Given an open choice, it’s very unlikely that I’d have elected to make a trip across two countries on trains and ferries with a fully loaded cycle at the peak of high season and during one of the world’s largest mass sport events. However, since Chanté was attending a wedding in Spain and we both wanted to visit the French Pyrenees, it made sense to meet her there. Events would conspire to create a somewhat different, but arguably more memorable, bike-centred experience to the one I’d orginally envisaged.

In a slight departure from my usual format, I’ve included iPhone snaps alongside camera outputs in this post. In terms of techie aspects, the bike configuration, now pretty well-evolved through experience, was very similar to that of the Bulgaria trip but without the need for mountain bike tyres. Making their debut on this tour were the MucOff Big Bore tubeless valves, designed to eliminate the issues of clogging and bent Presta cores. They did. I used the Voltaic Systems V25 battery, bought for use with my solar panel, with a Sinewave Revolution converter to take output from the dynamo hub, offering pass-through charging to simultaneously power my phone and Garmin all day. Again, this worked perfectly, with enough flat and downhill elements to compensate for slow climbing. I also carried a power bank as back up.

The grand départ

Armed with a five-day Interrail pass (in first class in order to maximise the scope of seat reservations at short notice, although this was before I learned that French railways require cycle owners to travel in second) I also used ferries and a coach to reach Calais and rode a section of the EuroVelo EV4 “Vélomaritime” route to Boulogne. This was an absolute delight, over rolling downs on smooth gravel, farm tracks, cycle paths and quiet lanes through beautiful coastal villages with a backdrop of the Channel and distant Dover.

I’d been ridiculously excited by the notion of getting my breakfast from La Maison des Tartes, Sangatte, a boulangerie-pâtisserie spotted on Google Maps. It’s hard to overstate how much I enjoy a quiche or a tarte au chevre/aux oignons, for example, in their country of origin, and almond croissants are among the reasons I returned fitter but no thinner. On this occasion, the maison was out of tartes and so I fuelled the ride on a couple of pastries until I could score more baked goods in Boulogne.

In high season, all French trains, including the regional TERs, require pre-booking for non-folding bikes. As in the UK, these services offer far better cycle accommodation than the provision within high speed and intercity carriages even though a fee is payable on faster French trains.

The three-mile ride from Paris Nord to Austerlitz is entirely on cycle paths, crossing the Île de la Cité and hanging a left to follow the Seine Rive Gauche. During rush hour, as with my commute, one is swept along in a river of humanity — bikes of all kinds, e-scooters, skateboarders and motor vehicles, the latter’s usual dominance very much diminished — and chastised by pinging bells if hesitation is detected. The intensity and urgency within the peloton are disconcerting when you don’t know the rules or destination of the competition. Embracing the chaos on the return leg (départ shifted to Montparnasse) worked a lot better than naïve and futile initial attempts at resistance and stiff British rule following.

The Intercitiés de Nuit service for Toulouse-Matabiau was packed to capacity with both people and bikes. The four of us with reserved spaces cooperated to tesselate our machines into the awkward hanging area, a slight upgrade on the ridiculous LNER, Scotrail and GWR cupboards into which only the smallest and slimmest machines will fit. I was thankful that I’d be getting off at the end of the line.

The 07:36 to Pau was already waiting on the platform having bid bon voyage to the other riders after succeeding in not decapitating alighting children with my front disc rotor as I balanced my ride on its rear wheel and battled to push the handlebars through the narrow corridor without snapping a brake lever. By 11:00 I was again indulging my obsession with pâtisseries on the road to Oloron Sainte-Mairie.

The prologue

In Bearn, a pain au chocolat is a chocolatine. The regional cake, the gâteau Basque, is available in a breakfast-friendly, fun-sized petit Basque version. Technically, the croissant and pain au chocolat/chocolatine, along with the patte d’ours (bear paw), a speciality of Maison Ravenel in Saint-Lany-Soulan — “world champion chocolatine maker” — are laminated Viennoiseries, at the interface between bread and pastry.

Anyway, I’d produced a fairly convoluted route from Pau to Oloron in order to take in some local gravel, underlining how all forms of cycling co-exist here. There’s enough rough stuff, even in the foothills, to also keep mountain bikers happy but one can just as easily just pootle on empty lanes.

Gravel grinding between Pau and Oloron

The pilgrimage (1)

Up the Apse and down the Ousse

Like the Alps, the Pyrenees are bisected by valley systems (oriented broadly north-south versus east-west with the former) linked by cols. These, of course, form the basis for the world’s finest and hardest sport. However, in the light of the importance of cyclotourism and active travel, the hinterland and valley bottoms host hundreds, possibly thousands, of kilometres of low-traffic roads and dedicated, well marked cycleways that open up the region to those of us with outputs that don’t approach 7 watts/kg. E-bikes expand that access even further.

