introduction

After spending the night high up on the Quantock Hills, we gingerly ventured out into the freezing wind clad in all the spare clothes we could lay our hands on. Our purpose was to see the sun come up on this New Year's Day, and where better to see it from than this lovely vantage point. It was a tradition that we'd kept for a few years now, and we usually tried to decide what we would be doing during the course of the coming year. With both of us keen to undertake some more travelling, it didn't take us long to plan a trip around Europe - the only problem was to think of a mode of transport.

Walking was a distinct possibility, but since I'd done some of this, and knew it to be a real hard slog at times, we eventually realised that it would have to be by bike. We already had a couple of good touring cycles, so we wouldn't have to get much in the way of gear.........all we had to do now was to save up.

Jess waiting to begin our ride at Cherbourg

chapter one

So it was that on Wednesday April 14th 1999 our great European Ride was underway. The snow, howling gales and showers of the past few dayshad abated and for a short while on our first morning we were greeted with sunshine and calm weather. These tranquil conditions gave us just enough time to cross the Channel to Cherbourg, before the heavens opened up again.

It wasn't a good good start, but after finding the right road out of the city, we headed east around the red granite headland towards Maupertus sur Mer. Luckily the campsite there was open, and once we'd found a relatively dry patch of ground to pitch the tent we set off to find a shop for groceries.

As we settled into our sleeping bags that evening the first flakes of snow began to fall, and reminded us of the expedition of Captain Scott. Since our own venture was headed for the warmer climes of sunny Spain, we hoped our destiny would be much kinder.

The next morning was a little brighter and once we'd scraped the hard snow off the tent we hurriedly packed everything away, keen to be off. We had no prepared route but realised last night that with the weather still so cold we ought to head south as quickly as possible. So, passing through the small town of Valognes where we stopped to pick up some food for lunch, we rode towards the coast at Barneville. By the time we reached it we were quiet tired after the efforts of riding up and down hills into a headwind, but at least the Office de Tourisme were helpful in finding us another campsite. We began to feel that we were really under way now, and that our route lay due south around the coastline of western France. How long it would take we didn't know, but with limited finances we had to try and save money whereever we could. This could mean camping out in the wilds occasionally, but with the thought of missing out on an invigourating hot shower in the morning we decided to keep on using campsites for the meantime.

We took a wrong turning next morning and discovered a very quiet road running parallel to the main highway, but still taking us south. It was wonderful to be able to amble along taking it all in our stride, and only having to worry about the odd car that came our way. With the birds singing in the hedgerows and the sun breaking through the overcast sky, we whizzed past the many little hamlets on our road until entering the busier resort of Coutainville. Here we were forced to return to the main highway, but even this had it's unexpected surprises for as we passed the Pont-de-la-Roque we discovered a fascinating bit of history. It turns out this ancient bridge which had originally been built by the Romans in 52 b.c. had been bombed by the British just after D-Day, only for the Americans to capture it the following day and rebuild it for their troops. On an information board here are some pictures of the bridge during the war, which were a bit of a stark reminder of the horrors of our recent history - and a precursor of other war remains to come.

We camped overnight at the municipal site at Hauteville Plage (always a good idea since these are the cheapest) before moving on to the large port of Granville. Having lunch here beside the fortified walls of the old town, complete with lovely views of the harbour below, we relaxed in the midday sunshine before riding on. The sounds of Chiffchaffs (and even our first Cuckoo) filled the air as we rode around the Bay of Mont Saint Michel towards Genets, where we intended to stop early and get the washing done. This was always going to be a headache for us, as our specialist cycling shorts have to be hand-washed and then dried on a line, something that demands fine weather. That evening we had fine views of the beautiful island of St. Michel and with a chorus of singing frogs to lull us we soon drifted off to sleep.

Tom and Jess relaxing at Granville

A short ride brought us to the edge of Avranches where we decided to risk using the bypass, rather than go right through the busy town centre. It turned out to be a bit of a daft move as the bypass actually forms part of the A84 motorway, but by keeping right over on the gravel-strewn hard shoulder we reached our exit point safely - where a helpful sign ordered all tractors, cycles and mopeds to leave the motorway.

As we passed through St. James (twinned with our home-town of Beaminster) we opted not to revisit the American War Cemetery, but only stop for a quick bite to eat outside a small supermarket. The treat of a double-layer custard cream gateau took our minds of the brief (but heavy) shower, and we were soon back on the road to Fougeres. We'd visited this beautiful old town the previous year and would have liked to wander around the castle again, but with the skies continuing to darken we thought better of it and pressed on towards Vitre.

