MOTORHOME TRAVELLERS' DIARY FOR JUNE 1999

SPAIN, THE PYRENEES AND FRANCE

Barry and Margaret Williamson

01 JUNE 1999 E CAMPING DEL REMEI, PONT DE SUERT

Annette & John, our only neighbours on the quiet campsite at Benabarre, returned the MMM articles we'd lent and stayed for coffee and travel-chat. We all left after lunch: they were bound for the Ordesa National Park and the Bielsa tunnel to France, while we took the N230 towards the tunnel on the Vielha road.

The picturesque route ran east for 15 miles, then turned north to follow the Rio Noguera Ribagorçana, crisscrossing the Aragon/Catalonia border (Catalan roads Good; Aragon Roads Bad), past a couple of dammed lakes and through a series of short tunnels. A mile or two after the little town of Pont de Suert, capital of the Alta Ribagorça district, and before the summit-tunnel, we turned right (east) up the Boi Valley road in search of a base for cycling and walking in the Spanish National Park of Aigües Tortes (= Twisting Waters). We checked 3 campsites along the 6 mile stretch to Barruera and returned to the middle one, being level, grassy and empty, alongside the river, though with a steep awkward access. The owner agreed to waive the electricity charge and VAT (no receipt), which made it the same price as the others, but still over £10 per night.

As if they weren't making enough profit, his wife sold us a bag of local walnuts, some of which went into a Waldorf Salad, and we settled down with the third 'Kavanagh' video. At once the sky darkened, rain, thunder and lightning split the night, the power (and Kavanagh) was cut off and the path turned into a stream! Hoping another 'Spanish Pyrenean Campsite Disaster' wasn't about to happen, we went to bed. Sometime during the night the storm abated.

56 miles. £10.82

Sun, cloud and rain as we rode up the valley, through the sleepy village of Barruera and on past a mineral water bottling plant to the spa of Caldes de Boi. Here the large hotel/thermal baths was closed until mid-June, the hostel deserted and the only cafe shut, just as a heavy shower started. We sheltered under the trees with chocolate and lemonade until it passed. The narrow road now banned buses and continued past a National Park information and traffic control point, where we were issued with a map and a rubbish bag (the only rubbish we saw was discarded rubbish bags). Alone for the last 5 miles, we climbed and zig-zagged past a mountain refuge to the top of a huge dam wall at about 1850m (6,100 ft). It was suddenly windy, spray blowing over us from a waterfall, magnificently eery.

We donned our waterproofs and free-wheeled back to Barruera where the few shops, not yet open on our ascent, were closed for siesta! Down past the smaller reservoir at Llesp and home for a late lunch, without any side trips to the tiny villages built of granite and slate, famous for their Romanesque churches and hermitages, clinging high on the sides of the valley.

Later we cycled to Pont de Suert, 3 miles below on the main road, to shop and look round its medieval centre, currently under restoration, though the eponymous old bridge was washed away in 1964. The weather finally settled and we allowed 'Kavanagh' to complete his sentence in his mock Yorkshire/Lancashire accent.

We drove Rosie off the campsite and a few miles up the valley (which makes her sound like one of the prize cows with a big bell round her neck!) to the car park just before Caldes de Boi. A marked route led off into the Aigüestortes National Park - the only NP in Catalonia, just 10 miles by 5, but surrounded by snow-topped granite peaks reaching 2900 m/9570 ft. An early lunch, out with boots and rucksack and off on our first serious walk since the Eiger Trail last September. Margaret later regretted trying to break in her nearly-new boots. The path followed the Sant Nicolau river which tumbles down from the Planell d'Aigüestortes, 2½ hours and 500 m/1650 ft above.

