Daily Bulletins 2004
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It is the Eve of Departure and last minute packing and preparations are underway. Heavy rain is splashing off the roads of Ceres. With our minds focused entirely on the possibility of sunburn and dehydration, we hadn't envisaged getting soaked. However, the forecast is for better weather tomorrow.
Inevitably, there are dozens of conscience-pricking little chores to do prior to departure, but they are small compared to those of our predecessors. Mediaeval pilgrims would have settled their affairs in a rather resolute manner, partly because they were going to be away for months, partly because they would have scant chance to communicate with their loved ones and largely because of the very real possibility that they might never return at all. Some were set upon by bandits, others by disease, some would even find themselves doing battle with the heathen (either Norse or Moorish). Later, those Norsefolk who did take to Christianity and to the habit of pilgrimage to expiate their violent misdeeds at home became notorious for getting themselves slain in drunken brawls abroad. We have none of these fates in mind, and we have credit cards, mobile phones and insurance.
Nevertheless, right now, there is more than a tingle of apprehension.
June 19th 2004
The prologue: Ceres to St Andrews 8.65 miles.
No luggage. Delightful!
Stage 1: St Andrews to Rosyth : 78km.
Weather was grey turning to torrential, bone-soaking rain.
We gathered at St Andrews Cathedral for a photocall and then a blessing from the University Chaplain, Jamie Walker, with two prayers: one to bless our staffs (bikes) and scrips (panniers); the other to bless us on our way. The atmosphere was intimate, pleasant and peaceful; the prayers sobre and solemn in tone and beautifully in keeping with the surroundings. As we reflected on these words, the silence was only interrupted by the squawking of seagulls.
Then en masse by St Gregory's, along the Scores for a joyous send off under the gaze of the statue of St James. Father Halloran emerged from his house in his embroidered garb to deliver a spontaneous blessing. He asked the Lord to protect us from wild beasts and biting insects and to bless to our use good food for sustenance and fine wines to quench our thirst. He also asked that we be protected from potential dangers and be granted our desiderata. "That was some blessing" remarked a bystander.
Mr McHardy then kindly supplied a wee doch-an-dorris for all present and, having taken leave of our families and friends, we set off to the sound of applause feeling warm and grateful.
No journey is smooth. Barely out of St Andrews, Gus discovered that the passport in his possession was not his own, Alastair had a puncture at Loch Leven. (The wheel change, orchestrated by Ken, was of formula one pitstop efficiency). Then came the rain, heavy and cold, causing us to divert from our intention to visit the Shrine of St Margaret in Dunfermline, whose mortal remains were lifted from her grave to a gilded reliquary on this day in the year 1050. Instead we splashed on to Rosyth, dropping (and retrieving) a sleeping bag on the way. We were met at the ferry terminal by Iain and Isobel Whyte (Iain was Chaplain in St Andrews in the 1980's), freshly arrived from a former Moderator's birthday barbeque (hence, presumably, the heavy rain!) Isobel gave us a further Celtic blessing as the ferrymen urged us to board. Also at Rosyth to greet us was Gus's family with his passport.
So here we are on this hotel at sea, sipping Greek brandy and watching the cabaret guitarist dividing his time between strumming his instrument and turning to watch the football on the big screen behind him. A man who can do two things at once; a rare talent.
June 20th 2004
Zeebrugge to Kluisberg : 105.5km, 5hrs
Boudewijn Canal
After disembarking the ferry, we found our way easily to the Boudewijn Canal which we followed into Bruges. We were greeted there with music; violins playing Bolero in a square. We paused to be impressed by the architecture and casual Sunday goings on, ate a sandwich and then negotiated with some difficulty our departure from the narrow streets of this ancient town. Mediaeval Scots pilgrims would have used Bruges as a staging post, taking hospitality from the sizeable ex patriot community of merchants that was established there. These days, people of all nations wander the streets, photographing the facades. We found St Salvator's Church, perhaps a link to some who had gone before us.
The rest of the day was spent heading south on thoughtfully arranged cycle paths that are spread across this flat landscape.
At our last refreshment stop, we were warned that our chosen refuge for the night was up a mountain. An Alp by Flanders standards perhaps, but hardly a Pyrenee, nor even a Hill of Tarvit, just high ground from which to view Low Countries.
So here we are, camping on a Flanders mountain, expecting to cross the border into France tomorrow.