This was familiar territory by now and we took the quieter D179 backroad from Fougeres, which meant we didn't get splashed every time a juggernault passed us on the wet roads. At Vitre we sped around to the campsite relieved to have arrived before the rains came again, but were initially dismayed to find much of the site under water. It looked as though this part of France had received just as much bad weather as Britain, but we eventually managed to find a mudy dry patch between the gypsy caravans here. Our bigotted apprehensions about camping so close to the Romanies were completely unfounded, as we found them to be very quiet and private people.

Next morning we were up and off early, eager to reach Chateaubriant which we'd read much about. It seemed to have a lot of historical interest and we thought we might even spend a couple of days there, but after discovering that the campsite doesn't open until mis-summer we rode on in disgust. Just to add insult to injury the rain came down in torrents and we were forced to don our cagoules and overtrousers - alone in the middle of nowhere with no hint of accomodation anywhere.

We finally summoned up the courage to ask a local farmer if we could camp in one of his fields, and after a bit of prevarication they welcomed us in with open arms. The sheep were moved out of the field for us, but the combination of their droppings and the long wet grass meant we camped that night in a smelly quagmire.

It rained all night long and in the morning we hurriedly packed the tent away before racing south to the city of Nantes. Our only intention was to find a warm comfortable bed for the night, and give all our belongings a chance to dry out. After a rapid dart through the traffic-lined streets of this huge city we succeeded in getting booked into the Trois Marchands Hotel near the centre. Never before has a receptionist looked so hard for so long at two guests who had every similarity to drowned rats.

chapter two

We spent three glorious days in Nantes, but I have to admit we didn't spend much of that time sight-seeing. We had all the pannier bags to dry out, the tent to clean as well as do all the washing again. But we did enjoy the luxury of a warm comfortable bed and a dry roof over our heads, while outside the elements did everything they could to dissuade us from carrying on.

We managed to see the castle of the Dukes of Brittany and some of the other main sights as we wandered around the city in search of a new gas-stove. We'd been unable to get the canisters for our own stove (even though they're made in France), so bought a new Camping Gaz one with it's internationally-available refills.

The weather forecast promised gale-force winds and showers as we left Nantes on a cycle lane beside the main road. We were facing right into the headwind and had to change down into very low gears just to be able to make any progress at all. We followed the River Loire westwards for a while and then cut across country to reach the small coastal resort of St. Brevins les Pins, where we checked into yet another municipal campsite. It made sense to use these sites whenever we could as they were very cheap (average of ?4) and could offer most of the facilities of the larger private campsites.

That night the wind and rain lashed at the tent, and I had to go out and re-tension the guyropes. The sealant that we'd spread around the door seam in an effort to keep it more watertight didn't seem to have worked, and wehad a couple of tiny drips of water inside. But all things are relative, and bearing in mind the severity of the storm we got away pretty lightly.

We stayed another couple of nights at this site, and took the opportunity to ride over the new bridge to St. Nazaire. It's absolutely huge, and once you get to the halfway point you look down hundreds of feet to the sea below. We wanted to visit the famous U-boat pens near the harbour, so spent some time wandering around the port until we discovered these wartime remains. It is no wonder that the Allies couldn't bomb them from the air, as the concrete roof is over ten feet thick - a testiment to German engineering. We rode a bit further on to the seafront of St. Nazaire, and found a couple of memorials to earlier wars; it seems that this town has a history of getting itself into trouble.

Getting the chance to watch some junior cycle-racing just up the road, we stayed another night at St. Brevin and then prepared to move off. This part of the route would be due south now, all along the coast down to the Pyrenees.

Riding on to Pornic we stopped briefly to admire this lovely little town, before continuing our journey across the Marais de Machecoul marshland. We amused ourselves by trying to creep up on the singing frogs without being spotted, but most of the time they seemed to get the better of us, and stop calling as soon as we approached. We did get the chance to see some beautiful Marsh Harriers though, as well as Egrets and more Cuckoos.