We got another map and rubbish bag at the park entrance at La Farga and walked through pine and fir forest, never far from babbling brooks, rising to open grassland with Alpine cattle, wild flowers and pretty butterflies, lizards darting for cover as we tramped past. Upstream of a small lake, the Estany de Llebreta, we left the woods and meadows and the scenery got wilder, waterfalls cutting the steep mountain-sides, snow lingering on the crests. Our leaflet promised deer, marmots, chamois, otters and golden eagles but it was too late in the day. We reached a large dammed lake which marked the end of the trail and the beginning of more intrepid long-distance paths to Lake Llong and Lake Sant Maurice using Refuges, or joining the GR11 (which traverses the Spanish Pyrenees coast-to-coast from Bay of Biscay to Costa Brava). Here we rested in the late afternoon sunshine with the awesome mountains to ourselves (we saw only one party of 4 walkers). Amazingly, the Vodafone still had a signal, very reassuring. We returned on an alternative path on the opposite bank of the river, giving different views of the beautiful cols and peaks, ravines, waterfalls and twisting streams which give the Park its name. A striking landscape. Back by 6 pm, Rosie waiting, boots off, a pot of tea - bliss!

We drove past Camping del Remei to the main road and turned towards Vielha, stopping at the next campsite directly on the N230 for the night. The World Service reported that the Serbs had finally agreed to NATO's terms after 2 months' bombing and would withdraw from Kosovo.

23 miles. £10.20 inc elec.

The N230 road climbed steadily north, still following the river border of Catalonia, occasionally crossing into Aragon, past a couple more hydroelectric dams and through a series of short tunnels. After a scenic coffee break we crossed the watershed of the Pyrenees and plummeted down the 5 km long Vielha Tunnel. Free of charge, it was built in the 1940's and showed its age - 2 narrow lanes divided only by a white line and carrying far more HGV's than were good for it (or for us, remembering recent fires under Mont Blanc and in Austria). Emerging with relief into the light, the busy road zig-zagged for 5 miles down to Vielha itself, still at 971 m/3204 ft. The town, only 16 miles from the French border, is the capital of the Vall d'Aran, the only bit of Spain north of the Pyrenees and a centre of ski-tourism, with plenty of new hotels and traffic. We turned east along the C142, which leads to the royal ski resort of Baqueira-Beret (and eventually to Andorra), stopping after 4 miles in the village of Arties to find the only campsite on the way to the 2075m (6,800 ft) Puerto de la Bonaigua col, our next cycling goal. A lovely little campsite on the banks of the rushing infant Garona (or Garonne, once in France), mountain forests towering all round, right at the entrance to the village - with a temporary sign saying 'Closed'! We parked in the lane, to make lunch and reconsider, when the Patron arrived. Luckily he spoke French (the native language in the Vall d'Aran is Aranese, an old Romance dialect still spoken colloquially in parts of southern France, and the people of Aran can also switch into Catalan, Castilian Spanish or French!) In best 'Dunelm-French' (a little-known Latin-based variant of Geordie) Margaret persuaded him to let us park among the dead caravans over the weekend. In fact, cold water, toilets and electricity were all available as he was busy getting the site ready to re-open in 3 weeks' time, though he wouldn't take any money from us.

In the afternoon we made half a gallon of lemonade and a dozen buns for our next adventures (sounds like The Famous Five!) Margaret Nik-waxed the boots, though she isn't speaking to hers in any language until the severe blister on her left heel is healed (which was to take over a week).

27 miles. Free camping.

The green Vall d'Aran, in northern Catalonia, is surrounded by 2000+ m mountains. The main river to rise here, the Garonne, flows to Bordeaux, and the area has changed hands a few times, with a Napoleonic occupation ending in 1815. Now ski-ing and tourism are replacing farming and herding, and the quaint stone villages with pointy-towered Romanesque churches which we saw scattered along the Boi Valley have been supplemented by ski-apartments. Walking round Arties, the tiny old village was also getting the treatment, with new hotels and holiday apartments, all in the best granite and steep slate but somehow lacking character. The church clung on, but a crane was poised over it.

We rang mum, who has had a sad time recently with the deaths of Isabel's daughter, Auntie Margaret's sister and Barbara's Uncle George, while Auntie Hilda is still in hospital after a stroke. After lunch the mountain weather changed suddenly, thunder rumbled, rain fell and the temperature dropped from 80 to 65º. We pottered indoors and up-date the diary, while the campsite owner, who'd been around mowing grass and tidying up, took the afternoon off. We even wore trousers and used the fan heater in the evening, for the first time since early March. An episode of 'The Bill' and Continente biscuits from Algeciras made it cosier still.

