I love Slovenia! It is bicycle paradise to me, hilly and green with smooth roads and little traffic. Mountain passes with impossibly beautiful spruce-rimmed meadows bring me to one idyllic, flat-bottomed valley after another, with tidy villages and towns every few miles. The valleys are surrounded by deep spruce and pine forests with bare, rocky peaks and ridges beyond. It is clean.

An hour from the border I asked to camp in a farmer’s field. As soon as my tent was ready I was offered dinner. Darinka and Darko are retired farmers, now avid gardeners. The soup was a traditional Slovenian recipe, Darinka said; sour kraut and a few white beans in a milky broth with whole cumin, delicious. I was also served a large bowl of raw wild dandelion greens with boiled potatoes; finely chopped salt pork fried in a generous amount of olive oil, poured onto the greens and potatoes, made a rich and tasty dish, with hearty whole-grain bread to wipe the bowl. Darinka and Darko ate theirs out of the same big bowl, lovebirds in their seventies. Apples for dessert. In the morning breakfast, slippers, towels for my shower, and spring water for my bottles were waiting.

Next day was Slovenia’s annual national clean-up day. I thought it was pretty clean already, but groups of people young and old were out rooting cans and bottles, litter and hub caps from the ditches and snow-flattened grass, piling bags by the roadside. There was a celebratory air to the mission. I stopped to talk to several groups and families. Some shouted, “For SLOVENIA!” with proud smiles.

After a windy mountain campsite and a nice ride I stopped at a cafe in Postojna, a quiet town of ten thousand people. I was here to decide. Outside was an intersection. East would lead me, eventually, to Ukraine and Russia, my original plan. South would bring me to Greece and Turkey where, if I can get visas, I can go through “the ‘Stans” (Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan), saving a thousand miles and a thousand Siberian mosquito bites. Turkey and the ‘Stans are said to be beautiful, cheap, and friendly (the people, not the government).

Three friendly young men approached, hitting the cafe after running a foot race that morning. One looked, talked and acted so exactly like my dear departed friend Garland English that I had to choke back tears.

They got my story quickly. Excited, they produced a map of Eastern Europe and showed me a back-road route through Slovenia, Croatia, and Serbia to Romania that would put off my decision for a week or two. They drew me a map, a crooked line with town names and important landmarks. Dominik gave me the name and address of a friend thirty kilometers away where I could stay for the night.

I’m following that map into ever more beautiful valleys and forests. A thunder shower sent me into a thick spruce woods where I ate peanuts and inspected the spring flowers and mushrooms, dry under the tall trees.

Dominik’s friend Simon and his dad Stane put me up for two days while I did laundry, ordered some parts for my kit, researched routes, and ate great home made bread with home made butter and preserves, raw milk, garden greens and lots more. I have once again found myself among wonderful people.

These limestone mountains have big caves and lots of history. Simon helped me make sense of recent history, which he and his dad lived through, with maps and pictures on the dining table and much passion in the telling.

Also fascinating to me is the fact that people in this area, Inner Carniola, developed skiing 500 years ago, independently from the Scandinavians. The regional crest features a mustachioed skier with an overcoat and a wide-brimmed Fedora-like hat, scarf streaming behind. My host Stane, long retired, is president of the local tourism association and an amateur historian. He showed me a pair of the old skis, by far the oldest I have ever held.

After lunch Stane brought me hiking. His English came back to him in little bits as he showed me the back country. Here, the back country is full of history. Old castle ruins from the 1400s, when the Turks briefly occupied the area; a Catholic church on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere, still used twice a year; a village of eight houses with only tiny dirt road access and a spring-fed fountain from the middle ages—in fact, if it weren’t for the electric wires and poles, the village would look the same as it did back then. A church in one village—this is all on the same hike, now—was bombed by the Italian Fascists in the war, and was rebuilt, to show those bastards they couldn’t win. But on the inside it was left unfinished, in remembrance of those who died there. Stane knew natural history, too, showing me spring flowers, black squirrels, wild plum trees, a river that disappeared into the ground, and what he regarded as the finest woods in the country. I’m a lucky guy to spend an afternoon in the hills with him.

