So, we arrived in Toulouse at about 3pm yesterday, having completed 300klms along southern France's famed Canal du Midi on our new steeds.

The Canal du Midi is a 240klm long canal in southern France, made by rich farmer Pierre-Paul Riquet in 1667 - when he was 63 years old (he didn't do ALL the work himself). The Canal du Midi connects the Atlantic and the Mediterranean - and is a true aqua engineering marvel.  Apparently Riquet had a team of 12,000 men help him build it - but over 1,000 waterway dwelling women provided the necessary practical water management knowledge to make it a success! It is a beautiful and majestic thing too - and cycling along it is superb for the most part. 


The hardly changing canal is very serene, with still, opaque green waters. We enjoyed cycling it, and this despite the fact that our heavy, cumbersome two-wheeled trailers (width at wheels approx 80-90cms) were not at all ideal for many sections of the bike path. The worst being the 10-15 cm wide dirt track surrounded by long thick grass (much drag) and the gravelly, slatey, pot-holed areas with tree roots aplenty emerging at unpredictable place - our trailers cannot stand their wheels being too uneven. So, a surprise tree root can easily tip you over...I was thrown sideways off my bike without any warning when a hidden root upended my trailer, and very nearly ended up having a dip in Riquet's serene waterway. In fact, it must have been a day for falls as I also went down when I moved aside to let some other cyclists pass - and the ground under my left foot was actually just long grass over a ditch. Damn...

Here is a map of the Canal du Midi: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Canal_du_Midi_map-fr.svg 

The most amazing part of the Canal though are the ecluses - these are 91 oval, 100 ft long phenomenal aqua locks that allow the canal to ascend and descend 190 metres (yeah, and we rode uphill all the way!). The canal has 328 structures - bridges, dams and a tunnel. The ecluses manage the water at vastly different heights above sea level. I don't know any of the specific engineering terms - but watching an ecluse equalise the water so a boat can pass smoothly is splendid! The boat must enter the lock itself via a steel gate, and then the opposing gate at the other side of the lock lets the water either in to raise the level in the lock to match the other side, or vice versa. The boat then rises or descends smoothly with the rushing water in side the oval lock, and then the facing gates open and it passes through. I took a movie of it - which I'll try to post as it really is impressive!

Toulouse, our current location, is where the Canal ends - and I will be a bit sad to no longer be alongside it. But, Bordeaux awaits and I suppose the vins on offer will usher me through my grief.

I have to record some superb recipes here, but before that will quickly note that Jamie's lovely 'Stand by me' blog prettied up the train bridge episode quite a bit! It was not fun. JB was fairly sanguine, but I have a moderate train phobia and felt like throwing up before and during the crossing. The bridge was FAR longer than it looks in the photos, and the corner FAR blinder (is that a word?). Anyway, the truth of it was we wouldn't have been able to see a train until it was on the bridge with us. This made me very uncomfortable. The bridge was about 5 metres above the canal - but even jumping off wasn't a great option as the water was flowing rapidly towards a rocky rapid only a few metres away. We nearly didn't make it over the bridge as I very nearly refused to do it.

Prior to and during the crossing of the train bridge was the first time I thought "Why the hell can't we just have a normal European vacation like other people do? Do we really need to run with 100+kgs of bikes/trailers across a train bridge to enjoy ourselves?" Anyway. After we made it, I remembered I prefer this type of adventure.


Recipe of the Week: There's deux!

Crazy french pizza - I've forgotten the name

-Home made pizza base (probably wholemal would be best), rolled out thinly.
-Cream fraiche
-Chevre (goat's cheese - small rounds with rind would be best - but soft would be good also)
-Emmenthal
-Artichoke hearts - cut into wedges
-Black olives
-If you wanted - I think that caramelised leeks or red onion would also be lovely on this guy.

So, assemble all the delicious ingredients over your base - I guess cream fraiche first, then place the slices/rounds of goats' cheese and then the artichoke wedges, then olives and emmenthal.
Bake on a pizza stone in a really hot oven until it's crisp and brown at the edges - VOILA!
Best pizza ever.

Moules au Roquefort

I don't have time now to try to invent a recipe for this, but basically - clean your mussels, and then steam just open in fish stock/wine/butter and put aside. Gently heat some cream/cream fraiche (no boiling!) in a massive pot and when it's warm melt in a massive chunk of roquefort. Don't worry if the texture is inconsistent...Season if you want to. If it's not liquidy enough - add a little of the liquid the mussels were cooked in.

