Thursday 7 June

I spent my rest day pottering around Ile de Re, just off La Rochelle. It was further than I thought to the island, connected to the mainland by a two mile road bridge, so I took the bike. It was nice to wind down and join the many cycling day trippers doing the same. The sun shone, and I lunched on oysters and local beer by the sea. I didn’t make it to La Phare – the furthest point, as I broke the mounting tabs on my Garmin, and spent some time hunting for superglue and sellotape in a supermarket; plus, it was 18 miles from bridge to tip and I was supposed to be resting. I was also distracted by the hairy donkeys.

All told, however, it was a very pleasant sojourn.

Back at the hotel I mended the Garmin as best as I could, before showering and changing. I returned to Le P’Tit Nicolas, for foie gras and magret, followed by a drink in the Irish Bar, where I chatted with the affable owner, Noel McNulty, who had been in La Rochelle for twenty years, and an English Spurs fan who was mates with Harry Redknapp and who told me why Harry didn’t get the England job. I was treated to some comedy darts from a woman who couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, and a rendition of Dirty Old Town (“It’s about Salford, you know,”, said Noel, “I know”, I said, “I was born there”,) then bed, and my stopover in La Rochelle was over. I would give McNulty’s a visit if ever you are in La Rochelle. It’s not your typical Irish Bar, full of beery Brits, and the owner works hard to keep his, mostly French, clientele entertained.

Friday 8 June

I left about 9 the next morning, eschewing the hotel breakfast as I did not want to be late arriving at my next stop, La Seguiniere, a small holding with guest rooms just outside St Sulpice Le Verdon, 65 miles to the North. The owners had contacted me when I booked, offering a home-cooked meal, using produits locales, boissons included for 25 eu, and I did certainly not want to miss it.

I figured I could easily top up on the way, identifying Lucon and Chaize de le Vicomte as potential stops, at about 25 and 45 miles away respectively, so I gobbled the last of my breakfast bars and headed off. The fix on the Garmin appeared to have worked, although the contacts with the battery pack were not aligned.

I made good progress along relatively quiet D Roads to La Vendee. I had been passed by one old bloke on a racing bike, and had failed to keep up with him, but was doing better with the second, raising my pace and sitting comfortable in his slipstream as I crossed the river into Departement de la Vendee. Suddenly, the Garmin indicated I had missed a wrong turning and after a short internal debate, I decided to pull over and take a check on the directions. I broke the mounting tabs again adjusting its position to see it, and so fashioned a hasty repair with sellotape, before doubling back and following a river path, and then a quiet winding cycle lane, which was sparsely populated by other tourers including a tandem, but no cars. I consoled myself that the loss of time was worth the comfort of riding apart from speeding motorists, and, in any case, the road I had been on bypassed Lucon, whereas this path took me right through it. I crossed a bridge over the Canal de Lucon, onto a very narrow, overgrown and broken concrete path along the canal bank. With a steep drop into the canal on my right and a similar drop into a ditch on my left, I slowed down and proceeded quite gingerly. It was by now, approaching noon, the heat was baking, with no shelter, and I was running low on water. The last few miles into Lucon seemed to take an age, but eventually I reached the town.

I decided not to stop for lunch, instead settling for meal of Sprite, full-fat Coke and water at a cafe-tabac. I could always snack in La Chaize du Vicomte and I had a home-cooked fresh French meal to look forward to – hmmm, I was salivating at the prospect.

I pedalled along gently sloping valleys, with the occasional short 8-9% gradient and the odd rough woodland track, arriving in La Chaize at about 3:30. I declined to stop at the small restaurant, opting instead for snack from the patisserie, after all, I had to leave room for the feast I was to enjoy at La Table d’Hote. I looked for somewhere to stop and eat my pain au chocolat, but could find no benches. On the edge of town was a small shrine to The Virgin Mary, with some steps in front so I pulled up there.

No sooner had my backside hit stone, than I heard a rumble of thunder behind me. Clearly, her Ladyship was not happy with a sinner who had traversed Satan’s Way, and a lapsed Catholic to boot, taking some rest at her feet. I finished my snacks and hastened away. I did not beat the rain, and was also slowed down as the woodland tracks became soaked and turned to mud.