At dinner we were joined by Stane’s other son, daughter-in-law, and four grandchildren. I’m afraid I cranked the kids up before bedtime with mandolin lessons and horseplay. More great, delicious, home grown food, too. Simple ingredients made with love; eggs the kids gathered, wild greens, fried potatoes, and the next-door neighbor’s home made wine.

I’ll leave here the morning, into the hinterlands. (Love that word!) Eastern Croatia and Serbia are said to be even less developed. I’ll keep you posted.

Think Catalonya is done, and it just keeps on surprising you.

I thought I would have breakfast, ride downhill to Barcelona and catch a ferry to Genoa, Italy.

Half the town was at breakfast, but it wasn’t for me, only a tableful. The rest were there because on Sunday mornings that’s where they gather. Marti was slinging omelettes and coffee and heavy fare. Although it is almost nine, they are on two hours of daylight savings time here, so the sun is low and the air is chilly. There are old couples, and families, of course, but also tables full of done-up bcycle racer types, all ages, loading up; and tables of off-road motorcycle guys, in boots and leathers and helmets, old and young, fathers and sons, laughing and shouting, lots of them; farmers with sons in clean work clothes, eating from giant plates of food. One out of four men were having beer with their breakfasts. The sound was of a party at full swing.

My table was stuffing me with carbs and protein, urging me to eat more and take some with me. Jordi and I got a ten o’clock start, and talked for ten miles. Then I was on my own to ride and reflect. They know how to live here in Catalonya. Without a guide like Jordi I might have ridden through Girondella and thought it was a quiet, boring little nowhere town past it’s prime. And in some ways it was, with the closed mills and struggling farms. But it is also full of vital, happy people living busy lives and enjoying it to the fullest.

Sometimes I follow a Google map for walking, no matter how ridiculous it seems with freeway shoulders, nice bikeways, city streets and goat-ath roads. It’s often interesting territory I wouldn’t see otherwise. I followed one such route after lunch that went through town after town, then through a big national forest. It was longer than the highway, but I could camp and reach Barcelona next day.

That developed into two days of riding and camping in a strangely perfect land. The road was smooth dirt in places but rocky, steep, and loose in others; most four-wheel-drive vehicles would have made it. For me it was almost all low-gear grunting and very fast or very slow descending. In two days I saw two vehicles (moving, that is).

There were people living here, miles from the pavement, at three to five mile intervals, in very old stone farmsteads, most with extensive waterworks, cisterns, animal troughs and garden irrigation. Leeks and brassica, fruits and nuts, goats and poultry. Some of the water was cached rain, some from wells. Most homesteads had power, all had woodpiles and antennas. The road at each one ran through the center of the dooryard, inches from the house, inches from open barn doors, and was paved with stones. It was their driveway, with kids’ toys and dog bowls to dodge and gates to negotiate.

I was shocked to see the first one. I came on it from the back, and when I rounded the corner I was in their dooryard, huge paving stones and small parked vehicles, chairs and benches, looking like an oversized patio. The road continued on the far side, but I was face to face with the owner, and we were both amazed at what we saw.

“Holy Shit!” he said.

“You speak English!” I said.

He was 25 or 30, a musician in a Catalyun band, (named Sherpah, like my bike, Sherpa, hmm, http://www.sherpah.cat, the drummer), had a wife and two kids, was doing some bio ag on an old farm, and he had to go in ten minutes. As he loaded his diesel VW van he made sure I was seated, had beer, water, food, etc., and we talked about music, kids, farming, heritage and tradition, all in ten or fifteen minutes. He told me if I continued, I wouldn’t see pavement for three days, and shook my hand with gusto when I indicated my intentions. A fresh beer, goodbye to all, and I was left at their table, my toes on the google maps blue route line. They begged me to stay until they returned, but I lunched and left. One good guy I’ll never forget.

Over the next couple of days I saw four or five more establishments like this, some bigger, some better, all of them vigorously inhabited. I didn’t meet any more inhabitants, but I filled my bottles at their spigots, admired their gardens, and left the gates as I found them.

