Cycling Toulouse to Barcelona

It is July 2007. I’m mid-forties, fifteen and a half stone and I quit smoking a month or so ago. I drink a bit but play football and cycle. The cycling is not done with any determined passion. 
I bought a new bike recently, a Specialised Crossroads Sport. But all I was expecting to do with it was ride from my hood in Paddington to Shaftesbury Avenue, my place of work – four miles each day. The new bike had replaced my old Halfords Carrera which had been out of London only once. I have a buddy, D, slightly older, who has extended himself in the cycling department – once a club racer and now in possession of a classy touring bike. Reckons he can kick a football too.
The Crossroads is a nice bike - despite the poxy, angled frame - and is suited for getting out and about beyond the North Circular. I added a tortech rack, for the extra big shopping trips, SDS mudguards, a big fat lock and a pair of fancy lights, as you do. 
One day, my buddy, D, suggested a holiday. Instead of the hum drum of New York, Rio or Amalfi, or the beach holiday or raving clubbing holiday, how about a holiday that combined two seemingly quite unpleasant ideas: long distance cycling and – both together, on the same trip – camping. But, being a man, I could not moan about the physical endurance. I did however, being a complete non-camper, suggest that it was all well and good cycling all day but where does one sleep – how does one find a campsite? Will I need to carry a fat directory of Le Campings about with me? D told me of his past experiences  - of racing down through west France, stopping, each day, at nightfall at one of the multitude of campsites that could be found on the way as they are, in his words, everywhere in France. His impassioned speech beguiled me. I believed him.
And, so, we discussed possible routes. D has great ties with Barcelona, having been in a band that regularly played there back in the day and indeed I have hopped on a plane to see them there myself. So, Barca could be a start or finish. We’ve toyed with the idea of some hilly bits and so plumbed for Toulouse to Barca via the eastern end of the Pyrenees where it meets the Med, south of Perpignan, stage stop in the recent Tour. British Airways’ presence at an airport influenced the decision as they have the best bike policy, seemingly – certainly better than the no frills outfits, and they fly direct. Flying air France would involve a change somewhere – jeopardising the synchronised arrival of both rider and cycle.

Planning and training

Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan and Napoleon look down upon us, or from within that tree just over there, and must think we are a bunch of babies – being able to organise expeditions from the comfort of our bosses’ internet connections. Believe it or not, these well-organised megalomaniacs didn’t have Google maps! They had no idea where they were or where they were going. They just invaded whatever they came across and often invading the same country several times by mistake, going through the same palaver of ceremonial nonsense or sacking in front of baffled local officials. 
We haven’t worried about campsites as they are, in D’s own words, everywhere in France. I haven’t done any training. Google maps shows the terrain and contours but these mean little to me as I have no idea what my capabilities are on hills.

Kit

Camping

Well, I hadn’t got any.
Preferred transport


Preferred bag


Preferred tent



First thing was a tent. I understood that weight was an issue and that, according to D, the weather would be so great that my tent would only be called upon to keep out creepy crawlies. With those parameters I bought the cheapest and lightest tent I could find: the Jamet Shelter from Outdoor Megastore and that man Stan for 24 quid.






Sleeping bag: I thought I’d just take a couple of nice blankets – I can’t stand the bondage of a mummy bag.


I expect D will be taking one of these

Cooking

D can do it all – the trip was his idea.

Clothing

There was the stuff I wanted to pack...
but I didn't want to get them dirty.






Panniers

I didn’t see the need for anything too fancy. It was such a coincidence that the fantastic looking Altura Arran also happened to be the cheapest around at £36 from Cycle Express.

Bits'n'pieces

All the basic essentials of the craft of bike repair – puncture kit and a couple of Allen keys. Didn't need a pump because D, in his own words, has one.

