We arrived in Lourdes early on a beautiful Mountain afternoon, blue skies, snow capped peaks, and clean fresh air. Lourdes is an interesting place, very clearly economically motivated to the Catholic tourist. The gift shops are very similar in some way to the Banff experience, with one basic difference: Instead of mounties, they sell plastic Virgin Mary's, and instead of Japanese, most of the European languages are represented. One place, right across the road from one of the holiest of shrines in Christendom, was particularly klitzy, right down to the Latin chorus belting out from the streetside speakers to the background of pipe organ music. Roger was a little shocked, end even I (Banff hardened as I am) was reminded of the story of Jesus chucking the money changers out of the temple. (Jesus clearly has NOT visited Lourdes, whatever their claims to fame!) Even the beggars looked like Banffites (Beards, dreads, dogs and, of course, French!) Despite the attractiveness of the town itself, we did not linger the next day, shaking the dust from our feet as we climbed into the beautiful Pyrenean countryside. It took us two glorious days to reach St. Jean Pied de Port, at the foot of the pass leading to Roncevalles in Spain. We crossed over one pass with the most incredible views of our entire trip to date. It was a steep climb, with a rewarding 25 km descent on the other side, that brought us right into St. Jean. St. Jean is a delightful little town with a very interesting old character, bastion, churches an all. Absolutely touristy, but without the crassness of Lourdes. I guess you could call it "honest touristy"! We checked into the pilgrim hostel (from here on we were "officially" pilgrims), where we met some interesting folk, some of whom we were to cross paths with several times again over the next few days.
From St. Jean we set out the next day, heeding the advice of locals NOT to try and drag our bikes over the hiking trail which follows the route of Napoleon, instead taking the road route which follows the route of Charlemagne, another French invader who got his ass kicked out of Spain . (Ever read the "Song of Roland"? He was Charlies rearguard general, who was beaten up by the Moors at the battle of Roncevalles.) And of course, it took Lord Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, to kick Napoleon out of Spain, along with some help from the Portuguese. Wonder what the spanish were doing all that time......? Oh, of course, I forgot. Siesta!
Arriving at Roncevalles quite early in the afternoon, after a grueling climb over the pass, we headed onwards, now giving the actual Camino a try. The Camino is in itself a route that has been used by pilgrims for about a thousand years, and although quite smooth in some places, we found ourselves in a steep rocky descent not compatible with our heavily laden touring bikes. So after a couple of hours of grunt and despair, we gave up, made our way back to the road, and reached the Albergue at Zubiri just as night was falling. Night falls quickly here, so it does not do well to tarry...........
From Zubiri, we limped our way into Pamplona, and the nearest bike shop, where we had to stop and wait for it to open the next day. (It was Sunday, of course!). The damage caused by our foolish venture onto the Camino repaired, We set out late on Monday afternoon, using secondary roads that were blissfully traffic free, making it as far as Uterga, where we put up in the Albergue, and had an excellent "Menu del Peregrino" dinner. From Uterga we ventured on, sometimes electing for the Camino, in areas that were not too hilly, but often on the roadways. For the most part, the Camino shadows little used secondary roads, so we did not often have to compete with heavy traffic very often. Each day brought us closer to Santiago, some days over 100km, on the plains, and some only 50 or 60, in the mountains.
We stayed each night in pilgrim hostels (Albergues) that offer dormitory style accommodation for about five to ten Euros a night and avoiding Albergues with reputations for bed bugs or Montezuma inducing water. In Viana there was a sign on the door advising us to call the local police to open the hostel if there was no one there. This we did, and the coppers came and let us in. Interestingly enough, they did not LOCK us in, so they must have other accommodation for those who transgress the law.