I would have been happy if it went on like this for weeks. But after a couple of days the road got bigger and soon I had pavement, downhill all the way to Barcelona through towns and city, to the center and then the center of the center and there’s Christopher Columbus, at the harbor, sword pointed seaward, surrounded by historic churches and modern art.

Barcelona has a great, vibrant internationally hip feel, sporty and friendly. I rode around, found some neighborhoods, had some food, met good people who watched my bike while I cleaned up. To top off my visit on Catalonya, I had a Catalonyan cream, a sweet creamy custard in a round earthenware bowl, burnt to a crisp on top, hard to crack through with a spoon, a taste of burnt marshmallow with sweet custard.

At the Port I faced a decision: Genoa, Legarno (Florence), or Civitavecchia (Rome). Many factors involved: logistical, philosophical, economic, meteorological, general. Long story short, Rome. It was cheaper, included a bunk, and brought me to center, not northern Italy, with a better forecast, AND it left soon, taking care of the night’s lodging.

The the ferry was half full, crossing was rough. I was fine, but many suffered, including my cabin mate, a businessman with a truckload of goods. Picture me alone on the forbidden deck, one hand on my Fedora, the other gripping the rail, shouting, “YEE-hah!” into the wind and spray. Now picture me eating, blogging, and lounging in my cabin, lulled to sleep by the waves and creaking and wind noise, like sleeping in my camper on the way home to Vermont from Jane Street while someone else drives.

Next stop, Italy. But I won’t soon be forgetting Catalyuna.

Altogether I spent eight days crossing northern Spain, camping each night in the desert. The towns were not far apart–I think the longest distance was 30 kilometers, more often 10 or 20. Some towns were tiny, especially when I got off on the secondary, sometimes unpaved roads. Many towns were eerily silent, a dog or two, a rooster crowing, a very old man or woman walking with a cane and looking at me like I was a space man. One Sunday I found myself in the center of a prosperous small city at noon, with church goers walking about greeting each other, standing in line at the bakery to buy a loaf and a treat. I sat on a bench watching the storks in their bell-tower nest while I ate my sugar-almond-apricot pastry and soaked up the sun.

Sometimes I would ride into a little dusty desert town with one adobe bar and a dog asleep in the street, and have a beer with the old guys smoking cigars. I feel like a cowboy in a B-movie western. Not a word of English around here, but it doesn’t matter. A beer in a bar is a dollar and a quarter.

The desert was not all of one sort. I climbed up into some mountains, and the scrub and sagebrush became pine forests, still with the occasional farm, village, church, old castle, or dwelling. Agriculture seems to depend on a system of canals and concrete irrigation troughs, which resemble concrete ditches when they are low, ancient aqueducts when they are raised up on arches. As I neared my destination, a town of 5000 near Barcelona, I climbed and descended through some very beautiful forest on a very nice, smooth road, sweating for two hours on the uphills and freezing for twenty minutes on the downhills.  My Fedora keeps the sun off my burnt ears and neck,

I could carry on for a long time about the villages and the towns, roads and the campsites, vistas and castles, but I want to tell you about what I learned of the people and the culture. These Spaniards are a good, hard-working, tough bunch. They look at me with a scowl and dagger eyes (of course, I’m dressed in black with shades and a Fedora), but when I try my Spanish on them, they loosen up quickly.

Actually, my Spanish did me little good. In the Basque country, Euskal-Herria, they spoke Basque. They are ornery about being Basque, not Spanish. The signs near the border were in French and Basque, some Spanish. Invariably, the French would be spray-painted over, or the French spelling of the town changed to the Basque spelling. Grafitti was frequent and anti-Spain. One in English said, “This is not Spain!” One in Basque said something like, “1500 to 2000–500 years of occupation is enough!” Others I could understand from words like “revolution”, “¡No Spain!” and clenched fists. I didn’t meet anyone who spoke English; didn’t meet much of anybody but bakery clerks and gas station attendants. I went to a paint store to get alcohol for my stove, and the Spanish labels on the cans had Basque language stickers over them.

