BACK OF THE NET...BRISTOL TO AFRICA: DONE!!

Let the church bells ring out and the brass bands play...the day that we dreamt of so often has arrive. We have completed the 2638km to Africa.

I (Joe) have now returned to rainy England with a tear in my eye whilst Betty and Maia have the incredibly exciting prospect of travelling around Morocco for the next 5 weeks, by bike!

So now the trip has ended all that remains is to update you on the remaining days of our blog -- and thats quite a lot of days!

I think the last entry finished somewhere near the Spanish version of Bradley Stoke, and it is here that I will pick up the story!

The morning in the manmade forest saw us awake to weather front none of us would have expected. The day before finished in glorious sunshine and now we awoke to the densest fog i had ever seen and sub-zero temperatures. All feeling frozen and throroughly miserable we shot off towards Valladolid about 12km away! On arriving at the town we were astonished to find that our eyelashes and hair had actually FROZEN!!

Valladolid has recevied a particuarly scathing attack by the Lonely Planet, but on our closer inspection we found it to be quite a lovely place (once you had found your way out of the sprawling horrible suburbia)! As we sat defrosting over hot chocolates we contemplated how far we should go today. At lunchtime, we made the bold decision to cover the remaining 120km to Salamanca in the remaining 4 hours of daylight.

For some reason, our legs were all on fire -- feeling fresher and fitter than ever before! And we were flying at around 24kmh continuously. We also perfected our olympic slip streaming technique, i think even Chris Hoy would have been impressed!! And that was how the day played out -- nothing of worthy of mention to see, just endless kilometres in overcast Spain on the side of a motorway.

As the sunset, the dense fog from the morning resettled and we found ourselves hurtling into a black oblivion, barely able to see our front wheels. This was truly a very bizzare experience -- travelling at 25kmh into the unknown. However, we finally made it to Salamanca feeling elated and very proud of one another. And as we settled into our dry beds we knew we had made the right decision to push on that hard!!

to be continued...

its hard to laugh when your mouth is full of dry spanish delicacys

So leaving Estella we headed with hopeful hearts to Iracha where the friendly monks had built not only a water fountain but also a wine one, so as good pilgrims we took the minor detour necessary to sup the (watered down) vino tinto of the Irachan monks, posssibly violating all the pilgrims laws by filling up a bottle, one for the road. Cycling past a couple of coaches of spanish faux pilgrims (taking a coach up the hills and just stopping off in the churches, pah) and stopping off so Joe could supplement his spice and herb bag with fresh thyme we finished the night in Najara in a free hostel, the only downside being that as all the other pilgrims were men there was no hot water left for Joes shower. Leaving the next day, another group of cyclo-pilgrims got out their video cameras for a little filming, and Betty made us do morning stretch so that we´d leave the same time as them, clearly she had forgotten all about her Pamplonan lover.

All the beautiful scenery in the world could not make up for the fact that we were to be joined for a long time by a new companion; the spanish wind. While this was not as wet as the french wind it was nearly ten times as strong, and when mixed with the beating sun our skin soon resembled that of russian peasants in the 1600s. Getting into Burgos took the last of all our energy, but with our new song, yo no soy marinero, soy peregrino, (to the tune of by la bamba) anything was possible. checking into the pilgrims hostel, 4 euros for probably the swankiest place I´d ever stayed, we thanked our lucky stars that we were out of the wind and the rain that had just started.

After searching in vain we had to leave Burgos with virtually no breakfast, having been told that nothing was open till much later in the afternoon. Fearing that Spain would involve nothing but wind we readied ourselves for the Tour de France and achived near perfect formation cycling, with a slap of the buttocks to indicate when the cyclist in front had had enough of the wind and needed a rest, pure pelatonic perfection. Even when Bettys chain decided to finally snap our spirits were not dampned and Joe flipped out his Topeak and fixed it in a matter of minutes. Riding into Villalaco me and Joe used our rudimentary spanish try and find somewhere for three tired peregrinos to stay, all we got was a load of chick peas and berlotti beans, which we then used to create a specatcle of English eccentricities when we proceeded to wash them in the town square. A cosy evening spent under a fig tree with an actual fire place, which was only slightly marred by my paranoia of my tent blowing away again or my incessant fear of being eaten by Spanish dogs.

