Epilogue.........

For anyone who picks up on this and wanted to talk more about the art of cycle touring then feel free to email me on tonyives@sky.com or call on 07970 455616. For the record then I had another "moment in the sun" when BBC Radio York picked up on an email I sent them and I had a 3 minute slot on the Breakfast Show with Jeremy Buxton on August 10th about "living the dream".

"Maybe I'm Amazed"

(Paul McCartney)

So I stayed at São Bras de Alportel for a couple of days. Anna had booked the Jet2 flight for Saturday and I had a few days to kill, and I thought to split this time between here and Faro. The stay was restful and I discovered that the Portuguese had a draft and bottled beer stout…called Super Bock Stout! So I paddled about writing up the blog, eating and drinking. Lots of places have wi-fi throughout Europe but in this instance I just found a bench in a residential area and clicked on the 'connections' until one didn't require a password. São Bras is still a couple of hundred metres above the coast and I flew into Faro Airport in less than an hour to check out what they insisted on as regards packing the bike up. I suppose I was hoping for that defining moment of seeing the sea and literally drinking in the view but Faro traffic is fast and furious with lots of tall buildings obscuring a full view and whilst I caught something magical and blue it wasn’t until I cycled to the centre and plonked myself on the side of the harbour that I could look at the sea and simply reflect on the bold facts that I had travelled 2,035 miles, up hill and down, in hot and often wet and sometimes cold weather, along cycle paths, over cobbles and dual carriageways, with solitude and articulated trucks and every inch had been covered under my own power. Before the flight on one day I cycled along the coast east to Tavira, a truly beautiful resort nowadays, for an omelette and coke. Other events included finding a wretched box to pack the bike into to satisfy Jet2 and also buying a holdall to put my panniers and other luggage into. I found a super bike shop who happily gave me a free box (http://www.bikealgarve.com/) and the folks at my last hotel were very nice and helpful (http://www.hoteldombernardo.com/).

As a final thing to say then.... Anna and the kids had been wonderful support and I had loved the texts, emails and Facebook messages that I had had from people (a really big thank you) as I progressed but ultimately I had achieved this myself and on reflection then it is amazing and these are truly the times of our life.

Faro Marina

"Stairway To Heaven"

(Led Zepplin)

Oh no….not the rain again! After France then there cannot be any more water left to fall? I was right but the day started terribly grey……no, stop….it is no time for the garnish, I have to tell you about the most wonderful 58 kilometres of my trip…and life?



Entry to the Final Frontier....



I left Almodôvar after a sandwich (no garnish) and deduced that I must be on one of the former main arteries to the Algarve as this windy N2 was beautifully line painted and the surface was immaculate but twisted and climbed like a bitch! At first I descended to less than 200 metres as the road curved and provided a magic carpet ride downwards. However it then fought back and I started to move into the mountainous region of the Algarve with an eventual height of 589 metres. However, enough numbers. I mused as I found the lower gears about the trucks that must have belched diesel fumes, up until they put in the motorway, as they took these hairpin corners on 10% gradients and wistfully reflected that this stretch was quite long. For me then the calibration of my computer’s altitude calculator was wrong and as I rounded the next hairpin I wondered was it the last? I can virtually remember the dozen vehicles that passed me in that couple of hours, one was a Saab cabriolet with British plates that I shouted out ‘hello’ to…and got a wave back! Another possibly shows how we tourers get into interpretation of small details. This light truck plummeted past me and as usual like a lot of Portuguese drivers they were uncomfortably in the middle of the road, but more tellingly I could smell his brakes…..clearly he had been descending for some time and I must therefore have a lot of climbing to do. So up past the cork trees, past the racket of the crickets, drinking in the scent of the conifers also beside the road and checking the temperature that was well into the 30’s. However plenty of water on board and no time pressures. Whilst always having water on board it always got warm and drinking it provided hydration but not refreshment, it was at times like this that that large peach lurking in the luggage that called to you to be devoured. I was tiring but could still get on the pedals when required and eventually I went through a quite large settlement called Ameixal. These towns were all painted white and always had cafes with young and old alike sitting there just chilling. However I peaked according to my map, and prayed that my reward would be a swift descent. No such luck! I would descend for a few hundred metres and then turn a corner that would claim back a few metres before another descent. Cruel but part of the rite of passage this road conferred on its travellers. However I was nearing the end of my day and time for a Super Bock stout and I found the delightful São Bras de Alportel and was directed by the Tourist Information office to a small hotel. As they say it doesn’t get better than that as a bike ride.