My first foray into the mountains proper was an arc from Oloron to Lourdes that would include some famous cols, with a “warm up” over the Marie Blanque (lol at my naïveté). In comparison to the Alps, Pyrenean cols tend to be steeper, more variable and more verdant on narrower, rougher roads with fewer switchbacks (that take some of the sting out of the elevation gain). Thus, as I lumbered up inclines at speeds often below walking pace, stopping periodically to breathe and drink, my bottom and legs became a dartboard for horseflies, which were really digging the windless wooded avenues.

After refuelling, resting and provisioning in Bielle and Laruns, I climbed toward the Col d’Aubisque and happened upon a complex handy for cooking, sleeping and the objective of making an early start on the summit the following morning while the world was relatively cool and quiet.

Given the level of effort required to reach these places, it always seems slightly irrational and anticlimactic to quickly dump the hard-earned vertical metres. Certainly, the ritual of mentally checking off all one’s gubbins before releasing the brakes and rolling downhill, slowly repeated several times and in earnest, becomes second nature — there aren’t many possessions that would prompt an encore if left behind.

The road between Aubisque and Solour is spectacular; a long, twisting balcony carved from — and sometime through — sheer cliffs. The descent from Soulor to Las Gangues, where the western climb of the Col de Spandelles begins, is magnificent, almost defying superlatives. Like most of the Pyrenees, the sharp corners, cows, donkeys, bikes and motor vehicles focus the mind and reaffirm the decision to fully service brakes before leaving home.

Often, experience becomes rose tinted with the passage of time but I still recall Spandelles in full summer heat and insect (and the third significant climb of the day) as brutish. However, this is tempered by recollection of the camaraderie and encouragement from cyclists passing in both directions, as well as the odd car passenger.

Some col bagging

The subsequent descent to Argelès-Gazost — surely the most “bicycle” place on earth — requires virtually zero pedal strokes. A fantastic greenway, which is even certified for disability tourism, links it directly to central Lourdes along the Gave d’Ousse.

Tackling a legend on Bastille Eve

My shades fogged up as I rolled back down the cycleway from Lourdes toward the mountains, attempting, without great success, to get some of the climbing in before things heated up.

One of my favourite things about modern Garmin units is the “climometer”, or Climb Pro as they call it. I was trying to reconcile the online planimetry for my chosen ascent of the Tourmalet with the Garmin’s much longer version, but of course the road begins climbing alongside the Gave de Pau well before the traditional start in Luz.

You’d never have known it was around 9am on a Sunday morning as I trundled into Esquièze-Sère and the adjoining Luz, but this meant that Boulangerie Montauban was not only open but had a full range of Viennoiseries and tartes to offer the discerning second-breakfaster. I picked up a large flan pâtissier and a quiche Lorraine, which were consumed immediately, along with a quiche aux poireaux, which I slipped into my frame bag for later.

A Dutch gentleman was characteristically forthright in asking if I was planning to go all the way up on “that (loaded) thing”, which caused a moment of self-doubt, but I remembered that there’s not much one can’t conquer if prepared to go sufficiently slowly. As it happened, the Marie Blanque and Spandelles were much tougher, not least due to the swarming hungry clegs that were mercifully completely absent here. The Tourmalet is long, but I had all day.

I was surprised that only a handful of fellow grimpeurs joined me on the Voie and took the opportunity to lose the motor traffic for a while; whether it put off purists emulating the upcoming Tour stage, or was maybe a little too bumpy for Strava PB seekers, I don’t know.

The Giant, nicknamed Octave, after Octave Lapis, the first rider to cross the col during the 1910 Tour, only lives up here during summer. He is carried up ceremoniously, accompanied by over a thousand cyclists, from the village of Gerde on the first Saturday of June each year. I joined the short queue to wheel my rig in front of him and then, with some delight, remembered the leek quiche I’d carried up the mountain. That’s something Tadej and co will never be able to say. It was consumed while watching European griffon vultures wheeling above the ridges, wondering what it is they subside on up here in these modern times of veterinary sanitary regulations around dead beast disposal, and given their indifference to Viennoiseries and tartes.

The 50-odd kilometres back to Lourdes, where Chanté would be arriving by train the following day, was mostly downhill or flat and so when I spied the perfect campsite from the road out of the eye-hurtingly ugly La Mongie ski resort I called it a day and set up the bivvy. Looking back at the moody clouds boiling over the col, I rigged my tarp over the entrance (which I like to keep open apart from the insect screen), preventing a soaking from a violent thunderstorm just before dusk.

I decided to forgo the not very delicious cereal bars I was carrying in preference for a breakfast from an exciting new pâtisserie cluster in Bagnères-de-Bigorre. As I reached the foot of the descent and began pedalling, my stomach started to rumble. No matter; soon it would be enjoying a croissant aux amandes and/or a petit Basque.

Alas! Why is everywhere deserted, reminiscent of lockdown? Where’s the traffic? Oh. July 14th. Cereal bar it was, then, in the Allee des Coustous, accompanied by an enthusiastic rendition of the Marseillaise from the local pompiers, parading before they made off in a convoy of polished appliances and the full works of lights and sirens.

