apathtosomewhere

We had a plan. Breakfast at the campsite’s cafe by the reception, walk to Bot and check out the town’s market, walk back and head off.

So we wandered down to the cafe only to find that dogs weren’t allowed inside – it was quite chilly and not conducive for sitting outside. So we knocked that idea on the head and decided to walk into town as planned. We’ll get breakfast in Bot. We walked along the road and up the hill, passing the chicken farm (urgh) and found the streets eerily quiet. We came up to the little square with a little cafe to one side, but still a severe lack of townspeople hauling bags and trolleys full of produce. We looked down side streets and alley ways for any signs of a bustling market and eventually resorted to asking a passing lady who pointed us in the right direction. Following her instructions, we came up to a covered area featuring a single fruit and veg stall lining the back wall and another stallholder just starting to unload boxes of shoes on trestle tables and that, ladies and gentlemen, was Bot’s market.

So not quite the bustling market we had hoped for, so we wandered back to the little cafe and ordered a consolatory croissant, a pain au chocolate sort of cake and two coffees – total cost 6.60 euros. The coffee was very strong, enough to put hairs on your chest and we mused that throughout France and Spain we hadn’t seen any decaf coffee advertised. Was it just not in their vocabulary, a complete and utter abomination to coffee drinkers, more of a cosmopolitan thing or we were just too wimpy to ask for it? Most likely the latter.

With nothing else to do, we wandered down to the old railway line – we had discovered another way back to the campsite avoiding the road while having coffee. Here, out of the blue were some information boards describing Bot’s chequered history in several languages and a fancy set of brick steps leading down to the station – in total contrast to the town itself which, on the face of it seemed just an ordinary rural Spanish village getting on with life and not being a particular tourist attraction.

The disused railway had been converted into a pathway, the old station in disrepair which was a shame – it would of made a lovely residence or a brilliant cafe stop. There were big bill boards announcing some form of regeneration here, but apart from the gravelled path and another new building, nothing much else had happened – it just felt that this part of town had been forgotten, though we reminded ourselves that we were deeply out of season and it may be a different story in high summer. With this path connecting with the campsite, maybe the local planners had something special in mind and on the verge of executing their vision.

So we followed the path back to the campsite which was lovely, looking across the valley and the mountains in the distance. Once back, we packed up the Van and headed off as we had a lunch date booked. We were in a fantastic mountain region and we followed some fantastic roads through some incredible valleys and wooded hillsides. This was wine and olive country with rows of vines and orchards of olive trees on the higher reaches. We passed small communities perched on hillsides, which seemed to be miles from their neighbouring counterpart, their houses cascading down on top of one another – some half built and seemingly abandoned, others just falling into disrepair while others were well kept and looked after. It was just a strange scene repeated in every community.

We had chosen the longer route that was offered by the satnav which was fabulous and had us gasping in awe as we rounded corners. This was probably the best day scenic wise and we loved every minute. And then the road started to narrow – it was an ordinary two way road wheedling through the mountains, but both lanes narrowed considerably so our Van straddled the white line in the middle as did the oncoming traffic (of which there was very little, thank goodness). Basically there was nowhere to go if we met anyone – we had thick metal barriers on our side, protecting us from a precipitous drop and the opposite side alternated between barriers or a rock face, though it did have a channel/gutter to drop into. Luckily we met other vehicles at points where the road widened slightly and we slowed down accordingly whereby the other motorist was either supremely confident of his width or didn’t know what brakes were for. With raised eyebrows we waited for either a scraping down the side of the Van or my wing mirror pinging off and flying into the abyss, but in reality, there was probably acres of space – its just alarming to find a speeding Seat flying round a blind corner.

We found ourselves at our destination of Gratallops, in the heart of the wine country. It was Hubby’s birthday and we decided to treat ourselves. We parked in a dusty car park behind a cafe and as we were getting organised, a huge cement lorry parked next to us. Eeek. We wandered through the deserted town which seemed to have its fair share of wine cellars and restaurants. We found our particular place with huge plate glass windows framed in wood and introduced ourselves. We had booked a wine tour and was taken into the small fermentation room with huge metal vats by Jessica who gave us a talk about the region and how the cellar started (a former chicken factory of which there were many working ones scattered along our journey today). She then took us down a metal spiral staircase into the actual vaulted cellar where the oak casks laid on their side. It was very interesting.