The mighty N2...let battle commence...







"Oye Como Va"

(Santana)

Small town en route

A gloomy but dry start as I hit the road out of the Alto region and into the Alentjo region. The bike had run brilliantly for all the trip but a few strange clicks had developed and I spent many an hour contemplating and sometime when stopped tightening and scrutinising all the componentry hoping it was nothing important rather than a failing bottom bracket. I got to Évora easily and this originally had been an overnight stop but after having ‘over-achieved’ yesterday I decided to push on and continue down my friend the IP2. However my ‘friend’ let me fly in a south east direction with a tailwind and a downward slope until advising me that donkey carts, pedestrians, tractors and bicycles couldn’t proceed any further….so back up the road, into the teeth of a gale, for 8 kilometres to find another route south. This took me into the wilds and cars were a rarity, they were no loss but they do give re-assurance that there is life in the vicinity! I trundled into Torre de Coelheiros thinking that some food would be nice but expected that this outpost would just have tumbleweed and abandoned farmyards. Anyway I found a café/bar and when I put my head around the door there was “Luther” playing on the bar TV in English with Portuguese subtitles, I can confirm that he does say “Não” a lot while clutching blood stained corpses. Language barriers were overcome when the barman, using the handle of a teaspoon, traced my route into Beja. Along the route then cork trees were a serious farming business and many stripped trees were evident with artics carrying the booty away. On my journey light rain was falling….which became serious rain. By the time I found Beja I was truly wet although my spirits were lifted by a set of signs for “Campismo” and a route that avoided the dreaded cobbles through the town. When I got there, a truly miserable little site surrounded by 10 foot high walls, it really did rain and I set up camp in the sanitary block until I could pitch the tent. For reasons that were not the milk of human kindness the camp manager told me to take all my stuff out of the block! I said I would after finishing my evening meal that I was cooking on the draining boards. It was important to warm up with something hot as they were repairing the showers and there was no hot water that night, the joys of a cold shower (not). My dinner was ravioli with a tomato based sauce, a staple that has propelled me down Europe but one I won’t be partaking for several months after getting back to Blighty.

...in the dry before eviction

"That Don't Impress Me Much"

(Shania Twain)





Frankly my first impressions of a Portuguese camp site were not encouraging….poor showers, gravel on the hard mud pitches and local dogs barking all night. Leaving Fundão, I continued going south in the Beira Baixa region, but this involved climbing for an hour on what used to be the main road before they put in the motorway. The climb was fabulous…windy with hairpins but never too steep and in the early morning cool  air then rising up through the coniferous trees was one of the reasons I made the trip. Being Sunday some other cyclists were out and greeted me happily as I sped along. The destination was Portalegre and in the heat I made good progress, again I was loving the scenery and roads. The map showed the road I was on taking a long way round to get to a place that I could get to directly by following another lesser road. My current Michelin map didn’t have the detail that the French ones did to indicate steepness or altitude but I reckoned that I had time and why cycle through Portugal on the main roads?…what would I see? So I immediately descended 200 metres to Vila Velha de Rodão, which was lovely and where the River Grande swelled into a lake. I had a Coca Cola stop and then was taken up 220 metres to 420 metres altitude on a road that could be described as demanding, I then fell to 200 metres before being taken up to 380 metres, all this in about 10 miles. (My cycle computer tells me these altitudes). Nisa arrived and I staggered into a bar where my non-existent Portuguese and his non-existent English came up with fried egg and chips and rice! Lovely people however and the chef filled up my water bottle with cool agua and ice…a nice touch, although the heat would soon melt it. The ride after this was straight forward to Portalegre but Portalegre couldn’t make its campsite available to little old me! There were a couple of signs and I stopped to ask several locals who couldn’t help me or said it was up steep hills. Portalegre itself was on a hill (up and then down) that reminded me of Sleights. In addition was the fact that Portuguese town centres are cobbled. The cobbles are rough blocks of stone badly set in sand…a positive hazard for a bicycle, and not the best surface to allow me to take my eyes off the road to read the signs. As time elapsed with traipsing around the town I decided to stop in a hotel…it was 7 pm by now but the only one I found was shut down. Very frustrated I decided to buy some water and just crack on down the road, which judging by the map didn’t offer much encouragement of a campsite or hotel. At this point I received a text from Anna saying that the kids and Bill were sitting down to Beef Wellington….I know where I would have preferred to be. Anyway as the heat seeped out of the day I did another 25 kilometres to clock up over 161 for the day i.e. over 100 miles when I came to Montforte that offered up a relatively expensive hotel (€50) for what it was…but who was I to negotiate at 8.30 pm in the middle of nowhere! I thanked my luck that I found somewhere. Anyway everything was fine until the next morning when I was checking out and they said they had a technical problem and couldn’t take plastic so could I pay by cash? Well I wasn’t carrying a lot and so we looked at each other and he advised that there was a cash point in the town centre. Fair enough (to a point) but it was a little way a way and …..guess….up another precipitous hill and on cobbles! I said that if he drove me there and back then I could get the cash….he agreed! As all this malarkey was going on then Shania was singing “That Don’t Impress Me much” on the hotel PA which was quite appropriate!