Then just chuck in the mussels and stir them around so they are happily swimming and dancing.

EAT the little creatures with home made brown frittes or with the best crusty brown bread you can find, and a good vin blac.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm


Random fact of the week:
-A swan attacked me. The bastard.
Canal du Midi fast facts and accolades for the water women (thanks Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canal_du_Midi):

"The system was a masterpiece of both hydraulic and structural engineering, and served as an early ratification of Riquet's vision. It was also a major part of a massive enterprise. At its peak 12,000 labourers worked on the project, including over a thousand women, many of whom came specifically to work on the water system.[2][3][4] The women labourers were surprisingly important to the canal's engineering. Many came from former Roman bath colonies in the Pyrenees, where elements of classical hydraulics had been maintained as a living tradition. They were hired at first to haul dirt to the dam at St. Ferréol, but their supervisors, who were struggling to design the channels from the dam to the canal, recognized their expertise. Engineering in this period was mainly focused on fortress construction, and hydraulics was concerned mostly with mining and problems of drainage. Building a navigational canal across the continent was well beyond the formal knowledge of the military engineers expected to supervise it, but the peasant women who were carriers of classical hydraulic methods added to the repertoire of available techniques. They not only perfected the water supply system for the canal but also threaded the waterway through the mountains near Béziers, using few locks, and built the eight-lock staircase at Fonserannes.[3]"

Specifications
Canal length: 240 km (150 mi) Max boat length: 30 m (98 ft) Max boat beam: 5.5 m (18 ft) Original locks: 86 Current locks: 65 Minimum height above sea level: 0 m (0 ft) Maximum height above sea level: 190 m (620 ft) Navigation Authority: VNF
History
Original owner: Pierre-Paul Riquet Principal Engineer(s): Pierre-Paul Riquet Other Engineer(s): Marshal Sebastien Vauban, Louis Nicolas de Clerville, François Andréossy
Date approved: 1666 Construction began: 1667 Date completed: 5/15/1681
Geography Starts at: Toulouse Ends at: Étang de Thau
Beginning coordinates: 43°36′40″N 1°25′06″E / 43.61102°N 1.41844°E / 43.61102; 1.41844 Ending coordinates: 43°20′24″N 3°32′23″E / 43.34003°N 3.53978°E / 43.34003; 3.53978 Les Onglous lighthouse Branch of: Canal des Deux Mers
Connects to: Garonne Lateral Canal, La Nouvelle branch, Canal de Brienne, Hérault River,and Étang de Thau Summit: Seuil de Naurouze

If you have never seen the movie Stand By Me, stop reading this blog, download it or rent it, watch it and then – but only then – read on.   Two reasons.  Firstly, it is a fabulous movie and much more deserving of your time than reading our travel blog.  And secondly, this blog contains a plot spoiler.

We started on Wednesday from our campsite in Port Leucate.  We had planned to get an early start but I accidentally left my I-phone on silent, we didn’t hear the alarm and were only woken by a cute hound sniffing around our campsite.  We packed up and hit the road for about 500 metres until I spotted a cute little roadside bakery which served tiny coffees from a tiny machine in a tiny cup.

The next 30 kilomtres were a mix of quiet beachside and farmside roads interspersed with hair razing rides along major roads.  There is a gap in the cycle network in this area and I had to improvise.  I was quite impressed with most of my planning although Cassy was less than impressed with the highway riding.

We ate lunch in La Palme much to the amusement of the locals dining at their village cafe.  They laughed at us like they were inbred bogans - or that was our summation anyway.  We continued on after lunch to Port Nouvelle and then straight onto a hiking route along a little canal to Narbonne.

Our plan was to go to Narbonne, get directions to the Canal du Midi, and keep riding in that direction.  By the time we hit Narbonne we had clocked 60 kilometres and I threw in the towel.  Cassy said she was prepared to cycle on - but only after I insisted that I was finished for the day.  We found a Tourist Information bureau in a tiny silver building that looked like a public toilet and I asked for directions to the Canal du Midi.  I was told to stay on the canal we were on and we would get there.  Unbeknownst to me the canal we had been riding along from Port Nouvelle to Narbonne was the Canal de la Robine, an offshoot of the Canal du Midi.  And for reasons that soon will become clear, that tourist information bureau gave out some really bad tourist information.  They didn't have any maps either...