Looking forward to getting back on a Canal we cycled in through a wet morning to Torrquemedia, only to be told by a husky voiced woman that the canal was impassable in the rain, so we altered our route to take us through the Cervix of the Bull, or Cervico del Torres as the locals call it. Taking a path which was supposedly less hilly, I really don´t know where these people get there ideas, we flew across a down and then across a spanish valley before tackling our final hill of the day, the descent of which took us up to a new top speed of 57.7k/p/h, pretty fast indeed, before setting up camp in a madmade forest which was being unmade by a man with a chainsaw as we set up camp. Being near a suburb we walked to the spanish version of Bradly Stoke where we came to the conclusion that Spanish music videos were about as well made as a video made 10 years ago by a failed boyband or angsty teen, all in all pretty amazing.

Any way its snack time so I´ll just update the stats for my dad
Bordeaux to Lanton 53k
Lanton to La Petit Nice 43k
Le Petit Nice to Mimizan 63k
Mimizan to Biaritz 107k
Biartiz to Elizondo 53k
Elizondo to Pamplona 63k
Pamplona to Estella 51k
Estella to Najera 79k
Najera to Burgos 93k
Burgos to South of Villalaco 82k
South of Villalaco to near Cambza 81k
Near Cambeza to Salamanca 138k
Salamanca to Near Salamanca 21k
Near Salamanca to Bejar 63k
Bejar to Grimaldo 91k
Grimaldo to Las Herrereas 91k
Las Herrereas to Puente del Maestre 98k
Puente del Maestre to Andalucian border 76k
Andalucian border to Sevilla 82k

total distance 2321k
Thighs; large enough to be commented on by spaniards we meet.

they´ll be coming round the mountains when they come...yee hah!!

Right then, theres a lot of updating to be done and not much time to do it, so im going to launch myself into a vino tinto and tapas fuelled blog writing frenzy...

So after the exciting tent blowing away night of fun that Betty described we continued on down the very wet and windy west coast of france. the scenery stayed the same and by the time we arrived in Biarritz, in a storm in the middle of the night, i think its fair to say that we were all glad to see the back of this certain section of coast.

The Youth Hostel in Biarritz provided us with some well needed rest, it was really quite a fancy hang out -- very surfer orientated with the necessary (?) pictures of Che Guevara and other liberal radicals pasted all over the place.

The weather did little to ameliorate itself and we ended up staying an accidental 3rd night. However, finally on our 4th day in Biarritz we got the window we had been waiting for and set off into the unknown -- towards the looming and rather ominous Pyrenees.

With very little clue as what was a steep mountain or an impassable route, we were delighted when a slightly dishevelled American stopped his car, showed us the way and invited us to his house. Mark (the American) reccommended that we should see Ainhoa, "the most beautiful village in France, perhaps the world". So following his advice off we went, through Ainhoa and then down to the Spanish/French border. There was no confetti or brassband to welcome us into the next leg of our journey, just sprawling cheap Spanish supermarkets and a MASSIVE hill.

After Dartmoor, we thought we had "hills", turns out the Pyrenees had a thing or two to teach us. Uphill for 12 km, at a pretty steep gradient, in the rain is definitely one of those life toughening experiences. However, its amazing how quickly the pain if forgotten as you quite literally fly down the other side. A new top speed of 54kmh and a gradual downhill gradient saw us arrive at our destination: Eli¡zondo, for the night.

About 10 meters away from Spain´s most notorious mental asylum lies the beautiful Basque home of the American Mark and his wife Isabelle. Very rarely are you made to feel so welcome within seconds of arriving in someone elses home, but with Isabelle and Ines it was just wonderful. We were shown up to their huge farmhouse loft which is used as a refuge for hikers. From up there we had amazing views over the the Elizondo valley as the sun was setting.