We went into the restaurant and enjoyed a lovely three course meal with a glass of wine and got chatting with a couple of Swiss ladies who made a fuss of The Pup and who knew our part of North West England well. It’s amazing what you learn from people. We thanked our hosts for their hospitality and wandered around the town and back to the Van. We hadn’t booked anything for tonight so after a quick look on our phones, settled on a place just south of the town of Ulldemolinas and headed there. Another 45 minutes and lots of winding mountain roads (and more gasping at scenery and fast oncoming vehicles) we arrived at Montsant Park Camping. Hubby went to check in and was faced with a non English speaking receptionist – with a mixture of fingers indicating the number of adults and by pointing at our parked van, he was getting away with it until he came to mentioning the Pup. His limited Spanish (like me) deserted him completely as he tried to think of the Spanish word for dog and with delightful quick thinking, just said “woof” to the lady and bless her, she understood completely and booked us in.

We have been a bit all over the place linguistically in Spain for several reasons. Firstly, our Spanish comes from the classroom from many years back which we can’t remember much of, secondly we’ve been in France and had got fairly comfortable mangling French and now have been thrown with the sudden change of language and thirdly, after getting confident to blurt out a stuttering sentence, the Spanish reply in English (are we that crap?) and fuse a few brain cells. So instead of saying “Si” we say “Oui” and many other French phrases and when we not looking completely blank, we manage to reply using all three languages simultaneously in one sentence (which is quite a talent and one which Hubby excels at). It doesn’t help that Catalonia has its own distinct dialect so our strangled Spanish sounds nothing like how the locals speak. We’ve got away with it with a lot of hand gestures and if necessary bark.

We found a pitch opposite a row of caravans with awnings attached that had evidently been parked there for many months, presumably as an alternative to buying a static caravan or lodge. It was gone five as we plugged in electric and turned on the gas and by the time we had fielded family phone calls sending birthday wishes, the light was going. We didn’t make tea – we were still full from lunch and settled down to write blogs and to find campsites for tomorrow. We’ll probably book two nights – the laundry bag is overflowing again and the Van could do with a bit of clean. A bit of a reset is overdue.

It was distinctly chilly this morning – the coldest we’ve felt on this trip.

We got organised and met Arne, the very tall owner of the campsite – he was very friendly and could switch from English to German and back again with ease. We made a fuss of the huge Bernese Mountain Dog who was very sweet. Arne wanted to take photos of us and the Germans to put on his website, so we duly obliged – we think he wanted us to stay longer too.

We headed east in glorious sunshine again and stopped at Alcaniz, yet another town perched on a hill with the old town and a dominating church peering down. We parked at the base where it was more modern, finding a free camping car park after a brief tour of the block. We sauntered over the bridge and steadily climbed up where the cathredal stood – a huge edifice that you had to crane your neck to see its upper levels. It was very impressive.

https://www.spain.info/en/destination/alcaniz/

Opposite was a cafe and we sat outside, after ordering coffee and pastries from the lovely proprietor. I said “Buenos Dias” and he immediately broke into English. Is my Spanish that bad or was it just the accent killing it? Anyway we had a nice elevenses and the Pup got a big slice of ham from the owner. I went to pay and was served by a young man – again he spoke English. He told me he wanted to practice his English skills and I replied that I wanted to brush up on my Spanish, so we did. Maybe, all the Spanish want to do is to speak English with a real Englishman and nothing to do with my poor communication skills.

We wandered around the streets admiring the buildings and little alleys before bobbing out on a busy street lined with modern buildings and various shops. We wandered up and down both sides, stopping at a bakers to get more bread products, before meandering back to the Van. About 150 metres away was a Dia supermarket, so we bobbed in there to get some provisions and to stock up the Pup. Perusing the cheeses, I came across a packet of Wensleydale cheese with blueberries – I was tempted to buy it, but took a photo of it for prosperity.