The next morning, we were welcomed at the provincial boundary near Logrono by a wonderful Lady by the name of Felisia, who makes it her business to greet every pilgrim that passes (40,000 a year, give or take!), offer them coffee and cookies, and stamp their credencial. In Najera, we had to deal with a very officious little "hospitalero", who was something of a control freak: "take your boots off, leave them there, bikes must go in this spot, not that way, this way" etc. He even followed me into the washroom to make sure that I flushed, and used the toilet brush. However after a couple of hours he relented, and became helpful and friendly. In Irache we availed ourselves of the free wine fountain at the Bodega. Its just a tap like any other, except it dispenses wine, not water. We stopped for a picnic there, and ran into another Pilgrim by the name of Guillaume, from Gaspe, who we had crossed paths with twice before over the last few days. Guillaume had walked from Le Puy en Velay, and like us, was aiming for Portugal after he reaches Santiago.
The plains, or "Meseta" stretch from Burgos to Astorga, about 230 km, and took us three days to cross. Very reminiscent of Alberta´s prairies, with standing crops of corn awaiting harvest as sileage, harvested grain fields, coveys of Partridge, similar native grasses and scrubland. We crossed two ranges of mountains after Astorga, the first at Puerta Irago, where a simple iron cross El Cruz de Ferro) stands as a sentinel welcoming pilgims to the summit at 1505 m. A couple of miles further on, we encountered a gentleman by the name of "Tio Tomas" living by himself (if you don´t count the hundred or so cats that also came out to greet us) in the abandoned village of Manjarin. Clearly eccentric, and very hermitish, he runs a little refugio with a few old matresses on the dirt floor. Luckily for us, it was still early on a glorious sunny afternoon, but I am sure that his humble refuge has been a welcome port in the storm to many a pilgrim caught in a sudden mountain snowstorm. He informed us that the weather was "Mejor que en verrano" as he stamped our credentials. Upon espying that we had started in Roslin, he immediately became very excited, and gave us a long discourse on the history of the Templarios (An order of Knights well known to those who have studied history, or read the De Vinci Code). He then stamped our credencials again, this time with a "secret" templarian emblem, to which he added the latin words: "Non Nobis Domine". (I am not allowed to share the secret meaning of this, so you will just have to unravel this riddle yourselves!). He clearly was saddened to see us leave, but we did, pressing on down the narrow mountain road with a trail of kittens hopping, skipping and jumping along behind us. After an overnight in a rather austere, but freindly, albergue in Ponferrada (Complete with Templarian Castle, just as Tio Tomas had promised), we ascended the Puerto Do Cebreiro, spending our first night in Galicia in a little village perched at 1400 M by the name of O´Cebreiro.
The next morning we climbed on to another series of "Altos", followed by a long and sphincter puckering descent (by now, my brakes were all but useless!), to continue on one of the most challenging riding days we had yet had. This was probably because of the cumulative effects of riding without a break for over two weeks, but also because of the very rolling terrain - it was either UP, - or DOWN. we reached the rather bleak, but adequate Albergue at Gonzar, just as night was falling, and went to bed tired, but confident that we would reach Santiago the next day. This, alas was not to be! (Yours truly was too tired the next day, so we had to overnight 22 km short of our goal).
We arrived in Santiago de Compostela at about 10:30 on Friday morning, with 4350 km on the bicycle odometer. After drifting by the Cathedral we went for a celebratory beer and checked into a comfortable Hotel. After a relaxing afternoon, and some good food, we had a great nights sleep in a real bed. Roger took off on Saturday morning for the two day round trip to Cabo Finisterra, and I elected to remain in Santiago, rest, and catch up on this blog.
At this point, we have decided to take a pause from cycling. We do not have enough time left to give the next 600 km through Portugal the proper credit they deserve, and we are a little fearful of continuing on in the mountains with no brakes. (On the last downhill into Santiago, we both completely lost our brakes: Roger was able to ride out the hill, but my brakes had failed right at the top, so I ended up bailing into the rocks and brambles at the side of the road at about 45 kmh. Luckily, the Fuerza of Santiago was watching over me, as neither I nor my bike suffered any serious injury!). So this afternoon, we are going to load our bikes onto the train, and, with stops in Vigo, Coimbra, and maybe Fatima, head on down to the Algarve, where my brother Richard avers that there is a really top notch bike shop, that will hopefully put us to rights. And while the bikes are getting fixed, we can relax, and catch up on the Portuguese side of our Family life.
