Wed, 25 Aug, Catching up from Padstow, Cornwall, England

Well. I’m nearly overwhelmed with how far behind I’ve gotten on this blog. Without offering excuses I’ll just do this - start with what I have and fill the rest in when I’m able.

16 & 17 Aug, Belfast, Northern Ireland

On Monday, 16 Aug I flew the infamous RyanAir from London Stansted airport to Belfast. It went, unexpectedly, without incident. The flight to Ireland was shorter than my tube ride home from the pub the night before.

My friend Richard Treacy, who’s visited Greenwich, CT many times, picked me up from the city airport with his usual big smile and enthusiastic interest in my travels. We had a lovely chat on the way to his house in Hillsborough where I tucked in for the rest of the day. He prepared a delightful veggie chili dish and with his wonderful wife Lisa offered their trademark insight into life.

After dinner a good friend of Lisa’s called Andrea popped round for a chat. Turns out she’s a triathlete, founder of local bike shop sponsored women’s cycling team the BikeDock Belles and madly preparing for the Terrex Adventure Race next week (aka 4 days of non-stop kayaking, mountain biking and trail running.) I could only beam with awe.

 That's a tiny Richard behind the yellow sign

What an incredibly wonderful day of fellowship for my first day in Northern Ireland! With Richard and Lisa you’re always guaranteed fabulous discussion on topics ranging from very specific personal challenges of the moment to broad sweeping global affairs. I fell asleep mentally exhausted and happy at, for once, a reasonable hour, and slept like a log.

The next morning we headed into the Belfast city center. With a meeting cancelled, Richard was able to give me a grand tour. It’s always slightly unsettling to begin to explore a place you’ve heard so much about, especially one known for violence, or The Troubles, as they’re called; 30 years of killing and strife between Irish Catholics and British Protestants.

(I'm sorry I haven't got more pictures here. It just wasn't appropriate to take photos as many of the places I visited.)

I needed more of an onramp, so it was only after a little more talk about our personal lives over Starbucks coffee that we headed off to pick up a friend, Don, the hospital chaplain to explore. Together Richard and Don brought Belfast alive to me, from the very worst to the very best of it all, then and now. I kept thinking how very unworthy I was of their time and careful explanations. Still, they took me from the Irish Cultural Center to Shankill Road and everything in between, somehow making the clash between the Republicans and Unionists clearer and very real.

I hadn’t realized that there were still Peace Lines zig zagging across the city. It felt just like Berlin when it was divided, with high walls and auto locking gates. At one point there was a cycle path running just next to a separated neighborhood, and it struck me as utterly ridiculous.

Don took us into the desolate housing developments most central to the violence during The Troubles, and we were able to get out and wander freely because of his familiarity with the residents. We even got let into a locked graveyard and had a look around at the eclectic gravesites. It was a mini history of Belfast dating back hundreds of years. Don used to have a charity shop just on the other side of one of the graveyard walls. He had also led a small church down the road, so this neighborhood was his parish. He now leased the property next to the shop where a Turkish barber practices his trade. Don is an incredibly gentle and welcoming person, with an ability to make you feel important and valid.

Don in front of the hospital

It should be said that both Don and Richard have dedicated much of their lives to active reconciliation, but in more hidden and unique ways than we might hear of in the US news. They have invested in individuals, one by one, and are making more difference than they’ll ever know. Life in a post conflict environment is always delicate and their gentle, genuine ways are undoubtedly a healing salve. But I had no idea how many more Richard and Dons I would encounter in the next few days.

After lunch we stopped by the BikeDock shop and I was completely floored at how great a cycle shop it was. They had BY FAR the most comprehensive collection of commuter bikes I had ever seen in one location. Since the desire to open a commuter cycle shop has occupied my fantasies on more than one occasion over the last year, I was in absolute heaven. I was ready to drop anchor and live in the corner of this open plan industrial space. Gosh, I’m nearly in a state of euphoria just thinking about it now. Something about understated, creatively stimulating spaces mixed with beautiful adventure toys that pushes all the right buttons for me. I am far too influences by my environment.

Anyway, escaping with just my life, Richard drove me southward to a village on the coast called Rostrevor, my home for the next several days. The Irish countryside lived up to it’s emerald beauty as did the weather, shifting from pouring rain to bright sunshine no fewer than a dozen times in the course of our hour journey.