It rained all night and we woke to see the mountain-sides clad in mist, rising like steam off the pine forest. Margaret wrote to 'Dog Dazers' as listed by Bettina Selby (last year's request to Josie Dew's address having proved futile), Barry managed to reattach the handle to the whistling kettle, and by noon the sun was out again.

After lunch we had perfect conditions for the 11 mile cycle ride to the top of the Col of Bonaigua - cool, back wind, clouds without rain, light traffic. At 2075 m/ 6800 ft, it's the second highest pass to actually cross the Pyrenees (only surpassed by the route from France into Andorra at 2407 m). The road climbed steadily through the village of Salardu to the ski resort of Baqueira, deserted now the season is over. The last 5 miles hairpinned more steeply with pockets of snow lingering at the roadside. It took 2 hrs 10 mins without pause to reach the top, where there was a large car park at the bottom of a ski-lift and a cafe/hotel - all, of course, closed. But what magnificent peaks all round, as we had our usual lemonade and chocolate, put another layer of clothing on and turned for the descent - back in 30 mins, freewheeling the whole way to the campsite, reaching speeds of 30 mph, narrowly missing a stray sheep. The road followed the tumbling infant Garonne, which rises among dozens of tiny lakes south of the Col, just north of the Aigüestortes National Park peaks which form the Spanish/French watershed.

As soon as we were settled inside with a pot of tea the rain started again, perfect timing! We printed the May diary and wrote to mum.

It was still raining as we left the campsite, grateful for 3 free nights in this superb Pyrenean valley, and drove the 5 miles into Vielha. The town was quiet on a wet Monday morning and it was easy to park in the street near the centre. We found a bank, got information from the Tourist Office, photocopied the diary and posted a copy to mum. Leaving town on the road to France, we stopped to shop at a supermarket and discovered a big discount shoe-shop where Barry bought much-needed leather sandals and shoes (£26 for the 2 pairs!). After lunch we continued another 5 miles past Camping Artigane (closed) to Camping Verneda at Pont d'Arros, a splendid site along the bank of the Garonne, backed by woods and a waterfall. We settled in as the rain stopped, watched a pair of jays nesting in the pines and used the washing machine. The last, and best, of the 'Kavanagh' videos rounded off the evening.

10 miles. £11.94 inc elec.

Set for another hill-climb, we cycled briefly north along the main road which links France with Spain and the Vielha Tunnel. Turning left we climbed sharply to the quaint little village of Es Bordes, arriving just as the bread van drew a small crowd in the tiny square, then up along a forest road. Soon Barry had to stop to check the noise made by his rear brakes and found the wheel rim distorted and cracked. Too dangerous to continue, we turned slowly for home.

The campsite receptionist telephoned the only cycle shop in Vielha, which was closed. As the nearest towns of any size are in France, we packed and headed for the border, 12 miles away, sad to leave the Spanish Pyrenees so abruptly. On the way we filled with diesel (at 37p per litre, rather than 45p in France) and called at a border superstore, its car park replete with French cars who come across to stock up on drink - like the English in Boulogne - and other goodies, such as snails, hams, asparagus, mushrooms, olives, truffles and various seafoods in jars and tins, as well as the more everyday stuff which we bought. Most things are cheaper in Spain, except a night on a campsite - unfortunately our largest daily expenditure!

After lunch we crossed the unstaffed border, still following the Garonne through St Béart and on to the little town of Montréjeau, where it is joined by the River Neste and turns east to Toulouse before flowing NW to Bordeaux, to meet the Dordogne in the huge estuary we've often crossed by ferry from Royan.

We're in the Department of Haute-Garonne in the Region of Midi-Pyrénées, with imposing scenery of snowy peaks and forest slopes, a variety of birds of prey soaring above. It's immediately more relaxing than Spain, a familiar language and culture, people whose customs we can understand and whose campsites do not run into double figures! We found a small farm site a mile out of Montréjeau, sharing the field with a couple of French outfits, and talked to the farmer when he came round in the evening. An English couple arrived on a Dawes tandem and pitched a tent, on their way to Barcelona and a plane back - a good and familiar story.