If you are wondering where the promised photographs are, well...... I can't figure out how to get them out of my camera and on to this blog. (Al Power - Doing anything next weekend?!)
We will update again when we reach the Algarve
Monday, November 19, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
High in the French Jura
It was raining cats and dogs, kangaroos, elephants, in fact the whole damn zoo when we left Dwingeloo. We decided to see how effective our rain gear was, so we carried on cycling for about 50 km, before deciding that the cold water running down our necks and into our boots was not, in fact, honest sweat. Thoroughly soaked, we found a railway station: Dutch railways do not have ticket offices in many stations, and this was one of them; neither would the ticket machine accept any of our plastic. So ignoring the signs that threatened that passengers without tickets would be tossed off the train into the nearest canal, (we didn't care - wet is wet), we climbed onto the next train without tickets. It was blissfully warm and dry, and the conductor, probably not wanting to get any of our rainwater onto his Gucci loafers, studiously ignored us.
At the end of the branch line, we were able to purchase some tickets to Maastricht (not all conductors wear Gucci), and thus, no longer potential canal pollutants, made our way to the sunnier and much drier conditions in the south of Holland.
The next day dawned somewhat sunny, if a little brisk, so we cycled on into Belgium; we noticed the border immediately, because the cycle path abruptly ended, forcing us onto the road (cars and all) for the first time in more than a week. Holland is definitely better equipped for the two wheeler population. However, it was not to be thus for very long: after a strenuous climb onto the plateau of the Ardennes, yours truly decided that he had earned himself a beer, and in spite of Rogers whining about smoke filled bars etc. etc., we entered a little hostelry, sort of a hunting lodge really, aptly decorated with deer and boar heads, and to Roger's delight, old men puffing on obnoxious cigars. Even the bar keep had a ciggy going on a bartop ashtray . Despite the smoke and difficulties with the local dialect, we struck up a conversation with the aforementioned bartender, who having noticed Rogers discomfort, wisely left his cigarette on the bar. It was a conversation well worth the investment, as he was able to point us towards a RAVEL. We didn't have a clue what he was talking about at first, but we quickly figured out that a ravel is an abandoned railway line, upgraded to take bicycle and pedestrian traffic.
The Ravel took us to a little village in the German speaking corner of Belgium by the name of Sankt Vith. We were befreinded by another cyclist along the way, who kindly showed us to the youth hostel, and also pointed out that the ravel network continued on into Germany, and south to Luxembourg.
Accordingly, having set our alarm to 6 am, I arose obediently to its chirp the next morning. Woke up Roger, showered, dressed, and went for breakfast. However, the breakfast room was firmly locked up. After the initial frustration of this inconvenience, it finally dawned on us that it was not yet dawn. In fact, it was 4:30 in the morning, our cell phone having mysteriously advanced itself by two hours overnight. Thoroughly embarrassed, we went back to bed, no doubt reawakening our room mate yet again!. At least I had already had a shower when we tried again at 8.00 (now an hour of daylight wasted).
After half an hour of cycling around the village trying to find the beginning of the next ravel,(bickering the whole time: Roger is soooooo grumpy in the mornings!......) we finally stumbled upon it, and sailed on a northern tailwind into Germany. The cycleway was smooth and hassle free, taking us south to Bittberg, a nasty brewery town (big brewery, way too much traffic) where we promptly got lost again. After another half hour of only just avoiding frequent death and dismemberment in the traffic, (and more bickering) we decided to find a bierstueb and ask directions. Incredibly, despite the presence of the vast brewery, with its factory and smoke stacks dominating the environment, we were unable to find one (open that is). By now, yours truly needed to get out of the traffic and chill out for a few minutes, so espying a fitness club with a juice bar, we enquired if one needed to be a member to enter. The receptionist had watched us park our bikes through the window, and probably figured that we really were not going to get on a treadmill, (or a stationary bicycle for that matter), so we were cheerfully made very welcome. We took a table, and looked at the "juice" list. Just about any kind of beer available! So that solved the mystery of how to get a beer in a German brewery town. I took great (and perverse) delight in ordering a beer that was NOT brewed in Bittberg!
