Although I don't really agree with the aphorism that 'What doesn't harm you makes you stronger', Jack and I have been exchanging thoughts about how life's vicissitudes can, at the least, make excellent fodder for entertaining traveller's tales. And why is it that tales of woe make better reading than stories where it's all gone rather well? I suspect it's something to do with providing your (comfortably sat) armchair reader with evidence that confirms the wisdom of their decision to stay at home. Here's just what you need folks.
At about 6.00am on Friday morning I gave up the doomed battle for sleep and started fumbling around in the pre-dawn light for some clothes. My hand fell on the squidgy remains of the previous night's banana, which had somehow been genetically engineered to require ripping apart, rather than the more conventional peeling. I felt it was not going to be a good day. (It was only later that I discovered it was actually Friday 13th.) Still, I reasoned as the trousers went on backwards, there were plenty of reasons to be cheerful: I didn't have any crying babies or young children to cope with, I didn't have any stressful deadlines, I had some money in the bank and, even if it was dark, it wasn't raining. Much.
The previous day had also required some positive thinking. I had also risen early from my municipal campsite in Santander in order to try and get emergency documentation from the British Consulate in Bilbao. I had an address. How hard could it be? When I eventually tracked it down (floor 8 of a grotty unmarked building) some hours late, it was shut. The sign on the door gave a couple of phone numbers but, of course, I had no phone.
So I did what any self respecting american tourist would do, I walked into the poshest hotel I could find and asked to use their phone and wifi. Of course, sir, no problem. The helpful person at the FCO Madrid embassy explained that I would have to present myself in person at their Madrid office to collect my emergency travel docs (herein after known as the ETD). Alternatively, if it would be more convenient, I could go to Barcelona.
This choice of equally distant, equally unhelpful locations left me temporarily gobsmacked. I actually thanked the woman for her help and rang off. Then it struck me: why travel 400 km in the wrong direction (west or south) only to return and get on an expensive ferry? Surely north was, at least, vaguely towards home? And besides, the French have always been our allies in times of trouble, n'est pas? (As I said, my logic was temporarily out of action....)
Before embarking on this gesture of international defiance, I popped out to the strikingly ugly Bilbao ferry terminal to see whether they would reconsider their decision to turn me away. No go. Also v pleasant. But no can do can señor. So, at abouit 12.00pm, I pointed the bike towards the Pyrenées again and set off without a map, passport or clean pair of socks for Paris, about 900 km away.
Not much to report about the next bit; motorways are pretty much the same the world over - not pretty and very boring. I followed the N10 for some distance in order to save tolls and get slightly more east. I was hoping to find a nice little campside by the side of the Loire, with a view of one of the fabulous chateaux and a little home-cooked steak frites, natch.
Wild over optimism Russell. As night fell, I was indeed on the outskirts of Tours, on the Loire, but had no idea where to stay. I considered a wild camp and also went into town to look for a hostel, until I remembered to check my list and found there was none. However I did spot one in Vierzon, which I had, by complete chance, just gone through so I went back to find it and saw a sign for a campsite instead.
I arrived too late and left too early to identify its exact location (or to pay) but I can say it was close to some sort of busy road junction and had a very well lit laundry room where I did battle with GM bananas and the remains of some chocolate. I set up the tent by the beam of my headlight and curled up for a good night's ceiling watching.
As I reached the 8th arrondissement I started searching hard for a photo booth since this was the one missing bit of paper I knew would cause problems, especially on a Black Friday like today. (I actually had some passport-sized photos but, of course, they were in the lost wallet.!) However, when I eventually found the Consulate, there was a machine in the corner!
Forms were completed. Money changed hands. Understatements were made. EMDs were produced. By 12.30 I was heading north for Calais, still hogging the motorways which, conveniently, give discounts for bikers. I reckon it cost about €60-70 to do most of France south to north on motorways - that's over 1000km. I hit Calais by 3.15, got through passport control by 3.16 and got a place on a very reasonably priced ferry at 6.00pm.
Home and dry eh? Not!
Before moving on am I allowed a short diversion into Paris? Why not, it's my blog. Paris was pretty bloody awful. I used to really like the place and, don't get me wrong, I still think that strolling along the walking through the Jardins des Tuilleries in the springtime is one of the most romantic things one can do. Paris is blessed with loads of charming restaurants, some cool buildings, great art galleries and ....err, that's about it.
The problem is the traffic. They haven't even begun to tackle it so the whole place is clogged up. Much worse than London. Scooters are everywhere. Buzzing along the pavements, diving into the bus lanes, sitting all over the pedestrian crossings, filling every gap and generally being utterly selfish and rude.
I saw hardly a single bicycle and the Parisian pedestrian's lot is not an 'appy one. Granted I was not in the most forgiving frame of mind but, even so, I was saddened to see how messy and ugly parts of this glorious capital had become.