We camped near Beauvoir sur Mer that night before winding our way around the coast again, passing a succession of small upmarket resorts until reaching the outskirts of Les Sables d'Olonne. We treated ourselves to a 4* site (though in truth it was nothing special) and enjoyed an evening watching birds at the local nature reserve. There were great birds all around us, and after spotting Blackwinged Stilts, Red Kite, Spoonbills as well as the ubiquitous Egrets, we retired early ready for our longest ride so far.

Our intention was to ride the sixty-odd miles from here to La Rochelle in one go - not through choice but because there was little accomodation along the way. It would be marshland for much of the journey, meaning that even wild-camping would be impossible, and we hoped that the 'delights of the city' would reward our efforts.

Because of the shape of the coastline here, we had to turn eastwards into a very strong headwind, before returning to our preferred route south. The first few miles were very exhausting, and we had to ignore the opportunity to see the abbey that Richard the Lionheart built at Jard sur Mer. Worse still, the wind was strengthening and since the terrain was dead flat there was no shelter from it at all.

Not until we'd covered over thirty miles did we turn south, with the wind now behind us, and from here to La Rochelle we sped like a bullet in top gear. As we entered the city we were greeted with a multitude of cycleways - each inviting us to go off in that direction. Our problem was that we didn't know which way we needed to go; what we wanted was a map of the city.

Eventually we turned up near the city centre where signposts became a bit more meaningful, and we even managed to find the tourist office..........closed.

Luckily a map in the window guided us to a campsite near the port area, but alas that too was closed. Our last chance was to ride on to the second municipal site on the other side of the city, and as dusk began to fall we prayed that we would make it before the light went completely.

We hadn't really expected to find this other site open, but when we saw the gates ajar and a caravan going in ahead of us our hearts leapt with joy. Once booked in we raced around to a local supermarket and bought all the necessary goodies to spoil ourselves after our epic ride. In all we'd done 73 miles with a full load today.......and much of that into a horrendous headwind.

chapter three

Cities and cyclists don't really make good bedfellows, so we decided not to stay in La Rochelle (for all it's beautiful harbour) but to move on down the coast a bit. Passing through the busy traffic-ridden streets only confirmed that we'd made the right decision, but we did feel a slight hint of regret that we were missing some of the fine sights that the city has to offer.

Most of the traffic took the fast N137 dual-carriageway route out of the city, but by careful navigation we were able to follow a small coastal road south to Chatelaillon Plage. The friendly tourist office had supplied us with a list of the campsites in this area, and we carefully scrutenised each one en route. After yesterday's mammoth journey we wanted to base ourselves at a site and enjoy a few day's touring, without the encumberance of all the camping gear.

Exciting racing at Chatelaillon Hippodrome

At one point we thought we'd found the perfect spot, but as we erected the tent so a swarm of midges came to greet us. We hurriedly made our excuses to the campsite owner and left!

Eventually we did find a nice place to stay, right on the coast and with fantastic views across to the islands of Oleron and Re.

France has many public holidays in the Springtime, and we were to have yet another this weekend - meaning all the shops would be closed and we would have to fend for ourselves. It was important that we had enough foreign currency and food to last for a couple of days, and this meant planning ahead. Luckily, we had a list of the important dates concerned and so were never caught out by these mild inconveniences!

This area is important for oyster production, and whereever we went there were signs displaying the various 'Fruits de Mer' on offer. We learnt that there are many different sorts of oyster, and in the local market the stalls were surrounded by the packed throng of eager customers - something quite different perhaps to our experiences in Britain.

Next morning was Mayday and horse racing had been promised at the nearby Chatelaillon hippodrome. Never having been to a meeting we were looking forward to this event, and took no time at all in getting ready and riding off to the course - only to find the racing didn't actually start until late afternoon!

The hippodrome was pretty busy once things did get under way, and things got very noisy as the excited crowd cheered on their particular favourites. There were seven races in all, a mixture of flat racing, over the sticks and the French peculiarity of trotting. We'd seen it on TV before, but up close we got a much better idea of how fragile these little carts really are. When the wheels touched it sent the cart bouncing up into the air, and brought a great gasp from the crowd as they expected to see some dreadful accident unfold in front of their eyes. But each time the racing continued, and as the jockeys fought their way to the front so somebody else would come raring up the outside desperate to get ahead.

By seven o'clock the last race had finished, and we made our way back to the campsite still chattering about the afternoon's action. The excitement wasn't over yet though, for that night we were treated to a wonderful display of thunder and lightning over La Rochelle in the distance. The thunderbolts came thick and fast, and for over an hour we were counting one flash every second! Of course the storm soon reached us,and we had to retreat back inside the tent, but there was something curiously satisfying in knowing that although it was wet and wild, it was also very beautiful.