June 21st 2004
Kluisberg - Mont des Bruyeres : 68.1km, 3hrs.52
Mont de Bruyeres
A long drag southwest against the cyclist's worst foe, the wind, took us out of Flemish Belgium and into French-speaking territory. We had lunch in the main square at Tournai. Afterwards, we sought out an internet cafe to try and resolve our communication problems. We only found confirmation that our plan to send daily wireless bulletins was foiled. Our French-owned service provider, does not allow wireless dial-up outside the UK. So much for the EU, let alone the global village!
Things then got worse; a torrential rainstorm followed by the discovery of our second puncture - this time Gus. We left Tournai damp and uneasy, following the canal towpath south. After a couple of kilometers, Gus's chain broke and a passer-by stopped to offer help. After a brief chat, he adopted us and offered to guide us down to the French border, where he lived. He was a pleasant man and was keen to share a few kilometres of our pilgrimage so we put ourselves in his hands. All was going well until he persuaded us that the "path closed" sign was really just advisory. At first his tip seemed wise and we were pleased to avoid a long detour but then we came upon the reason for the sign; half a mile of dug up path over which his mountain bike skipped and danced but our that heavily laden road bikes ground into. Ken and I made it across; Gus was not so lucky and hobbled out with yet another puncture, this one mutiple and very time-consuming to fix. Our guide was beside himself with remorse and gave us puncture patches and many apologies before leaving us under a bridge sheltering from the rain with bits of dimantled bike all around us.
It took a new tube and a change of tyre to get us underway and we slipped into France with no ceremony, stopping to buy food in St Amand and finding our campsite on the forested "Misty Mountain", again something of an exaggeration, geologically speaking.
June 22nd 2004
Valenciennes - Laon : 119.79km 6hrs.33
After just 10km, we had puncture number 4 of the trip, Ken this time. It was starting to look as though fixing punctures was going to become part of our daily routine. We had coffee and some very good croissants at Valenciennes and then set out into the wide open landscape where two world wars were fought.
There is an eerie emptiness about this closed theatre of destruction. As we pulled up a hill out of our lunchtime stop, we came upon a sign that read simply "la desolation".
We travelled some miles today with some very chatty Belgian recumbent cyclists. They extolled the virtues of their more efficient mode of travel but I couldn't shake off the impression that they looked alien, lying back, feet in the air, elbows out. They looked vulnerable. Why should they seem so, when our lycra clad forms, perched on a few bits of tubing did not? Perhaps it was just the familiarity of the image of a cyclist, descended, as (s)he is from the horserider, sitting up in the saddle, vital organs protected, head forward, ready to jump off if required. Regardless, while we rode with them, the recumbents set a fierce pace and I had bad cramp in my knee by the time we reached Guise.
We had intended to make a brief pause at Guise to visit the ancestral home of Scotland's seminal queen, Marie, who wed James IV in St Andrews Cathedral in 1538, having turned down the opportunity to marry Henry VIII of England.
By the evidence of their castle, or what was left of it, the Dukes of Guise were powerful. We had to climb an unwelcomingly steep hill to get to the gatehouse and then climb higher to gain access to the courtyard, where we paid to join a tour and learn more about the place.
The vast fortifications at Guise are built on high ground. In the middle of the fortified plateau lies a well, that descends deep into the bedrock and supplies the inhabitants with their life-giving drinking water.
The well is part of the strength of the castle, but also its single point of weakness. If any invader were able to reach it and poison it, the castle and its inhabitants would fall. Consequently, the arrow slits in the tower point directly at the well and anyone approaching it would be killed instantly.
It occured to me that, if the water in the well had been left available to everyone, there would be no reason to poison it and no need to defend it. People would come and go and take what they needed from it and would not be shot for approaching it in the wrong way.
It also occured to me that, if the well had contained not water, but Truth, provided for the use of all-comers, it is sadly inevitable that it would be claimed by a few, who, fearful that it might be poisoned, would defend it with their monumental barriers and with their violence, born of fear.
At Laon, we missed the supermarket and were therefore very grateful that the camp supervisor was offering steak hache frites, wine, beer and extra frites for long-distance cyclists. You remember that sort of kindness.
June 23rd 2004
Laon - Reims - Val de Vesle : 99.55km, 5.54hrs
A tough day, fighting gale force winds and doing our best to keep them beside or behind us. On a shortcut designed for this purpose, we found ourselves in deep rural territory, having to grind up a steep wooded track and out onto a windy plateau. At least, when we descended, we found an excellent roadside restaurant where we ate well and plenty for little money. After lunch, with the wind now firmly at our backs, we passed our first vines, champagne grapes and wound into Reims, capital of that world famous beverage. The bar we chose to sit at, opposite the magnificent west door of the cathedral, served only champagne (really!) so we succumbed to the extravagance and took in one of Europe's greatest views whilst sipping one of its greatest tastes. Vive La France!