We found a hostel near the main tourist information office where I had stopped to gather more maps.  Anyone who has trekked with me knows that I rely heavily on maps to find the path – even when the path is right in front of me.  The maps confirmed that we indeed were on the Canal de la Robine with a path leading to the Canal du Midi.

Whilst we were eating dinner at a cute little creperie, we spied another cycle tourist.  Cassy encouraged me to try my rusty French on him and we were soon regaling each with other cycle touring stories.  Alexandre, a young French man, was travelling from Toulouse – where we are headed, and we had travelled from the direction in which he was headed.   We gave him some maps of the regions we had passed through (there is not enough room in our luggage for all the maps I collect).  And he told us the story of the dilemma we would face the next day.

Most of the cycle paths and routes we have encountered are 90% brilliant and 10% incomplete. Long bicycle paths leading to suburban roads with no signs.   Confusing routes that lead into, but not out, of towns.  Beautifully constructed paths around roundabouts that lead to bridges with a foot and a half step up to the foorpah. And our ride to the Canal du Midi would be no different. There are 270 kilometres of mostly well resolved cycle paths along the Canal du Midi.  And one big dilemma. After following the Canal de la Robine out of Narbonne the route is along the Canal de Jonction to the Canal du Midi.  The kicker is that although there is a cycle route the whole way, there is no way to cross between the Canal de la Robine to the Canal de Jonction.  Alexandre told us there were two choices for the morning: cycle 14km from Narbonne sharing highways with the crazy French drivers to reach the Canal de Jonction or cross from the Canal de la Robine to the Canal de Jonction on the rail bridge. The rail bridge that is only used by slow moving tourist trains on Saturdays and Sundays from June to September and the very occasional freight train.  The rail bridge that looks remarkably like the one in Stand By Me. 

The decision was easy to make the evening before after a glass of white wine and a belly full of dinner.  The next morning after 10kms of riding and a long push up the rail embankment we were standing at the side of the tracks staring at the long railway line stretching ahead of us.  The decision to take the rail bridge seemed harder to make as we  could not see around the blind corner at the end of the bridge.  We quizzed each other about what we would do if a train came.  Would either of us end up like Vern clinging to the tracks refusing to move whilst the train bore down on us?  Would we jump into the river or hang onto the side of the bridge if we had no choice?  Would we push our bikes and trailers into the river to save them?  Would we end up laughing in the dust just like River Phoenix and Corey Feldman?

In the end we went over the train bridge but only because we could not face a ten kilometre ride back into town plus another 14 kilometres on highways to get to the other side of the canal.  We pushed the bikes and trailers leaping across the rails two at a time.  Every so often a trailer would catch a particularly long cut sleeper and tip over – threatening to fall into the canal in the process. We would have to stop and right the trailer and then continue on.   Needless to say no train came and we reached the other side very much alive.  We pushed our bikes and trailers down the embankment and continued on the ride.

The rest of the day was not as exciting.   The Canal du Midi is completely gorgeous and we spent most of the day on rough paths shaded from the sun by the line of trees running the entire length of the canal.  It would have been a  gorgeous day's cycling but for the headwind.  After 40 kilometres (which felt like 80 kms we had seen enough and stopped in at Homps for the night. 

We were 5 nights in Perpignan and 6 days in which we didn’t push a pedal in anger.  But we were back on the bikes today, well new bikes anyway.

I have enjoyed being in France to test out my long forgotten high school French skills.  Five years of studying French should not go to waste, unlike algebra, trigonometry and chemistry.  My attempts at speaking French have been met by people variously launching into English, speaking French at unintelligible speeds and laughing. The highlight was undoubtedly when I went to the French police station to report the theft of our bicycles and managed to bumble my way through the interview.  Although, it may not have been such a highlight for the patient gendarme who interviewed me.  The lowlight was when the hotel staff were speaking French to me then, having heard me murder their beautiful language for days on end, turned to Cassy and started speaking French to her.  As if she is the French speaking one.   We had only been staying there five days.

Perpignan is a beautiful old town dotted with castles and churches and bisected by a canal.  The castles are always closed.  However, after our two day planned visit with Cassy’s sister over the weekend, we began to yearn for the road again, or more accurately the cycle path.  We were held up by the bicycle shop being closed on Monday and then waiting for the replacement trailer hitches for our bikes to arrive by Express Post.    By the fifth day in town having seen the sites and eaten at all the good restaurants we were ready to go.  Conspiracy theories about the bike theft began flying around the hotel room.  Was it because the bikes were German that they were stolen in France?  Did I “lose” them so I could go bike shopping again?  Did Cassy make arrangements with the Perpignan underworld so that she could buy a black bike?  The truth will never be known.

