It has been a few days since I last wrote, so this will be quite a long post.
Saturday – Bilbao to San Sebastián.
I rested in Bilbao on Friday, spending most of the day in the Guggenheim, and got away as planned by seven the next morning. Saturday was great. A steep climb in the early morning mist for the first mile out of Bilbao was followed by a steady, almost imperceptible, ascent up a river valley curving away from the coast to about 500ft. The mist turned to light rain, which helped with temperature regulation, and I made good progress over the next 25 miles.
I pulled up in Zaldibar ahead of a steep path up to about 1000ft, which I had to walk up, pushing the bike. I could have followed the road up an 8% gradient, which would have been less steep, but I was glad of the change. I stopped at the top, congratulating myself on being ahead of schedule, and refreshed myself with some water and an energy bar. A friendly, elderly chap bounded out of his house waving a bicycle pump and proceeded to examine my tyres, but they were fine. It was at this point I realised I had left my jacket hanging on a fence post in the town below. I pondered leaving it behind, but thought this would annoy me so I tried to ask the kind gentleman to watch my bike, while I went back to fetch it, as I did not want to push it all the way back up again. My Spanglish was just not good enough to make myself understood, not even with Google translate. Eventually, he beckoned me up a track to a neighbouring farmhouse, where there was a man who had married an English woman. She was not there (I didn’t ask) but the man was, with his son, Alex, who very kindly drove me back down the hill to the village, where I retrieved my jacket, and drove me back up again.
The next 16 miles involved a marvellous long, undulating descent, curving north east back to the coast at Deba. The clouds had cleared and I lunched about 2pm in the sunshine beside the sea. On the way, I got caught up in a proper organised road race, with motorbikes, support cars, men with flags, and all, which was very exciting.
I had passed a number of walkers going in the opposite direction throughout the day and later had it confirmed by the hotel owner in San Sebastián that I had been travelling along the Camino do St. Iago de Compestela – only backwards, which the locals consider to be “Satan’s Way”. I suppose I paid the price as I left the town to encounter a 15-20% gradient that I struggled even to push my bike up. This, however, was the last real challenge of the day and I rode along beautiful mountain and coastal roads, and briefly falling asleep sitting upright (a skill I appear to have recently acquired) while resting in a bus shelter, before arriving in San Sebastián about 7pm.
Sunday: San Sebastián to Biscarrosse
San Sebastián is a beautiful, lively coastal town, and I am afraid I stayed up far too late (and had one or two too many glasses of beer, some of which seemed to be served to me by Elvis Costello, masquerading as a Basque barman named “Charlie”) to be able to depart the following morning by 5am, as planned.
Falling asleep upright a second time that day, this time over a glass of La Trappe in a bar, did not help. I did manage to leave about 6:20am and cycled along the exceptional sea front of San Sebastián past many who hadn’t been to bed at all.
I toiled wearily over the first 35 miles or so, feeling the alcohol lag in my legs on the upward slopes, crossing the border at the Garonne, and dodging the traffic along the D810 towards Bayonne. After that, the terrain levelled out and I joined the Voie Vert – a network of smooth, woodland tracks that runs along the Atlantic Coast, which I shared with a few tourers and many more holidaymakers from the numerous campsites along the coast. My pace picked up and I had passed the halfway mark (about 60 miles) by about 2pm. I stopped for lunch at a campsite Pizza bar where I refuelled and regreased before cracking on. At Costin, I stopped to replenish my water supply, which had worryingly run out in the middle of the forest. It was now just after 6, and I had about 35 miles to go. I was confident that I would get to my hotel by about 9. However, as I left Contin the path became rough and was covered in sand: it was impassable with a laden road-touring bike, and so eventually, after half a mile and half an hour of pushing it through sand, I gave up all hope of finding tarmac again and turned back, cursing my luck and the online route planner I had used. I did my best to clear the grinding sand from my drive chain, consulted Google Maps for the best route a car would take to Biscarrosse, and used my frustration and anger to drive on. By 8:45, I was about 18 miles away and I ought to call the hotel to let them know when I would be arriving. It seemed check-in was due to close at 9:30pm, but the receptionist, Melanie from Montreal, said she would not be leaving until 10. Up to that point, I had been averaging around 11mph; there was nothing for it but to grit my teeth and pick up the pace. I covered the last 18 miles in an hour and a quarter – not bad, I thought, after 110 miles and nearly 15 hours in the saddle. I was buzzed by a deer in the near dark, which bounded out of the undergrowth to my right, then stopped and stared at the bald, sweaty, overweight Englishman on the bike, but I did not have time to stop to return the compliment and photograph him.
The hotel reception was the only establishment that was still open in Biscarrosse at 10 pm on a Sunday (and that was an exception) and so I dined on two breakfast bars and some French tap water, before collapsing into bed.
Monday: Biscarrosse to Lacanau-Ocean
Yesterday involved a pleasant ride to the coast followed by a leisurely lunch at Arcachon, where I caught a boat to Cap Ferret. 
I was praying that the cycle paths on the cape would not be rough, and so I was dismayed to find a sand covered mountain-bike trail just past the harbour. I started along the main road North, but soon discovered that the cycle path to my right was covered by beautiful, smooth, flat, black stuff so I reverted to it. By about 5:45, the day trippers I had passed heading the other way back to the ferry had gone and all I could hear was the ocean beyond the trees to my left and the birds around me. It felt like I had the whole peninsula to myself. It was glorious, and remained so, until I passed Domaine de la Jenny, an “Espace Naturelle”, where I was confronted by naked, late-middle aged, French men and women playing boules ( what else?) to my right. I averted my delicate gaze, and pressed on to Chez Augustin, which was a couple of miles outside the resort of Lacanau-Ocean. After an effusive greeting from Brockman (he actually said, “Allo, allo”) and Catherine, I showered and wandered into town, where I had the best pizza of my life at Ave Giula. Nicolas, the waiter, asked me where I was from, and when I said, “England”, he replied, “Cool!”. Well, I’d never quite thought of us like that before, but, I suppose, in a way, we are. He was clearly very enthusiastic about his restaurant, telling me how he and his colleague had gone to Italy to learn how to make pizzas in the authentic Italian style and only ever used authentic Italian ingredients, none of your French rubbish. Well, The truffle sauce on my pizza was very French, and it worked for me. I complimented Nicolas on the successful Italian-French fusion and so, fully replenished, I strolled back to the hotel.
So now I’m dawdling over breakfast at Chez Augustin before getting ready to get back on the bike and ride up to the Girond, where I will catch a boat to Royan. A bientot.
The Trick Cyclist 