Toulouse to Saint Papoul 48 miles   

Turn up and go.
Terminal 5 and very early. Just lowered the seat, let down the tyres (because D had a pump and I could reinflate them) and turned the handlebars 90 degrees. Absolute madness – no protection, pedals still on the cranks. What were we thinking? But, lo and behold, they both popped out on to the carousel at Toulouse with all the necessary parts still attached.
We took an hour of roaming the streets of Toulouse aeroport zone to find someone with a pump to fit my tyres – we hijacked him on the rue de whatnot and got sufficient air to get me down to a store called Decathlon in the centre of town and bang next to the Canal du Midi. D, as pump holder, should have, but had neglected to, checked that he and I shared the same tyre valves and, of course, he didn’t and we didn't – it could be no other way. They say real life is stranger than fiction – you just couldn’t make this stuff up, could you? And so to Decathlon and what an oasis of outdoor activity is Decathlon. If you were a professional darts player whose big hobby was mountaineering, with a bit of golf thrown, in you need never go any further than this super superstore ,especially if you fancied a bit of ping-pong too alongside chasing trout with a fly rod after a long cycle ride having just played five –a-side. 
I bought a pump and left.




The Canal du Midi runs from Toulouse to Marseilles, more than 240km all the way. It was of course flat – except for the locks - and a great way to start the trip as the towpath was free of car traffic as the canal meandered south east to Castelnaudry. The mid-September weather was ideal – little wind and not too hot. Eventually the cycle path stopped just past Le Segala– or rather deteriorated sufficiently for us to take the road.


The quiet road was similarly quiet and it was about now that I was beginning to notice a certain absence. Time was moving on -  6pm-ish and  we had not seen one campsite – or a shop. But all was well as Castelnaudry was a large town. We followed the signposts to the ubiquitous municipal campsite, as possessed by many towns in France and a grand site it was to behold after the fairly long detour out to the outskirts. It looked ideal - peaceful and not at all busy which was not surprising as it was shut. We interrogated the operative who was there tidying up after the season. He told us of another campsite 10km away to the east. 
Dusk was creeping in at the sides of the frame as we dug deep to complete the extra mileage to take me to my first ever night of cycocamping. The small campsite was set upon a chalk hill overlooking a broad valley and we were just in time for the dusk to stand aside for the glow of sunset. I was so excited about putting up a tent for the first time but a little shy, being a complete novice. I looked about me to check no-one was watching me from their eight person canvas mansions. Had Raymond Chandler been an avid camper he would have, instead of saying ‘she had a face like a bucket of mud’, said: ‘she had a face like a badly put up tent.’ My tent was sagging so much it had jowls and in the gentle breeze it looked as if it was chewing a lump of gristle. 
Tents up and showered we headed off to the nearby village of Saint Papoul for a hearty, well deserved feast to be washed down with continental lagers. However the village possessed no such pleasures. Two old ladies sat on a stoop scratched their striated scalps and were unable to suggest anywhere other than Castelnaudry 6 miles away. We returned to the campsite through what seemed to be a hotel and its outhouses.
D and I split up in the tradition of suspenseful thrillers to see what we could find. I saw him engaged in a one-sided conversation with an inhabitant of a gite or the like while I spied two ebullient men sat at a table eating and drinking the feast that had been meant for us. I went straight for the jugular and asked where I could order such a spread. One man, a Norwegian, said the meal was of his own making but he offered myself, and the returning D, plates of chips. He then suggested in blurry English – which probably had something to do with the empty bottle of wine in front of him – that he drive us into Castelnaudry for a drink. In fact, he insisted. We dumped the bikes in his garage and got in his voiture, which he managed to start on the third attempt, and we rattled off towards the town. Tom, as he was called, had learnt, somewhere, that driving on the left or right hand side of the road was optional and, better than commit oneself at all, one could always drive in the middle.


We parked up, perhaps a loose description for Tom’s rendering of this particular driving manoeuvre, and hit a bar and a wonderful variety of Pastis, continental lager and wine – and a packet of crisps or two. 