When I got past Pamplona a ways, I got into Catalunya. Another language, Catalon, and a population seemingly as ornery as the Basques. I was near Andorra, a tiny mountainous Catalon-speaking country that was never conquered by Spain or anybody else. More revolutionary graffiti, Spanish signs painted over, and Catalon language and pride evident in stores and gas stations. I got all these impressions while never really meeting anyone until I got to my Warm Showers host in Gironella, a town about the size of Middlebury. Jordi is 37, works in a factory, and has bicycled and motorcycled around the world for half of each year since he was a teen. He lives upstairs over the family grocery store, where mom Lourdes showed me to my bed, shower, kitchen, laundry, food, wine and veranda without a word of English but much warmth and pride. (Jordi’s parents live elsewhere in Gironella.) Jordi came home later; he speaks good English and Spanish; Catalon is his native tounge. Changing into clean clothes after a wonderful shower, Jordi and his cousin and three friends brought me to a place in a neighboring town (their Thursday night routine for years), a lively biker bar, standing room only, where we had beer and bacon sandwiches. These guys, all in their late thirties, grew up together, had varying levels of English, and they all understood bicycles. In fact Pep, now my pal, is proprietor of the local bicycle and motorcycle shop, and was a World Champion Trials Rider back in the nineties. World Champion! (Trials, popular in Europe and less so elsewhere, is the slow-motion, gymnastic art of riding on two wheels over a seemingly impossible obstacle course. Pep’s stripes were earned in the bicycle, not the motorcycle, but his shop specializes in both kinds of trials bike.) Later, at another bar back in Gironella, we got to meeting the other townspeople, drinking more beer, and having a good old time. They explained that my impressions were pretty accurate. Every one of them considered themselves Catalonian, not Spanish. They only spoke Spanish rarely, when they had to, and because it was taught in school. They didn’t much care who was the president of Spain, they answered only to the local police and not the national, and they considered their home to be under a 500-year-long occupation by a foreign country. Except for large and prosperous Barcelona, where Spanish was the main language and Catalon second, the whole area was said to be populated with people of the same opinion.

I was made to feel at home at Jordi’s in a most heartfelt way. Jordi left for work next morning before I awoke, and I found that Lourdes had brought a breakfast for me up from the grocery store. I did my laundry, gave myself a haircut, took another shower, and soon it was time to go to a neighbor’s for lunch, a two-hour affair with a small family. There Ramon and Antonia served home-made Patxaran (PATCH-er-RAHN), a plum liquor that my son Henry had experienced in Basque country a few years back, and Ratafia (RAHT-uh-FEE-yuh), a potent home-made liquor made from fresh walnuts, anise, raisins, cinnamon, herbs, and a lot of other ingredients. Three-year-old Elna served me ice cream, and made me miss my grandchildren once again.  I enjoyed talk of bicycle touring, camping, foreign places, gardening, herbs, women and alcohol with Ramon, Jordi, Antonia, and Jordi’s sometime traveling partner, Clemente. The men and I then repaired to a cool, dark restaurant for tea and coffee, where we were joined by a couple of townsmen. One of them was Jaume, who lived in Andorra and owned an agricultural equipment dealership in Gironella. We hit it off. He’s a type I have met before; maybe you have too. Prosperous, self-confident and somewhat charismatic, he has sharp features (nose, chin, hair, smile, clothes), more than a few extra kilos, a sharp wit and a quick tongue. He spoke Catalon, Spanish, French and Portugese, but little English. He liked to joke and tease. “¡Stihl!”, ¡Husqueverna!”, “¡John Deere!” we would shout at each other, slapping backs and laughing loudly. Long story short, we were all invited to his friend’s ranch for a beef barbecue that evening (he would tell his friend later). Jordi warned me that I should not expect my planned early-morning departure to actually happen. When you are invited to dinner here, the time is not specified because it is 21:00.

Somehow I sandwiched in a visit to Pep’s shop, where he had invited me to bring my bike to clean the desert dust from my drivetrain.  Pep’s beautiful wife Sylvia and charming ten-year-old daughter Julia kept me distracted while Pep cleaned my drivetrain.  I was allowed to polish my frame and wheels and check my air pressure, and for a moment I wished to end my travels right there. Pep, you are the best.