We headed out into Elizondo for dinner that evening and expectations were running high after an almost free round of beers and tortilla. However, this reality was soon to come crashing down as we found ourselves in a very bizarre/grotesque looking restaurant eating over cooked macaroni and baby food. Ah well...

The next day we all had a spring in our step, eager for our next day in the beautiful Pyrenees. Again, a climb that lasted the best part of 3 hours was soon offset by the breathtaking and blissful descent down the otherside. This blog has talked a lot about autumnal scenes, but the panoramas on this descent definitely were up there as some of the absoloute best. Every shade imaginable of reds, oranges, yellows, browns, purples and greens rippling through a seemingly endless range of mountains and their forests.

At the bottom of this descent we found ourselves on the dual carriageway into Pamplona...but we just thought, "its the most direct, so lets just stick with it!"

Pamplona was our first real experience of Spain. Home of the "running with the bulls" and all things Spanish, we were left speechless as we strolled through the narrow, cobbled roads that were lined with the colourful, semi-tumbledown Spanish appartments.

In Pamplona we visited the Bishops palace where we signed on as Pilgrims, and spent a lovely few hours with some very friendly bike mechanics. Betty found them particuarly friendly, and in fact holds a special place in her heart for one of them.

That night we found ourselves sleeping in Hostel Hemingway, a cheap and mildly hygenic place. The night passed uneventfull except for my happiness when Maia, Betty and I tucked into a 6 course, homecooked tapas feast, whilst the local Spanish ate takeaway pizza..."who said the English didnt eat well¿??""

Much of the next morning and early afternoon was spent trying to navigate which was the right path of the Camino de Santiago to take. We finally found our way as the sun poked from behind its cloud and we were away, zooming down the neighbouring road to the pilgrim route.

Our first experience of pilgrim life was in Estella, a small but beautiful town about 50km south west of Pamplona. Throughout the Camino de Santiago there are numerous hostels which one can stay at for almost free. This particular one was €3, and we were 16 to a room. However, we all started to think very positively about the pilgrim route and the fellow pilgrims.

It was very comforting and uplifting to find so many brilliant people all who had undertaken the pilgrimage for numerous reasons: religious and not. Young, old, Spanish, Chinese, man, woman, groups, solo walkers, cyclists, walkers...such variety and all with a genuinely interesting story to tell.

One 69 year old french man recounted how he had walked thru snow storms, alone, other the Pyrenees from France. One night he had been unable to make it to his intended town so opted to sleep in a bivouac in the forest, in the snow. At around, 7 o clock that evening, some Korean girls were scared out of their wits when they happened upon an elderly French man sleeping in middle of nowhere and ran off screaming that they had encountered the yeti...

pine needles, wind, wind and more wind. oh and rain; lots of rain....

It has to be said that Joe wasn´t even exaggerating (for a change) WITH HIS DESCRIPTION OF THE FILM WE SAW THAT NIGHT, oops, caps lock off now, but all the same it was a fun excursion.