When we bought our trailers I first interacted with my Dutch friend Peter Blaansjar at Radical Designs because we had trouble completing the payment transaction.  We formed a special bond – both being Blanchard’s of a sort.   Well he is now my BFF after receiving my distress email highlighting our urgent need for replacement trailer hitches and sending out the replacements before we had paid for them.  Good man!

The trailer hitches arrived this morning and we raced them over to the bicycle shop to be fitted to the bikes we had chosen yesterday.  Then it was the back to the hotel to pack and check out.  Then back to the bike shop to pay for and collect our new bikes.  Then back to the hotel with our bikes to collect our trailers.  And then back to the bike shop twice to fix minor glitches - but then we were on the road.

It was not far from Perpignan to the beach and we were on bike paths and trails most of the way.  The hardest part was finding the way out of Perpignan with its winding, backtracking streets.  The beach cycling was lovely as usual and it was not long before we were cruising the beaches looking for a campsite.  We found one at Port Leucate about 6pm after 40km in the saddle of our new bikes.  Cassy is quite chuffed with her new black steed, I like the feel of my bike and we both love the fabulous seats which are far more comfortable than our old ones.

While I am slightly hungover and can't write too much (or maybe even in proper words/sentences) - some fun has been had, and some minor tragedy has passed.  

My sister left her holiday in Costa Rica to visit mum in Busingen last week, and then jet-setted her way back to Barca on Friday morning - she then nabbed a hire car and sped across to visit us in Perpignan.

Out first night passed in a fury of booze fuelled amusements, and much good food was consumed (along with much beer, wine, dessert wine, sangria etc etc). We pulled some bad poses to amuse little Kimmy (our famous peasant faces - come so naturally) who is languishing away in Perth and swamped in study. After watching some v amusing salsa dancing at a little club near our hotel, we stumbled on home to bed. I enjoyed stereo snoring. Tam and I half made breakfast,  JB was not quite up for it.

We finally hit the streets some time mid morning (or mid arvo - who can say?) to discover our beloved pimped-up biciclettes/velos/steeds were not where we'd left them. Theivery! Bastards. We were sad...we visited les gendarmes for assistance - only to be shooed away 3 times as they were too busy to take our complaint. Must go back Monday. Fabbo. The insurance company was even worse - almost impossible to get on the phone and then quick to assure us that 'bikes aren't luggage' and so aren't covered, despite wording to the contrary in their brochure. JB politely set the woman straight and we must file a claim when the cops finally let us report the theft.

We nursed our broken hearts over crap lunch, and returned to the bunker where we were at a loose end most of Sat. Poor Tam - must have been a sweeeeeet Saturday to drive 2 hours from Barca and then watch Jamie and I in mourning in our little hotel for a whole day.

About 5pm, the will to live slightly returned - along with the will to eat, and perhaps to imbibe again. We're not alcoholics - we had to drink to kill the pain. We plodded around, boozing randomly at cool looking places, and finally found a splendid dinner place. MUCH seafood was consumed, along with some splendid apertifs (Martini bianco - GOLD) and a couple bottles of blanc. Our spirits lifted...we cruised home (by way of last night's dodgy dance club), and Tammy momentarily rose above her heinous back injury to pull some extremely wrong dance moves with me for Kim's amusement back home. Everyone ended up with minor injuries, dirty clothes and finally, hangovers again.

A very good weekend (besides the bike theft, of course).

Even though we do miss our metal friends - the most annoying part is we now need to wait here for the special trailer hitch fittings to be sent again from Holland, then buy new bikes (that the fittings will fit) - and then attempt to find fittings/attachments etc to fit our bike luggage. Or buy all new bike luggage/panniers etc. And new "I love my bike" bells. And new safety flags...the flappy top half we are left with is not much use without our special patented masking tape flag fittings, securing the flag bases to the missing bikes.

Random incident - across the dark floor of the dance club, I saw a woman in her mid forties coming towards me - in what I thought was a trick of the light, I announced to Jamie and Tam that a lady with her nipple out was approaching. No trick. She sauntered over, grabbed and smilingly held my hands for a moment - all the while her entire (enhanced) right breast was, well...out there. It had escaped from her shirt entirely. Random.