It was time to move on again so after heading inland for a while (to avoid the busy main road), we continued our journey south to the lovely historic town of Rochefort. As we entered the suburbs we were disappointed to see docks, timber mills and industrial estates but these soon gave way to the walled centre of the town.

Rochefort was originally founded as an arsenal by the French king in the seventeenth century, and was intended to rival the main one at Brest. It retains all the beautiful buildings from this time, and the town council (to it's credit) has developed a walk to take in the key features. We wandered as far as we could along the route, but having nowhere safe to leave the bikes, were eventually forced to leave the leave the walk and move on south.

As we rode over the main bridge across the River Charente, we had wonderful views of the low-lying marshland ahead and of Rochefort behind us. It didn't take us long to reach the marshes because whereas cars have to stop and pay at the toll booth, bicycles can cross the bridge for free!

It was on these levels that we came upon a small but fascinating citadel at Broage. This fortified village had been built by the king (again!) to protect the small river that flows through the marsh. It was difficult to visualise what strategic importance this tiny creek held in days gone by, but judging by the size of it's walls, the citadel must have been vital to this area's defence.

We would have liked to have stayed longer and really explore inside the village, but with the nearest campsite still a few miles away, we decided to press on, and add another name to our growing list of places that we'd have to return to.

The next day we continued south towards the huge estuary of the River Gironde which, unless we fancied a hundred-mile detour down to Bordeaux, we would have to cross by ferry. We took our time riding along the lovely wooded cycleway through the Coubre Forest, and reached the town of Royan from where the ferry leaves.

The crossing took a whole thirty minutes to complete, and since I'm not the best of sailors I was rather pleased when it was over, and we could get back on a far more civilised form of transport - that of bike! In fact the ferry was quite interesting, as the cars boarded it from the side instead of through the bow, and we guessed it must have been a landing ship at one time.

chapter four

As we got off the ferry at le Verdon we noticed there was a cycleway, leading right around the headland and down to Soulac sur Mer. Since we had no definite route in mind, we decided to follow this and were soon enjoying the bumpy concrete path built by the Germans in the last war. It was used to supply the many bunkers and artillery emplacements which were located all along this coastline as a defence against Allied invasion. In the beautiful sunshine we couldn't help thinking that even during wartime it must have been a wonderful posting for the soldiers - surrounded by this lovely countryside.

At Soulac we entered the first of many small resort villages that we would come to along this stretch of coast. Typically it had a number of low-rise hotels, and many of it's shops reflected the seasonal nature of the holiday business - in that many of them were closed still. Though it was now 5th May, the tourist season had not yet begun and it would be another two months before things got much busier.

On the front at Soulac we discovered a miniature Statue of Liberty, which though only ten feet high, still looked impressive as she gazed out to sea. After taking the essential photo of it, we headed into the centre of town and found the tourist office ...........closed! While we waited for it to open - it was only closed for the now customary two-hour lunchbreak - we had a wander around the beautiful Notre dame church here. Inside it was very dark despite the presence of dozens of lit candles, and reminded us of pictures we had seen of Bethlehem. Before we left Soulac we stopped off to pick up some tourist maps, as well as a complete list of campsites for the whole of the Aquitaine! This would cover the four-hundred miles between here and the Pyrennees!

The miniature Statue of Liberty at Soulac sur Mer

We stayed at the municipal campsite at Montalivet-les-Bains, amongst the tall Maritime Pines which blanket the coastal sanddunes of the Aquitaine region. In the trees we saw Hoopoe, Redstarts and Red Squirrels whilst on the forest floor we had lizards, giant ants and spiders. In fact we'd noticed that the further south we came so the bigger the insects were getting! What on earth would they be like in southern Spain?

We stayed for two nights at this site, it was just so beautiful. In the evenings we could ride down to the beach and watch the huge Atlantic breakers crashing on the shore, and during the day we could wander off into the forest looking at all the wildlife.

On one excursion we got lost in the forest and after eventually emerging on a large nudist beach, were confronted with lots of naked bodies. At first it seemed a bit intimidating, but after a few moments this feeling wore off and we found it perfectly natural. In fact, the only thing that prevented us sharing their freedom was that the sun was very hot now, and we were worried about getting burnt. At least that's what Jess told me to say!