June 24th 2004
Vas-de-Vesle - Vitry le Francois : 86.64km 4hrs33
Today, we encountered first fellow Santiago pilgrims in the square at Vitry and Gus produced the most epicurean Goose Cassouillet out of a very large tin.
June 25th 2004
Vitry-le-Francois - Troyes : 80.59km, 4hrs
Day seven. We have resolved ourselves into a a team with three roles. Gustavo is the cook, drumming up porridge in the mornings and selecting ingredients for a hot pot in the evenings. He also insists on doing all the washing up and we do not complain. Ken is the mechanic, fixing punctures, chains, slipping gears and odd clicks and whirrs. His diagnostic powers are revealed with patience and wisdom. Alastair has the role of clerk to the trip, plotting the route on the map and keeping the accounts. He also has the role of interpreter, although these services are gradually diminishing as the others pitch in with greater confidence in their French conversation.
Cycled through warm sun and a much reduced wind along the pilgrim route to Chavanges. Visited the half timbered Church at St Legere sous Margerie, recommended by the woman at the cafe, who also offered to fill our water bottles. Half timbered churches are unique to this part of France. You would have to travel to Norway to find anything comparable.
June 26th 2004
Troyes-Auxerre : 101.67km, 5hrs19
Today was a long ride in warm sunshine through lush Burgundy countryside, not unlike Fife, we agreed. As we approached Auxerre, we passed through a stone-built town whose great church bells were ringing sonorously. It was a wedding; the first of several we encountered at various stages of celebration. The convoys of private cars heading for a party, horns blaring, were particularly rousing.
We are camped beside the football stadium, famous to those who care about these things. It seemed appropriate to join the many dutch huddled around the TV at the bar in order to share the tension of their penalty shoot-out.
June 27th 2004
Auxerre - Vezelay 58.85km, 3hrs17
Today was billed as a rest day. A few dozen kilometres and plenty of time to explore Vezelay; our destination. It started pleasantly with a Sunday ride along the canal path, greeting the many other cyclists along the way. By lunchtime (pate, fromage, pain, fruits and Orangina), the sun was hot and the prospect of the climb to Vezelay had become daunting. As the slope began to intensify, so did the heat and by the time we ground up to the gates of this beautiful mediaeval town, we were drenched in perspiration and pouring the last of our water bottles onto our heads.
Vezelay is special and therefore bustling with tourists on a Sunday afternoon. We leaned the bikes against the wall of the franciscan convent and went into the basilica, which was cool and tall and bright, being made from clean limestone blocks.
The importance of Vezelay to our trip is that this is the start of one of the four French pilgrim routes to Santiago. The trail has been painstakingly marked by the confraternity and it was to them that we headed to obtain further information. I had been a bit concerned that they would be stern and disapproving of us. The tone of their website is somewhat sombre and it contains warnings against undertaking pilgrimage for frivolous reasons. Since our motivation for doing this can best be described as a misty confusion of generally positive intentions, I feared an inquisition that we would not survive.
Access to the amis de St Jacques was via a narrow wooden stair in a mediaeval building. We emerged into a pannelled room with magnificent views across the valley.
I need not have worried. The two volunteers who greeted us were welcoming, kindly, helpful and informative and detained us in enthusiastic conversation for some time before sending us on our way to the Franciscan Friars who would give us our pilgrim passports. They, too, found behind a large wooden door in a small stone courtyard, were warm and welcoming.
there is much to be said about our visit to Vezelay; it has been a very special stop on our journey. More will follow.
June 28th 2004
Vezelay - St Pierre le Moutier : 126.26km, 6hrs.23
Today has been a long ride and a tiring one. We have crossed the Loire and are on schedule. The campsite at St Pierre is closed and nobody seems to be able to explain why. However, some local people have been very helpful and identified a spot where we can pitch our tents. They have also given us beer and cherries. A wash would be welcome but diving into the town's water supply, beside which we are camped, is not advisable.
June 29th 2004
St-Pierre-le-Moutier - La Chatre : 110.5km, 5hrs17
Our kind neighbours insisted that we have coffee with them before departure so our start was delayed and it was to be a long day in the saddle.
We have made it to La Chatre to a campsite whose staff are effusively welcoming. After a very welcome shower, Ken is busily engaged in the process of trueing his back wheel which was beginning to wobble alarmingly. As darkness falls, he is rapt in concentration, turning spokes this way and that like a piano tuner.