Richard was familiar with our destination from events attended while it was the Christian Retreat Center. It’s an eclectically expanded mansion on the gorgeous seafront. As Richard and I said our goodbyes, I felt the familiar peace of being handed over to a conference organizer.

Thu, 22 July, Lasseube to Bordeaux, France

I slept surprisingly well as my tent filled with water. I didn't really mind my wet toes, the duvet was still cozy. I didn't feel brilliant when I woke at 6am. So I ventured into the rain for a pee and then forced myself back to sleep. It rained straight thru the night and well into the morning.

Around 9am I took my time organizing my stuff and had it packed up tight by 11. Not sure exactly when the caravan and cyclists were coming thru, I put on my most water proof clothes and walked the 1 block into the village. The rain stopped the moment I arrived. I immediately saw Miranda, Simon’s daughter, then Simon and Samuel his son.

I stopped along the road with them. I was kind of hoping I'd missed the hoopla of the caravan and could go straight to the riders. No such luck. We stood thru the parade and I collected the few pieces I didn't already have, such as the famous green finger. A local resident carried around a giant round of cheese and cut off slabs for the villagers along the roads. Can’t believe I don’t have a pic of him!

Then to the bar to wait for the start and watch coverage on TV. I had a very delicious coffee, compliments of Simon, and recognized the roads along which the cyclists made their way to Lasseube. I felt a part of it all, even tho I was sitting among French speaking people, in a bar in a tiny French village in the Pyrenees watching the Tour de France. A few people squealed now and then as they saw family and friends along the roads on TV. Then we all dashed outside to see the cyclists pass. There it was, the yellow jersey!

Then Andy and the team cars.

This was as good as it gets! The village, the people, the whole experience all superb! I felt as if I could now check off one of those things you must do before you die, that I didn't even know was on my list. With a silly grin I said goodbye to all my new friends and walked back to my tent. No longer raining, I changed into my jeans and sneakers, and waited peacefully for Fabian to collect me, since he’d offered to take me back into Pau to catch a train to Bordeaux. I had tried to arrange for a taxi, but with all the road closures they were nervous. We had a pleasant chat on the drive in and he dropped me off with heaps of time to spare. So I updated my budget. With low food costs, no taxi fare and no bike rentals, I was quite a bit under budget. I thought on the drive how I really must eat more, before I go into that funky spiral where I can't seem to get any food in. I longed for an Odwalla.

As I boarded the train to Bordeaux, I noticed that someone was in my seat again, but since this train wasn't completely full. I just sat elsewhere. Some Americans with bike boxes sat next to me. But I had no interest in striking up a conversation with them. So I just sat and thought and felt content.

I brought snapshots of my trip so far to mind: The campsite, the locals, the village, the tourists. There have been heaps of fit riders in various cycling team and club wear all over the place. It's been fabulous. It'd be a blast to a) be a good enough rider to cycle comfortably on these mountains and b) have someone to travel here with. I love seeing kids on bikes just going about their business and becoming top mountain cyclists on the way. It'd be great to watch the TdF from a mountain top where they're cycling slower and the crowd is really vigorously cheering them on. Epic. Problem is, you have to position yourself days in advance and have all the food on board that you need. Or, you have to cycle up the mountain. Still, I'm having an excellent time despite the language barrier. Did I mention how glad I am that I'm not traveling with my bike? Yes, it'd have been nice a bunch of times. But it'd have been a major hassle a bunch of times more.

Once in Bordeaux I took a taxi to hotel. I wandered out just long enough to grab a bite at a place called Flunch, with free wifi, of course :-)

The room is wonderful.

I banished my shoes to balcony because they'd become a bit smelly from sitting in tent water over night. Then headed straight into a bubble bath.

Quite frankly, with free Herald Tribunes and a steam room, I was feeling very much like a kid in a candy store. All at a budget price since I’d booked a flat at a new city center block of apartments that weren’t full yet.

As I collapsed into bed, the biggest crisis on my mind was the fact that I desperately needed a pumice stone.

Zzzz.

Wed, 21 July, Lasseube & Pau, France

Wet and cool today. Rained all night. Everything is either wet or damp in the tent. I don't actually mind the damp for the most part, as long as it's not prolonged. But wet bedding, now that's a bit annoying. I'm going to ask Simon if I might exchange my towel for a dry one or two. I'd hang it on the line but the sky threatens of more rain. In fact it's still raining in the trees.