The river at Vila Velha

....we're cookin'

"The Hammer Song"

(Trini Lopez)

I have used web sites for maps for a long time but I must recommend Google Maps (thanks Tim). My enthusiasm for Michelin started to take a dip after leaving France, where they are immaculate, and using their Spanish ones, a few routes appeared to be inaccessible to bicycles but on my journey to the border I saw, via Google, that a minor road ran alongside the motorway….yippee! It was such a road that took me to the Portuguese border where there were petrol stations with long queues as people entering Portugal filled up with cheaper Spanish fuel. As I crossed the border a fetching young lady in blue, working for a bank, handed me a cake…something a cyclist would never refuse although this was available to all. Maybe RBS might think to greet Sassonachs as they venture north with such a gesture? Immediately it was quieter and the roads were winding with trees alongside. In the early afternoon I started to feel hunger and I arrived into a small town called Sabugal where I found a restaurant that proudly announced….”ici on parle français”. So I got the plat de jour which were pieces of ham on the bone with lots of vegetables and a standalone salad. Fortified, I climbed out of the town and cycled on for many hours. The temperature climbed to 37 degrees and when I descended after some demanding climb you could feel the intense heat come back off the road in waves – its sudden sensation was like when you go from the winter cold into a departmental store and that doorway invector heat hits you as you step inside. Fundão eventually came round and what struck me immediately was the number of Chinese shops….I wondered whether this was a legacy of being the colonial power in Macão? The camp site was poorly signposted and eventually I found it on the other side of the town up a steep hill…..a regular pattern is forming! When I went to Reception I paid my dosh and then asked if I might borrow a hammer/mallet to bash my tent pegs into the rock hard ground….the chap on Reception then gave me a rendition of “If I Had A Hammer”…..I would hammer in the morning etc…..nice.



With one final push I beat the donkey up the hill...

Portuguese roads



"At The River"

(Groove Armada)

So another day where the road was flat and I sped down to Ciudad Rodrigo. Now frankly I would have liked to have done more than my 61 miles but an absence of camp sites was as far as I was going to get. The cruise down was enlivened by a chap who cycled past without acknowledging me. Now noboby disrespects a Leeds United away shirt and gets away with it. When someone overtakes they usually go past quickly get 20 metre past you and then slow down. Unfortunately he didn't have it on his racer and I got close and just followed him enjoying the 'tow'. So I could see that he knew he was a boy in trouble with his furtive glances backwards but he kept going and then occasionally got up on the pedals to accelerate and then clutched the back of a thigh in supposed discomfort but there I was! Sadly he turned off the road when all else failed. I could have enjoyed being paced toward Portugal. Got to the destination....and you know the story! So by way of explaining how I have coped with the language then in this instance I noted a cafe full of old geezers watching this sweaty Englishman with a heavily laden bike going around in circles and as it was a slow Friday afternoon in a small town then this was first class entertainment! So I pulled up and asked them in my best Spanish....."Campeen?". They didn't normally do talking and a waitress appeared and babbled something before finding their resident linguist who only spoke French. Much to my surprise I understood it was down the hill, over the river and then first left....and so it was. On Friday if the weather is good then all the town hits the river or practices trumpet in a field! Quite lovely really, Spain at its most natural.

