16 October

At San Sebastian we opened the Ground Effect Tardises to find … damage to my bike. It was Monday and all the shops were closed until 4 pm. An amzaing guy in a small bike shop machined a stop gap replacement for the broken part from something vaguely (a few words of French in common) and we were off – at about 5.30 with dusk fast approaching. We had a country hotel in mind at the top of the hill. We arrived at 9 pm to find it boarded up for the winter. After much ining and shouting the owner r caretaker sent us downhill 5 kms in the wrong direction to the nearest village. We stayed with some grumpy basques and ate bread and cheese. I was in the loft and left my phone charger behind…

17 October 2006. Our breakfast of greasy potato tortilla and fresh pastries at the only cafe was livened up by a couple too boisterous for this drizzly town. Despite the rain on the bikes we wear our coats flapping open for coolth, as we retrace our route the 5 k back uphill to the closed Hotel Baba Kisa. The descent is picturesque, green valleys with russett autumn leaves, mostly piled up in the gutters. The road is a swishing tunnel beneath dripping branches touching overhead. Whenever the pace of the descent increases, so too does the rain.

Soon enough the valley opens out to rich green farming country, rises after crossing a river and then gently descends to Donastebe/San Estaban. Lunch is eggs scrambled with slices of fat fungal mushrooms, ham serrano and queso con membrillo (quince jelly).

After lunch we climb gently through similar farmland in valleys edged with steep hills shaded green and beetroot. At the village of E we stop for a break and step right into late lunch for a small film crew making a ’scary movie’. The set is a substantial derelict building between a cafe and an arm of the river. The cafe has been commandeered and has tables for 30, but doesn’t mind fitting us in among the after lunch debris. The seventeen year old star has a pock-marked face (make up). He’s very forward with Fiona, trying out out his cheeky English before his call. He’d kiss on the first date, said Greg. Apart for that a few sultry wardrobe girls and guys with hammers hanging from their belts. The glamour is in the crew, says Fiona, not impressed with the cast, their walkie talkies, earpieces and hard boots.

We started then our first real climb, gentle, insistent, looking back through misty air on farming valleys of greens, browns and reds, sheep on the road and birds of prey above. At the Col – the border with France – a very old barn, half old school tacky souvenir joint and half resto, provided fancy olive oil baked potato crisps with an appalling sherry. A group of four gruff men were struggling to choose the best thick black belts with silver clasps.

Over the col were barren rocks and red heather dried brown. A white-washed stone building with stone walls to mark out the steep descent where it would be most unwise to mess up your cycling lines (thinking of Casterelli). It took longer to find and put on the extra warm clothes than it did to fall the 8 km down to St Ettienne.

Fiona got a flat on the way down on the way into town; while waiting I booked us into L’Arcé for dinner – according to our research a good value restaurant, but not so good value hotel. While Greg and Fi fixed her wheel I looked for other rooms. Outside a no star hotel on the main street the owner ran out a grabbed me and sold me the room on the basis of enthusiasm and that he had a garage where our bikes would be behind a door ['fermé á clé' - one of those French phrases where yuo think they could just have a simple work like 'locked']. This was its only real selling point unless you are fond off higgedly piggeldy furnishings, lumpy beds, thin towels, traffic noise and showers installed in the form of a plastic tardis in the middle of each already modest in size room. Greg and Fiona found it quaint nevertheless, and it reminded me of a room in Arbois in 2002 where I had a fleeting fancy to return and live for a season, based mainly on the low low price.

I’m very worried about mum. Can’t see that her increased pain can be caused by anything but a growing cancer despite the reassurances that radiotherapy can make it worse before it is better. She’s decided on the celiac block which I think is good; hope it works, it would be horrid to be a paraplegic on top of all the pain.

At the Arcé we ordered too much wine – 50cl of white local Iroluguy (very nice) and a half of red – the proprieter turned up her nose when we preferred the local red to a glass of Rioja for Greg with his meat. The Garbure, a bean and vegetable soup, was good, as was our first slice of Basque cake. We weren’t so excited about the mains. A nougat with my cup of tea was a nice surprise.

18 October 06 – morning
Greg’s birthday. I just finished The Sun Also Rises (this edition labelled Fiesta as well, the US name). Poor loyal hopeless Jake: I want the one I can’t have, bien sur. At 7.15 it’s still dark outside. There’s something magic about being awake before dawn, no doubt commonplace in Europe with shorter winter days, and more particularly here with the curious location of Western France in the time zone.

We’ve cycled 200 k from San Sebastian and crossed the Pyrenees into France, but we’re still only 40 k from the coast; effectively just into day 1 of a Raid Pyreneen.

The pre-dawn view from the first floor of a shuttered hotel room looking south over one line of houses to the mountains rising beyond, a solitary lamp 50 metres up the street; that’s the thing, and the expectation of a day’s physical cycling to come, possibly under strong sun. Had a most peculiar dream about V. Took me home for lunch but had troble keeping the kids out of the room. And another about Quynh coming to visit but keeping her distance.

The Hemmingway finishes in Madrid, and before that San Sebastian, via the Sud Express connecting the two by crossing the Escorial (Sierra Madrid?? maybe not).

In hindsight yesterday’s lunch called out for una cerveza, or un rosado, but grog and cycling don’t mix (but tell that to the Tour de France champions of the early years).