I realized this morning that I've been in France for 5 days and am yet to eat in a restaurant. I'm averaging 8 euros/day in food and am not particular hungry. That’s about the cost of a few Starbucks coffees. As always, the topic of giant portions in American restaurants came up in speaking with Peter and Leslie yesterday. I'm not sure how enormous portions got started in the US, but it really is wasteful.

At 10:15am Simon met me at the campground and took me up to his inn. It's quite an interesting and beautiful property. The rooms are full of character and while not luxurious they are more than sufficient. There are reclaimed architectural features and custom furniture all with their own fascinating stories. I couldn’t help but think how much my mom would enjoy strolling the grounds and taking in the gorgeous gardens with Simon's interesting tales of how he managed to plant what where. I know I was loving it!

I apologize for not having any photos. I was happily distracted by conversation, but you can check out their website at http://missbrowne.com/. If you go, tell them I sent you!

Simon was a farmer in South Africa and bought this property in 1996 with his wife Isabella. We had a wonderful chat as we walked and he shared his life's adventures. I asked about all the plants I didn't recognize and he was impressed when I said one of the trees looked African and in fact, it was. How I'd love to return with my children and parents someday. The only down side is that it's quite a walk to the village, and the village itself is quite tiny. Still, if I had money, I'd come back. The cycling here is phenomenal, and the boys would get that chance of using their French that they’ve been asking for.

Eventually Simon drove me back to the campsite and I paid him the 11 euros/night for the tent and bedding. He'd forgotten to give me a dry towel and said he'd swing back round in half hours time. According to the schedule, it appeared as if there was a noon bus into Pau. So I thought I'd catch that. When he dropped the towel I asked him to check to make sure I was reading the schedule correctly. Turns out it only ran when school was in session. Drats!!!

Dejected I considered my choices: Spend the day in a damp tent, or walk the 6 miles back to Gan and catch a train to Pau from there. I decided on a third option: Hitch a ride over the mountain. But as I was sitting on a bench in the village making a little sign to hang off the back of my rucksack as I walked, Simon swung back thru on his motorbike and said that he'd arranged for his friend Fabian to pick me up at the village cafe at quarter past 1pm, when he'd be heading off to work. Wonderful! As I waited I explored some of the lovely bridges over the stream.

Le Tour doesn't come thru Lasseube until tomorrow, but there are already motor homes starting to fill the tiny village car park. It will undoubtedly be quite a spectacle. I recognized a few of the press vans pulling in. Finally I mustered the courage to go and sit at the café, order a coffee and wait for my chauffeur. I had no idea how old he was nor if he spoke any English. For about 20 minutes I sat pretending to have something important to do on my iPhone, feeling slightly silly sitting there by myself. The twin church bells rang on cue at 1pm. They have become my friends. But oh snap, it started to drizzle. Unfortunately, this was shaping up to be the worst site seeing day of the month, weather wise.

But then, wow! The shop owner put up a floor umbrella for me. I didn't actually mind the drizzle, but I was wildly impressed by her considerate touch. If my jeans did get wet, I figured they wouldn’t be dry again until I got to Bordeaux. All in keeping with the laid back feeling here. The shops and restaurants have the distinct feeling like they're just residences with a few things for sale in the front. Reminds me of the Central American neighborhoods in New York. Uber low key.

And then Fabian! Young, kind, perky and English speaking!!! It turned out to be an incredibly eventful afternoon. We chatted all the way into Pau and agreed to meet again when he got off work at 7pm. I wandered around for ages in this dramatic mountain top town. I discovered free wifi at a burger bar called Quick and had a pasta dinner at a German themed restaurant on the town square. I completely forgot to take photos.

As shops closed, I met up with Fabian and he closed the steel gate behind me. Inside the electronics store where he worked, his colleagues broke out a few drinks and the manager closed the registers. I was given some kind of fruity rum beverage and listened as shop workers told hilarious stories about people they’d helped that day. Having so many tourists in town has proved very amusing to the locals. Still, they were very kind and anxious to hear about New York.