June 30th 2004
La Chatre - Fursac : 83.26km, 4hrs46m
We were very tired and hungry by the time we reached the ineptly named La Souterraine, which, in fact, is at the top of an energy sapping climb! We had a very late picnic lunch crashed out in a field and limped into Fursac, well short of our target for the day, but unwilling to travel further. We have pitched camp and are much recovered thanks to another Gus-inspired meal.
July 1st 2004
Fursac - Aixe s Vienne : 81.86km,4hrs47
Aixe s Vienne
More long hills and rapid descents followed by further long energy sapping hills. A particularly gruelling one some kilometres before St Leonard de Noblat yielded a peculiar sense of achievement when the road bent around the shoulder of the summit to show us, over the treetops, where we had come from far below in the valley.
St Leonard was a delight. The church greeted us with a brass coquille set in the pavement and the sound of recorded gregorian chant playing softly inside. It was an ancient place of worship and one that obliged the pilgrim to pause and sit awhile and fall into a contemplation.
After the church, we sought out a late lunch but, as the boulangeries were still shut and we were still hot and tired from the mountains, we entered a bar to while away the heat of the day. And what a bar! Furnished and decorated in the early 1950's, it was tended by an old woman who had probably worked there all her adult life under the gaze of two stuffed woodpeckers, a deer with its hooves upturned to accommodate hats and a truly maingy wild boar. The beer was, however, fresh and thirst-quenching.
July 2nd 2004
Aixe-s-Vienne - Perigueux : 99.16km, 5hrs22
After a grinding and morale sapping 20km of ups and downs and a couple of cold rain showers, a round of applause from a builder we passed brought home the true meaning of the word encouragement.
Long distance cycling can be a lonely process and the fact that somebody noticed that we were doing it and took the time to greet our efforts turned a grim day into a glorious one.
Today we bought foie gras and fine wine and wonderful produce from a Traiteur but we had to suffer to be allowed to enjoy it. The campsite, apparently a few short kilometres outside the city, turns out to be many more than that and at the top of a very big hill.
Ken and I took a stroll into the centre of the site to investigate the bar. Inside, we had a long chat with the Dutch campsite owner who had built the complex himself over 20 years and was rightly proud of its quality. More spectacular than his campsite, however, was his Harley Davidson, that he kept inside the building. It had more chrome accessories on it than you could imagine it would be able to cope with and shone like a huge piece of jewellery.
July 3rd 2004
Atur - Ste Foy la Grande : 87.35km, 4hrs35
Another endless sequence of hills, compounded by 30kms of completely lifeless towns with neither bar nor shop. That left us guzzling a very late lunch on a bench outside the hypermarket at Mussidan. Despite the indignities of this picnic, we were wished "bon appetit" by young and old and without any sense of irony.
We are now camped at a very picturesque site on the banks of the Dordogne. We ate out as we had a craving for chips; it was assumed that we were Belgians, an impression that we were quick to correct.
July 4th 2004
Ste Foy - Monsegur : 34.37km,1hr58m
Monsegur
Today did not go according to plan; it went much better. For any cyclist who has spent days in the hills, the ideal oasis would surely be a beer tent, providing both shelter and refreshment; good music, to distract from aching limbs; and convivial company. All these we found in Monsegur, plus a pizza van and a campsite with a pool. It didn't take long for us to decide to abandon any plans of further progress, a shameful 100km short of our target.
The annual Monsegur jazz festival was just too good to miss. And after all, we are on holiday. So here we are, at the end of a long and very festive day, merrily weary.
5th July
Monsegur - Mont De Marsan : 115.78km, 5hrs20
21.6ave speed, 63.5max speed.
After such a pleasant day in the sunshine yesterday, we really did have to make some progress. Heartbreaking it was, therefore, to spend the morning climbing hills. It was only after lunch at the charming town of Bazas that we finally got what we were looking for; Les Landes de Gascoigne; the flat bit of France; the bit without hills; the fun bit. And it was. A lot of fun.
As the pedals turned, the speed began to increase, 23, 28, 32, 36km/h. We took it in turns to set the pace until it became a strain and another took it on so that you could sit on his back wheel and take a breath. We roared down the long straight pine- forested road to Roquefort and rolled into the first bar quite exhilarated. 20km further down the road we were in Mont de Marsan, our destination.
After such a good day, our campsite is dingy and unwelcoming; the worst we have been at so far. However, Gus has, as ever, fed us well and, as a storm brews, it is time to sleep.