Our journey south continued, and we explored the inland lakes of Carcans and Lacanau, which coincidentally are the names of two inland villages......and two seaside villages! Is it any wonder we kept getting lost? The lakes were really quite large and were popular with a wide range of sailing craft, as well as sunbathers. This whole area appeared to be one gigantic pleasure park, and we were relieved to have the chance to see it now rather than in mid-summer when it would be heaving.

We discovered that the lakes were a breeding ground for mosquitoes as well as midges, and so preferred to ride in the forests instead. The network of cycleways and small forest roads meant that we could go off each day on a totally new route, and explore this whole fascinating area. For the most part the coastal fringe was made up of sand-dunes, and this meant that it was pretty hilly in places. Further inland the landscape was much flatter and easier to cycle; but probably less interesting.

As we approached the Arcachon Basin - a large natural harbour - we had to head inland for a while and follow the excellent cyclepath that took us almost right the way around the basin. Unfortunately, after passing through several attractive resorts, the path came to an abrupt end at the horrible industrial town of Biganos. Here we had to join the busy D650 road, and after the tranquility of the forest roads we didn't enjoy duelling with the lorries and other hectic traffic.

We had covered a total of 830 miles by now, which is nearly the shortest route between John O'Groats and Land's End. When I actually completed that infamous ride back in May 1987 it took me just fifteen days, and here in France it had taken us twenty-six days. However, after looking backin my diary I noticed that the weather had been just as awful!!!

Tom doing his Ernest Hemingway impression!

On the southern edge of the Arcachon Basin is the very impressive Dune de Pyla, a massive sand-dune nearly four hundred feet high! We passed by the carpark attendant collecting money from all the car drivers, and took our bikes part-way up the steep side of the dunes. It was very busy with coachloads of foreign students and retired people, as well as families on daytrips, and we didn't really want to leave our bikes unattended for very long. We managed to get pretty near the top, which gave fantastic views across to the oak-covered hills around the coast, before dropping back down and seeking out the cycleway that would take us to our next small resort of Biscarrosse Plage.

Our first night here was highly amusing as a reunion was taking place just across the road from the campsite. The sound of fifty male voices belting out the Marseillaise - all the worse for drink - kept us entertained for hours!

The terrain around here was very similar to that north of the Arcachon Basin, one of forested sand-dunes with inland lakes. On one of these lakes we watched an airshow, but an airshow with a difference. All the aircraft involved were seaplanes, and they came and went by using the surface of the lake! It appeared that Biscarrosse was an important centre for the pioneering seaplane industry right back into the 1920's, and to commemmorate this fact a museum has been built on the site.

The hot sunshine made it too uncomfortable to sit for long, so inbetween the acrobatic displays we rode around the forest to cool off.

The next morning we awoke to rain, and as it didn't abate until early afternoon we didn't get away until late. A large military zone occupies the edge of the forest just to the south of Biscarrosse, so we had to detour inland and go around it.

The rain returned later in the day so we stopped ahead of schedule near Mimizan, and were pleasantly surprised to find that the campsite owners were Irish! We had a nice chat with the couple about our own adventures in Ireland, before rustling up our tea and sitting the rain out inside the tent.

We were beginning to feel the lure of the Pyrennees, and were filled with a mixture of excitement to be amongst these great hills, and a fear that they might be too much for us - especially with our heavy panniers. Because of this we felt drawn on by the mountains, and less inclined to stay anywhere for longer than one night.

We soon sped past other small resorts scattered along the coast, until we stayed at Leon, where we met up with another British cyclist going the other way. John was about seventy and had ridden the 186 miles from Bilbao in just three days! He was heading for Cherbourg, and we swapped information about what to expect along the way. One thing that we learnt from this was that the main road through the busy Basque cities of Biarritz and San Sebastian was really dreadful and no place for a cyclist.

We had already heard reports like this, so decided that we would have to push inland and take a safer route through the higher hills around Cambo-les-Bains.

After a dreadful night's sleep, thanks to a gang of youths rampaging through the campsite all night, we headed off to Labenne loaded up with spare gas canisters and food. We didn't know what to expect inland, and thought we had better be prepared for a few nights wild-camping.

We crossed the causeway over the Orx lake near Labenne, and were treated with spectacular views of Egrets, Herons, Kites and the giant Coypu - a huge rodent introduced from South America. These animals seem to be doing very well in France and Spain, but unfortunately have little road sense - as the many corpses testify to.