41 miles. £5.20 inc elec.

We cycled into Montréjeau, a bastide town founded in 1272, perched on a hilltop above the Garonne at 468 m/1544 ft. The Tourist Office told of a bicycle and motorbike repair man at the Atelier du Vieux Moulin on the riverbank. He did not have a new wheel rim (= la jante) of the right size, but recommended a new branch of La Cyclerie at St Gaudens, 10 miles away, saving us a drive to their HQ at Toulouse. Margaret learnt 2 more new words in the chemist - une ampoule (blister) and un pansement (plaster) - though it was an expensive lesson at 45 FF a packet!

We drove to St Gaudens, found the superb Cyclerie a couple of miles out along the Toulouse road and left Barry's bike to have the wheel rebuilt with a new rim, ready Friday afternoon. Returning to the McDonalds we'd passed by the St Gaudens motorway exit, we enjoyed their Italian promotion of a 'McDelizioso' each (a burger with Italian cheese, fresh tomato slices and basil sauce). The municipal campsite at St Gaudens was occupied by gipsies, the reason our Montréjeau farmer kept his field entrance padlocked. We followed the Garonne back towards but not into Spain, retracing our route from Vielha until we crossed the river at Chaume, where we turned along the valley of the Pique to the thermal spa of Bagnères de Luchon. Circling the edge of town in search of Camping La Lanette, we spotted a signpost Accueil de Camping Cars on the riverbank near the sports grounds. A new Aire was under construction, but there were taps, a dump point and several camping cars gathered on the rough ground. After tea, a short walk along the river into Luchon, Reine des Pyrénées, pleasant and well-heeled, like Keswick crossed with Buxton. (In fact, it's twinned with Harrogate, dubbed Reine de Yorkshire.)

The Romans established the first baths here and it became a fashionable 19thC spa, now with a cable car to the ski resort of Superbagnères above, replacing the old cog railway. The Tourist Office supplied the usual free map and bumph. The bookshops had no guidebooks in English but we did buy the Guide Officiel des Etapes Camping Cars published by 'Camping Car' magazine, which promised to list all the Aires de Service in France, Germany, Italy and Switzerland, as well as Autoroute services and the farms and vineyards participating in the 'France Passion' scheme. Less usefully, it also listed all the French Fiat and Electrolux dealers. We spent the evening getting to know our way round its idiosyncratic layout: it's not an exhaustive list of overnight places, just those which have a Euro-relais style borne for water and waste, some free and some for a fee.

61 miles. Free parking.

With only one bicycle and 3 good feet between us, and rain threatening, we had a quiet day. Barry wrote to BBC World Service to be put on the mailing list for the new twice yearly Programme Guide; M updated the June diary. In the afternoon we walked back into Luchon, surveyed the numerous hairdressers and chose the coiffeur mixte which appeared the least expensive (though it turned out to be 230 FF - £23 - for 2). The Casino supermarket advertised roast chickens (good memories of Corte in Corsica) but had none left, so home for a fry-up.

We'd seen a poster on the church door for a free concert of folk and classical music at 9 pm, and Margaret returned for 1½ hours of entertainment by a Basque trio. Mr Oustaloup played the church organ and sang tenor, Mme Etchegorry sang soprano and sometimes played guitar or keyboard, while her teenage son Damien played the trumpet or keyboard. The works ranged from Grieg's 'Song of Solvejg' to the Trumpet Voluntary (on trumpet and church organ), with a few Basque folk songs along with classical pieces by Mozart, Handel, Vivaldi and Purcell. The audience joined in the finale, Beethoven's Ode to Joy, with French words (printed in the programme) which M tried to fit round the familiar tune. An interesting performance and a good use of an empty church and its mighty organ.

A leisurely drive to St Gaudens, pausing alongside the Garonne in the large scenic layby at Fronsac for coffee. In St Gaudens we filled the near-empty LPG tank, last topped up in Portugal in February. Unobtainable in Spain or Morocco, yet here are 2 filling stations opposite each other! Another McDonalds lunch with De Luxe Potatoes (much nicer than Frites) and time to read before going to the Cyclerie. (Margaret is still in Greece with Dilys Powell while Barry is rekindling wartime childhood evacuation memories with James Birdsall's 'The Boys and the Butterflies'.)