Eventually, I tired of this and took the car-route, arrived at my destination shortly after 6pm. At least I thought I had, but, thankfully, I wasn’t staying at the pig farm, rather the charming country house a little further on. The room was spacious and well appointed. Jerome, the host, showed me where to stow my bike, and asked me when I would like breakfast. I told him about 9ish and then asked about dinner. “Dinner?” he said, “There is no dinner, you have to make a reservation for dinner, and, anyway, my wife is not here. There is no dinner.” Indignantly, I tried to tell him I had agreed, at their suggestion, to eat sur place, and tried to find the relevant messages on my phone, but there was no signal. Jerome disappeared to look for his own phone, while I fumed silently in the room. Eventually he came back looking sheepish and said, “You can cook some risotto in your room.” “What? You want me to cook?” “Yes”, he said. Well, I refused point blank and asked angrily where the nearest restaurant was. Not less than 5 km away, apparently. I ranted on about how unacceptable this all was, but Jerome merely shrugged and said, “It’s no good, you don’t speak English”. It was only later, after I had shooed him out of the room so that I could wash, that I calmed down enough to realise that he had been mixing up his pronouns, and had offered to cook for me, but it was too late. In any case, I didn’t want some reheated risotto that his wife had left in the freezer for him whilst she had gone off for the night. I fumed in the bath, and continued fuming as I rode to the next town but one, where I found a second rate Pizza place. I had abouillette (sausage) which looked better than it tasted. Service was slow, as the two women working were serving in the restaurant, dealing with a large party in a back room, taking phone orders, and dealing with takeaway customers. It did not improve my mood and so I did not leave a tip. The rain was threatening to return as I rode back to my bed, but I managed to get back before the thunderstorm struck. I clambered in and was lulled to sleep by the rumble of thunder and the patter of rain.

Saturday 9 June.

I woke early, bathed and packed my things. I swallowed my anger and then swallowed the breakfast on offer. I could hear Jerome and a female voice (obviously La Femme had returned) whispering next door, but, no doubt filled with shame, the lady did not show her face. I left without saying goodbye.

I glued the Garmin to the mount this morning, so that I did not have to use the sellotape, and so far it has been holding well. The roads north to Nantes were mostly tarmac (tarmac is my friend) and I had a faint tailwind, which helped me knock out the first 20 miles in an hour and a half. I crossed the Loire at Nantes (nothing special), and carried on through the town and east along the river, before turning North. I was briefly halted by a bit of cleat trouble, first it came off and stuck in the pedal, now it is lost, but generally, it has been a pleasant and an easy ride. I have stopped for some late lunch in La Chappelle, about 5 miles from my destination, where I am typing this. There has been another thunderstorm, but it has passed, and the sun is shining while I sip a beer before going on my way. All is well. People are walking past me in evening dress to the church, although it is only 4pm. Some folks are getting wed. Life goes on.

Tuesday 5 June

The paths north from Lacanau-Ocean were quiet, peaceful, woodland tracks, occasionally consisting of narrow concrete slabs, which were cracked and broken in places. There is no fancy suspension on this Ridgeback bike, but it is a fantastic piece of engineering. Its steel frame just seems to soak up the bumps before they can transfer painfully to my backside. Much appreciated.

Along one narrow part of the trail I spotted what seemed to a strange looking cycling set-up ahead. As I closed on the rider, I saw he was pulling pulling a covered trailer, of the kind used to transport little children, and just ahead of him was trotting a dog. The trailer was obviously for when Rover gets tired. I saw another chap with a smaller dog on top of his trailer heading in the other direction later that day at Montelivet. One man and his dog on a cycling tour, twice in the same day. The second chap stopped to chat with me. He was a Spaniard heading South and was hoping to get to Arcachon that day, the other side of Cap Ferret, where I had had lunch the previous day. I raised my eyebrows, and wished him luck.

After passing the first man and dog ,the pathway became blocked by sand and so I cut inland to a wide forestiere’s road that took me past a missile base. I hastened past, lest my mounted camera attract attention and have me arrested for spying.