We hit the road again and headed out towards the N232, where I made my first navigational mistake and found ourselves heading in the wrong direction. It involved a 4k run to the next junction and to come back on ourselves, but we we soon back on track. We drove through similar country just like the past two days, totally fascinating, very different and captivating. We stopped randomly at Valderrobres, a town you could easily pass through, to check it out and we were also hungry. We parked in a dusty car park unsure whether campers were allowed in, but with the absence of any signs saying not, we cut the engine – there was plenty of room. We were sorting ourselves out when a hearty Yorkshire voice hailed across the car park “typical, another Brit parks right next to you”. It was lovely to hear an English accent, knowing it would be a brief encounter. He told us to walk down to the T junction and do a right towards the river, so we did after saying goodbye to him and his friends. He did us a favour – we came across a little square with a couple of small cafe bars, dappled in sunshine and we took a table. This was what we were wanting last night – a bit of ambience and a few more people. We ordered a beer and food and apart from a couple of insistent flies, we enjoyed the meal and tortured the waiter with our mangled Spanish. He reverted to English, probably to practice.

https://matarranyaturismo.es/en/valderrobres

Afterwards we waddled over the bridge into the old ramparts of town just as a coachload of tourists appeared – we quickly hastened our pace and walked into a delightful spot. It was a gorgeous series of alleyways, steep steps, balconies almost touching each other, all the way to the church on the summit. We seemed to be drawn to these beautiful medieval places, preserved and timeless rather than their dilapidated counterparts that we’ve been passing. We descended by a series of steps down twisting alleyways until we got back to the bridge. We strolled back to the Van and carried on with our journey.

Unbeknown to us, we had left Aragon and entered Catalonia (not sure when) and began to climb back into tall hills and mountains. The sun had warmed the day to a comfortable 20 degrees which was lovely. We had to override the satnav as that would of taken us down a rather dodgy route, so we went via the town of Horta de Sant Joan which had a market on Fridays – we might come back to this. We were heading for the delightfully named village of Bot and sitting on its outskirts, the Camping Terra Alta who offered us multiple pitches in which to set up home. We are terrible at such decisions and cruised the site until we found the perfect spot (we have stopped shuffling the Van to find the right angle – wind and sun considerations – but as we have usually been hemmed in by hedges it’s cancelled out such issues).

The kettle went on for a cuppa and we relaxed for a bit. The sun was setting and the kindly chap who signed us in, suggested a walk above the campsite to watch the sunset which we duly did. We found a gate at the back of the campsite and wandered up a stony track – fabulous views across to Bot and surrounding hillsides and around the corner, the jagged silhouettes of nearby mountains. The sinking sun turned the clouds a gorgeous red and as we retraced our steps, the countryside turned a beautiful delicate pinky hue, the exposed rock glowing in the twilight. It was a stunning sunset and we were glad that we had made the effort. It was a fabulous treat.

We waddled back down, listening to insistent cockerels crowing in the valley below, the Pup with her nose to the ground, sniffing furiously. We had seen boar signs on the road and hoped one didn’t come barrelling out of the undergrowth. I had seen two huge black cats already – they looked like small panthers. As the dark took over, we sat in the Van and cracked open a local bottle of wine – for eight euros, it was very nice. We discovered two things: the campsite did breakfast from 9am and Bot had a little market. Perfect, that was the morning sorted. I was after a map of Catalonia – each night I had faithfully drawn that day’s route, firstly on an ancient and incoherent map of France, but failing to found a map of Spain, I had continued to mark, in bright pink felt tip, our route on a map of Aragon picked up in Alquezar. Apparently Bot could solve that problem.

With the deep red sky tonight, hopefully we will have another beautiful day tomorrow.

It was raining as we first stirred this morning, started to brighten with chunks of blue sky at breakfast and as we left the campsite, the mist dropped down again and obliterated any forthcoming views.

It had rained quite a bit. The whole campsite is just sand with stony areas, so it just turned into sandy mud that clung onto everything. The Pup was not impressed having her feet wiped after every time she went out as we tried to keep the interior of the Van clean.