We meet up with Jaume (JOW-may) at a bar across the street from the grocery store. Jordi (JOR-dee) drove his father’s VW Van II very fast and very skillfully with Clemente (cli-MONN) and Quinti (KIN-tay) in back with my mandolin. That’s James, George, Clem and Quinten for you gringos.

Forgive the excess detail here, but detail is what this evening was fashioned from. We arrived to what is called, in Catalon, a Mas, a large established rural farm home. This one was named Escrigues after the Romans left; the name was still there, carved in stone above the door. It looked to me like a three-story hacienda with lots of trees, arched terraces with arched balconies above that and arched balconies above that, an iron gate that disappeared up into the stonework, a large dooryard with a carriage house over to the side, oversized doors from antiquity with a knocker the size of a guitar, stuff like that. The largest Saint Bernard specimen in existence came out to slobber on Jorme. Our hostess Laura opened the door and greeted us in an elegant flannel shirt and blue jeans.  She resembled a younger Madonna (the popular music star, not the religious icon). After some stairways, doors, vestibules and hallways, we found ourselves in a small room with a large Italian marble fireplace, where our host Jorgi (movie-star handsome and no relation to my warm showers host Jorgi, the skillful driver and world traveler) was cooking large steaks directly on the hardwood coals he had raked onto the hearth. The elaborate dragon andirons, the fireplace fittings for roasting and cooking, the dragon motif fireplace set, the candle sconces, chandelier, door and shutter hinges and locks, the doorknobs and handles, all were clearly crafted in wrought iron by the same hands centuries ago. The sturdy table and leather-seat chairs were somehow uncluttered with regular stuff; phone, newspaper, keys, sweater, books, sunglasses. Wine made on the premisis was passed around (men only) in a Catalunya porro, a glass carafe with a pointed spout coming off the side, through which you poured wine into your mouth, wine-skin style.

We were soon shown to the dining room, where fourteen-foot cielings made room for twelve-foot china and silver cabinets, huge chandeliers, bed-sized portraits and the like. We were seated at a sixteen-foot table with china, silver, linen, candles, the whole works. There were nine of us. After some translation, the rarest steak was soon hanging over the edges of my sizable plate, then piled with goat-cheese and tomato salad, what looked and tasted like potato chips but were soft enough to eat with a fork and still hot from the fryer, baked chick peas with crunchy, salty pork skins on top (served in what surely must have been great-great-grandmother’s favorite cast-iron heirloom), fresh bread in huge slices, and a sauce that resembled mayonaisse but tasted like garlic and olive oil and heaven. Salt was presented in a bowl coarsely ground, hot, and soft enough to crumble onto your steak with your fingers. Dipping everything into the garlic/olive-oil/heaven mixture, we ate. It was good. So far, except for the salt, everything was grown and prepared at the Mas.

 That would make a good ending, no? But it goes on.  High on Yerba Mate, I stayed up until sunrise writing these paragraphs.  In a stroke of luck (both kinds), I deleted my work accidentally and irretreivably after a couple of hours.  The resulting re-write is better, richer, smoother and shorter, in my humble, biased opinion.  I slept from 8:00 to 11:00 and went across the street for breakfast.  Jordi was delivering grocericies with his father. At the busy cantina, Marta refused my money.  “Hong Kong” she said.  A couple of hours later, after a rain and a nap, I was invited to the home of Guissepe and Lourdes, Jordi’s parents, for another of these Catalunya lunches; beautiful, elaborate, delicious, exotic fare served with four kinds of alcoholic beverage, some home-made. Guissepe showed me his travels on a map of America.  He has several times flown to the USA, rented a nice car, and driven thousands of miles.  He has visited more North American cities than I have.  He loves cars and trucks.  He wanted all the details on what I drive and what I like; he approved heartily. 

Now I’m back at Jordi’s typing this while he and his friends make beer in the kitchen.  In a little while I will start packing, preparing for tomorrow’s ride to Barcelona and my ferry to Italy.  But not before a farewell, Sunday-morning breakfast with half the town at Marta’s cantina. At Mass there will be prayers, I have been assured, for good weather and favorable winds, safety and protection from evil for the American traveler. I leave Gironella and Catalunya with regret and joy, a smile on my face and a lump in my throat. 