Half an hour later, we took another stab at trying to find the cycleway out of town, and were instantly successful. Another ravel, it took us all the way to the Luxembourg border at Echternach.
From Echternach, we found cycle-ways down the river Sur to its confluence with the Moselle. It was a beautiful morning, with views of fall colours and hilltop castles peeking through the layers of morning mist. Still on cycle ways, a short jog down the Moselle took us to the river Saar, which provided us with another traffic free cycleway up river and well into into Lorraine (France). We met some very interesting characters along the way, including a wonderful gentleman by the name of M. Anders Jeannot. It being Sunday, we had had been having a hard time finding a place to have lunch. Every restaurant was either closed or "complet" (fully booked). After trying several villages over a 20 km stretch on the towpath, we stumbled into yet another restaurant, just as it started to rain, to be informed that they, too, were booked. Thoroughly disappointed, (as well as hungry and thirsty) we asked if we could at least have a glass of beer at the little bar in the front area of the restaurant (there, no doubt, for the purpose of accommodating those with reservations until their table is vacated by the previous diners). Grudgingly the hostess allowed that we could, and so we met M. Jeannot. Sixty-five ish, wearing a chefs coat and a mischievous smile, he welcomed us to the bar. It would appear that he was the owner of this family run establishment. He was exceedingly friendly, and quite talkative, and upon realising that we were not being offered a table in his establishment, immediately went to the kitchen and came back with two massive ham sandwiches that he had made himself. (For which he emphatically refused payment!) We were thoroughly entertained by his antics as we munched our way through our meal. In between preparing the occasional drink, he would surreptiously pour himself a glass of red wine and gulp it down when he thought no one was looking. On seeing that I had noticed, he gave me a long wink and laid a finger on the side of nose in the classic gallic submission for secrecy. Thus fortified, he carried on, trading insults with the waitresses and slapping their butts every time they came behind the bar. They didn't seem to mind, so we guessed that they must all be his grandchildren. M. Jeannot was also a learned authority on how to navigate the towpaths of the canal system, and gave us some very useful information and directions. When we again ventured out into the rain, we again had learned the lesson that it is very important to obtain local advice when deciding upon which route to take. M. Jeannots directions served us well. and we completed 125 km that day, with only the last 20 or so on the road. We spent the night in a trucker´s motel in Phalsbourg, the youth hostel being closed. (That Sunday thing again!) and carried on the next day down the Rhone/Rhine canal into Alsace.
We had arranged to meet with our good friend Charlotte at her Granny´s house in Romansviller, which is on the Alsace side of the Vosges. Charlotte was waiting for us, as arranged, and Granny made us very welcome in her house. A very interesting and gracious Lady, who shared with us a few of her war time experiences. We spent a couple of nights there, spending a day in Strasbourg, with Charlotte as our guide. A beautiful city, with an interesting culture and history. Feeling rested once again, we set off down the Route des Vins, again with Charlotte as our guide. We spent our day cycling through the vineyards of Alsace, passing through story book villages reminiscent of Hansel and Grethel, Little Red Riding Hood etc. (actually the Black Forest is only a short distance away, on the other side of the Rhine). Evening brought us to Mulhouse, where we were again made welcome, this time with the family of Charlotte´s aunt Clothilde. After a wonderful dinner and a good nights sleep, we spent the morning finding a bike shop, as Roger was having problems with his bike. We eventually found a Canondale dealer who was able to make a temporary repair, but the main problem (brakes) was not to be remedied for several more days, as the brake parts we needed are not commonly available. (Advice to everyone else: when bike touring through Europe, stock up with extra brake shoes before you start off, as we have had great difficulty finding these very important little pieces.)