We headed off cross country, through olive groves and patchy ploughed fields that were full of stones and small rocks. We picked up the A-22 dual carriageway towards Huesca, running parallel with the Pyrenees, poking the odd peak through the clouds that obscured them. The A-22 was a relatively new road with sparkling new central barriers and smooth tarmac. As we neared Huesca, the cloud finally loosened its grip and allowing the far reaching views that had been missing these last two days to return, thought they still lurked, low and moody in the background.

As we skirted Huesca, a big looking city, the sun finally took charge and we crossed the huge arid plain between Huesca and Zaragoza under blue skies. It was a big jump today to the mountainous south western region of Aragon. We picked up the A-23 as we drove south across the flatlands – even with these big roads we were looking at nearly three hours of driving, but it would give the Van a good blast after many slow days of crawling through the Pyrenees.

We skimmed the eastern flank of Zaragoza, another vast sprawling city and peeled off to head south again, staying on the A-23. As we neared the mountains, the cloud began to gather again and blot out the sun. Here, the landscape was a sparse and desert like, dusty, treeless and bleached yellow. The towns seemed full of industry, surrounded by semi arid hills and stumpy trees. This reminded us of the old Western films and half expected to see Clint Eastwood pop out from behind a bush, with a cigar hanging limply, looking moody with a grubby poncho and a Colt 45 in its holster – we played the Magnificient Seven music just to complete the mood as we drove through this strange, but fascinating landscape.

I have a habit as we’re driving along to make notes in a notebook of what I see, so I can write them up for the blog later that day. Like the weather, the scenery was constantly changing and I struggled to keep up. The barren plateau started to change into more green, with valleys below us with tall poplar trees and little clustered communities surrounded by greenery on small hillsides, their tall bell towers in their village centres poking the sky. Then it become more arable and we were in wine country, with vineyards and distilleries as the mountains started to loom up. Around the corner and it changed again to wooded hillsides and then to craggy cliffs and bare hills. The towns and villages looked abandoned, the buildings with their render dropping off, looking grubby, dusty and unloved with nobody about, as if waiting for Lee Van Cleef to come into town and clear the tumbleweed streets of hidden bandits. The Magnificent Seven soundtrack played in our heads again, but looking closer, the windows were clean, balconies had flowers and you could imagine the insides being spotless. We continued through valleys, dropping down and then up, negotiating bends, passing rocky scrublands, the soil turning a reddy brown. This was amazing and I gave up writing notes and just admired instead. The sun would bob out from behind the clouds and make it all look beautiful – we passed some quite sparse areas, but they had a beauty in their own right and we soaked up all the scenery. It seemed that the long hot summer of 2026 had left its mark on this unusual, but interesting landscape and we liked it a lot.

We finally came up to Nuevalos, a small little town and drove 800 metres beyond to our new campsite, Camping Lago overlooking the huge Embalse de la Tranquera reservoir. We could go and chose our pitch and after some consideration parked sideways on one of the terraces that made up the campsite. Again, it was gravelly site, with hardly any grass, but it was better than yesterday with less dusty sand and more stone. We made a cuppa and relaxed before deciding to walk into town – we had to walk down the main road, which if it had six cars pass while we walked the 600 metres, that constituted a rush hour. Once in town, we turned right into what we thought would be a little bustling high street, but turned out to be a bit disappointing. There was a tiny little square with two little “supermarkets”, a chemist and a bar which was closed and nobody about. We started to walk up the road, but lost all motivation and decided to go back to the Van – we stopped at the supermarket to pick up some bits and waddled up the road. The town nestled under a fabulous outcrop of rock, that towered over us, the different layers of sediment showing – it was quite spectacular.

We got back to the Van and sat outside for a while until the temperature dropped and we headed inside and made something to eat. Then we got our books out and chilled until bedtime.

Damp, misty and murky.

We were getting a bit cabin feverish, especially the Pup after yesterday, being cooped up in the Van apart from little forays to the supermarket and to take Pup out for toilets. The weather didn’t look good for today, as this area was being clipped by a storm front further south, but we would take our chances and walk to the nearby medieval town of Alquezar, some 25 minute walk away.

