Travels in the Van 2024: Week Six
We are building up to the cycling challenge of this trip. The plan is to cycle up to the Col de portal to the Spanish/French border and back down one day. Then drive up again and down to a village the other side, camp, sleep, and then cycle back up to the same border place - and back down again.
As we drive to the Pyrenees, and up to the town of Biescas, with the landscape changing, the streams flowing icy green-blue down to the river, I'm reminded of how powerful and terrible nature can be. We pass the memorial to the 87 people who died at Camping Las Nieves during a flash flood in 1996. I can’t help, but think that in the cheerful little town that we arrive at, and park up in the car park by the river, that event must’ve affected the community hugely. It’s the end of the skiing season and not many places in town are open, but we find somewhere to sit to eat, and chat to a Spanish family who are there for the skiing, and whose 13 year old wants to practice his English with us.
There are a number of small vans and cars using the carpark as a sleepover spot, and most people set off for day of walking or skiing further up the mountain. We wrap up warmish as we're expecting to reach the snow line. It's a steady climb but the downhill is always chilly.
It's a glorious sunny day and the scenery breathtaking in parts, there's little traffic as the skiing villages are quiet. Dark grey and ghostlike nestled in the valleys below the white peaks. A constant is the river, noisy and cascading, full flow with icy meltwater.
We make it to the frontier station as it starts to spot with sleet. It's like the wild west, with closed up shacks and one store open. Luckily it has a roaring fire and the thickest hot chocolate I've ever had. We put all our layers on and head down, fast and cold, back to Biescas. The most dramatic moment is the temperature change once we're through the tunnel cutting through the mountain. There was an alternative side-path on the way up, but it's quicker to go through on the way down. As soon as we're through it's a different climate and we're basking in warm sunshine again.
It hasn't been a hard ride, but still physically tiring and, despite a quick refuel of potato and onion Tortilla (the best post ride snack of all time) once we've driven back up and start to decent the other side of the pass into France, I'm overcome with foreboding as we wind down a much steeper, more dramatic road down.
This is tomorrow's route. Each twist and turn looks terrifying. The snowdrifts at the sides are higher than me and there are avalanche warning notices every kilometer. The next phase is a rocky gorge cut into the mountain with just a glimpse of sky above. The gradient feels impossible and I'm overwhelmed. It goes down and down and on and on.
Were supposed to climb up it and then get down again. I wonder how long my battery will last but more troubling is wondering how long my hands will last on the brakes going down. I make the decision before we reach the bottom that I'm not going to do it.
I find a release from choosing not to do something, I've been working on it for a few years, letting go of the 'you should' thoughts and the guilt. Even window shopping can be as pleasurable as buying something. Having the choice is liberating. I know that Richard has been looking forward to this ride, particularly this side of the mountain. So we spend the evening looking at the detail, the gradients, the distance. We compare it with other rides we've done. He'd particularly like to do the descent. I offer to drive the van up in the morning so that he han ride down.
Whether it's a good night sleep, more food, the friendly French town and little campsite we're in, or actually being in the driving seat myself in the morning, the route appears much more benign. It's stunningly beautiful. I start to think it's undergone a magical transformation overnight. Arriving back at the campsite and hearing Richards positive report of the gentle downhill reality, my courage returns, and we agree that we'll give it a go - up and down, the next day. We do and I can report that it is now one of my all time favourite rides. This is enhanced by a wonderfully strategic little mountain cafe/restaurant half way up (and down) that we can't and don't resist.
The French town is called Laruns. It's a traditional Pyrenean valley farming community and prosperous from the Hydro electric energy industry, where the sheep are herded through the town square daily. Each flock has two shepherd dogs mingling with them in the fields. There seem to be two types of farm dogs here; the huge snowy Pyrenean shepherds and small scruffy long-haired terriers. Both seem to take a keen interest in cyclists. We spend a couple more days exploring, passing through the most picturesque unspoilt villages, noticing the doorways , windows and the L shaped layout of house and yard. I become obsessed with the carvings above doorways and gateways - it's that echo of past times calling out to me again.
Hard to leave this place too, with it's Saturday market, local cheeses and friendly cafe, but my Mum's 90th Birthday is fast approaching and we have a flight to catch in Toulouse. We spend the night in a tight carpark by the airbus museum, after an abandoned attempt to cycle into Toulouse for the afternoon. It's the first flat tyre we've had, caused by a comic-book-style Tack. We realise that we've not brought the allen key that removes my back wheel. I spend the afternoon writing up our travels, which is not a bad thing. Toulouse will still be there when we get back.
I'm looking forward to a rest at home, my study and family history research, a long weekend of family celebrations and seeing how the babies have grown, before returning for the second leg of the journey and the repair of my flat tyre.
Things that are 'a thing'
Galician Window galleries
Laguardia doorways
Driving from Laruns to Toulouse we notice that almost all the road signs at the entrance to a town or village had been unscrewed and turned upside-down. Turns out its a protest against recent agricultural policies.
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