Nicely out of tune...

The Spanish at play

"Wish You Were Here"

(Pink Floyd)





The main plaza



One of my destinations on the trip had been Salamanca. I love Spanish cities and I think it was Michael Portillo who brought this city to my attention when he did a series of train journeys in Spain. Salamanca is big and beautiful with the first Spanish university and two cathedrals. The impressive 17th century architecture in this yellow/brown sandstone beams back at you in the 30 degree heat as you walk around the narrow streets that open into large boulevards usually the home to outdoor restaurants and, sadly, the odd swag shop. The city is a tourist destination and judging by the flood of American girls wandering around then they must run summer courses for those across the Atlantic. I was able to not use the bike as the camp site had a bus stop at its entrance and for a €1.20 I was delivered to the heart of this vibrant place. So this was a rest day, not on the feet, but on the legs and backside and it was followed by a fabulous night's 10 hours of sleep.

The newer of the two Cathedrals!

"Where The Streets Have No Name"

(U2)

Couldn’t believe my luck. I raced to Salamanca and got to town at an average of nearly 16 mph. A straight road which ran beside the Autovia and still had gradual gradients and fabulous plummets downwards, actually hit 41 mph going down one hill. Which may be the time to fill in the train spotters on the progress to date... I’ve done 1550 miles, been in the saddle over 6.5 hours every day and covered, on average, 67 miles every day. Average speed is between 11 and 12 mph but time has been ate up by trying to find sites or stopping at interminable traffic lights in towns….not to mention the on board 20 kg of luggage. Which brings me to touring around Villamayor searching for the camp site, hence the title.  



The only venue to listen to the "Nothing But The Blues" download



"Reasons To Be Cheerful"

(Ian Dury and The Blockheads)






...probably the only way to travel

 

Sadly the opportunity to be noisy and wake Pepe and Chiquitita and their sprogs was not possible because they started to get packed at around 7.30 am. For having these unkind thoughts I discovered a puncture and extracted a piece of fine metal wire from the tyre. So eventually I hit the road and was soon bowling into Valladolid. Found a large superstore but I didn’t find a travel adaptor. Now feeling quite miserable I headed for the centre of town, a lovely city where I have stopped over before, and I speculatively dived into a little shop selling cheap watches and radios. Asked for an adaptor and it was immediately produced. Such was my complete delight that I immediately started scrabbling about in my Spanish phrase book for “I love you and want your babies”. The proprietor was a little surprised. Also I found one of the two Portugal Michelin maps I needed and I thought I was on a roll! Leaving Valladolid was the usual mystery tour (gosh there’s a song title missed!) and I went around all of the southern part of the town before finding the way to Tordesillas. In pitching the tent I was discovering rock hard ground and when borrowing something to bash the tent pegs in with from the ever wonderful Dutch they were handing me nail or sledge hammers! Met and was offered a beer by Deborah and Edward who had been ‘on tour’ in their camper van since May and were not scheduled to return home until October. They had let out their house in the Lake District and were taking in some of the more beautiful parts of Germany, France and Spain. Deborah had a hand written diary with illustrations…very impressive. I think Edward had cycle toured in another life and he cast a rueful eye over my mighty Ridgeback tourer the next morning and I think he fancied also hitting the tarmac, preferably with the wind at his back and the hill rising behind him. The fabulous motor cycles belonged to two lovely Dutch people who were returning home after having been to Faro and they lent me a camping guide and gave me a morning coffee.

.....not a lot to see on the road....

"I Fought The Law"

(The Clash)



Literally hundreds of these!