We donned our wet gear and walking trainers and headed out of the campsite, expecting to walk on the road, but this was obviously a big tourist area as there was a pavement snaking up the hill. It was a decent pull up, enough to get the old heart pumping away and warming us up – there was a view out there somewhere but we just had a wall of mist to look at.

https://www.spain.info/en/destination/alquezar

We came up to a roundabout, directing tourist traffic away to cars parks outside the village with the road into the village itself, cordoned off with electronic barriers. The village loomed out of the murk, perched on the hillside, built in the sandstone stone. Mist hung in the air as we wandered its narrow streets, with a maze of little alleyways diving off at all angles, all asking to be investigated. Alquezar was very picturesque and very quiet at this time of year with a few fellow tourists wandering around. With the size of the car parks, this place must heave with visitors in the summer – just the number of hotels and restaurants gave you a clue on its popularity.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alqu%C3%A9zar

We came across the Colegiata de Santa Maria la Mayor, the main church of Alquezar, perched on an outcrop, just about visible in the fogginess, opposite was a huge limestone cliff – unbeknown to us, there was a deep ravine plunging downwards between the two. Two walkers, in full walking gear and sticks, began to drop down – this seemed to be serious hiking area. It would of been nice to have followed them, but we weren’t properly equipped so abandoned that idea and went off to search for coffee.

We found a tiny little place next door to the ultra modern tourist information office and sat outside with coffees, churros and chocolate croissants. I went to the tourist office, after a map of Spain so we could continue to track our route in bright pink felt tip pen, but came out with a map of the Aragon area instead. Not quite what I was after, but it was a great map to chart our next chapter. When I came out, the Pup was centre of attention with a group of people making a big fuss of her which she milks as much as she can. We fell in conversation with a lovely Belgian family (dogs and babies are a great icebreaker) and swapped stories about our respective trips. We carried on with our wanderings, down narrow cobbled streets, noticing that the mist was getting thicker and our weather app forecasting rain for the afternoon. We decided to call it a day, disappointed that we hadn’t seen any views which would of been spectacular, and meandered back down to the campsite. We literally just opened the door of the campervan when the heavens opened and it began to rain steadily. We relaxed by looking at our newly acquired literature and figured out where to go next – we wanted to dodge the worst of the unseasonal weather hitting Barcelona and Tarragona on the coast and so plotted a course to the south west of Aragon.

The rain was persistent so we spent the afternoon reading and relaxing. We made tea and around 7pm, I took the Pup for a walk around the campsite for her ablutions. The rain had nearly stopped, just spitting as we wandered around and the thick mist finally had lifted – I could see across the woodlands to nearby towns, the mist rolling away on the horizon. Even the setting sun tried to make an appearance through a brief gap in the cloud, briefly turning the sky a reddish pink. The views from Alquezar would be fabulous now.

We returned to the Van and settled down again. As darkness fell, so did the rain, pattering heavily on the roof and windscreen. Tomorrow the sun and warmth are due to return as we move on from Alquezar and head to the south west discovering more delights of this region.

It’s raining and the mountains have disappeared.

We’re in no rush when the weather is like this so we just hung around, put the heater on in the Van and hunkered down for the morning. Around midday, we decided to head off to our next destination and left the delightful Ecocamping Rurale Valle de la fueve and headed south down the A2206.

We couldn’t see much, the cloud so low. The mountains had morphed into substantial hills with deep ravines, tendrils of clouds drifting across them, making the whole scene very atmospheric. We went through one large village, all sandstone coloured buildings while other communities perched on the hills. We weaved down the valley passing woods and craggy rocks. It was beautiful even in the damp rain. Below us was the Embalse de El Grado 1, a huge reservoir and the biggest body of water we had seen since arriving in Spain, the rivers feeding it just mere trickles.

A oncoming car flashed us with his headlights and we wondered what for – a few more bends and we came across two cows and a calf straddling our side of the road. They weren’t for moving so we went around them as they watched us impassively.