Repair effected, we again set off, again following a canal, and then another cycleway, climbing steadily into Switzerland, where we spent the night at the "Hotel de la Gare" in Vendlincourt, Haute Jura. This hostely was recommended to us by a very elderly gentleman, who overheard us asking for directions in the pub at the border. In a quavering voice, he said: HHooootelll de laaaa gare.....Vend....lin......coooooourt! (Its one fifth the price of the hotels in Miecourt!)(Tranlsation, of course, he was speaking in his very distinct dialect!) Another reason to ask for local advice. The next two days were spent cycling through classic Swiss countryside, over quite high passes, through meadows and forests, listening to the tinkle of cowbells, and wondering which of the blonde girls was the real Heidi. Unfortunately, there are very few cycle routes in this part of Switzerland, so we spent quite some time on the road, dodging impatient and inconsiderate drivers. Despite assurances from the lads in the cycle shop in Mulhouse that the Swiss drivers were most courteous to cyclists, we found that not to be the case: in fact, so far, they have been the worst, even worse than the Spanish drivers. Nevertheless, we survived, and after a night spent at the Maison de Jeunesse in Chaux de Fonds, we recrossed the border into France in the department of Doubs, in Compte. Another long climb, and a couple of long and speedy descents (luckily Roger had found some brake parts in Switzerland) brought us to Pontarlier, where we found the youth hostel again closed. (Was it Sunday?). We spent the night in a budget hotel that had seen better years (probably about five hundred years ago). Seedy would be a word that comes to mind, and smoky too, as the cigarette smoke leaked through the floorboards from the bar below. Roger was NOT amused.
Another day cycling through the French Jura brought us to Syam, near Champagnole, and the home of Charlotte´s parents, who made us again welcome. We are indeed fortunate to have such great freinds, and we are very thankful for their very gracious hospitality. We hope to be able to return the hospitality some day in the near future.
This was the end of another section of our journey, as we had gotten quite a bit behind our schedule. We decided to take the train to Lourdes in the Pyrenees, unfortunately bypassing Le Puy en Velay, and the Massif Central, which will have to wait for now. A good reason to come back some day. So our Camino starts again in Lourdes, a town quite reminiscent of Banff, Spas and Gift Shops and all, nestled in the foothills of the front range of the Pyrenees.
More later.........................
At the end of the branch line, we were able to purchase some tickets to Maastricht (not all conductors wear Gucci), and thus, no longer potential canal pollutants, made our way to the sunnier and much drier conditions in the south of Holland.
The next day dawned somewhat sunny, if a little brisk, so we cycled on into Belgium; we noticed the border immediately, because the cycle path abruptly ended, forcing us onto the road (cars and all) for the first time in more than a week. Holland is definitely better equipped for the two wheeler population. However, it was not to be thus for very long: after a strenuous climb onto the plateau of the Ardennes, yours truly decided that he had earned himself a beer, and in spite of Rogers whining about smoke filled bars etc. etc., we entered a little hostelry, sort of a hunting lodge really, aptly decorated with deer and boar heads, and to Roger's delight, old men puffing on obnoxious cigars. Even the bar keep had a ciggy going on a bartop ashtray . Despite the smoke and difficulties with the local dialect, we struck up a conversation with the aforementioned bartender, who having noticed Rogers discomfort, wisely left his cigarette on the bar. It was a conversation well worth the investment, as he was able to point us towards a RAVEL. We didn't have a clue what he was talking about at first, but we quickly figured out that a ravel is an abandoned railway line, upgraded to take bicycle and pedestrian traffic.