The bicycle was ready, new Mavic rim and spokes rebuilt and the new pedals we'd chosen fitted. We bought similar pedals for M's cycle, a spare tyre and a spray can of chain lubricant strongly recommended by the nice young man who looked after us well. He spoke patiently and clearly, explaining why he thought the rim had gone (grit under the brake blocks), and he'd lovingly cleaned and checked the whole machine over, all at a very reasonable price. A gem of a shop in keen cycling country - this year's Tour de France passes through in July, with a rest day in St Gaudens itself. In no hurry to leave the Pyrenees, we returned to Luchon and its free camping car park, poised to ride the 2 nearby cols.

70 miles. Free parking.

A fine sunny ride to the Spanish border on a quiet minor road winding up to the Col du Portillon, border of France (Haute-Garonne) and Spain (Val d'Arran). The road followed the Pique briefly, to the village of St Mamet, then leapt up the hillside through forest dotted with signs for walks, passing rock faces lined with climbing routes and a waterfall. It took 1½ hours to reach the Col, at 1293 m/4267 ft (Luchon is at 630 m/2079 ft) and less than 30 minutes to drop down again, in time to get a hot poulet rôti and take it home for lunch.

Then a short walk along the river to the little aerodrome and lake, where gliders were being towed aloft by a small plane. We saw 4 taken up and let loose to circle among the mountains. Anglers fished for trout in the lake (maximum 10, maggots prohibited), while joggers circled it and the old and young fed swans and ducks. An idyllic scene as the sun shone and the tow-plane buzzed overhead.

Back to Rosie to do some cleaning, inside and out, before watching a French/ Moroccan pop concert in Marrakesh on TV. The music was dire, the audience 99% young males, but there was some nice footage of Morroco between songs.

Cooler and overcast with mist on the hills, into which we gradually climbed as we followed a busier road winding west from Luchon up to the Col de Peyresourde, the border between the Departments of Haute-Garonne and Hautes-Pyrénées.

Passing through several small villages, their church bells ringing for morning Mass, St Aventin bustling with its annual fête, we rode into the mist, alpine cattle looming in flowery meadows. Overtaken by a few serious young cyclists - all lycra and muscles - we met them again at the Col where some had partners waiting in cars to take them home. For once there was a café open at the top, but thunder rumbled in the distance, the mist was dense and drizzly and we couldn't linger. The 10 miles up had taken 2 hours, and we were back in another 45 minutes, past the market just packing up in the town square.

After lunch rain set in, a good time to rest, read and write. There are still 9 outfits settled here, all French, and our neighbours talked to us about their winters in Morocco when they noticed Rosie's camels.

The familiar route along the Garonne, pausing at Fronsac to make coffee and ring campsites (some not yet open for the season), and at Montréjeau to shop at Lidl - French ones having a much bigger range of food than in Spain, at the same bargain prices. Then the N117, through green and pleasant woodland, stopping in a layby for lunch before joining the motorway south of Tarbes until the next junction to the west for Lourdes (toll 5 FF for 5 km, avoiding Tarbes centre). 10 miles south, passing the pilgrims' airport, we reached Lourdes, which isn't short of campsites (16 in our book + some that aren't!). We drove straight through, aiming to visit on our return, and continued south through Argelès-Gazost and along the beautiful Gorge de Luz to the little town of Luz on the edge of the Parc National des Pyrénées.

A mile out, on the road for the Col du Tourmalet (our reason for coming), are 2 campsites, Le Bergons on the right then Le Bastan on the left. We chose the second, as it's quieter and has a washing machine, installed ourselves by the River Bastan and made full use of the laundry and showers. After 5 nights' free camping, without much sun for the solar panels, it was good to recharge the batteries, use the microwave (date and walnut puddings for the next few days!) and see what's happening in Kosovo on the TV news. The Russians have arrived to occupy the airport and get in the way of the peace process.