The descent into Berreota, Spain, was as delightful as the morning’s climb. Hairpin switchbacks, one after the other, into a mountain valley with a big river, a highway, and an old, abandoned railroad grade with a cool, long, curved tunnel. I slept at a picnic area beside it between the railroad grade and he river, which had a suspension bridge walkway over to the highway. I knew no rain was forecast, so I skipped the tent and woke up to a heavy frost. I wrote my son Tim a long e-mail from inside my sleeping bag waiting for the sun to hit my camp. Still, I had to dry out my sleeping gear at lunchtime.

The day’s route started on the old railroad grade along the river, then took me over another gorgeous mountain pass. If yesterday’s pass was like Vermont, today’s was like Colorado. It’s two tunnels were closed to bicycles, so I was obliged to take the old road, an extra 18 kilometers and an extra 200 meters in altitude (860 meters at the top). Hardly any traffic (the occasional propane truck, barred from the tunnel), and another gorgeous, peaceful lunch spot at the top, this time with snow around but sunny enough for a nap out of the wind. I’m in heaven. My nap was interrupted by suddenly heavy traffic, both cars and trucks. I figured the tunnel was closed, an accident or something, and sure enough, when I reached the bottom a police roadblock was directing traffic onto the old road. The descent, with hairpin switchbacks one after the other, big trucks sharing the narrow road, and the occasional icy patch, was a white-knuckle affair. Another kind of heaven for Billy.

Now that I have visited Francis and Irene, I find myself lacking an immediate destination. Looking at the big map, I haven’t progressed very far toward Hong Kong in six weeks. Zooming in, there’s a lot of inviting destinations. Gibraltar and Morocco are ten days and a €65 ferry ride away, and I’ve always wanted to see both. But the accident, and then adding Amsterdam to the itinerary have already set me back and hurt my budget, and a trip to Morocco could do more.

I’ve also realized that visiting big cities is costly, in terms of money and time, compared to camping in the countryside.

Which is what I’ve been doing for five days now. Two mountain campsites were up in the Pyrenees, with heavy frost. the first I have described; the second was in an unused pasture, and had all the ingredients: hidden from view, wind break, morning sun, soft grass underneath and perfectly flat. Not always easy to find an hour before sunset. After dinner, reading (re-reading, actually) Rene Descartes’ “Discourse on The Method…” on my phone, I was struck with a clarity of purpose and a determination to take action. This happens to me now and then. I wish it would happen more often and last longer when it does.

At any rate, it caused me to abandon my southward course toward Madrid, Lisbon, Gibraltar and Morocco, and turn east, through the desert and mountains to Barcelona. There I’ll take a ferry to Italy and continue east toward my goal, Hong Kong.

Now, three days later, I am at my third desert campsite. The first, in a pine grove on a ridge, was windy but nice. When I had nearly found it, far from the village below and high up on a rocky path, I met with a very old man walking with his cane, a Basque farmer by the looks but neat and clean in a beret and wool coat. We had few words in common, “Hola,” and, “America.” “Bueno”, he said, and gestured with his cane toward the whole scene; sunset, valley, mountains, tiny village with church tower and lights winking on in the homes. We stood for a long while in silence. He tapped my pannier with his cane and pointed it toward the pines. Then he gripped both my arms and looked me in the eyes. “Via con Dios!” he said, and smiled. We parted, and after a few steps turned and waved a small wave, nodding our heads in understanding.

Next day the wind blew me 110 kilometers through tiny desert villages, past monasteries, irrigated crop land, mesas and arroyos, crumbling hilltop forts. I washed up at a gas station rest room miles from nowhere, then had a beer in a village cantina with some old men at 11:00AM.

I avoided ridge top campsites that night and sought the shelter of a pine grove on the south side of the hill. Still, the wind raged and shook my little tent all night long. Up before sunrise and on the road early, I had another long ride with the wind, including a section on a primitive mountain road, hardly more than a trail. The snow-capped Pyrenees were distant now and the road flat and smooth. The desert is starting to give way to vineyards and olive groves, still irrigated. Tonight I found an empty stone hut in an olive grove, ancient but still in use, four meters square with a low door, a single small window, and a fireplace. I don’t dare attract attention by making a fire, but the wind rages out there and I am cosy and warm, using the hearth to cook rice on my alcohol stove.