The Ravel took us to a little village in the German speaking corner of Belgium by the name of Sankt Vith. We were befreinded by another cyclist along the way, who kindly showed us to the youth hostel, and also pointed out that the ravel network continued on into Germany, and south to Luxembourg.
Accordingly, having set our alarm to 6 am, I arose obediently to its chirp the next morning. Woke up Roger, showered, dressed, and went for breakfast. However, the breakfast room was firmly locked up. After the initial frustration of this inconvenience, it finally dawned on us that it was not yet dawn. In fact, it was 4:30 in the morning, our cell phone having mysteriously advanced itself by two hours overnight. Thoroughly embarrassed, we went back to bed, no doubt reawakening our room mate yet again!. At least I had already had a shower when we tried again at 8.00 (now an hour of daylight wasted).
After half an hour of cycling around the village trying to find the beginning of the next ravel,(bickering the whole time: Roger is soooooo grumpy in the mornings!......) we finally stumbled upon it, and sailed on a northern tailwind into Germany. The cycleway was smooth and hassle free, taking us south to Bittberg, a nasty brewery town (big brewery, way too much traffic) where we promptly got lost again. After another half hour of only just avoiding frequent death and dismemberment in the traffic, (and more bickering) we decided to find a bierstueb and ask directions. Incredibly, despite the presence of the vast brewery, with its factory and smoke stacks dominating the environment, we were unable to find one (open that is). By now, yours truly needed to get out of the traffic and chill out for a few minutes, so espying a fitness club with a juice bar, we enquired if one needed to be a member to enter. The receptionist had watched us park our bikes through the window, and probably figured that we really were not going to get on a treadmill, (or a stationary bicycle for that matter), so we were cheerfully made very welcome. We took a table, and looked at the "juice" list. Just about any kind of beer available! So that solved the mystery of how to get a beer in a German brewery town. I took great (and perverse) delight in ordering a beer that was NOT brewed in Bittberg!
Half an hour later, we took another stab at trying to find the cycleway out of town, and were instantly successful. Another ravel, it took us all the way to the Luxembourg border at Echternach.
From Echternach, we found cycle-ways down the river Sur to its confluence with the Moselle. It was a beautiful morning, with views of fall colours and hilltop castles peeking through the layers of morning mist. Still on cycle ways, a short jog down the Moselle took us to the river Saar, which provided us with another traffic free cycleway up river and well into into Lorraine (France). We met some very interesting characters along the way, including a wonderful gentleman by the name of M. Anders Jeannot. It being Sunday, we had had been having a hard time finding a place to have lunch. Every restaurant was either closed or "complet" (fully booked). After trying several villages over a 20 km stretch on the towpath, we stumbled into yet another restaurant, just as it started to rain, to be informed that they, too, were booked. Thoroughly disappointed, (as well as hungry and thirsty) we asked if we could at least have a glass of beer at the little bar in the front area of the restaurant (there, no doubt, for the purpose of accommodating those with reservations until their table is vacated by the previous diners). Grudgingly the hostess allowed that we could, and so we met M. Jeannot. Sixty-five ish, wearing a chefs coat and a mischievous smile, he welcomed us to the bar. It would appear that he was the owner of this family run establishment. He was exceedingly friendly, and quite talkative, and upon realising that we were not being offered a table in his establishment, immediately went to the kitchen and came back with two massive ham sandwiches that he had made himself. (For which he emphatically refused payment!) We were thoroughly entertained by his antics as we munched our way through our meal. In between preparing the occasional drink, he would surreptiously pour himself a glass of red wine and gulp it down when he thought no one was looking. On seeing that I had noticed, he gave me a long wink and laid a finger on the side of nose in the classic gallic submission for secrecy. Thus fortified, he carried on, trading insults with the waitresses and slapping their butts every time they came behind the bar. They didn't seem to mind, so we guessed that they must all be his grandchildren. M. Jeannot was also a learned authority on how to navigate the towpaths of the canal system, and gave us some very useful information and directions. When we again ventured out into the rain, we again had learned the lesson that it is very important to obtain local advice when deciding upon which route to take. M. Jeannots directions served us well. and we completed 125 km that day, with only the last 20 or so on the road. We spent the night in a trucker´s motel in Phalsbourg, the youth hostel being closed. (That Sunday thing again!) and carried on the next day down the Rhone/Rhine canal into Alsace.
