limestone soil.

I dropped into Cahors and had lunch overlooking the river Lot, by a monument to the Army of the Rhine.

BC

Another detour

[Tuesday 25th]

The day dawned grey and I was tired when I woke. I wanted to get some time under my belt before stopped for a coffee so I headed off on secondary roads through a series of pleasant towns. After about an hour I reached a small village with a cafe so I pulled over.

From the outside, The Cafe de l'Union was the very picture of Frenchness. The interior was very dark and deserted. I said "bonjour" a few times to see if I could attract the attention of anyone.


The very French Cafe de L'Union

A woman appeared with hair that was cropped and dyed dark red. She seemed surprised, a little offended, and I felt I was imposing. I asked if the cafe was open and she replied, "Yes, it is open," as if stating the obvious. I asked for a coffee and a croissant. They had no croissants but I could have a coffee.


The dark, deserted interior

She served my coffee and I asked how much it would be. A smile flickered across her face and she told me, 2.20. When I produced 2.20 in coins the smile returned, larger, happier and revealing a gold filling. She asked if I would drink my coffee on the terrace. I said I would and she offered to carry the sugar and milk for me.

Later, when re-emerging from her back room to see me sitting inside because it had begun to rain, she exclaimed "Oh mon ami, I'll pleu!" (Oh my friend, it's raining!).

My bike had developed a worrying squeak - louder than a squeak, in fact - when I pressed hard on the pedals, especially the left pedal.

My total dependence on the good health of my bike has made me alert to any sound which might indicate something which needs attention. I have heard many such sounds but all so far been false alarms. In fact I have developed a sort of bike hypochondria.

A car behind me, a bird tweeting, a flock of geese and a man tapping his walking stick on the tarmac as he walked, have all made me slow down and cock my head to one side to identify the trouble.

But this new squeak was genuine. It had started towards the end of the day before and been with me ever since. It would go away when I pedalled more lightly but would always return when I pressed hard on the pedals.

So over coffee, I looked at my map for towns where I might find a bike shop. I would have to go to Auch, the largest town in the area. It meant a bit of back-tracking but not too much.

In Auch I saw a cyclist carrying no luggage and asked if he was local. He explained he was English but suggested I try Decathlon. He'd been there earlier in the day and they had a reasonable-looking workshop. We chatted for a few minutes: he had brought his bike with him to fit in a few rides while on holiday with his wife.

I wasn't fully convinced by his suggestion and rolled round the streets of Auch, looking for a local bike shop for a while. I was getting sick of the traffic and noise of this fair-sized town so, when I saw a sign for Decathlon, I followed it.

I explained the symptoms to the mechanic who looked over the bike, tried to shake a few pieces and said it must be the metal cleat on the sole of my shoe rubbing against the pedal. This sounded simplistic.

I looked at him uncertainly and thought, "Nonsense!" to myself.

But he was insistent and squirted oil on the pedal and take a test-run round the carpark and up a nearby hill to check.

I did the test, and had to admit that the squeaking, while it hadn't disappeared, had been reduced a lot. It was a little embarrassing. As a teenager, I had dismantled and rebuilt pretty much everything on a bike and considered myself reasonably competent, yet such a simple diagnosis had eluded me.

Leaving Decathlon, I bumped into the English cyclist from earlier and we talked about the weather. It was ironic, he said, that he'd left his mudguards at home expecting good weather in France.

That afternoon I had a lot of ground to cover to reach my destination of Valence-en-Agen. I was growing tired of the rolling countryside of Gascony.

Eventually, the road flattened out and I was able to make good progress.

I arrived in Valence as the sun was setting and checked into a hotel for two nights. Tomorrow would be a rest day.

BC

Things that go bump in the night

[This post happened on Monday night.]

The Dutch father of the family was concerned that I didn't have a proper tent and suggested a number of places I could retreat to if the rain got too bad. The covered balcony of an elaborate shed he rented to holiday makers, a family tent made of marquee material.

I thought I'd be fine and in any case wanted to test my shelter.

I didn't want the weight of a tent on the trip but did want a degree of independence from guest houses. My compromise was a gore-tex cover for my sleeping bag and an army-issue poncho which could be used as a tarpaulin to keep the worst of the weather off my face and equipment.

I tied one corner to a tree, another corner to an adjacent tree, about two feet (~65cm) from the ground and pegged the other two corners to the ground so that, viewed from the side, the tarp, the trees and the ground formed a triangle. I ran a piece of tensioned string down the length of the tarp to form a pitched roof which the rain would run off.
Providing shelter to me, my luggage, a kitten and a toad.

Underneath this, I had my equipment, sleeping bag and roll mat. My bike had to brave the elements, locked to a tree.

The set up was cosy and had the added advantage of affording a breeze across my face and a feeling that I was actually outside. I like tents but I can't help thinking it slightly defeats to object to tramp out into some unspoilt wilderness only to zip yourself into a canvas bag for the night.

So I lay under my tarpaulin listening to the thunder and the crickets and watching the flashes of lightening. A kitten came to visit but scampered away when I tried to pull an arm out of my bivi bag to make friends. I could see how the big, red, writhing Jabba-the-Hut I had become could give a kitten quite a fright. Later, I felt something warm sitting on my feet, which I imagined to be the kitten, or one of its siblings. I drifted off to sleep with the sound of crickets in my ears.

I woke in the night with the storm in full spate and a large toad on my head. I could hear the rain on my tarp, but I was dry. My head was on one side and I felt a weight on my crown, just above my right ear.

I moved my head slowly and the weight disappeared. I reached for my torch and saw a toad making a slow getaway. It froze in the beam of my torch with its shoulders hunched, its elbows out and apparently crawling on tip-toes. It looked like an attempt at stealth.

I listened to the rain for a while before nodding off again.

BC