Baix Empordia has a fabulous network of cycle paths.  Our cycling plan for the day was to ride from L’Estartit to Flaca.  But which way?  There was a patchwork quilt of cycle paths on offer.  We chose the northern route taking in Jafre and Colomeres, but only because I had some vague memory that Eric Blair (AKA George Orwell) fought there during the Spanish Civil War.  And since we have forgotten to Google whether my memory serves me correctly I will continue under that preconception (ie – “in my mind”).

In any event, we cycled through some beautiful country, starting our ride at the estuary of El Ter.  The cycle paths were gravelly and potholed which slowed us up a little.  A cyclist usually impels two wheels however with our trailers we are pushing and pulling four wheels.  When the path is rough we feel the drag of our bikes and the weight on our trailers.  Add in a headwind and the going gets slow.

Despite these impediments, we made good time and lunched in a field with a view of the snow capped Pyrenees.    Jafre proved confusing and not just because I was trying to work out whether it was the setting for “Homage to Catalonia”.  We eventually worked our way out of the town and onto the next path to Foixa only to be told by a truck driver that there was no way through.  Thankfully we thanked him and ignored him and rode over a dam of the upper reaches of El Ter.  Immediately after the dam we encountered our first section of single trail (AKA goat track).  We found ourselves in a forest on the lower slopes of some hills. 

After taking an uphill gap between two hills on an unpaved trail to Foixa the roads became paved and turned ever upwards.   Cassy bagged her second hill of the trip with only a few swear words.   I think there were more swear words on the downhill afterwards when she proudly reached her new maximum speed of 38 kilometres an hour.  I know.

We arrived at Flaca train station and bought two tickets to Cerbere, the first train station in France.  We were both excited to be arriving in a new country.  

With our bikes, we are travelling with eight pieces of luggage.   2 bikes, 2 bike trailers, a pannier, a backpack, a handlebar pack and a rack pack.   The backpack usually travels on one of the trailers.   We had a cunning plan to negotiate storming the train.  Tie a pannier to one of the trailers.  Leave the rackpack on one bike and wrap the handlebar pack around my shoulders.   Cassy was convinced the cunning plan would be perfected by the train lingering at the station due to the fact that it was travelling across the border and for more than one hour.

 The train arrived.  I threw a bike on the train.  Cassy wrestled her bike on as well, negotiating the significant gap between the train and the platform.  I returned momentarily to the platform to grab our trailers.  When I turned, the doors were closed and the train was leaving the station.  I was so close to the train that Cassy could see the wrinkles of disgust on my face as the train left without me.

As the train hurtled out of the station towards France I realised Cassy had no money, no phone, no passport and (in my mind) no wits to negotiate herself out of the situation.  There was nothing for me to do but return to the station waiting room and continue reading Sack’s latest book “In the Mind’s Eye”.  Which is a fabulous read.

...

As the doors closed in Jamie’s face, his expression was priceless. Fury and disbelief, mixed with furious disbelief. I was surprised as it was all very sudden, but fighting hysterical laughter. I tried to convey in my expression to him through the windows “What should I do?”  I am not sure if I managed this as I was simultaneously trying to balance both the bikes, make sure the very old man ‘helping’ me load the bikes did not overexert himself and also wrangle the doors open or find a button to open the doors/stop the train. I did not succeed at anything, and we sped off for France leaving JB and luggage on the platform. I turned around to a carriage full of amused passengers. A few people were looking away, out of politeness I think, but five or so young men were craning backwards out of their seats, staring at me and the very precarious bikes. I think they wanted to see me cry. I needed a moment to compose myself and so I just hovered around the bikes and tried to conjure up a plan while attempting to look cool in front of the young Spanish guys.

I managed to wrangle a train timetable from a departing German tourist, but didn’t look at it before impulsively deciding that to proceed to France as planned would be best. I then sat quietly for a few minutes to contemplate things (while the onlooking passengers continued to check if I was crying or if the bikes had toppled). Then I realised (as my brain started to work rationally) that I would need to inform JB of the plan. I started hunting for a phone to borrow and found a few, but couldn’t get reception. Minutes and stations were passing. Then I finally realised I had no money, no ID, no luggage and no passport. I didn’t know if there more trains to France that night or even if I needed a passport for France. Then I realised I had no train ticket from Cerbere to Perpignan anyway. And no ticket for the train I was currently riding to Cerbere. At that moment the conductor appeared and started checking tickets. For some reason (“in my mind”) I decided he looked like he would speak English, and so I waited hopefully as he cruised down the train towards me.