The terrain became increasingly hilly as we climbed up over the foothills of the Pyrenees and then down to the lovely valley of the Adour river. The little villages tucked away in the hills were very peaceful, and we enjoyed the relaxed cycling through this area - much better than the busy main route around the coast.

We crossed the Adour at Urt, and spent a pleasant hour having lunch on a thoughtfully-provided picnic table overlooking the river. It also gave us an opportunity to dry the tent out, as yet again we'd had to pack it away wet. With the sky looking rather ominous at that moment , we didn't want to risk leaving it until we pitched camp later that night.

Looking at our map we could guess that the road from here to Cambo les Bains was going to be pretty hilly, and we were not disappointed. It was very much a case of up hill and down dale, made all the less enjoyable by the ever darkening sky. Eventually, the rain could hold off no longer and we were forced to stop and don our cagoules, overtrousers and silly plastic bags over our feet. Although we might have looked rediculous, we consoled ourselves with the fact that at least we weren't going to get very wet. As if reading our thoughts, the rain gave up after a few minutes and theings looked brighter.

Cambo was a real surprise for us. We had expected a small mountain village, but were greeted by a typical Victorian spa resort. It appears that the waters here are very well-known for their health-giving properties, and we were pleased to find a nice tourist office who directed us to an even nicer campsite.

The ground at the site was really wet - not so much wet mud, more wet rock, and it took us a little while to find somewhere comparatively dry. We tried to erect the tent as best we could, but with our alloy tentpegs failing to penetrate the hard ground, it looked rather pathetic.

Dodging the heavy showers, we raced to a nearby supermarket and got more supplies essential to our well-being. Wine, gateaux and yet more wine! Well, when you've done 1051 miles, and have ridden from one end of France to the other,

chapter five

During the night a massive thunderstorm threatened to end our trip earlier than we expected. With hailsones the size of marbles (yes really!) raining down on us, we didn't expect the tent to survive the onslaught; but remarkably it did. The tiny branches of an overhanging tree afforded us some protection, and probably stopped the nylon material from tearing to shreds as the hail smashed down on the surrounding caravans. Oh yes, we were surrounded by caravans - you don't think anyone else would be daft enough to camp in a tent, do you?

At dawn the combination of heavy lorries and a pesky mosquito did their best to wake us, and after deperate attempts to ignore them we had to concede defeat and get up. As we left the campsite the receptionist did little to improve our spirits with her promise of 'more rain to come'; and we trudged off uphill on the first of the day's many climbs.

The scenery reminded us very much of the Lake District - green and lush mountains - and with the rain continuing to fall, even the weather looked familiar! We crossed the border at Dancharinea and expected to be stopped by Customs, but there was nobody about so we rode on through and into Spain.

Our highest pass of the day was the Puerto de Otxondo at 602 metres, and after a long steady climb up in first gear we were grateful to see a small picnic stop right on the summit. As soon as we halted the chilling effect of the wind became more noticeable and we had to put on our gloves and cagoules, trying desperately to keep warm. Luckily the sun decided to emerge as well, which further helped to dry us out and prepare us for the long decent down to the small town of Elizondo.

According to our map this was the largest town in the whole area, but as we entered it's centre we realised that all things are relative - and Elizondo is RELATIVELY large! In other words it was tiny, and we couldn't find any shops to buy groceries for tonight; which didn't bode well for our supper!

During the descent the skies darkened again, and we hoped we might just be able it to the next town of Santesteban, before the rain came again. But we were unlucky and got caught in a horrendous downpour which though only lasting ten minutes, left us drenched to the skin. We were now beginning to feel very cold and had no choice but to seek shelter as soon as we could - and that meant the luxury of a hotel where we could dry all our wet things out!

Hailstones the size of large marbles!

Next morning we continued our trek across country, keeping away from the main roads in a bid to meet less traffic, and this certainly worked. One drawback though was that we also met fewer shops, and so it was paramount that we carry enough food to last us for a few days. Last night was a prime example and after failing to find a restaurant open (let alone a shop), we had to delve into our bags to produce our tea - of tuna and rice!