Sorry, no photos this time. I’m uploading using my European phone, which is a bit too slow for that. Next time

I have been the lucky recipient if much excellent hospitality on this trip so far. France has saved the best until last. The few days I have spent in this home in Saint-Jean-de-Luz have been so fine, so memorable, that I am devoting an entire post to describing the experience.

Francis and Irene are the parents of my good friend Maude, whom I have known for 14 years, and parents-in-law to Philippe, my very close friend for 20 years now. Since about 1998 Francis and Irene have visited New York City at Christmas time. At first we shared greetings, then sometimes wine or dinner, in the Greenwich Village neighborhood where I sell Christmas trees. A few years ago the whole family (now with teenaged grandchildren Enzo and Eva, my buddies and interpreters) visited my Vermont home for the holidays. What a party that was!

After successful careers as restaurateurs in Versailles, they retired to Irene’s home town, a beautiful resort on southern France’s Basque Atlantic coast. They transformed an ancient stone farmhouse into a more-than-elegant home, where they have developed the art of living the good life to a high degree. Francis plays Pétanque (similar to Bocce) at a high level, and will even modestly admit to being a former national champion. Deep sea sport fishing is another of his passions, as is food and wine. Irene leads a full life with close friends and relatives nearby, often at her table. She walks a lot, and takes seriously long hikes each week with her group in the nearby Pyrenees. Fresh local bread, seafood, cheeses, vegetables, fruit, meat and wines, all simply and elegantly prepared, grace their table three times each day. Perhaps this all helps to explain why, at an age that many dread reaching, they are full of the joy of living, still in love, and look far younger than their years.

Francis and Irene are gifted hosts, and their home sees many guests. My son Henry was one a few years ago, spending three months learning French. I was very pleased to meet his friend Aldo, a retired hotelier and Francis’ comrade. Now my friend too, Aldo drove me to town in his immaculate VW Rabbit (on a day when we had rabbit for dinner, good for a few laughs) to get parts so that I could repair Irene’s bicycle, the only little bit of a chore I was allowed to perform during my stay. Aldo introduced me around as “Henri’s Papa!”

Pleasant, extended mid-day meals were spent with Irene and Francis, Aldo, and Irene’s friends Dani and Marie Claire. An afternoon excursion to nearby San Sebastian, Spain, with the whole crew, ended in classic style at an upscale restaurant’s outdoor table. The waiter seemed to treat us with special attention and care. A bicycle tourist rolled slowly by eyeing our table. Now I was on the inside looking out, sipping my wine and laughing with my party, not a care in the world.

Some years ago I took an interest in the life of Louis XIV, reading an excellent book about his life and reign (the longest reign in the history of European monarchy), and it was here near the border he was married to Maria Theresa of Spain. Always extra agent in gesture, he ordered the church door walled up after he passed through with his new wife. Irene showed me that walled-up door, much larger than I had imagined. I read in that book how Louis XIV had, next morning, stood at his bedroom window and for an hour threw newly-minted gold francs to the townspeople below. Irene showed me that window.

Next day I went shopping with my hosts. Not to a supermarket. First the busy fish house, where we were well greeted. I can’t remember seeing a more extensive selection or a more beautiful layout. Another warm welcome at the cheese vender, more beauty and variety, history and tradition. And again at the butcher shop, the bakery, the vegetable man, the fruit stand. Each one knew Irene and helped her make the careful choices that form a part of her kitchen magic. Francis and I lugged around a week’s worth of provisions, setting them down only to remove our hats and shake hands with the many locals who seemed delighted to meet Henry’s Papa, the American cyclist.

I thought I would spend two nights here. My friends’ sincere objections kept me here two more. They sent me off with the ingredients for success: bread, cheese, fruit and wine.