At about 6.00am on Friday morning I gave up the doomed battle for sleep and started fumbling around in the pre-dawn light for some clothes. My hand fell on the squidgy remains of the previous night's banana, which had somehow been genetically engineered to require ripping apart, rather than the more conventional peeling. I felt it was not going to be a good day. (It was only later that I discovered it was actually Friday 13th.) Still, I reasoned as the trousers went on backwards, there were plenty of reasons to be cheerful: I didn't have any crying babies or young children to cope with, I didn't have any stressful deadlines, I had some money in the bank and, even if it was dark, it wasn't raining. Much.
The previous day had also required some positive thinking. I had also risen early from my municipal campsite in Santander in order to try and get emergency documentation from the British Consulate in Bilbao. I had an address. How hard could it be? When I eventually tracked it down (floor 8 of a grotty unmarked building) some hours late, it was shut. The sign on the door gave a couple of phone numbers but, of course, I had no phone.
So I did what any self respecting american tourist would do, I walked into the poshest hotel I could find and asked to use their phone and wifi. Of course, sir, no problem. The helpful person at the FCO Madrid embassy explained that I would have to present myself in person at their Madrid office to collect my emergency travel docs (herein after known as the ETD). Alternatively, if it would be more convenient, I could go to Barcelona.
This choice of equally distant, equally unhelpful locations left me temporarily gobsmacked. I actually thanked the woman for her help and rang off. Then it struck me: why travel 400 km in the wrong direction (west or south) only to return and get on an expensive ferry? Surely north was, at least, vaguely towards home? And besides, the French have always been our allies in times of trouble, n'est pas? (As I said, my logic was temporarily out of action....)
Before embarking on this gesture of international defiance, I popped out to the strikingly ugly Bilbao ferry terminal to see whether they would reconsider their decision to turn me away. No go. Also v pleasant. But no can do can señor. So, at abouit 12.00pm, I pointed the bike towards the Pyrenées again and set off without a map, passport or clean pair of socks for Paris, about 900 km away.
Not much to report about the next bit; motorways are pretty much the same the world over - not pretty and very boring. I followed the N10 for some distance in order to save tolls and get slightly more east. I was hoping to find a nice little campside by the side of the Loire, with a view of one of the fabulous chateaux and a little home-cooked steak frites, natch.
Wild over optimism Russell. As night fell, I was indeed on the outskirts of Tours, on the Loire, but had no idea where to stay. I considered a wild camp and also went into town to look for a hostel, until I remembered to check my list and found there was none. However I did spot one in Vierzon, which I had, by complete chance, just gone through so I went back to find it and saw a sign for a campsite instead.
I arrived too late and left too early to identify its exact location (or to pay) but I can say it was close to some sort of busy road junction and had a very well lit laundry room where I did battle with GM bananas and the remains of some chocolate. I set up the tent by the beam of my headlight and curled up for a good night's ceiling watching.
Friday 13th
As Friday 13th dawned I was already on the A10 motorway, which, it turned out, was about 8 feet away from the campsite. I had over 250km to get to Paris and the ETD office closed at 11.00am (?early lunch). But I made good going and got into Paris about 9.00 and then spent an hour working out where to go. Fortunately the French bus stops all have maps showing where you are so finding the Rue d'Anjou was a simple matter of hopping off my bike every few minutes and nodding wildly at those in the bus queue as I consulted the map.As I reached the 8th arrondissement I started searching hard for a photo booth since this was the one missing bit of paper I knew would cause problems, especially on a Black Friday like today. (I actually had some passport-sized photos but, of course, they were in the lost wallet.!) However, when I eventually found the Consulate, there was a machine in the corner!
Forms were completed. Money changed hands. Understatements were made. EMDs were produced. By 12.30 I was heading north for Calais, still hogging the motorways which, conveniently, give discounts for bikers. I reckon it cost about €60-70 to do most of France south to north on motorways - that's over 1000km. I hit Calais by 3.15, got through passport control by 3.16 and got a place on a very reasonably priced ferry at 6.00pm.
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| Would you let this man into your country? |
Home and dry eh? Not!
Before moving on am I allowed a short diversion into Paris? Why not, it's my blog. Paris was pretty bloody awful. I used to really like the place and, don't get me wrong, I still think that strolling along the walking through the Jardins des Tuilleries in the springtime is one of the most romantic things one can do. Paris is blessed with loads of charming restaurants, some cool buildings, great art galleries and ....err, that's about it.
The problem is the traffic. They haven't even begun to tackle it so the whole place is clogged up. Much worse than London. Scooters are everywhere. Buzzing along the pavements, diving into the bus lanes, sitting all over the pedestrian crossings, filling every gap and generally being utterly selfish and rude.
I saw hardly a single bicycle and the Parisian pedestrian's lot is not an 'appy one. Granted I was not in the most forgiving frame of mind but, even so, I was saddened to see how messy and ugly parts of this glorious capital had become.
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