Of course the conductor spoke no English.  After minutes of awkward sign language (me pointing at both bikes and indicating I was far too short for Jamie’s and could only ride one at one time) we knew the game was over. I found an English looking face and by some stroke of ridiculous luck discovered a young Englishman who spoke perfect Spanish. For some time, he translated between myself and the conductor.  I could tell the conductor thought I was the stupidest human alive, but he was very nice about things. The best plan for me was to disembark at Figueres (about 5 stations from Flaca, where we started) where Jamie could come and meet me shortly. No more trains to France tonight. I wrangled the bikes off the train at Figueres (with the help of the Englishman, and a Spaniard at the station) and managed to call Jamie from the Englishman’s phone. The new plan was hatched, I finally managed to read the train timetable and work out when Jamie would arrive, and so we were now to be in Figueres for the evening. The bikes and I waited on the platform, and all was well.

...

Half an hour later, the phone rang and interrupted my quiet reading time.  Miraculously it was Cassy AND she was safe.  Fortunately she had finished the Sack’s book before me and was obviously coping on borrowed intellect.   She had decided to get off the train before France (smart for a lady without a passport or ticket).  I bought a ticket to Figueres and met her at the station.  Oh how we laughed.

So we stayed overnight in Figueres.  And when we woke up the next morning we realised a couple of things.   We had been cycling for 8 days straight and had covered nearly 300 kms.  Time for a proper rest day.  And we had made a very surreal entry to the home of Salvador Dali.  We decided to stay the day and visit the Teatre Museu Dali - which was fabulous and interesting and ... well... surreal.

After the museum we found what looked like a dodgy restaurant called “Los Angeles”.  But really it was a fabulous place serving fresh and authentic Catalan fare.  We ate well. And then we needed time to email and google so we found ourselves in a wifi bar drinking sherry and spirits.  And now we are at home in our little “pensione” eating cheese, tomato and avocado sandwiches with Cassy’s best friend - Pedro Ximinez.  And blogging.  Good times.

 

We reluctantly departed our beautiful campsite about 10am, post obligatory morning coffee (with a view). We headed for l'Estartit - on the coast about 50klms from the French border and 50klms from our Palamos camp. The riding conditions of the day were mostly lovely - although it always takes us quite a while to navigate our way out of the town and onto the bike path/correct path. Lots of hit and miss. Jamie reminded me to quote his brothers to him when his map preoccupation is out of control "Stay on the f-ing path". I used this once, but then it blew up in my face a bit after we apparently headed some way in the wrong direction. 

Today's 50klm ride took us inland from Palamos to Palafrugrell and into a green field with a view of an ancient castle on a hill where we lunched on bread, octupus, tuna, salad and, of course, cheeses. We continued on through the delightful medieval village of Pals - which is all narrow winding cobbled roads, high walls, stone houses and charming flower pots: http://www.travelblog.org/Europe/Spain/Catalonia/Pals/blog-4845.html (why should I re-describe it?).

We plodded on, past St Julia and Gualta and after a slight unplanned detour (lost again) we slid into l'Estartit at about 5pm. By this stage I was flagging as I hadn't slept much and my legs, although not sore for the first time since we started cycling, were randomly refusing to peddle as fast as I wanted them to. Cycling sleepy is tricky as I found I was even more prone to riding in front of cars etc. Cycling hungover is the worst though - the first painful 20 minutes of adjustment is extended to over an hour...this really sucks. But, the wine is so good. The price you pay.

l'Estartit is a very sleepy village at the moment - beautiful coastal setting with craggy rocks and small islands just off the coast, but in serious disrepair. Coming into town we cycled for about a klm over a crumbling stone esplanade, filled with massive pot holes, loose rocks and gaps in the paving. Rattly. The village is also in disrepair - as it's not peak season, much is closed and there are workmen repairing some of the hotels/restaurants for the tourist season ahead. The town is pretty much empty, except for a few disgruntled looking (mostly German) tourists wandering aimlessly around. It took us some time to find accommodation, and we ended up hotelling it - nice beds and hot showers proved too tempting! With our bikes safely tucked away in a storeroom, we cleaned ourselves up and ventured out for feeding time. Mmmmmm more stuffed mussels and cod croquettes to start, and grilled squid for my main - Jamie opted for gratinated monkfish (Rape a la plancha gratinee) which came with gratinated potatoes - double cheesy joy! The food was delish, and we smashed down a 375ml local cava (spanish bubbly) and then a bottle of spanish musactel sauvignon blanc blend. Good times!