The scenery had changed somewhat to that of green forested hills, more reminiscent of Switzerland than Cumbria, but the rain persisted just the same. Our route took us westwards over the pass of Puerto de Usateguieta (695m) which again involved a long but steady first-gear climb up to the top, where we had lunch. Unlike yesterday, there was no conveniently-situated picnic site so we were forced to shelter under some beech trees, ready to take the steep road down to Leiza in the valley below.

The weather spoilt what should have been a wonderful view, with the long deep valley stretching out ahead of us, as we switched to and fro on the hairpin bends going down. We stopped briefly to take a couple of photos, in the certain knowledge that the mist and drizzle would blanket the view, before continuing our journey across the hills to the city of Tolosa.

This small city is set amongst the towering peaks of the surrounding mountains, nestling in a deep ravine cut by the River Oria, which incidentally was the name of our hotel. With no campsite within 30 miles, we resorted to another luxurious (if rather expensive) night in a hotel, where we at least got all the washing done and with a bounty of available shops we filled our panniers for the days ahead.

The last stage of our journey before returning back to the coast, took us from Tolosa up over another series of passes to Azpeitia, where we joined all the mining lorries headed for the motorway. The shock of sharing the narrow road with these heavy monsters was a bit intimidating, but once we'd passed the intersection with the Autostrada, the traffic lightened and we could carry on to the seaside resort of Deba.

The weather at the coast was much warmer and drier than it had been in the mountains, and we felt immediately better seeing the sea for the first time in weeks. Well actually it was only six days ago, but after all the cold wet rain we'd been subjected to in the mountains (not to mention the hour-long climbs), it certainly seemed longer than just a few days!

We stayed overnight in a pension, and then took the quiet coastroad westwards around the many headlands of the Viscaya region. With most of the traffic taking the motorway direct to Bilbao, we found ourselves in a secluded backwater, free of the hustle and bustle of city-life. The small towns dotted along the coast had their own individual charms, and were interspersed with lovely scented forests of Eucalyptus trees. These plantations do not resemble the regimented rows of spruce that we are used to, but seemed altogether more natural, though just as foreign to Spain as the spruces are to Britain.

Soaking wet on the steep climb up the Otxondo Pass

We had to divert inland around the estuary leading to Gernika, and once in the town were reminded of why its name sounded so familiar. It was the place where Hitler used his new Luftwaffe aircraft to support Franco's troops in their attack on the town. The planes subjected Gernika to a heavy bombardment which has resulted in extensive rebuilding of the town in the years following the Civil War.

Back on the road, we had to drop down to first gear again to negotiate the steep series of hills taking us around the other side of the estuary, until we reached Mundaka. Our campsite here had beautiful views across the sea, and with it's dry terraced pitches we need not worry about wet groundsheets and the like - yes it was good to be back on the coast!

The next obstacle to our progress westwards along the Costa Verde, or Green Coast, as this stretch is known, was the huge conurbation of Bilbao. We had discussed this problem with some British travellers who had cycled from the city, and they let us into a secret. Apparently there was a small hanging bridge on the edge of the city's port, which pedestrians and cyclists could use. It would save us from having to pass right through the centre of the city, with all the traffic and trouble of finding the right road out. With this in mind, we cycled on around the coast of Viscaya and after discovering a disused nuclear power station (where we saw our first Wrynecks!) we stopped earlier than usual just north of the city.

After an abyssmal night listening to noisy revellers - and their even noisier children - on the residential campsite, we left early to avoid most of the traffic in Bilbao. Passing through the suburbs we had to stop for a procession of youngsters dressed up in traditional Basque costume. They were on their way to church - this being a Sunday morning - and reminded us of the strong nationalistic pride still very important to these seperatist people.

The hanging bridge was a real delight, and we found a few other cyclists taking advantage of the short crossing to the other bank; all for the princely sum of 65 pesetas (22p)! Once across, we pointed the bikes in the direction of Santander, which meant having to follow the main road for a change.

We needn't have worried too much about the busy coastroad, since we were able to keep to the hard shoulder and well away from the thundering traffic. With the sky clear and the sun shining for once, we enjoyed our meandering tour around the many headlands and hills as we headed for Castro-Urdiales. As soon as we crested the last hill overlooking the resort, we knew we ought to take a couple of days break here, and enjoy the splendid scenery and weather that the town promised.

There was no campsite in Castro (it's a bit too up-market for that I'm afraid), so we stayed at the Las Rocas hotel for three blissful, relaxing wonderful nights.........aah, if only every night could have been like those!

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