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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