...."and the law won". So let’s start with how the Spanish found large parts of the New World?.......no problem because this nation doesn’t do road signs and have directional clues like that and so it must be something intuitive and …hey presto…there was California! Of course you can see major town signs on the big roads but when within a city then they just don’t bother. I have wasted hours doubling back or ‘going the long way round’…..really frustrating. So with some help from Anna I set off south and was weaving my way round various dull side roads when I came to a dual carriageway …..no exclusion signs for bicycles …. so off I went peddling along this flat smooth hard shoulder when I heard a whistle. I must have been a sheep dog in a previous life because I knew this blast was for me to heed and a policemen came bounding across two carriageways to tell me that I was prohibited from riding on such a road. He then asked me where I was going, looked at my map decided he saw no alternative route and then in excellent English told me that if I was caught doing this then I could help the Spanish burgeoning national debt to the tune of €500. So there was I stuck at a Service Station with no way out other than a gravel track that I wobbled along until I came out on a side road. By way of sweet revenge for my misdemeanour I was then propelled up something akin to Dacre Bank but twice as long (sorry, I know in Yorkshire everything should be bigger) and I continued zig zagging to my next camp site. As I was moving along I remembered parts of the route and low and behold I cycled this route in June 2006, when I checked. The camp site was routine but to give you a indication of the behaviour of my hosts then a Spanish family arrived at 10 pm with three young excited children between the ages of 3 and 7 years old I guess. Suffice to say we had running around, screaming, bedtime stories, father singing arias and when after the long goodnight of toilet runs etc it was half past midnight. Dad then sorted out his tent with much car door opening and shutting. So that’s a tumble dryer and shotgun on my next list for camping….

"No Particular Place To Go"

(Chuck Berry)





So a rest day in Burgos…on a Sunday…..no shopping then! This beautiful city with its wide streets and beautiful buildings had its day as capital of the Castile region and was the centre of the Nationalist forces during the Spanish Civil war. A super ambiance with everything reachable by bicycle and lots of cafes and Spanish tourists. I wanted wi-fi and to charge the netbook and so I found McDonalds and discovered that I had lost my travel adaptor…..major boo hoo because finding a replacement adaptor wasn’t a sure fire thing and today and tomorrow the shops were closed. So back to the camp site to chill with the Dutch and Belgians. Cleaned the bike (again) after getting filthy by being ridden in the rain and stretched out in the tent and tried to snooze.

Burgos Cathedral

"Here Comes The Sun"

(THe Beatles)





On The Road Re-fueling



Packed a dry tent and left Vitoria-Gasteiz for Burgos. I got a welcome to another climb start, as you can see from the photo, and the weekend boys on their carbon bikes whistled past me offering the odd “Hola!” before standing on the peddles and disappearing. The landscape was now more open and wide and the vegetation more parched as I took the major road between the two major cities. The hard shoulder was wide and in good condition as I rolled along eating up the miles in this fairly bleak world. Lunch was a highlight with pork steak, fried eggs, bread and chips. Saturday meant that the traffic was quieter and I made sure to stock up again as in Spain the pleasure of Sunday retail has not got here yet! Again lots of ‘toots’ from drivers wishing me well and by late afternoon I found Burgos, which has the most exquisite cathedral I have ever looked around. The camp site was again another pfaff to find yet obvious and easy if you were doing it again! This time I found a more ‘holiday’ than ‘stop over site’ and as usual loads of Dutch and Belgians, added to the mix were a few Portuguese.

"Rocky Mountain Way"

(Joe Walsh)

I had dealings with this part of Spain in a previous life as a buyer of castings and forgings for Ford Tractor and have returned since on a few occasions. During my buying days I remember co-ordinating a visit to see England vs. France in the ’82 World Cup. Basque is writ large over everything on this rugged and mountainous coast line but more surprisingly is the preponderance of heavy industry. As I wove my way inland after a 200 metres drop to the coastal resort of Deba then I was struck by all this manufacturing, with a certain nostalgia for our British history of making things, and another thing was profound…..cyclists. Usually pencil thin men of all ages, riding fabulous road bikes in the best and smartest of kit. I saw more riders in an hour than I saw in three weeks in France. These are testing roads and by the end of the morning I had ascended 598 metres through wooded and windy roads. The green and wooded countryside gave way to something more of an open plain as I descended by 100 metres or so into Vitoria-Gasteiz. It seems so evident, to me, that Spanish cities have had such a profound input from town planners – cycle routes, pedestrian spaces, trees beside the road and smart civic facilities – that you will see in all the major cities. I had identified a camp site but due to Spanish aversion to signposts it took me an hour to find and I was able to put my sopping wet tent up with time for it to dry. After the usual chores I rode back into town to find a supermarket to stock up on supplies.

