Mirepoix to Carcasonne

The next morning dawned bleak and quickly brewed into gale force headwinds.. Added to that the road had become much hillier and after several hours pedalling, for the first time in my life I felt drained of energy and unable to go much further. It was then I came to a Freeway over my road that I knew would lead more directly to Carcassone and with easier grades so I decided to climb the fence and transfer to the Freeway.

After only about 5km pedalling I heard the loudspeaker on the Highway Security patrol van hailing me down. He immediately called up the Gendarmerie who arrived to inform me I was under arrest; and would be taken into town and charged. After I explained my reasons for taking the Freeway (the gale force winds etc) and the origin of my journey, and handed over my Australian passport, they all thought it amusing; exchanged glances that confirmed I must be stupid but harmless, started taking rugby (of which I know nothing) and left me free to go (but not along the Freeway) with a cheery wave.

The Gendarme was interesting in that he insisted on speaking to me in terrible English. I was sure it was to impress his young female offsider inside the patrol car checking my ‘papers.’ As I let the menfolk deep in their rugby conversation and passed her still in the patrol car I said to her in English that her companion’s English was crap. She replied to me in clear English ‘YesI know.’

Foix to Mirepoix

Foix is lovely alas it did not yield me my laptop’s mobile broadband needs for one reason or another so I decided to push on to Mirepoix.

It was nice cycling through familiar territory. A passing lycra clad man of the same difficult age as my own came up alongside me and chatted for a while.

As I came into Lavelenets his twin did the same and we stopped chatting at a point rond (roundabout) while he admired my iPhone  GPS and somehow consumed all the credit I’d just charged onto my new French SIM card. Unnotice, we’d started to hold up the roundabout traffic and young girl drove past and made a rude sign at us. My cycling companion told me to ignore her because it was only his daughter.

Mirepoix was s nice as ever but with the usual forlorn campsite where I was once again the only person under canvass. Still the showers were hot and clean and there seemed to be nobody taking payment or any way of making it it so I couldn’t complain.

Planoles to Ax Les Thermes - Over the Pyrnees twice

The climb up past Planoles was steady with breathtaking views and ski lodges starting to outnumber the older buildings. The glimpses of snow were nice and I’d left the pine trees well behind me as i climbed up though 1700 meters into the alpine zone.

After about two hours of steady climbing I thought to stop to make myself a coffee and decided just one more bend. Suddenly the road flattened out and after one more bend I was at the top, it came so quickly that I didn’t even thing to get a photo or even get the bagpipes out, they not being foremost in my mind.

Its only when you freewheel down a mountain you appreciate that the amount of energy you put into the climb is now unwinding for you like a watch mainspring. For the first time on my trip I thought to get out my MP3 player and the enjoy my favourites,

As I hurtled down I saw the only other cyclist that day, a lone young lycra clad woman putting in a good effort on her way up and who greeted me with a cheery smile and wave.

I’d assumed the border with France would be high in the peaks but it’s in a wide valley and unremarkable except suddenly people are speaking lovely clear French rather than the increasing strongly accented Catalan.

My fears that there was another range to climb were soon confirmed. It was now getting late but I was determined to reach Ax Les Thermes at least by nightfall. I knew there was a tunnel and decided I’d take it. Alas when I came to it there were toll booths and I was clearly not going to slip by unnoticed. The options were to go over the top yet again; take the train, or thumb a lift with a passing camper van. I stoically decided that one more climb couldn’t kill me and peddled off, noticing that the majority of traffic avoided the tunnel and toll.

This climb was similar to the one earlier in the day except it was higher reaching 2000 metres( according to one sign perched high above for the sake of the tourists) . As I neared the top and thought to take my last photos of the day the clouds rolled in obscuring the pass above and the valley below. Once I reached the top the clouds had started to release their burden and I put on my wet weather gear and gloves into increasing driving rain thinking the Pyrenees had been a bit anticlimactic.

When I arrived in Aix / Ax the bars were on full on and so still the rain. A quick check of the campsite, with its closed reception office convinced me I deserved the reward of a hotel. I asked a woman on the street for her advice on a modest hotel and she immediately recommended the Bellevue up the road nest to the Eglise.