The following day was fairly uneventful; the usual hassle with my gears not working and probably a fair few punctures. The scenery was beautiful if a little monotonous, pine tree forests and the slight sound of the ocean off to the left somewhere. Joe and Maia were both so excited abouting showing me the "dune de pila" (not pilau, as joe attempted to tell me when he was making out that some indians had come over and built the biggest pile of pilau rice in the world.) so excited were they, that we almost all blacked out from hunger going up the hills to get there for lunch. It turned out to be exactly what i had expected. A really big pile of sand. Perhaps had i not become Ms Furious from lack of food i might well have appreciated it more. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, both Joe and I struggling to find our rhythm and me getting a little frustrated. We found a lovely little spot right on the side of the beach ´twixt the the ocean and the pine forest floor.... While i went to sit at the shore and contemplate the last few weeks, Joe and Maia had put up the tents... Joe had somewhat unneccesarily, i thought, fashioned some extra-deep-sand pegs out of branches, and tied his guys to the nearest trees. A storm was brewing, we could see from the prevailing black clouds and the bitter wind whipping past our faces. A little role-reversal, Joe slaving once more over the stove and Maia and i under-taking the mammoth task of making a campfire with wet matches, wet wood, and no paper or firelighters. However, fast forward an hour or two and picture the scene.... huddled round a roaring fire, the soundtrack from Amelie delighting our ears (from my speakers covered in a plastic bag) our various sodden socks n ting draped on fashioned clothes horses, clutching warm curry and trying hard to ignore the smoke in our eyes, the wind on our backs and the increasingly frequent pitter patter on canvas just next to us. Quite a romantic scene, the joie de vivre returning full-force. Later on, unbeknown to me as i dozed, Joe and Maia were lying sleepless in their respective tents listening to the sounds of the increasingly violent weather and picturing the pine trees falling on our heads, worrying about their tents´ wellbeing like a mother about her child. I woke up when Joes jeans flew off a neighbouring bush and into the tent with full force. It seems their worries were not unfounded, as the next thing we knew Maia was shouting and fumbling at our tent´s zip. Her tent had blown down! A moment of panic ensued as she rushed to get everything into Joe´s already inhabited 2-man, whilst keeping it all dry. We snuggled up close and prepared to wait it out. Once the sun was up we emerged and quick as lightning, packed up and headed into the next town to find breakfast and some respite from the elements. En route Joe got another puncture. Everything was closed, bar a little self-service laundrette, into which we piled and stripped ourselves of our sodden clothes. Well, Joe stripped, Maia and I removed our socks. Waiting for them to tumble-dry we feasted on fresh bread and fig jam from the boulangerie over the road. An interesting scene for the passer-by no doubt; us singing and dancing and breakfasting in the laundrette (Joe in only his padded cycling shorts dont forget).

And then something incredible happed: the sun came out! YEEEHAR! we cycled up the hill and along the tops to the supermarket feeling joyous. The sun disappeared almost as soon as we sat down for a picnic lunch by a lake and hung the tents out to dry. Joe predicted (correctly) another downpour and moved his tent to inside the public toilet. joking that it would fall in the loo, we found shelter and ate lunch on the veranda of a little wooden hut and watched the rain move in, covering our legs with the tarp. maia was reminded of all her childhood holidays, as we sat on our hands to keep them warm and fed ourselves chocolate in a vain attempt to lift the sullen mood. Getting back on my bike after lunch was one of the hardest things i´ve ever done. But things, as they say, can only get better???????

internet time running out, so more coming soon. (the good news is that the sun is out. todays gonna be great!)


love betty xxxxx

Well, here I am again, fingers poised to update you on all that has gone on in the past few days. Everyone is currently feeling pretty chirpy because we have just put off our departure from Biarrtiz Youth Hostel for another day because of the CHRONIC weather.

So, i guess i shall pick up where Maia left off...

After our run in with the mysterious french man, the tranquility of the night did not vastly improve because of a psychadelic trance rave on the neighbouring marsh. I was criticised for being old beyond my years when i said "its just noise, especially played that loud at 2 in the morning".

The next day we were met by what would be the weather front that would follow us to date: vicious rain, wind and hail. However, never ones to be put off by a 'spot' of rain, we set off eagerly into the 70kmh head wind. A truly comical amount of rain decided to fall around 12, and did not ease up.

We lunched in the beautiful town of La Rochelle, but the lunch itself did not quite match the rain-drenched views: a soggy tuna sandwhich and a scowl was about all we could get, so we set off again disheartened and cold.

Shortly after leaving La Rochelle we found ourselves cycling along the coast in gale force winds, rain, sea spray, and on a path that resembled the way to hell. When Betty nearly cycled into the sea, delirium set in and insanity took the place of hypothermia.