The pilgrimage (2)

As someone who shuns crowds I hadn’t imagined that I would enjoy peak pilgrim. However, it’s surprisingly easy to avoid the Lourdes horde, and mature health tourists and nuns aren’t the rowdiest bunch. It’s a pretty place and the fort museum is excellent. White and grey wagtails hawk flies along the gave while dippers dip. Crag and house martins nest under bridges and hotel balconies, respectively.

At Le Van Gogh brasserie in the town centre, a friendly waiter switches among languages to gently banter with visitors, although there are enough locals present to offer reassurance that it’s not one of the tourist traps on the Pont Vieux, strangely Italian in theme as if in active parody of its larger and grander Tuscan namesake, the Ponte Vecchio.

Remaining on the Italian theme, it obviously reminded me of Assisi (which, along with its famous saint, is widely referenced in the names of hotels and souvenir shops), albeit a somewhat tackier and slightly tired manifestation. It’s almost like a lovechild of Umbria’s holy hotspot and Great Yarmouth. The hotel stock is largely an incongruous throwback to the 1980s and the hobbit hole apartment we rented was dark, with an appropriately church-like musty stink. Odd for a destination hosting around 6 million annual pilgrims alone.

As we sipped grands crèmes in a bar a stone’s throw from the Sanctuary, I watched an elderly man stagger then collapse. We leapt from our seats to offer help and gained a small insight into this unusual niche of the travel industry. A rep from his party from the English Midlands was attempting to summon a “nurse” from the “health team” (it was unclear whether this was a qualified professional or one of the many uniformed “helpers” identifying as such), while the doctor couldn’t be located. Happily, he seemed to recover fairly quickly.

Despite its quirks and a long-held suspicion of organised religion, particularly where it interacts with capitalism, I have fond memories of the place. The traffic-free link to legendary Pyrenean cycling haunts goes a long way (both figuratively and literally), and, of course, bikes feature prominently in the town, as do “artisan” pâtisseries-Viennoiseries and feathered creatures.

The accidental tifosi

If I said that we were abducted by the gendarmerie and held captive for a day at the Tour de France, I’d only be slightly exaggerating. I was having an arm’s length relationship with the race, following social media commentary and watching the evening highlights while trying to avoid getting embroiled in the literal caravan in order to experience as much of the region as possible in the time available. The plan was to catch up with it in person at the stage 14 départ from Pau, but otherwise enjoy it from a convenient distance. We’d hired a car since Chanté was sans vèlo.

After an almond and butter-dominated breakfast at the aforementioned Maison Ravenel, we were attempting to reach Bagnères de Luchon, avoiding the road closures around Loudonvielle for the stage 13 mountain time trial. Google was indicating that traffic was slower than usual — thousands of cyclists were heading in our direction — but Nice Map Lady with Dreadful French Pronunciation was otherwise reassuring that we were “on the fastest route and would arrive at…”.

Hilariously, in hindsight, the gendarmes stationed at junctions and roundabouts and forbidding passage in all but one direction were not helpfully guiding us away from the road closures and the congested Tour village but, rather, were assuming that everyone in the district was a latent spectator and funnelling us straight into Loudenvielle. We were informed in no uncertain terms by marshals and police that there was zero chance of leaving the town today; all the roads out were closed until the evening.

Thus, once we’d worked out exactly where the riders would be going, we found a spot along the barriers near the start ramp, I donned one of Chanté’s scarves (later augmented by a complimentary Département des Hautes-Pyrénées straw hat) to prevent my burning to a crisp and we got supporting.

The epilogue

Following Chanté’s departure back to the UK, I was hoping to nip across to the Ariège Pyrenees and ride out of Foix along an extended greenway created from another ex-railway, eventually ending up in Toulouse to catch train back to a Paris. Here, the high season caught up with me; there was no cycle reservation availability on trains in that direction and diminishing options more generally. I figured I’d had a decent trip and, with an eye also on increasingly scarce seats on UK services, booked one of the permutations of connections back to Inverness.

Restrictions on bikes on high speed services into London from Dover, and a hunch that I should give myself an uber-long connection in Edinburgh (paying off with my LNER train arriving there an hour late), meant that I reached Inverness at around 11:20pm. I’d long fancied the ride to/from Ullapool but had been put off by the daytime traffic. I figured I’d save myself the cost of a hotel, and the hassle of loading the bike on a coach, and ride through the short July night for the morning ferry to Stornoway.

Although the Kesock Bridge footway is closed at the time of writing, I braved the virtually empty dual carriageway and then started to really enjoy having the world pretty much to myself. I imagine that the articulated lorry drivers heading back toward Inverness were somewhat surprised to encounter my ilk in the small hours but it felt perfectly safe. Things became tougher from the perpetually windy section following Loch Glascarnoch and I began to tire, but a Cult Café breakfast sorted me out and provided respite from the midge clouds that were revelling in the mild drizzle, notwithstanding a dearth of laminated dough products.