The terrain started to flatten out – well, as far as we could tell – as we approached the sandstone town of Barbastro. The satnav took us towards the town centre and we hoped for a cafe bar for a coffee, but we knew it wasn’t going to happen. There were cars everywhere and nothing seemed open, so we abandoned the idea and picked up our route. The satnav fell back into their old habits, by taking us down a very narrow lane on the outskirts of town in order to pick up A1232 heading north (yes, we did a big U today in our travels) – we were not impressed.

The land, which was very dry matched the buildings – a yellow sandstone as we headed to Alquezar. It was a mixture of smallholdings, agriculture and wooded areas with stumpy trees. It was quite pretty with the hills returning. Autumn was really showing here with the leaves turning golden, contrasting against their green counterparts. We hadn’t driven very far, just over an hour as we pulled into Camping Alquezar and tried to check in – we had booked online the night before, but there had been no acknowledging email and now at the reception, they had no record of our booking. After a few minutes, they discovered it in the depths of their computer system and we were in. We found our pitch under some trees and parked the Van on the stony ground – with the rain, it was turning into a gloopy sandy mud that stuck to the soles of your shoes (it would be very dusty otherwise). We set up shop and made some lunch, the rain still steadily falling. The actual village of Alquezar was some 20 minutes walk up the road, but we didn’t really fancy it in the rain. The campsite had a little “supermarket” and opposite was a little restaurant so we wouldn’t go hungry.

We had brought about six flies with us from Ecocamping, who bothered us all afternoon despite our best efforts to evict them. The rain fell steadily and we just relaxed in the Van (I relaxed so much that I had an afternoon nap). We took Pup on a couple of circuits of the campsite and then nipped to the little shop for goodies before settling down to watch a film with nibbles and wine. It was probably the slowest and most uneventful day of our whole trip.

Tomorrow it’s not really going to improve, but we want to walk up to Alquezar and check that out, even if it’s just stretching our legs. This weather is just a blip hopefully and warmer weather is due to return!

We were woken by cow bells as a herd of bovines shuffled past, their bells ringing under their chins. It was a very nice wake up call.

It was very cold this morning, but a beautiful blue sky. We decided that we wouldn’t dash off and hit the road straightaway – instead we had showers and I did the weekly laundry run (though the dryer was a bit rubbish as our clothes came out a bit damp despite 45 minutes on a hot run). The Van looked like Widow Twanky’s.

So we sat outside, reading and enjoying the heat now the sun had popped out from behind a mountain. Cows caused a mini traffic jam on the main road and a mobile patisserie van turned up and we stocked up with bread products and had elevenses.

https://climbfinder.com/en/climbs/hourquette-d-ancizan

We left Camping IV Veziaux about 12:30 and followed a back road that took us up the Hourquette d’Ancizan pass, climbing up through green pastures and trees showing their autumnal colours. It was breathtaking. We reached the pass with far reaching views across far flung mountain ranges and peaks, a blanket of cloud starting to seep up the valleys. A few hardy cyclists joined us, alongside a few cars parked in row – it looked like people could hike from here and head up further.

We dropped down the other side, the road hugging the rocky side while on the other, tall deciduous trees hid the almost vertical drop, the road just about wide enough for two vehicles – it was much more scarier further down where the trees thinned out and you could actually see the bottom.

We hit the valley bottom at Guchen and followed the valley floor, gently rising through ski resort towns and villages. It was a classic V shaped valley with mountains looming over us. We picked up a Portuguese truck and was happy to sit behind him as we negotiated hairpin bends and tight curves – he knew this road and he was bigger than us. Even more startling was that cars were overtaking us and the lorry – we weren’t exactly glacial – and we hoped that nobody came the other way. The scenery was unbelievable – actually there’s not enough superlatives to describe the beauty and magnificence of this area. My many photos that I had taken, just didn’t capture the staggering scenery. You just have to be here.

https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tunnel_Aragnouet-Bielsa

We ended up at the Aragnouet- Bielsa tunnel, a two mile bore through the mountains which joins France and Spain. We had to wait about ten minutes as it seemed to have an one way system in operation, but we followed our lorry friend and popped out in Spain. A new country! A new language! The mountains here were even more fabulous as we dropped down a narrow valley. Gradually, the mountains gave way to hills which were still tall and magnificent, but the Pyrenees weren’t quite finished yet – we rounded a corner to be faced a vast craggy outcrop of rock, reminiscent of Devils Tower from the film, Close Encounters of the Third World.