At Montilivet, I pulled up at an Aldi for some supplies. The heavily tattooed young woman on the checkout seemed as high as a kite. The bloke in front of me had some groceries and six cans of beer. I swear the chemically enhanced check-out assistant passed the beer through without activating the bleeper, or doing that thing where they pass one over the bar-code reader and type in a number. I got no such largesse for my breakfast bars, sandwich, packet of beef, and water, but she did wish me “Bonne journee” with a big post-lunchtime-spliff smile and bright red eyes. Whatever gets you through the shift.

The cycle route became blocked again, and so I consulted Google Maps for the car route to Verdon sur le Mer, where I was to catch a ferry to Royan across the wide Gironde estuary. It was a few miles further by road than cycle path, but I did not want to risk a long delay over an impassable path and so I got my head down into the brisk northerly wind and made it to the port with sufficient time to spare to have a beer (ok – 2) at a cafe before embarkation. At the dock, I encountered Nigel and Nick, father and son, who had been on the same ferry I had taken from Portsmouth to Santander, and who had briefly passed me twice on my long ride from San Sebastián to Biscarrosse a few days ago. I also met Michael, a German guy cycling from Portugal back to his home in Hamburg. We shared some bike-touring talk, then bade each other farewell on the other side

My stop that night was essentially a guest room in a family home. The room was lovely, and the en suite bath was fantastic, but it did feel a little uncomfortable passing through their open plan living room and kitchen on my way in and out of the house. I ate at an Italian restaurant in the town then found a lively little bar round the corner serving an average German beer or a tasty, stronger, Belgian, IPA-influenced offering, namwd Kasteel. No contest, really. I’m afraid I had one too many before wandering back to my lodgings. I sneaked silently upstairs to my room, then blew it by falling over noisily as I put my shoes down beside the bed.

Wednesday 6 June

I woke a little the worse for wear and made my way down to the kitchen for breakfast. Anne, the hostess, was very cheerful and welcoming, but her daughter in the corner seemed a little grumpy. I guess I must have woken her the previous night. I filled my belly with bread, fruit, yoghurt and pain au chocolate, swallowed some coffee and juice, packed, paid and left at about 10.

The first half of the journey could not have been a greater contrast to the previous day. I had to ride along a busy road, with very few cycle lanes, that included a 5km section of dual carriageway where the speed limit was 110 km/hr. I felt very exposed and vulnerable at junctions, with accelerating traffic merging from my right and other vehicles passing me at speed on my left. At one junction, had I arrived 30 seconds earlier, I would have been a goner, as a large flat bed HGV joined the main carriageway as I was passing the junction. As it happened I spotted it in time to slow down and let it pass across me before darting right to the relative safety of the kerbside.

There was a cycle lane at the large bridge across the Charente outside Rochefort, and I stopped for a while to watch how well it was being observed by the cars, lorries and vans crossing the bridge (it wasn’t) before deciding to get off and push my bike on foot to the top of the bridge. I freewheeled down the other side and thereafter the going was much safer and easier through Rochefort and beyond to La Rochelle. I rode a little wearily along quiet country lanes and through sleepy little villages to my destination.

In La Rochelle, I found a very good little French restaurant on Trip Advisor and thought I had reserved a table using The Fork before it opened, but I hadn’t. The patron took pity on me and accommodated me on a small table by the door, from where I rather guiltily watched while he and his staff turned several hopeful couples away for the rest of the night, while I tucked into a really very nice dish of Iberian pork and mashed pommes de terre, followed by cheese and coffee, all washed down with half a litre of claret. The entree was the only miss. Labelled “L’inspiration du Chef” on the menu board, I am afraid it failed to do so: it sounded great when explained, and looked terrific when it arrived – egg topped with grated truffle on a cream sauce and peas – but there was no flavour from the truffle – probably grated and left too long before service – so, it turned out to be a 16 Euro poached egg and peas, which was probably a bit extravagant. The rest of the meal was terrific and is the first real taste of French food of the trip. I’m going back tonight to try the Magret.