Tom told us of his wife from Norfolk and the pain in his heart and the house that brings back so many memories. Upon returning to the car a couple of hours later, we found we had been hemmed in a fraction – a matter resolved by Tom nudging the cars parked in front and behind with his own. We returned to the campsite, again, straddling the white lines. D and I didn’t hang about for any more lonesome heart baloney and made it to the tents.

Saint Papoul to Quillan 47.3 miles

I am a complete novice. The above mileage hides no horrors for the reasonably trained. I was simply unfit, and, carrying too much bulky heavy rubbish.


We had no food for breakfast but D got out his kit and knocked us up cup of cha and, what with the warm sun and blue sky, I ignored my howling stomach.


I gnarled up the navigation a bit and we took to the hills instead of a flatter route but the beauty of the day made up for it – and I managed to complete my first ever proper hill while way off in the distance were the eastern Pyrenees – actual proper hills. After some quiet, peaceful quaintness we joined the busier road south to Limoux which, in spite of following the river l’Aude’s valley, grew duller and more tedious as the day went on. Though not a particularly steep climb, I began wane and by the time we got to Quillan, I’d had enough of cycling for the day.




Camping la Sapinette on Av Rene Delpech had views which are hard to beat – and a nice pool. Once we’d completed the tent routine, D and I revived our passion for night-life and headed off into the neighbourhood bar. The Rugby World Cup was in progress and this neck of the woods of France is staunch rugby as opposed to football. On this particular night France were playing Argentina and eventually lost. The barman and customers were mortified.


Quillan to Saint Cyprien la Plage 63 miles


Pretty quickly we were cycling up a spectacular gorge on the D117 and through tunnels cut through the rock. The road rose to the misty Col Campérié at the height of 520m, possibly one of the lowest Cols in the world. We flew eastwards to the plains around Perpignan and the Med.



The graveyard shift descended upon us as we got beyond Riversaltes. There was nothing particularly attractive about the route to keep us interested, though at one time my excellent navigation took us down a track through a barricaded travellers’ camp and on a scramble up the side and across a motorway. The coast presented us with a draining headwind in the dry, late afternoon sun. Spirits suffer at these times and I get snappy. Hot sweaty, tired, hungry, thirsty – I needed my afternoon nap. We persevered to the target zone - Saint-Cyprien la Plage and its very under-occupied Camping Al Fourty.


The town was a sea front and marina and in the throes of the end of the season downsizing. Shuttered shops and bars leaving just a few diehard businesses open.


It was this evening when we decided to try local and regional vintages – the cheaper the better as we were intrigued as to know exactly what a one euro bottle of red actually tasted like. After the first couple of swigs, your taste buds are rendered temporarily inoperable and taste and bouquet are, thankfully, no longer an issue.


Saint Cyprien La Plage – Llanca 37.8 miles

Once we’d got past the remains of the cutesy coast, the road wiggled and writhed around the eastern tip of the Pyrenees – albeit at the lowly height of 300ft. This was a stunning ride but one which was very taxing as the road returned to sea level at each village – seven or eight times, reaching 600ft twice before a rapid descent into Spain. The pines and blue sea glittering beneath were breathtaking – as were the said hills. We stopped off for cwaffee and baguettes at one of the many marina towns nestled in the curves and coves.



As the terrain levelled out we considered taking the road to Cadaques – Salvador Dali country – but the route meant dealing with some huge hills – there and back  - and so we opted for the tame surroundings of Llanca and the Port de la Vall campsite beyond at Perabeua. 