We found our campsite, again in the middle of nowhere, the Ecocamping rurale Valle de la fueva, sitting on a plateau overlooking the craggy heights. It was like a geology lesson with all the different layers of rock, showing their formation over thousands of years of upheaval. We sat outside, the sun so strong that we sought shade. We met another British couple with a dog and while the humans chatted and exchanged information, the two dogs chased and played with each other. The Pup needed to burn off some energy.

We chilled and then wandered to the campsite’s little restaurant where we enjoyed paella outside as the sun settled behind the hills. The campsite’s resident cat kept wandering past which got Pup excited, but after a couple of passes, Pup ignored it completely. Darkness fell as we finished our meal which was fabulous and we wandered back to the Van to relax before bedtime. This was a lovely little campsite, maybe the best one so far.

Can’t quite believe we’ve been on the road for 29 days. It’s weird – it’s sort of gone quickly but when we think about our first few days in France, that seems to of happened months ago.

Another sunny and warm day shone upon us as we slowly rose and did our morning ablutions and routine. After breakfast, we left our lovely little aire and set off – we were going to climb the Col du Tourmalet albeit in the Van.

https://climbfinder.com/en/climbs/col-du-tourmalet

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Col_du_Tourmalet

We have been keen fans of the Tour de France since the 1990’s and try our best to follow it on television. We always watch in awe as these elite cyclists race up some of the highest peaks in the Pyrenees and Alps, which the Tourmalet features regularly, up slopes that we just can’t appreciate. We drove south down to the pretty town of Luz Saint Sauveur. The valleys here were narrow and deep, the mountains so tall that you could only view their peaks through the Van’s skylight. Then it would widen out into little meadows as different valleys converged. Just such amazing scenery.

We drove through Luz Saint Sauveur (briefly stopping at a Carrefour for that milk I couldn’t get last night) which was reasonably busy with people and onwards to Bareges, steadily climbing the foothills of Tourmalet. The houses started to look like their Alpine counterparts and we heard our first alpine bells.

The pull up to the Col du Tourmalet was steady, with hairpins and the most jaw dropping views. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, just a brilliant blue back drop behind craggy and jagged ridges, which made it even more stunning. We weren’t sure whether to take photos or just stare. There were intermittent roadworks all the way up, and near the summit, they were reinforcing the edges of the road with massive boulders. There wasn’t much room to pass and we gingerly edged past them, getting closer to the edge than we were comfortable with and where workmen nonchalantly watched their colleagues – just one step back and pooft, gone! Diggers filled huge dumper trucks with earth and stone, then the trucks drove a bit further up the road and turned around. We had already met one coming down and fortuitously the road widened enough for him to slide past – it was rock on one side and a precipitous drop on the other with no safety barrier……

We overtook a few cyclists, hard men (and women) dressed in Lycra and not a single electric bike to be seen – this was the easy side (Tour de France riders come screaming down this side). Ski lifts criss-crossed over this treeless landscape with far reaching views across to other peaks and mountain ranges. And still we climbed. We looked down to the ribbon of tarmac that we had just driven up, wending its way up the mountain. It was truly staggering.

We turned the final corner and suddenly we were summiting the Col du Tourmalet (there is higher point with some sort of radar station on top, but this was the famous Tour de France pass). There was a stone cladded building on one side and opposite a small restaurant bar and just beyond a dusty car park. We had the chance of getting a spot in the car park, looking down the next valley, but a sneaky Frenchman nipped in there first with his Renault and we cursed. We parked up anyway and waddled back up the slight incline towards where the Col briefly peaks and immediately drops away again, a thin strip of embedded metal denoting the actual summit (there’s no plateau or a few metres of flatness) – and peered over the edge to take some “I’ve been here” photos. Motorcyclists watched as pedal cyclists panted around the corner and who then took each other’s photographs under a signpost declaring they had reached the top.

