Toulouse to Barcelona

Doorway Toulouse

Pont Neuf Toulouse

Guide books describe Toulouse as the pink city. Reddish, certainly, but hardly pink; granted, a lot rosier than France's more northern cities. Life was hot and slow it seemed. A lot of ice cream and watermelon eating along with Saturday morning shopping. Unfortunately I stayed in Toulouse a little longer than expected due to a 'tummy upset' which resulted in me catching an afternoon train to Carcassonne to join the crew and my cycling buddies. Both Sally and Katherine left us in Toulouse so we are somewhat diminished in number.

Carcassonne new city

Carcassonne sports a new city as well as the hilltop UNESCO listed site of the original city begun in the sixth century. It was a hot and crowded place to be so we walked back to the new town and enjoyed cool drinks in the principal square.

 

 

 

Riding out was pleasant enough. We travelled along the Tour de France route to Nebias, bunting in the jersey colours hanging through streets as well as newly paved roads. Apparently the locals like the Tour as the roads do get upgraded. Pleasant as I said until the climbing began. My almost two days with little to eat meant I struggled all day. Stewart nannied me into camp after dousing me with cold water from a community laundry sink. What a great idea - communal laundries that is. A sweeping view of the valley, a cool down in the pool and a good sleep partially restored me for the next day of climbing, but not enough.

In a gorge, Pyrenees

Puicerda railway station

At around the 65km mark Linda flagged down a battered old van and we gratefully shoved our bikes in the back and watched the climb progress as Monsieur and his two children and shaggy dog chattered and talked in the front. Actually, dog did no chattering at all. When he dropped us off we still had 35kms to go to camp. Just as we pondered our fate, Mick walked into us. How fortuitous. So then it was in the back of our van to Puicerda, a welcome relief and a good spot to view the cruel magnificence of the Pyrenees.

The next day was slated at 140km. I didn't even attempt it. I was told the views were stunning as the last remaining five riders hurtled up and down and along precipitous roads with no barriers. Even if I could have done the climbs, I could not have done the downhills as I would have been frozen in terror. The train trip to Vic only took an hour and a half and sure beat the exhaustion, stress and unhinged effect it had on 3 of the 5 riders who rolled into camp near 7pm. What an endurance test this so called cultural ride for fun turned out to be. I have never given up before but I was well and truly beaten by the route over the Pyrenees. Planning 140km rides in late August is close to lunacy I expect. I have lived and learnt, to say the least. And so it was for our ride to Barcelona. We climbed into Vic and caught the train and enjoyed a fantastic ride through Barcelona to our hotel from where we alighted from the train at Arc de Triomphe. Only four riders rode the whole ride. Good for them but a major disappointment for the rest of us.

 

 

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Oh la la

From Brugge we trained it to Bayeux on the Normandy coast. Bayeux as you know is home to the famous eponymous tapestry which I enjoyed immensely, even though it is really an embroidery. Thankfully the good ladies who stitched it had the sense to number the panels, making it very easy for modern audio guiding to occur. Looking at Halleys comet as depicted in 1066 reminded me of staring into the night sky in Ballarat, hoping for a glimpse, before falling into the fishpond as a flash of comet sent me stumbling forward.

I rode to Arromanche and along the D-Day coast as well. Arromanche was in full memorabilia mode and even staged a ceremony at 10am. I think it may occur most days during tourist season. One pretty fishing village, Pot de Bessins, sported a fish market and loads of fisherman mending their nets on the quay. The harbour was well protected and it was clear that the tides must be in the five metre range, judging by the high-sided harbour walls.

There was a plethora of campervans vying for road space so pretty soon we left the coast and headed inland in search of calvados. We found what we were looking for. After small and tasty samples, we settled on a couple of bottles of pommeau, an aperitif. When Maureen toppled off her (stationary) bike we were more concerned about our cargo, and it was left to a local woman to pick her up from the roadway. Fortunately the bottles remained intact as did Maureen.

Cycling through romantic stone villages with gardens tumble full of roses and summer profusion has to be a chief highlight of my life. Normandy has much to offer the visitor keen on Arcadian views and tasty food and drink. One of our best rides of the trip was from Bayeux to Caen, where we caught a train to Tours. Caen boasted a vibrant market so it was baguette and rabbit terrine for lunch as we clackety clacked along.

We also made a trip to Paris. A highlight also. We walked our legs off and managed to complete a circuit of Eiffel Tower, arc de Triomphe, Champs Élysées, Galleries Lafayette, Pigalle, Montmatre, Sacre Coeur and Notre Dame. We piled onto our TGV to return to Tours happy and weary and enjoyed a fantastic dinner in a little Tours cafe. Even Ruby couldnt finish the THREE GIANT profiteroles stuffed with ice cream and chocolate sauce.

Not the profiteroles

Then it was on the bike again for the Loire Slogfest. Not many people would cover 240kms in two days but we did, the last in blustery strong head winds and intermittent rain. If you should do this ride, begin further east than Tours and don't ride past Angers. Scenery, chateaux and food is better further up the valley. Of course we had no time to actually visit any chateaux, just sped past and hardly even managed a photo.