My ride this morning was among the best I have had, ever. Three hours to the top of the Venta Liziaerta, sort of like the Lincoln gap, for you Vermonters. I chose this pass because it seemed like the road less travelled. Town gave way to farms and villages, then forest, roadside springs, mountain sheep meadows, and finally a rocky summit. I’m sitting here now in the sun, France spread out below to the north, Basque Spain
to the south. An old stone customs border control hut sits unused, doors bricked over, stone pillars for the old gate still standing close to the narrow road. Hawks circle; the only sound the tinkling of sheep bells as they graze in the meadows below. My belly is full, and my climbing done for the day. I suppose a little wine wouldn’t hurt anything.

Good water

Francis

Irene

Today my tour took on a whole different character. Sunny, in the forties, I rode all day in my favorite outfit: wool tights and wool jersey. Gloves off at midday for the first time. Even too warm for the Fedora. A tailwind blew me through the suburbs of Bordeaux and soon I was in flat farmland, then managed forests of Scotch pine or similar species. Instead of wondering when I would ever get to the next town to warm up, I was saying, “What, here already?” For adventure, I took an unpaved road, a 10k shortcut to save a few kilometers. Good halfway, it turned to unridable sand, hard to push through. It was over soon; I didn’t save any time, but with my plan to camp tonight, time was not an issue. I made ten more kilometers than I had planned anyway.

Every so often an inviting logging road appeared on the left or right. When the sun got low and I felt some chill in the air, I picked one at an edge between field and forest, so that the morning sun would hit my campsite. Bread, cheese and fruit for dinner. The soil is sandy and dry, covered with pine needles. It doesn’t get much better than that.

A little walk showed me tracks and signs of small deer and large wild boar. These feral pigs are not the giants that menaced medieval peasants, but they are big enough to be a danger. Usually wary of contact, they will attack if you are on their established trails.

I really have the urge to chronicle lately. My only human contact today was at the grocery store. It’s dark now and my tent is lit by this little screen as I type. It is not yet 8:00PM but I will be asleep soon.

Next day now (Friday, February 17). This morning I awoke at dawn and was pedaling an hour later. More flat and beautiful woodland, much of it on a smooth new bike path away from the roads. Late in the afternoon, however, this paradise gave way to seaside tourist land, off-season. Rows of giant hotels and crowded boutique avenues, it reminded me of the Jersey shore, right down to the style-challenged vacationers and occasional surfer bum. And this was when It was time to find a campsite. When I heard the surf, I made my way toward the Atlantic and was awed by the horizon, as I am always awed by the ocean when it appears. I watched a lone surfer catch two ten-second waves in fifteen minutes (admirable dedication) and proceeded south. I consulted the oracle (Google maps) and soon found paradise, a municipal forest of huge oaks and sandy trails. The sign said no camping, but it was in French, which assured me that I would not be disturbed by French campers. I got set up by dark and cooked pasta, which I had carried half-way around the world for this occasion. Magically, I could hear the distant surf, but not the nearby highway. This was Capbreton, France.

In the morning I took my time, letting the sun dry my sleeping bag and tent before setting off. This tent is my first “single-wall” design, which means that instead of lightweight walls with a separate rain fly, it employs a breathable waterproof fabric, like Gore-Tex. Advantage: lightweight simplicity. Disadvantage: condensation. Last night’s cold temperatures (frost), even with vent and door open, produced wet interior walls, all from my breath. Condensation around the hood of my sleeping bag is normal in any small tent. I am preparing some separate “Technical Information” pages for gear enthusiasts where I will review my equipment (which I call my “kit” to honor my British friends I miss so much), so that’s enough for now.

Saturday’s ride brought me to Bayonne, which surprised me with its beauty and charm. I lunched by the downtown river waterfront (carrots and clementines) while a carnival, complete with costumed revelers and musicians, filled the air with happy sounds.

In the afternoon I encountered the first significant hills since England, and the massive Pyrenees appeared in the distance. I am happy to report that only five weeks since my accident left me feeling feeble, my legs are like pistons and simply obey my commands without complaint, and it takes a good long hill to get me huffing and puffing.

I arrived at the home of my good friends Francis and Irene a bit early, and here I sit in their sunny dooryard awaiting their arrival. The mountains loom closer now to the south and on the other side, Basque Spain. I will stay here a few days to visit my friends, clean my bike and rest my bones. Thanks for checking in.