As everyone eventually headed out, Fabian invited me to a dinner party he was attending that night for a friend who’s wife had just had a baby girl. How could I say no! We made a few stops looking for a little gift to bring, but everything was closed. I told Fabian to say that he’d brought an American instead as a token of congratulations and we laughed all the way to their house.

Dinner was simple and lovely. Fabian had given the hosts a heads up to my veggie leanings before he arrived. After dinner we worked our way through the local vintages. Everything was delicious. Then we moved onto the local apertifs, Basque whiskeys and eventually Scottish whiskeys. I enjoyed them all. As the rain picked up for the 100^th time that day, the stroke of midnight sent us on our way back onto the mountain roads. I was confident that Fabian knew them well, despite our heads spinning with drink and wonderful conversation. He told me that last year he got stuck with this very family for a week because the snow was so intense. Everyone here was friends.

As we approached my campsite, I noticed that the tent flap hadn’t been properly closed when my dry towel was dropped off hours ago, and despaired at what I would find inside. A river. I baled with the water cap for 10 minutes. Then used my hand to scoop out the cups of water, happy that it hadn’t reached my bed. I elevated what I could and fell asleep instantly. Another fabulous day.

20 July, Lasseube & Gans, France

Wow. It’s been so long since I’ve had the opportunity to update my blog that I don’t even know where to start. Since my last entry I’ve crossed the English Channel and am back in a land where I understand what people are saying.

The last week and a half has been the best I’ve had in years! So I want to at least offer a summary. I’ll update in chunks, starting with my adventures in Lasseube, Gans and Pau, France, with photos to prove that I did actually witness the Tour de France first hand.

On Tuesday morning July 20, I set out on foot from the tiny Pyranean village of Lasseube toward Gans, where the Tour de France would be passing through that day, just before finishing in the city of Pau. The journey would be 10k, about 6 miles. 

The weather was absolutely perfect, warm and sunny with a beautiful blue sky and a few smooth white clouds. Along the way I explored fields of sunflowers, grapes and corn. I enjoyed both familiar and new flora along the road, like hemlock, horsetail, morning glories and thistle. I love thistle. I could be persuaded to move to Scotland for thistles alone.

I wandered along right up the mountain, aware of the fact that I’d failed to apply both deodorant and sunscreen in the morning. There were large sections of patched road in anticipation of the pro riders who would spiral down these paths a few days later. I stopped for a snack and water an hour in, and realized what a truly spectacular walk it was. From under a shady tree I breathed in the rolling hills that have inspired many an artist thru the ages, and smiled broadly.

Generally one to abhor litter, I was amused today by the infrequent little treasures along the trail, like clues to a mystery. I thought I saw tube of sunscreen at one point, and would have used some if it had been. But I couldn’t read the French so thought it best to leave alone. I zigged and zagged across the road to catch the shade. With only a car now and then, I felt like the whole hillside belonged to me. Altho I’d studied the road map, I didn’t have opportunity to check the typography. I thought it would be downhill out and uphill back. It was the opposite, at times a gentle grade, at times steep. I love walking uphill. I could have gone up all day. I was thinking that I should have scrounged a bike for my journey. It would have been hard work but a good day out.

Right at 5k it changed to downhill and I now needed to stop occasionally at a road post to stretch my calves and achilles. I walked on. I examined every farm house and every field. I laughed uncontrollably when a guy mowing his vast lawn was so shocked to see me that he ran straight into a tree. We exchanged sheepish waves and on I went. Not too far further up I could hear electricity moving through the cables of a small power station. That’s the kind of thing that more than once has sent my heart into palpitations and my muscles twitching. But today, I guess surrounded by so much nature, I could only hear the electricity, not feel it.

A young man road past on his scooter with a NY Yankees back pack on and suddenly I was on a sidewalk. A rooster announced my arrival into Gans as if following a script. I saw the first evidence that a hugely important cycle event was about to overtake the town.

I passed the tiny, outdoor train station and stopped at the side of the road to pull on a skirt and change into sandals. I walked up and down the closed roads, looking for the perfect viewing location. There was a parking lot surrounded by Tour de France logo emblazoned barriers where a BMX expo was in progress. I wandered on and chose a flat topped concrete road cone on which to sit and rest my weary legs. Among the small crowd I detected English and eventually got up the courage to say hello to Leslie and Peter from Hartfordshire.