About that tent

As you might have gathered, the tent did not arrive in a macho, paracommando, stealthy, blend-into-nature pondweed green as recommended by Ray Mears, and as advertised. Mine was, instead, the colour of a stewards tent on a three-mile fancy dress fun run. It was so bright my camera has a permanent tent ghost. It was responsible for some morning pile ups in a few campsites as drivers were blinded by the virulent, shimmering orange. Once inside things did not get much better.
In the tent plan there are two bodies clearly visible lying side by side. Where are these people? I want to meet Mr. and Mrs. Stick Insect!
Having no fly sheet meant there was nothing between the outside and the inside; there was no calming transit area. There was nowhere to put shoes that smelled of fresh cowpat. It was tight and hot in that darned Berrocca tube.




Llanca to Cap Begur 51 miles

Back on the flat and cycling on the flat can get a wee bit boring. There is nothing to see and if there’s a head wind it ain’t gonna go no place else and you’re stuck with it. We managed to get lost due to a combination of a recent programme of road building and the fact I had no idea where I was. We did manage to pass through a village which was celebrating one of the numerous festivals that are to be found in Spain. This could have been the festival of the pepper...
Cap Begur sits atop a monstrosity of a hill that, itself, sits atop another equally monstrous hill. Both these rose up to greet us just at the time of the day when you want to put your feet up and have a nap. The killer blows always seem to happen around four, just when you’re running out of everything – mental and physical. We both got off and pushed in the end.

Cap Begur is a fancy dan kind of place but one which supports a campiste - the El Meset.




It was closing up for the autumn and on our the last night we ate in the last place open, which took the liberty of serving a crappy meal.



There is not much else to say about Cap Begur or its campsite. We did however share the pine treed terraces with a woman walking the route to Santiago de Whaddyamacallit – the pilgrimage that starts in North Eastern Europe. It was over beer that night then that we devised the League Table of Travelling. In terms of comfort – the Aston Martin with weekend bags in the boot and a shiny piece of plastic rules the roost. Going down, you get to, for example, motorcycling camping then, further down the list, you get to cycocamping and lastly, you get to self-contained walking. To then change the emphasis to Legends of Travel you simply invert the list putting the woman and her four-second tent from Decathlon way out on top.



Cap Begur to Barcelona 85.2 miles



Bit of a quantum leap. The deal was that we get as far we could then do Barca the next day. D insisted we could make Barcelona that day. I insisted that if he continued to insist then I would insist we get a hotel as it looked like a late, dark finish and not ideal for putting up a tent especially in the state I’d probably be in. The first hour or so was OK but then we found another up, down and around kind of section pretty much like the the road a few days earlier. The road leaped from the sea just around the bend from Sant Feliu de Guixols and eventually rising to just over 600ft before descending into Lloret de Mar. From then on it was flat all the way and 40km out from Barcelona there is a cycle path that takes you to the power station – this we were told by a cyclist who popped down from the mountains and was on his way home.



A couple hours later we caught up with him and he helped us navigate our way through and around the power station 
in the gathering gloom. This involved a dodgy looking path, on which many people seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Then we were on a big fancy road into the town centre – a little hazardous for nine O’clock at night when half asleep but we made it to the middle, just north of the Ramblas. Alfredo said we could stay at his flat. All I wanted was a beer and my mind, to quote Raymond again, was like a plumber’s handkerchief. I was in a huffy mood while D, having dusted off his Spanish, was securing free accommodation for the night regardless of what it might entail. I relented and we climbed three flights of stairs in an apartment block. We had a shower and took Alfredo for some tapas close by. Another estranged wife story. They even had matching Bromptons. It came to bedtime and Alfredo offered D and me his bed. Very renaissance man, thanks. So D and I lowered the pitch of our voices and performed some macho posturing and D said he’d rather sleep in the bath – which he did while I got one of the kiddies’ beds.
Alfredo actually went to work and let us let ourselves out. What is the world coming to when a complete stranger is so trusting!



We did the rounds over the next day, cycling up to Parc Güell, savoured some strong coffee, hung out at the city centre Decathlon and kipped at one of D’s friends’ apartment before taking the train to the plane and getting back to Gatwick. The bikes made it one piece despite emerging on the carousel.




305 miles