The stress of enduring 4 flat tyres in the period of about 2 hours really took me close to breaking point...Maia and Betty may argue that i actually did break, but my chain of expletives was merely to express my delight at the whole situation.

We arrived as prunes to the Youth Hostel at Rochefort, to only be destroyed when we learnt it was shut on Sundays...BUT...by some stroke of luck, someone happened to be in and we managed to get ourselves a much deserved room for the night.

Feeling rested and rejuvenated we set off south the next day, away from the marshes and towards the sandy pine forests of South West France. The weather was no friendlier on this day and we were soaked to the core before long.

That evenings camping proved to be the most dramatic to date. Having fumbled off the cycle path in rapidly vanishing light, we just about managed to pitch our tents before the heavens REALLY opened. The rain poured and poured and poured, and by morning our sleeping mats were floating on a bed of muddy water.

We awoke cold and unrested but at least it was no longer raining. We had a ferry to catch from Royan to Vendon sur Mer at 1130, it was 40km away and we only got going at 10am. So we were off like race horses, galloping through the kilometeres of pristeen cycle path. It looked like we were going to make it until things started to go wrong: Maia took a tumble, we took a wrong turn and a stretch of the path was ankle deep in sand. At 1125, with 7km to go, we decided that it was an impossibility, gave up on the idea and pootled slowly onwards. On arriving at Royan, i just thought i should check that i had read the timetable right...turns out i hadn't!!!! We had 5 minutes to find the port, buy tickets and get on the boat...AND WE MADE IT!!!! Literally as Betty's wheel bumped on the bough doors closed.

After the initial high of making the ferry we again realised that everything we owned was smelly and sodden and we were in the middle of nowhere. That was when we decided, at 2pm, that it would be a good idea to cover the 105km to Bordeaux that day....

Through pushing every barrier of human exertion, and eating more faux Werthers Originals than is humanly possible, we arrived at 8pm to Bordeaux and checked in for a well deserved two nights...

Our rest day passed enjoyably but rather uneventfully: a lengthy stroll around the beautiful streets of Bordeaux, a morning in the launderette and a rather exciting blues bar in the evening (the lead man very closely resembled the mixed race woodland creature from the CBBC show, Arthur -- crazy, i know!!)

With our batteries recharged, our clothes washed and our bad moods cleansed we left Bordeaux feeling positive, and having no idea that the following 4 days would prove to be the most testing of the trip, perhaps of our lives...(ominous sound of thunder, and creaky diminished organ chords!!)

The first day from Bordeaux really wasnt that bad, after a rain storm on a dual carriage way/ring road, things could only really get better. And they did (temporarily): we finally found the necessary gas for the cooker, the sun nearly came out and we found a beautiful spot to wild camp.

The first evening out of Bordeaux Betty and I, embarked on a trip to the cinema to avoid another night of going to bed at 830. The sensation of riding without panniers to the cinema was perhaps one of most bizarre of the trip so far -- it was like riding a bike with 2 litres of vodka in you whilst having no control of your limbs.

The film was a...um...well to be honest i didnt understand a thing and fell asleep, as did Betty, but im sure the French loved it!!

On the cycle back to the tents we got well and truly drenched...literal buckets of water were falling from sky and it wasnt long before we regretted wearing jeans...

And so for another epically long chapter in the blog...
well it may be a little short as there is a que behind me for the computer

Leaving Brehan, one of the hardest things I have done in a while (who knew when we'd next see a bed, a sofa, a mum-type?), we headed out along the canal with the sun shining, birds tweeting, innumerable spiders making dewy webs, all pretty poetic one might say. The canals beauty, however did not last long, we were ousted from its path by building works, and forced to climb a hill, something we had gotten out of the habit of doing, but, once up the hill it became clear that while the canal was picturesque, at times when you wanted speed, roads were far superior, we reached our target for the day, Redon. Us trying to do this on the cheap meant a little wild camping was the order of the day, so we ended up on a municipal patch of waste land, hidden by the tall grasses from any prying eyes or potential wierdos who frequent this type of land for fun.