91 miles. £7.20 inc elec.

At 2115 m/6980 ft, the Col du Tourmalet (a Tour de France favourite) is the highest pass in the French Pyrenees (2nd highest in the whole range, topped by the Puerto d'Envalira at 2407 m in Andorra). Starting from Luz at 711 m, Tourmalet is a climb of 1404 m/4633 ft, our biggest since the Alpine summer 4 years ago. We weren't optimistic about going all the way as we set out, climbing steadily right from the campsite entrance. New signposts for cyclists marked every kilometre from Luz (18 of them), showing current altitude and incline (mainly 7%, rising to 8% with a last burst at 10%). Young athletes sprinted past while we took in the mountain air and scenery. After rising 1780 ft in 5 miles we reached the ski resort of Barèges, where we noted a campsite. If we didn't make it, we could move Rosie up and try again from there . . .

But the weather was perfect (light back wind, not too hot), the traffic thinned out and the cyclists coming down looked happy! Settling into a good rhythm at 6-7 km an hour, we just had to keep it up for 3 hours. Another 1000 ft up, by a Pyrenean Flower Garden at La Gaubie, we had a break at the cafe with a splendid view of our road below (and above!) Then the steepest section, up the zig-zags, and we'd made it in 2 hr 55 mins. A wonderful feeling, the exhileration shared only by the other cyclists at the top. We got well deserved hot soup (gabure) from the hotel, which had a marvellous display inside - photographs from many Tour de France rides which climb from the other side (less steep) and descend our route. Black & white photos went back to the 1930's and 3 very early racing cycles were hung on the walls. We'd seen the names of recent riders painted on the road as we came up - Indurain, Jalibert, etc. Delighted with our performance and the view, we took photos before turning for home, just 40 minutes away! We took the alternative older road for a short stretch, bypassing La Gaubie, and were soon back in Barèges and down to Luz, barely touching our new pedals. Barry's new rim, which had been squealing on the brakes, is fine now he's filed the joint smooth. In fact everything is running perfectly (Rosie, bicycles, us - Insh Allah!)

After a pot of tea we still had enough energy to cook and clean, or read 'The French Lieutenant's Woman'. A superb day - how can we top that?

A message from Martin on the phone in the evening, that they have at last sold their cottage and he finishes work at the end of term, ready for Life on the Road.

We cycled the short distance into Luz to confirm camping and parking sites for Gavarnie at the Tourist Office, change our last Spanish money at the bank, and check at the Post Office how long they keep Poste Restante mail (only 2 weeks).

Then we moved Rosie a few miles south, along the splendid Gorge de St Sauveur, through Gèdre to the village of Gavarnie, the end of the road, facing the snowy mountains of the Cirque de Gavarnie. Here we found plenty of parking space for lunch with a view on the edge of the village.

Later we walked into and around Gavarnie, once a shepherds' hamlet on a high track between France and Spain. By the turn of the century it was a climbing centre whose peasants had become Pyrenean Guides. Now it's a popular mountain resort, with donkeys and horses to carry the visitors up the start of the Chemin du Cirque trail. A Parking Municipal, behind the Tourist Office, allowed free overnighting but was almost full of cars so we didn't move Rosie down. It is a spectacular setting, the village dwarfed by the Cirque de Gavarnie behind it, Europe's highest limestone range culminating in Monte Perdido (3353 m/11,064 ft) on the Spanish side, in the Ordesa National Park in Aragon.

After an electric storm in the night the surrounding peaks had a fresh cap of snow. The rain cleared by 11 am and we saddled up to ride the narrow road which climbs to the Gavarnie-Gèdre Ski Station and beyond to the Spanish border.

We were soon above the statue of Notre Dame des Neiges which overlooks the village and past the Refuge de Holle where the GR10 trail (coast to coast on the French side of the Pyrenees) meets the road. Zig-zagging up, signs warned of falling ice and free-range animals (sheep, goats and cattle). After 4 miles, half-way to the top, we paused at the ski-station (closed). Mist was shrouding the tops and cloud gathering as we continued, stopping only to photograph the marmots, out from winter hibernation, running across our path, darting down burrows, re-emerging, standing on their hind legs to sniff the air. Very pretty alpine animals with their thick fur and bushy tails, successfully re-introduced into the Pyrenees in the 1950's. We could hear their shrill whistles long after we could see them. The road was open to traffic as far as the Col des Tentes, where a few cars awaited the return of hikers.