The views were truly astounding, but the Col itself was nothing to write home about – dusty tracks and rocky scree surrounded the two buildings and I was pleased that the main building was sort of sympathetic to its surroundings (it is a natural environment after all). So after about 15 minutes and a paper cup coffee, we nosed the Van off the car park and began 17 kilometres of descent – a vast ski resort with hotels and chalets nestling below the Col. Cyclists were also heading up, following their cycling heroes footsteps (well, tyre tracks) of the race route, looking remarkably fresh and unperturbed by their effort as if this was just a quick scoot around to warm up. More alarming were the cyclists who overtook us on their screamingly mad descent of the Tourmalet down more bendy roads and tight hairpins -if you came off here, you would do a pretty good impression of Wile E Coyote in RoadRunner. We were constantly pumping the brakes on the Van as there was no let up on the decline apart from little lay-bys. Eventually we arrived in the little village of Sainte Marie de Campan and found a shady spot under the trees to park, have a spot of lunch and let the poor Van’s brakes cool down.

We decided to drive northwards to Bagneres de Bigorre to have a wander around and a possible afternoon glass of wine. We drove down a wide valley, the mountains turning more into upland fells and becoming less dramatic – it was still very beautiful, through little hamlets lining the road. We arrived in Bagneres and began a search for a suitable parking spot for the Van. We have come to the conclusion that the average town or at least their centres, struggle for spaces that are big enough to take campervans unlike tourist towns and other honeypot areas. Parking was at a premium anyway in Bagnores as there was hardly any spaces, so we ended up one kilometre out of town, looking at a deserted aire surrounded car workshops and other low industry. Nope. So we went back into town, tried a couple of on road spaces (Van didn’t quite fit even with its bum overhanging the kerb), but finally came across an area that kind of worked and we walked the seven minutes into town. Bagnores had some nice little streets we wandered around, picked up a baguette at a patisserie, discovered that we had missed the indoor market, but as consolation found a nice little bar and sat outside nursing a couple of drinks, people watching and admiring the tall, elegant townhouses opposite. It was very warm – again in the mid twenties and we soaked up the sun. After a while, we sauntered back to Van and decided to head to our next campsite – we lose all sense of time and always looked startled when we look at our watches.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bagn%C3%A8res-de-Bigorre

The campsite was on the way to the Col d’Aspin, in the middle of nowhere – it was a few kilometres beyond Sainte Marie where we had lunch. It was a self check in, involving codes punched into keypads. It was basically a field split up into pitches with a central building housing a toilet and shower block and laundry facilities. A sort of upmarket aire cum campsite. It was just right. We found our pitch under a shady tree and set up home – we sat in the next pitch to catch the late afternoon sun before it disappeared behind a mountain. We then made some tea and walked the Pup around the site which seemed to be full of Husky dogs – maybe there’s a nearby Husky convention or maybe Husky racing, this was their kind of natural habitat to be honest. The sun dropped behind the mountain and took the heat with it as the Pup and I took one last evening walk down to the main road (well, six cars an hour type main road), passing a field of cows with collars and dangling bells. They watched us intently, the bells swaying, sending a cacophony of clanging metal across the road and I was glad we had a pitch at the other end.

We shut the world out for the night and relaxed. Just before bed, we chucked the dog out for a final wee and ended up both outside, staring agog at the night sky, full of twinkling stars. We thought we had a good night sky where we lived, but this had far more clarity, brightness and sharpness – we could even see the Milky Way amongst the thousands/millions of stars we could gaze at. It was so beautiful and amazing that we didn’t realise the aching of our craned necks or the creeping cold. Reluctantly we went inside and went to bed, coming to the conclusion that you must have to be born to be a cyclist (or possibly just bonkers) to even want to think about cycling up the Tourmalet to emulate your icons, let alone to be a professional. Our retired friend had recently cycled up the Alp d’Huez in the Alps on his pedal bike, taking two hours to reach the top, while the pros do it in about half an hour – I would of thrown my bike in the hedge on the first bend and retreated to the nearest bar. So I salute all these crazy cyclists! Chapeau!