Waking up to a cold, damp mist, with my PMA dropping we set off, back along the canal, for a solitary kind of day, on the way passed by a cyclist who, omg, made Joe's heart yearn for the lifestyle, imagine a heavily bearded French man, on a old bicycle, without any fancy cycling gear, just looking at home and like he'd been cycling for years. He did make us young bucaneers feel a little over dressed, with all our fancy things (waterproof panniers etc, quelle swanky). Still after lunch, we followed eurovelo's instructions and left the Brest-Nantes canal, our dearest of friends, and zoomed along the roads to Nantes, thus ending the first section of our trip. Booking into a youth hostel, we did what we do best and ate, Joe making us a humongous fish pie and cooking more potatoes than you could imagine.

After a morning pootling round Nantes in the morning, on a seemingly endless quest for stickers for Betty's bike, we headed into the suburbs, then the country side, all the while watching that magnificent spectacle described in the guide book of the roofs changing from grey tiles to red as we crossed over the loire, tbh we'd never seen anything quite so breathtaking. After a brief race with some children, our pride forcing us to cycle fast rather than be overtaken by a 12 year old on a bike we dined on a veritable feast of fried potatoe, potatoe salad, boiled potatoe and fish pie (main ingrediant: potatoe); we felt like kings.

Another night wild camping in the corner of a field, ducking whenever we saw headlights, and for my part getting throuroughly scared by the loud rustling in the near by hedge/hovel and we all felt like it may be nice to sleep in a campsite where there were sure to be no man-eating farm animals.

The next day began with a bang as Joe discovered he had beaten 20,000 others to the post and gotten an internship in the Big Apple, cycling jubilantly, the sun beating down on us we stopped for lunch in Girousaund, in the gorunds what appeared to be a house topped with red-brick ramparts and turrets, a little odd, but the formal garden was the perfect place for us to dry our vast amount of wet camping paraphanalia and dance around to the B-52s. Feeling like celebrating we went to the only open campsite in the region, which, to our delight was a little organic farm, where for the same price as a tent Christine and Didier invited us to stay a caravan and partake in their home made citron wine, a significant boost to our morale and PMA as a whole. Sharing our breakfast with us the following morning, we were all yet again, half wishing we didn't have to leave and that we could remain living this "good life" esque lifestyle.

Finding ourselves once again on a canal, although this one was a series of little ones through a marsh we settled to camp in a deserted lookig field. Cooking our dinner we wondered at the isolation of the marsh when what should happen but a citron van drive up the side of the field, turning their lights off half way up, then continuing into the dusk with his lights off before stopping at the top of the field and getting out from his van. Being rational humans Joe and I instantly decided he could be one of 3 things: a murderer coming to dump the body, a deranged farmer protecting his land or a poacher. Ensuing gun shots made the murderer or poacher options the most likely. We cooked in near darkness for fear of detection, then Joe, unable to cook without herbs, turned on his heqdtorch. Within seconds the farmer was turned the engine on and headlights on drove down the field towards us. Betty and I hid in a ditch, half laughing half hysterical with fear, would the ultra reflective rims of mine and Joe's bikes be our downfall? bamboozeling us all he drove slowly past our collection of bikes and tents without stopping, we concluded he must have been doing someting illegal and feared detection.

ok not yet finished updating but as I have all but pitched my tent in my room, and Joe actually has I will leave this for a minuete to tidy up, x

The stats:
Brehan to Redon: 86k
Redon to Nantes: 66k
Nantes to Paulau Chappelle: 75k
Paulau Chappelle to near Poiroix: 57k
Near Pioroix to 30k from La Rochelle: 61k
30k from La Rochelle to Rochefort: 76k
Rochefort to a forest: 46k
a forest to Bordeaux: 150k

En Francais!!!!

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