Next stop is Toujours. Tout les hours, in fact.

 

 

 

 

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Into the land of lace and beer

Raining of course, but what's new, as we cycled across the unmarked border into Belgium. We were riding on a fulsome canal heading into a fierce wind and avoiding the hardy locals out for an amble, admiring the sheep, most with tails, ajisting on the steep canal banks.

A swan family

We spent a morning admiring a Dutch village name Veere. It was once an old seaport but the dike built across the sea to its west has now reduced it to a harbour for expensive yachts. The village had once been a fort, cannons standing ready to shoot down marauders, and two churches of grandeur ready to bless all troops and aristocrats. One church was bigger than St Patrick's in Melbourne. This seems to be the pattern. Small villages with huge churches. The geometry stuns me as I look upward at their soaring spires and towers.

Cat in a Veere window

We cycled across some amazing feats of engineering on our day riding to Kamperland, urged on by the screeching of gulls. Three large dikes, one of which was approx. 8 kms long, all have multi-lane roads as well as adjacent roads for bikes and scooters. My sense of vertigo prevented me from looking down into what others described as the roiling sea around the concrete pillars. The 1953 flood caused the government of the day to rethink its approach to the sea which has resulted in these expansive concrete and steel dikes. A story board assured me that no environmental damage resulted from the construction.

Belgian farms are different again. The farmhouses look more like ours, small and not part of a house-barn complex. Pairs of vases dominated the Dutch windows. Here there is not the same attention to symmetrical detail. Charolais cattle graze the ample pasture and the redolent barn smells of Germany seem to have been left behind as more and more animals are free-range as opposed to being in barns on a permanent basis.

Now to Brugge. What a storybook city this is. There are more fancy pants buildings per square centimetre than anywhere I have ever been. Horses and carts carry tourists to and fro. I was particularly taken by the Jack Russell who sits all day beside his mistress, wagging his tail and looking for all the world as if this is the best thing a dog can do all day. Last night we witnessed a two-horse one car pile up. A horse bolted, tossing its driver off and probably terrorizing its passengers, a family of four out for a nighttime gallop. All ended well enough. The cafe restored its chairs and flower boxes that were knocked over, the driver, a young woman, regained control of her horse after having been thrown out and chasing it down the cobbled street, and the family climbed back in, presumably to continue their tour.

Horse in Brugge

We have strolled the streets, sampled the chocolates and beer and enjoyed a Flemish lunch at a local cafe. Barges and boats cruise the canal that circles the old city. Cars dart in and out avoiding pedestrians and cyclists on the cobbles. I found this city hard to ride through and so have tied the Silver Fox up until we arrive in France.

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Into The Netherlands

We pedaled across the border and immediately noticed differences. Language for one. I was a bit at home in Germany but have no grasp of Dutch whatsoever. It seems that most Dutch people though have a fine grasp of English so it is proving to be very simple to obtain food and drink and most anything else, but of course, the latter two items are our main preoccupation.

Dutch farms are both similar to and yet very different in style from the German model. Bricks and mortar with tiled or thatched roofs, an expansive barn or two part of the arrangement. Flowers in abundance out the front and veggie plots boasting onions, cabbages, beans and the odd tomato plant encased in its own small plastic greenhouse. I have enjoyed peering into the picture windows of the Dutch farmhouses onto country kitchens, comfortable sitting rooms with an abundance of cushions and books in shelves. It seems this may be a country of readers judging by a couple of comments and the plethora of bookshops I have noticed so far.

The plots of land boast a conglomeration of animals all housed together; some sheep, a cow or two, goats, chooks, deer, ducks, donkeys, geese, short-legged pigs and horses. There are also a breed of cattle I have not seen before. They have rounded rumps, stocky short bodies and rather solid heads. They are a little like the Limousin, muscled and strong in appearance.

We enjoyed a several hour wander round Zutphen, an old and important town dating back 1000+ years. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zutphen for more information.

Riding along the canals has been fun. Speed is possible, especially with a tail-wind. I found myself channeling Michael and Brian as I sped along into Amsterdam. There are so many bikes in this city. Another huge bike park close by to the central railway station.

We strolled through both the green and red light districts. Ruby was amused to say the least by the ladies in the windows. She thought I had made this story up. I am pleased to see they are now wearing tops and bottoms, maybe skimpy, but they cover all the bits people pay to see, different to when I was here 20 years ago with her mother who found it too much to bear. Funny idea isn't it, to put women in shop windows. They also have mobile phones to keep them occupied now, rather than as they used to, make eyes at the passing parade.

An extravagant dinner was enjoyed courtesy of Tinda, a local woman who hosted us in her apartment and put on a fulsome spread as part of Dining with the Dutch. Twelve participated and twelve came away stuffed like Christmas stockings. The food was delicious and the ambience perfect. We were pleased that yet another fearsome rainstorm occurred while we were under cover.

Liz is recovering and John is due to rejoin us in Bruge. Good news. Karen has left for home in Halifax and Linda has joined us from North Carolina. We are halfway through Coberamba.

Karen in flight

 

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