Together we watched as the TdF caravan arrived like a circus into town.

It started with the official souvenir vans and progressed into vehicle after vehicle of sponsor giveaways. There was loud music and waving, smiling people like at Disneyland. I was struck by the fact that they’d be doing this for about 6 hours a day for 3 weeks. It was a sporting event in itself. A part of the tour you don’t see on TV.

We all filled our bags with the red dotted King of the Mountain caps, Haribo sweets and St. Michel madeleines - the Official Madeleines of the Tour de France - that were lobbed in our direction.

I could hear - then see the TV helicopters hovering overhead and I nearly soiled my pants in excited anticipation! How many hours had I sat in front of my flat screen watching the images they transmit, listening to the commentators unpack 14 possible strategies each team might be considering as they snake along the treacherous passes.

And then, like a cold when you’re on vacation, zoom! The most famous names in cycling were all there in front of me all of a sudden. I could have run into the street and caused a bike accident witnessed round the world. But my middle aged sensibilities held me back. Drats.

I noticed Lance Armstrong surrounded by his loyal teammates in a fine position toward the front. And after a 10 minute break, zoom again! The rest of the peloton rode through. Very, VERY exciting!!!

I was shocked by how fast they were moving, about 40mph I estimated from my spot on the road. Even the trailing group was going at least twice as fast as I had ever accomplished, even on a downhill. Almost every rider was on my side of the road too, so it was simply a huge thrill. But this kind of speed also means that it’s all over way too soon. Trying to take photos is kind of a joke. I had no idea who was in the mix really.

One of the ironies of following the TdF live is that you’ve no real idea what’s happening on the day. Some people had radios with them, some were glued to Twitter or to friends’ text messages giving them updates. With my lack of French I was in the dark, illuminated only by the nearly blinding flash of talent that had just unfolded before me, which was more than enough to keep me warm and happy.

Nick had given me an update yesterday, explaining that Contador had won the stage because of an unfortunate chain fiasco for Schleck. He had seen it on the tiny TV in the village bar, where he was the only one around. It’s apparently owned by the same guy who runs the campsite. So I’ve vowed to check it out later.

Having been chatting now with Peter and Leslie for several hours, we decided to wander up the road together for a bit of wine tasting. Sweet whites were the specialty of the winery and we took in their whole array - 12 in all. I had passed these vineyards on my walk in. It was magical, and I’ll never forget our charming French host who went on and on about how their wines are fantastic with ‘cheap cheese.’ I did let him know eventually that it was pronounced ‘sheep’, but it gave the three of us a great laugh for awhile. As the sun began to droop my new friends kindly gave me a lift back across the 6 miles of hills to the campsite. We exchanged email addresses and said our goodbyes.

We arrived 2 minutes after a wild downpour had begun and I got soaked running from their car to my tent. My tent windows were open so I dashed around the outside to close them. Altho there was a river running at the edges inside, my bed was safe and most of my things dry. Instinctively I grabbed my borrowed towel to dry the floor, which in hindsight may not have been the best idea. I should really have sacrificed a shirt instead.

For the next half hour I collected the streams into pools by pressing my fingers down into the ground and creating little downhills. I then used the lid of my water bottle as a tiny little bale, and managed to get most of the water out. It was hot and humid and I was caked in sweat. I tossed on my swim suit and stepped outside to shower in the rain, but at that very moment it stopped. So, I buggered off to the shower block instead with my wet towel. It felt really nice, altho I discovered that I’d managed to leave soap off my packing list. Drizzling again, I nipped back into my South African military issue tent and let my mind wander around the stories this shelter could probably tell. Damp inside I made peace with the fact that it probably would be for the rest of my stay.

I got things organized and ate the pistachio nuts and a few dried apricots I'd had in my bag all day. Oo and the Official Madeleines of the TdF that had been thrown at me a few hours earlier. Tummy happy I uploaded my pics. Since I'd put my camera into sports burst mode for the first time ever, just before the riders came thru, I had no idea what I may have captured on film. Turns out it worked tremendously well, except when the main peloton came through. Groan.  I think I was so excited at that moment that I held it too tight and missed the group. Oh well, I’d be seeing them again in a few days.

9pm, still light out and raining off and on, I removed my contact lenses and was good for bed. Most fun I'd had in ages.