"Say Hello, Wave Goodbye"

(Soft Cell)

Riding past San Sebastian docks

Sorry…but I have to mention that I got to the French border in drizzle with several deluges to come. However to cheer me up then I received an email circular on my BlackBerry from Jet2 suggesting that I escape the rain and fly to the sun…..I could vouch that France and Spain only offered warmer rain! I came across a Belgian couple of mature years who had cycled down from the Benelux countries to Santiago Del Compostela and they were taking their breath near Hendaye before continuing. I quizzed them on Spanish camping. In fact the Dutch and the Belgians are the most prolific campers on every site except the local nationality. In the Dordogne there were a lot of elderly Brits but generally very few Germans, Italians, Scandinavians, Portuguese etc. Over the border (I was planning to take a photo of the sign but some enterprising young person, I presume, had painted over Espagne and replaced it with Nazio) then the terrain meant less roads and I stayed on the truck laden A roads but there was a wide hard shoulder and I started to get encouragement from passers by, in fact when passing one café, they stood up and applauded! San Sebastian is a lovely city with a beach but I got horribly lost although I did find time to munch my baguette, St Agur and tomato on the front between horrendous rainfall. Getting lost was due to relying on my compass rather than reading the map. Eventually I hit the coast road and went up and down until I saw a rare thing…a sign for camping near Deba. I took this windy road and ended up at a site knee deep in Dutch and Spaniards. Had some grilled hake and a couple of glasses of vino blanco and hit the sack.

Northern Spain coast road on my way to Ixaspe

"Welcome To My World"

(Jim Reeves)

On the banks of the Adour cruising into Bayonne

So another wet start and I did a brutal 50 kilometres down to Orthez with a difficult road, rain and artics (for those of you who know the key on Michelin maps then I was twiddling up a hill with 2 chevrons when a logging truck enjoying the thought of a run up this sod had to hit the anchors as this near stationery bike came into view….lots of gear crunching and he managed to negotiate around me before literally grinding to a halt up this hill and then having to look for first gear whilst creating a traffic jam!). However a delightful event was about to occur, as I had nearly chalked up 3 weeks on the road and over 1,100 miles. Close to Orthez in Baigt de Bearns lived Marian and Tim, sister and brother in law of a good friend of mine in Blighty (Jim) and they extended their hospitality for a couple of hours with a super meal, a stiff scotch and the use of a tumble dryer. It was interesting to have the conversation and I was interested in their life in France after their having lived here for many years. Their new house was lovely and I hope to see it in hot sunshine next time. Sadly time flew and with Tim’s directions I followed the Adour along its banks into Bayonne. It was lovely to follow a river (i.e. flat road) and it was very evocative and different to have the smell of brine and from 15:09 hours (who’s counting?) some sunshine. At Bayonne I bought some grub and headed down the busy coast road. I have been through Bayonne on a couple of occasions on a bicycle and I noted the hotel near the bridge where I stayed with Peter (that was cold and wet I now remember) that was close to the station in order to get a train to Toulouse the next day to fly home. Then I saw a bar where Jim and I had a meal prior to flying back home with the less than lovely Ryan Air. Found a campsite and in the night guess what?.....yes that sun turned wet.

"9 to 5"

(Dolly Parton)




Major down pour in Marmande!



It was good to get back on the road. The second rest day seemed like an indulgence with so many miles and challenges to go. However, the legs felt good. So it was likely to be another ‘day in the office’ just hovering up the miles getting somewhere I needed to get to, although 9 am to 5 pm in fact was 8 to 7! Got to Marmande after heavy drizzle and the heavens opened. I spent some time spinning around the town looking for food and a gas canister. The route to Mont de Marsan meant about 50 miles of tedious forest with no shopping opportunities and I needed to sort this out. As always a cyclist needs food whether to eat during the day or to eat at night. The ride and weather were dreary and squally….and I got dumped on as I ground on. Sadly this was a road that appeared to be a type of cut through for trucks and on a relatively narrow road. I had the joy of these lumbering fellows virtually grazing my hip. After about 85 miles the town came into view and I had to find the municipal camp site. I couldn’t find any signs and the place was heaving so I rang Anna for her to look at a detailed map. In the meanwhile a fête was getting underway and the roads were being shut off and crowds were gathering…maybe not the best time to seek spare space. So after a rush of blood I pushed on not knowing the prospects of finding accommodation or what the terrain was like. However I rolled into St Sever (99.5 miles for the day) and found a site at just after 7pm. A lovely site with a very decent boss who let me use his ‘lean to’ bar area for a place to sort out my things and cook up my dinner out of the rain! (In the photo are the some items belonging to the other people who arrived – see below – however in the morning an eccentric French camper, about to embark on a day’s fishing, sorted out his maggots, whilst talking to himself, amongst the other people’s stuff!)