We had arranged to meet with our good friend Charlotte at her Granny´s house in Romansviller, which is on the Alsace side of the Vosges. Charlotte was waiting for us, as arranged, and Granny made us very welcome in her house. A very interesting and gracious Lady, who shared with us a few of her war time experiences. We spent a couple of nights there, spending a day in Strasbourg, with Charlotte as our guide. A beautiful city, with an interesting culture and history. Feeling rested once again, we set off down the Route des Vins, again with Charlotte as our guide. We spent our day cycling through the vineyards of Alsace, passing through story book villages reminiscent of Hansel and Grethel, Little Red Riding Hood etc. (actually the Black Forest is only a short distance away, on the other side of the Rhine). Evening brought us to Mulhouse, where we were again made welcome, this time with the family of Charlotte´s aunt Clothilde. After a wonderful dinner and a good nights sleep, we spent the morning finding a bike shop, as Roger was having problems with his bike. We eventually found a Canondale dealer who was able to make a temporary repair, but the main problem (brakes) was not to be remedied for several more days, as the brake parts we needed are not commonly available. (Advice to everyone else: when bike touring through Europe, stock up with extra brake shoes before you start off, as we have had great difficulty finding these very important little pieces.)
Repair effected, we again set off, again following a canal, and then another cycleway, climbing steadily into Switzerland, where we spent the night at the "Hotel de la Gare" in Vendlincourt, Haute Jura. This hostely was recommended to us by a very elderly gentleman, who overheard us asking for directions in the pub at the border. In a quavering voice, he said: HHooootelll de laaaa gare.....Vend....lin......coooooourt! (Its one fifth the price of the hotels in Miecourt!)(Tranlsation, of course, he was speaking in his very distinct dialect!) Another reason to ask for local advice. The next two days were spent cycling through classic Swiss countryside, over quite high passes, through meadows and forests, listening to the tinkle of cowbells, and wondering which of the blonde girls was the real Heidi. Unfortunately, there are very few cycle routes in this part of Switzerland, so we spent quite some time on the road, dodging impatient and inconsiderate drivers. Despite assurances from the lads in the cycle shop in Mulhouse that the Swiss drivers were most courteous to cyclists, we found that not to be the case: in fact, so far, they have been the worst, even worse than the Spanish drivers. Nevertheless, we survived, and after a night spent at the Maison de Jeunesse in Chaux de Fonds, we recrossed the border into France in the department of Doubs, in Compte. Another long climb, and a couple of long and speedy descents (luckily Roger had found some brake parts in Switzerland) brought us to Pontarlier, where we found the youth hostel again closed. (Was it Sunday?). We spent the night in a budget hotel that had seen better years (probably about five hundred years ago). Seedy would be a word that comes to mind, and smoky too, as the cigarette smoke leaked through the floorboards from the bar below. Roger was NOT amused.
Another day cycling through the French Jura brought us to Syam, near Champagnole, and the home of Charlotte´s parents, who made us again welcome. We are indeed fortunate to have such great freinds, and we are very thankful for their very gracious hospitality. We hope to be able to return the hospitality some day in the near future.
This was the end of another section of our journey, as we had gotten quite a bit behind our schedule. We decided to take the train to Lourdes in the Pyrenees, unfortunately bypassing Le Puy en Velay, and the Massif Central, which will have to wait for now. A good reason to come back some day. So our Camino starts again in Lourdes, a town quite reminiscent of Banff, Spas and Gift Shops and all, nestled in the foothills of the front range of the Pyrenees.
More later.........................
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