I raised a few eyebrows as I pushed the sodden bike thought the Bellevue’s doors but the proprietors didn’t seem to mind. The ‘petite fille’ (the daughter) on reception told me a room with bidet would cost me Euro 29, with shower Euro 32, with breakfast Euro 35 and with half board Euro 44. I said I’d have the lot and did she mind if I went straight to dinner in my wet cycle gear after leaving the wet bike in the bar area under much local scrutiny and conjecture. I stayed for two days of bliss, free internet access and a foray to the local laundrette. And my first taste of rabbit stew since Dad told us our pet rabbits had escaped (old age), and which the lovely proprietoress (the Mum) insisted I finish (in spite of my sensitivity since I added two and two together as a child).

And as I left the proprietor (the Dad) sought me out to wish me a safe journey. Nice family

Last Post from Spain

Proof of life

Descent into France

Ripoll to Planoles

The 60km onto Puigcerda (French Border) that day would have taken me 5 hours at my slow heavily luggage burdened pace and I didn’t fancy getting there at midnight so I decided to lay over at Planoles.

The lovely elderly couple (who’s son ran the campsite) opened the bar just for me to sit in comfort on the computer. And the showers were hot and the campsite was immaculate. They charged me less than I’d been charged anywhere in spite of me being the only guest they had apparently.

Both spoke the clearest Spanish in spite of claiming to speak Catalan, unlike the people in the villages below whose accents were so strong I wondered if they were indeed speaking Spanish at all.

It was only later that evening I realised I’d seen no other cycle tourists kitted out for long hauls like me.  But then I suppose Nic Crane. Michael Palin, Griff Rhys Jones, .A.J. Mackinnon etc, did what they did not expecting to meet others doing the same thing coming the other way. But they probably all remembered to take the odd novel or Daily Telegraph crosswords with them to pass their wi-fi free evenings.

Olot to Ripoll

As I left Olot I spotted a man with backpack (and woman in tow some distance back) walking into town Nic Crane style. My instinct was to stop and address him in English and that he was. He said he’d lived here 30 years working as a translator. I though people just used Bablefish for that nowadays.

He did put me onto the local ‘Roman Way’ walking trail that I confirmed in the Town Hall in the next town up. The young man there told me the easiest route to take across to Ripoll, assuring me bicycles were allowed through the tunnels.

Ten kilometres up the road I came to the road tunnels with signs prohibiting bicycles through the tunnels and other signs to the detour high above. I wasn’t going to fall for that again, so, lit up with all my yellow and reflective gear, on I went, traffic being light. Several long tunnels later I emerged wondering what all the fuss was about. And I found somer nice old riuns along the way.

When I finally found the isolated northern end of the Rail Trail (Ruta del Ferro) 11km my side of Ripoll I realised I’d done the right thing after all by finding a future adventure, but more sensibly to be done in the other direction, Pyrenees downhill to the Costa Brava.

Barcelona to Olot

In spite of my earlier plans to travel via Gerona, In the cold light of the following day its seemed like a very indirect and uncertain route so I decided to take the main drag north to the border. The autovia was lightly trafficked and the only excursion I made into a local large town was disappointing..

When I came to choice of going via Ripoll or Olot I thought I’d take the later, given the opportunity to do the upper section of the ‘Rail Trai,’ and both being the same distance of 32kms.

My choice lured me into the hardest bike ride I ever had, 120km in one day all (but for the last 16km) up steep inclines. This was because having been lured this was I was confronted with the sign that bikes were not allowed through tunnels, had to exit there go over the top above.

Thinking I’d obey the law for once and that the narrow tunnels might be dangerous, I took the ‘pretty’ route. If ever i was going to die of a heart attack it was that day. But it turns out it was Osama Bin Ladin’s big day instead.

I finally reached Olot just before dark and found the campsite where I was charged only 15 Euros for a beer, a Coke and a bottle of wine, so thirsty as I was. The campsite turned out to be so dismal I think I was overcharged for the camping component. Neither hot water nor wi-fi was on offer, and the place was almost empty apart from me, and like some forlorn abandoned refugee camp.

The Manager complained of the poor local economy; new apartments projects abandoned, and oddly for this remote part of the country a very high migrant population who insisted on maintaining their traditional dress. I don’t beleive he expected they all wear the Catalan equivalent of flamenco gear but he said he thought they might all try a little harder to integrate with their  host country and culture..

All odd really ‘cos on leaving the town I realised it was Volcano country with rich red soils and lots of enormous haciendas.

His other news for me was that the ‘Rail Trail’ (Ruta del Ferro) between Olot and near to Ripoll was not yet opened. Had I read the fine print (so obvious now) back in Barcelona I would have known. Such a pity the young lady in the Tourist Office didn’t mention it to me.