We're averaging (sort of ) about 50klms daily on the bikes now, and both of our bodies are starting to adjust I think. We've also re-packed our bike trailers into 'daily' and 'camp/storage' (rather than having a trailer each and sharing the camp stuff) and it's working out much better, except for the losses (sleeping bag and now Jamie's bike gear bag...oops). We have a little equilibrium going at the camp sites and just cruise through our errands as we set up/disassemble our camp site. So, all is well. Cycling a beautiful way to see Europe (probably anywhere with safe cycle routes) as you feel much more a part of the country, and get to see the tiny towns and villages and the countryside in much closer detail than you would otherwise. We get to ride between the people as they go about their daily routines, and see and smell everything close up...the hot foods, the coffee, the baking pastries and breads and the forrests smell very good...the field animals, the meat plants and the fertiliser smell very bad.

Random Daily Stats

JB falls: x 1 - amusing tangle with trailer and bike wheels while feet still in cleats. Went down in a flurry of long limbs, minor scrapes to ankle, hip and elbow. Much laughing by spectator (me).

CE falls: x 1 - dismouned bike as stopping, but unfortunatley tried to dismount over newly installed safety flag. Flag ends up wedged between legs and into face, bike is going down, all balance lost - sideways spill onto cobblestones with bike. No injuries. Much laughter JB. I also rolled my trailer today and got both feet drenched as we stupidly tried to ride up a path that had become a river.

Recipe of the region - Catalan Pa Amb Tomarquet (bread and tomatoes)

Need: Good artisan bread, garlic cloves, full flavoured sweet organic tomatoes, spanish olive oil. Other stuff.

Get the best and freshest rustic bread you can find, and toast lightly. Cut a garlic clove in half and rub it all over the bread. Cut the tomates in half lengthwise and squeeze out some juice, seeds. Rub (smash) the tomato over the bread. Drizzle with olive oil and season with sea salt/ground pepper if you want.

This simple dish I'd never have thought of is FANTASTIC! Can be eaten with anchovies, jamon (for you carnies), manchego or other cheeses or grilled vegetables....mmmmmmmm.

“In my mind” is a phrase Cassy and I use to describe that preconception one has about how one wants things to be.  “In my mind”, Cassy says, “the restaurant will have a cheese platter on the dessert menu.”   “In my mind”, I say, “ Barcelona will be playing Real Madrid tomorrow”.  Things appear “in my mind” because I want them to be that way.

In my mind, our trip would be filled with days where we wake up with a slight hangover from a meal at a Michelin Star restaurant.   We pack our gear and start pedalling along dedicated bicycle paths through the rolling hills of the canola field dotted country side.  Soon enough we are in a river valley and the trail turns downwards towards the sea.  We stop for a drink at a lovely village with a castle on top of the hill and then ride on down the valley.  We lunch at another village with a castle where the waiter gives us free drinks after messing up our order.  Then we continue on until we are riding along the sea on a beachside promenade for the last few kilometres of our ride.  We find an information map which points out the nearest camping ground.  We arrive and are offered our pick of sites in the otherwise empty camping ground.  We choose the one nearest the ocean with a view across a rocky cove filled with whitewashed houses to the Mediterranean Sea.  Cassy cooks a fabulous pasta whilst we drink local red wine from cans generously donated by the campsite shopkeeper. 

Today was that day.

Dinner the night before was at Massana in Girona.  The ride was from Girona to Palamos, around 55 kilometres.  There were dedicated paths almost the entire way, most of them hard packed gravelly sand.  The country side melted away under our wheels.   We had a diet coke at Llagostera and lunch at Castel d’Aro.  The waiter did forget our drinks and we did get them for free, along with a feisty seafood soup, gratinated mussels with aioli and delicious peppers stuffed with prawns and mushrooms all of which we were happy to pay for.  The Palamos promenade is beautiful stripes of terracotta tiles and cream which curve around a sand filled bay.  The site of the beach was a salve for our souls as our legs were a little sore by the time we reached it.  And the campsite – well you can judge from the photo.  It is completely empty and the only sound I can hear is the waves crashing against the shore.  And the campsite shopkeeper did give us free out of code CANS of local red wine which tasted the same way all free drinks do.