"Take It Easy"

(The Eagles)

So a couple of days chillin’ in Eymet with over 950 miles covered and the most demanding miles still ahead in Spain and Portugal. Eymet was a ‘Bastide’ town founded in 1270 at the southern gateway to the Périgord. Today this quaint little market town is in the heart of the tourist route in the Lot et Garonne region and you are more likely to hear an English accent in the bars than a French one….”yeah I live darn ‘ere now. Wot wiv the economy back ‘ome and my bad chest due to my working wiv cellulose paints for so many years we live cheaply ‘ere….”  I personally have been here with the family twice in the recent few years on family holidays and knew how lovely and restful it was. I arrived on a Saturday night and with the French predilection for retail then I landed here on both days that most of the shops are shut (Sunday and Monday)! However the laundramat was open and with trepidation and considerable loose change I persuaded it all to work and am stocked up with properly clean togs again. The camp site is mainly British and French with everyone sporting a dog or two. The Brits are ‘seniors’ in the main basically spending some very cost effective weeks in the sun holed up on a Municipal camp site. Did I say sun?......I had a tan after leaving Verdun but sadly it now reflects rust…..yes lots more rain! Bought some Spanish maps and am plotting where I will head next.

"Who Let The Dogs Out"

(Baha Men)

The site at Bussiere-Galant turned out to be a park around a lake and apart from a camp site there was a circus! The couple next door kindly lent me a boule to use to bash in my tent pegs (and I rewarded them by giving them four surplus Michelin maps I didn’t need anymore) and I then, after showering, eating and stuff, read the Daily Telegraph and had a beer. Meanwhile the circus was in full flow and as can only happen at a regional small French circus a lot of strange stuff was happening judging by the soundtrack booming from within as a girl singer started to do strange things with a microphone (vocally…) before there was a 5 minute jazz fusion jam. Next day hit the road and for 60 kilometres it was flat or down hill until Périgueux when the route had its predicable revenge. However, to those who know me then my life would not lose any quality with the absence of man’s best friend. If I say countless then I am honest in being unable to recollect the number of stupid hounds who go off like a midnight car alarm as I cycle past the front of their house. The ritual is that Fido then gallops from one end of the garden to the other slavering at the fence. What really beats me is that if this house and garden is alongside a busy road where there are noisy cars and trucks going past every 10 seconds then if I cruise past slowly and silently then Fido still picks this up (scent?) and goes off like an Exocet. However I was contemplating a rest day as I approached the Dordogne and after stocking up with groceries at Bergerac I got to Eymet and found the site and the offer of an aperitif with the rest of the campers.

Evening meal preparation

"Imagine"

(John Lennon)




Street in Oradour sur Glane



So Rich, also from Stoke, thought that Limoges was a place of great beauty I thought it was just generally drab and tatty. I would point out, to justify my assessment, that Rich, who was generally touring, did know a lot about Stoke City but supported Ipswich Town. So after packing I headed up to Oradour sur Glane. In June 1944 after the Allied invasion the Germans were now starting to just about ‘hold on’ in parts of France where the Resistance were buoyed by the fact that the Allies were winning the war and were starting to become more of a threat to the occupying German forces. In this part of France the Germans were becoming depleted as they deployed their dwindling resources to the various fronts. They were becoming increasingly desperate to counter the insurgency and amongst many crack downs decided in an act of unforgivable evil to kill all the people in this small town just north west of Limoges. Just over 200 SS officers and men surrounded this town and collected all the men, women and children together and the separated the men from the rest and in four separate parts of the town they shot and set fire to the bodies. The women and children they corralled into the church where they shot and burned the bodies. A total of 662 people were killed. The bodies were buried, obviously most unidentifiable, and then they set fire to the town. There is a museum and monument there today but more starkly the town is as it was at the time of the atrocity and you can walk around it. Anyway after this experience I headed south and came across a sign for a camp site at Châbus and thought I was heading to a site in the middle of nowhere….

Yard full of burnt out cars