Today is a rest day, so I’ve taken a little jaunt across the road bridge to Ile de Re, where I am presently sat overlooking the harbour tapping out this blog. I’m going to meander around the island, then back to the hotel before dinner.

Early start planned tomorrow as I head north towards the Loire, which I will cross at Nantes on Saturday.

Au revoir, mes amis.

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.

After a relaxing morning at The Hog (definitely my go to stopover if ever I’m passing this way again) I headed off to Portsmouth.  At the port I met some other cyclists , including Don Holland – a bloke on his way from South Yorkshire to Cape Town to raise money for his local hospital.  Impressive!  Check him out on https://alongridesouth.wordpress.com.

The wait to board seemed interminable, but eventually we got away.  The ride across was pleasant enough and I even managed to spot a couple of dolphins and a whale spouting while wandering around the decks. The less said about the magic show: “Disillusioned” – I certainly was – the better.

We were late arriving the next evening in Santander which was a bit worrying as I’d had a call from booking.com while on the boat to inform me that the latest check-in at my first stopover was 6pm.  I thought I would be getting off the boat around that time and so guessed I would arrive about 8-9pm.  The owner agreed to wait.  In the end, I didn’t get through passport control until around 7pm.  I finally pitched up at Posada de Ajo at 9:30, after a 25 mile ride that involved getting lost on my way out of Santander, and a steep hill to finish me off, and having missed two calls from the agency on the way.  The place seemed deserted.  I heard a voice from inside and so went in with a sheepish look on my face to find Felix, the owner, who clearly wasn’t best pleased.  For a moment, I thought he was going to send me packing, but then he must have seen my top lip quivering and so took pity on me, and was from that moment the living embodiment of Basque hospitality.  There was no supper to be had, but he did show me where the beer was, as he hastily left late for his dinner engagement in the town below.  The next day he prepared a fabulous breakfast with several courses of fruit, meat, cheese, and croissants before taking a photograph and waving me a cheery goodbye.

The weather was damp most of the way to Bilbao, which was welcome, as what I have worried about most for this trip is heat and sun.  I’ve packed two bottles of sun-block, but so far haven’t had to use a drop.  Progress was slow, but steady, as I laboured up several climbs to about 500 ft.  I only got off and pushed twice – once when the gradient steepened after a long climb after lunch about 37 miles in, and again during the last stretch to Bilbao, when the route suddenly took me up a street that looked like it had been transplanted from San Francisco.  I half expected to see Karl Malden and a young Michael Douglas chasing some crook past me down the hill.

From what I saw last night, Bilbao is a surprisingly beautiful town.  I’m not riding today, so will take in some of the sights, before an early night.  70+ miles to San Sebastián tomorrow, and more vertical metres than yesterday, so I want to be away bright and early.

Up at 5am this morning to complete all those tasks that get “concertina”d in your schedule before any holiday – or was I just excited to get on the road? The Ferry is not until tomorrow evening, but I hate rushing and was worried about being held up on such a long drive, so I decided to head down to the South coast today, just in case. I had packed most of what I needed yesterday so was good to go just after midday. I still haven’t mastered the art of identifying the bare essentials, so I’ve brought an overflow bag with me to leave in the car at the Ferryport, and will have another critical look at what I have in my pannier bags tomorrow to see what I can leave behind.

The dullest part of the whole trip is over. I’m now holed up in nice Fuller’s pub/hotel (The Hampshire Hog) just off the A3 a few miles North of Portsmouth and have been “carb-loading” on Fuller’s ale.

I eased off the training in the last few weeks: having done 2 consecutive rides of about 50 miles a few weeks ago, I’m fairly confident I can cope with most of what is to come. Our experience last year was that we felt increasingly fitter as the ride progressed. The hardest days are mostly this week: I’ve got a short 20miler off the ferry on Wednesday evening to my first stop at Ajo, with a decent climb at the end, after which the phony war is over. I’ll be riding 60 miles to Bilbao on Thursday along the hilly Basque coast-line, then after a day’s sightseeing (OK – I know it’s a bit soon for a rest day, but I want to see the Guggenheim and find some souvenirs of the Butcher of Bilbao – how do you spell Goikoetxea?)…

… I’ll be heading to San Sebastián near the border on Saturday, then a 116 mile hike North up the French Atlantic coast. I’ve been obsessively checking the BBC Weather App for the various locations I’ll be at on the route. Looks like I’ll be getting wet on Saturday and riding into a moderately strong northerly headwind all day Sunday.