Just so that you don’t feel too jealous here are the bad things that happened to us today.  We were a little hungover when we started riding.   We ate lunch separately – Cassy’s meal arrived along with a meal I didn’t order.    By the time my meal arrived she had mostly finished.   I had finished my meal by the time the drinks arrived.   We struggled with directions on the bike route once we turned off the trail from Girona to Sant Felius de Guixols and ended up riding on the main road.  And then we became slightly lost looking for the campsite which resulted in us having to negotiate a categorised climb - with our trailers.   There was also a headwind most of the way and we smelt regular whiffs of cow poo and meat processing facilities. And when we arrived at camp we realised we had lost one of the sleeping bags; probably left in the hotel room the night before.

But on a day like this with 55 kilometres of great riding with so many rewards – who cares!

Tossa del Mar is a gorgeous little beachside village.  In fact, most of the towns here fit that description although we are visiting them in off season and suspect they may be a little crazy during peak season.  There is a gorgeous medieval section of the village which is still inhabited and we wandered through the walled area before finding a little restaurant for dinner.  After dinner we walked back to our hostel past some Roman ruins. 

The plan was to ride from Tossa del Mar to Palamos.  The ride would be 23 kms of hills and then 21 kms of beachside riding.  We packed up, saddled up and then hit the roads towards the first hill.  We became a little nervous when we pedalled towards the first bend and there was no sealed shoulder.  And then we turned the corner to find another stage of the Rally Costa Brava.  

The same rally that had plagued Cassy the day before when she ignored two angry policeman and one insistent cyclist to ride straight into a timed section of the rally was back to haunt us.  We watched them for a while setting off on their stage on the roads that we had planned to cycle.  And then we watched the crazy drivers coming in the other direction.  Having passed the rally drivers they had decided it would be a fine time to emulate them and they were screaming down the hill.  We had seen enough.  We rode back into town and bought bus tickets to Loretta del Mar and then continued on another bus to Girona.

Once in Girona, we decided that as a reward for having a rest day we should treat ourselves to dinner at a fancy restaurant.  I chose Massana and we headed out at 7.30 to see if we could score a table.  It was closed so we scoped out a few more restaurants and realised we were too early for dinner on a Saturday night.   There was nothing for it but to join the throngs of locals walking along the roads heading towards the river to the central square.  We had a glass of wine in a bar overlooking the river and then headed back to Massana to bag our first Michelin Star. 

We stayed in a small (very small – Jamie had to duck on the loft level, I could stroll under the beams in heels. Bonus) loft apartment in El Born, the old quarter of central Barcelona. Our apartment was right next to the Picasso Museum. Which we never quite made it to. El Born is a maze of tiny streets, alleys, boutiques, cafes, restaurants and architectural marvels – including Roman ruins. We were a bit exhausted and tourist-ed out after NY, and spend an inordinate amount of time sleeping in, sleeping during the day, lost and found and lost again, and just not doing very much. We sort of skipped most of the touristy things and instead concentrated on getting ready for the cycling ahead. We were both very nervous, probably for different reasons.

 

 We had to eat a lot so we’d have energy for the trip ahead. Of course cheeses provide a very good source of cycling fuel, as does chocolate and various decadent dessert concoctions. We fuelled up extensively. I cleverly created stores of fuel on my body, in case there were lean times ahead. My pants got tight – but I knew it was for a good cause. We both developed the habit of waking up at 3-4 am and not being able to sleep again for hours, or at all. We were able to eat when we couldn’t sleep however, and so fuelled up on pasta and cheeses overnight. My pants got tighter. I hoped this would help the cycling.

We discovered our steeds (the bikes) in Bikeland SL, right near the Sagrada Famila (which we admired from the outside, after deciding not to face the throngs of queuing tourists). The proprietor, Lluis, was lovely and extremely helpful and we bought the first bikes he showed us. German made ‘Whistler Focus’ mountain bikes with hydraulic brakes. Stupid name, good bikes. Lluis was even more helpful when we sheepishly brought back the bikes 3 days after we bought them as our bike trailers didn’t fit on. This had provoked a minor (massive) meltdown in the El Born bunker, as JB had already built up and modified the bikes by the time we realised the bike frames could not accommodate the trailer hitch at an angle that could take the trailers. Lluis looked at the hitch and knew instantly it had to be machined back so it could maneuver to the correct angle. He gave the pieces to his nerdy assistant who fixed them in minutes. Problem solved, crisis averted. We really need to send that man a bottle of wine…

Barcelona is a lot more beautiful and exciting and fantastic and amazing than I’ve managed to describe– it’s just we were too focussed and tired to properly explore it in all its glory. Next time.