July 6th 2004
Mont-de-Marsan - St Palais : 98.77km,5hrs25
After the joys of yesterday, it was back to the hills today, and what cruel ones they were, undulating perpetually; even the suburbs of Orthez, the only major town we passed through, were built along a road that rose and fell like crushed velvet. Descending into Sauveterre de Bearn, we had our first panorama of the Pyrenees in the late afternoon, massive, uncompromising shapes on the horizon.
We are camped at St Palais with thunderstorms gathering all around us.
7th July 2004 St Palais - Roncesvalles
Up the Pyrenees.
61.23km,4hrs28m, 1067m
This was the day we had been working towards. We didn't know what to expect but we had a strong feeling it was going to be a challenge. Steeled for an arduous day, the first leg was therefore surprisingly straightforward and we rolled into St Jean Pied de Port in good time to have lunch at a cafe terrace. St Jean is where I spent my honeymoon and, from my point of view was the end of my responsibilities as an interpreter and a guide. In 8 short kilometres, Gus would take over the role. St Jean is also the foot of the pass over to Spain and therefore is a gathering point for French pilgrims. We visited the pilgrim office and had our passports stamped by an elderly Australian.
Almost as soon as we left St Jean, we started to climb and we continued to climb all afternoon, clicking away in very low gears, constant resistance against the legs, sweat pouring off us. We climbed and climbed and climbed, up through pine trees and round hairpin bends, onwards and upwards. We became strung out along the route as each one found his rhythm and stuck with it. We gathered 200 metres from the summit for a rest but were quickly on our own again as we made our attempts to top the pass where Charlemagne's knights fell.
It was exhilarating to be standing at the top, knowing that we had done it; that we had climbed our mountain.
Now we are ensconced in the hostel at Roncesvalles, a place whose only function appears to be the reception of pilgrims. The mountain air is clean and chilled and we are very likely to sleep well.
8th July : Roncesvalles - Pamplona
60.31km, 2hrs55
The end of the road for this year. 1753.5km, 19 days in the saddle, four countries. Our last run was certainly one of the most spectacular. Obliged to rise early from our hostel beds, we were two kilometres down the road having breakfast by half past eight. Then we swept down the delightful Valle de Arce, like a grandiose and lush Scottish Glen, starting steep and wooded and opening out into a wide panorama of peaks. It was not downhill all the way to Pamplona, though but a few more long drags into a stiff wind took us into the city. Had it not been for the trucks and the roundabouts and the expressways and then the urgency of city traffic, we might have had longer to ponder our achievement. As it was, we rolled into a large and rather ordinary civic square and ordered some beers from a small tavern.
We were not the only ones drinking on the streets of Pamplona that day. The place was in tumult. Everywhere were mobs of people, almost all dressed from head to toe in white with red scarves and sashes, all carousing and drinking and shouting and singing. Through the crowds came barely harmonious wind bands with drummers hammering along behind. This was San Fermin, the festival of the bulls. This, to the pilgrim Dante, might well have inspired his vision of inferno. We pushed through the crowds of revellers up to the convent hostel where pilgrims are made welcome in simple dormitories of steel bunk beds. These were the only beds in town; many others were simply sleeping in the parks around the city.
The noise continued all day, all evening and all night, with fireworks to mark the short interval between the end of one day's celebration and the beginning of the next. For this is no one day a year carnival, not here, not in Spain; this fiesta lasts for eight days and every morning eight bulls are loosed onto the streets of the city so young men can risk their lives running with them. It takes 5 minutes to run the bulls, starting at 8am. The rest of the day is taken up with surely one of the largest pub-crawls in Europe. The bars raised their prices accordingly and put away their furniture. In most places, the only seat you could get was a beer keg. At times the noise was deafening and the vision of it all overwhelming but there was no menace.
9th July
Once again sent out from the hostel at a very early hour (7am), we cycled around the city walls (going through the city was impossible as it had all been set up, yet again, for the running of the bulls) and Gus negotiated for us bus tickets to Bilbao and breakfast in a cafe where we could watch the bulls on TV (certainly the best view in town). At 8am, everything in the bar paused as we watched the spectacle unfold. Whatever one's views on the morality at play, not to mention the health and safety considerations, it is a compelling sight. The TV producer quickly picked out the highlights and ran them over and over again; a bull slipping under one of the barriers, a training shoe left on the road as the runners passed but, most spectacular of all, a young man hit three times by three sucessive bulls, twice staggering dazed to his feet, only to be hit again, the third time left motionless on the road. If not dead, this man is surely crippled.
Enough of Pamplona; enough of this madness. We boarded the bus to Bilbao; the kind staff helping us to get our fully laden bikes into the hold.