Maybe I should go back to the bar for another pint.

It’s just over two weeks until departure.  Preparations have not gone too badly – I had aimed to lose another stone by now, but I’m fairly pleased with the near two stone that I have shed.  The training programme was interrupted by the late winter we endured in February and March, but I have managed to get a few longish rides in, including a two day 100+ mile round trip to Newcastle at the end of last month.

Cycling on the continent is a much less stressful experience for sure than in the UK.  Who thought it was a good idea to put bikes, buses and taxis in the same lane? And what is the point of a cycle lane that appears for a hundred yards, then disappears, or one that has parked cars in it?  Then there are the motorists who can’t bear to be delayed for a few seconds, and who think you have eyes in the back of your head, and the 11 year olds who threaten to “bray” you as you ride past them.

I’m easing off for the last couple of weeks – I’ve had the bike serviced, so I’ll just keep myself ticking over until departure.

Can’t wait.

So far (eight whole days), I’ve been sticking to the plan and have definitely seen some tangible improvements.

I have lost a few pounds, but what I’m most pleased about is the drop in blood pressure over the past two weeks from a borderline 160/95 mmHg to a much healthier 125/75. I think I might live after all.

I have for most of my life been fairly fit, despite my substantial and ever increasing girth, but I can hear the thundering hooves of the four dread horsemen (Diabetes, Ischaemic Heart Disease, Stroke and Colonic Cancer) approaching just over the ridge and I’m kind of hoping that this new found, and, as yet, modest interest in cycle touring, might just keep me ahead of them.

I bought a bike years ago, and would ride it occasionally in short bursts, but my enthusiasm was never sustained.  Longish trips abroad demand more commitment and preparation, not that there has been much physical preparation involved in any of my previous trips, but this year, I’m travelling further, and alone, and I’m going to have to travel lighter.

There is something about journeying by bike that just keeps you coming back for more.  Maybe it’s the feeling of freedom,  the peace and quiet as you pass down the roads less travelled, the towns and villages you wouldn’t otherwise see, the people you wouldn’t otherwise meet, the pace of the journey, and the sense of achievement. It really is the best way to travel, provided the journey rather than the destination is the main purpose.

Cycling long distances both focusses and relaxes the mind – there is little room for much else other than “How far have I come?”, “How far have I got to go?”, “How long will it take to get there?” How do I feel now?”, “Why are all the shops in Europe shut at lunch-time, when I need une boisson and un sandwich?” and, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, not another hill, not now, please.” There’s also the guilt-free beer drinking and large, hard-earned suppers at the end of the day. Whatever it is that has hooked me, I know that towards the end of each trip I’ve started planning the next one.

Roll on the end of May.

It has been nearly three months since I was on a bike.  Consuming a full bottle of port late last night during the annual Christmas Trivial Pursuit game was probably not the best preparation for the start of a training programme, but Christmas traditions have to be respected.

The scales this morning did not make pretty reading and the blood pressure is borderline hypertensive.  I’m relying on a dry January to help start to shift both figures towards something less compatible with an early death.

The plan for the next month is to get out on the bike twice each week, and supplement that with a few spells on an indoor static exercise bike, gradually increasing the miles and the amount of climbing.  The trip I have planned will involve mostly involve rides of around 50-60 miles, although one day I will need to cover 115 miles. Most of the arduous climbing is during the first few days in Spain, so the training method I have used in previous years, that is, no training at all coupled with hope that I might get fit on the way, is probably not going to cut it. Last year, we struggled with the hilly bits in the middle (through the Ardennes), but both felt quite fit by the time we had finished, despite the gallons of strong Belgian beer consumed on the way. This time, and especially without the lad to pull me through, I need to be better prepared.