We continued past the barrier of boulders for another rough mile until the tarmac ended abruptly at the Col de Boucharo, at 2270 m/7490 ft, our highest point yet in the Pyrenees (starting from 1357 m/4480 ft in Gavarnie). This was the border with Spain, and only a mountain track thick with snow led down the north-facing side to the Spanish village of Torla, 5 hours' walk away. A lone German, who we'd met at the ski station, arrived on his way there and we talked for a while. He was studying the flora, some unique to the region, and knew the mountains well. The mist was descending and rain drizzling as we donned our waterproofs for a rapid descent - 2 hours up and 30 minutes back, stopping to watch a single Bearded Vulture soaring above. The biggest bird in Europe with a 3 m wingspan (nearly 10 ft!), they nest in the region and we were very lucky to spot one.

Back to beans on toast in Rosie's Kitchen, reading and writing, as rain set in.

At tea-time we moved Rosie down to the Parking Municipal, where she had some company: the donkeys and horses in their shelter as well as a few more campers.

We drove down to the village of Gèdre and a short way along the Cirque de Troumouse road, parking Rosie by a lightweight campsite (not yet open) before the route got too steep and narrow for her. Then we cycled up, following the Gave de Héas stream through the tiny village of Héas, climbing from 1200 m/3960 ft, through a toll point (cars pay 24 FF for the 5-mile scenic drive to the summit), past an Auberge where we stopped for coffee at 1800 m/5940 ft, and a final 2½ miles of zig-zags to the top at 2105 m/6947 ft. It took 1 hr 35 mins to reach this splendid point, shared with a few high level walkers and surrounded by the Cirque de Troumouse whose peaks form the Spanish border. Cloud rested on the tops but rain held off as we made a swift descent to a late lunch.

We drove back for another night at Gavarnie, sharing the Parking Municipal with half a dozen French outfits. In the ski-ing season, December-March, there is an overnight charge, the rest of the year it's free, including water and toilets. A civilised country, France!

14 miles. Free parking.

A splendid dry sunny morning to walk to the Cirque de Gavarnie waterfalls, which had been shrouded in cloud until today. We followed the classic route which can be taken on donkey or horseback as far as the hotel (about an hour's walk). Most visitors turned back there but the hardier souls continue on a steep track for another half hour to the foot of the many waterfalls which pour over the edge of the Cirque spraying us in fine mist.

Fed by melting snow, they form the stream which rushes down through Gavarnie and on to Lourdes. We crossed it on stepping stones and followed a path down the other side, though had to cross again with some difficulty when we found the old bridge was down. Back for a welcome lunch after a superb walk into the very heart of the Pyrenees. Then we drove down the valley, through Gèdre, the Gorge de Sauveur and the Gorge de Luz to Lourdes. We turned into a lovely farm campsite just before the town, by the funicular station for the Pic du Jer. Reception was the farmhouse kitchen, hens clucking and cats dozing, granny in a rocking chair, boxes of freshly picked cherries on the table - the complete rural idyll.

32 miles. £5.40 inc elec.

Despite a steady drizzle of rain through the morning we were busy cleaning Rosie and doing the dhobi in the Moroccan butter-churn (no washing machine on this simple site). By noon the sun was out again and we cycled into Lourdes, had lunch at McDonalds, and wound our way through the throngs of visitors and pilgrims to the Sanctuary. There were souvenir shops for all nationalities, our favourite bearing the name 'St Laurence O'Toole' and a giant shamrock.

Bicycles (even pushed) are not allowed inside the Sanctuary grounds, being classed the same kind of nuisance as ice creams, picnics, radios, mobile phones or beach-wear. At the entrance we watched the endless stream of invalids being pushed or pulled through the gates, sitting in rickshaws, wrapped up in wheelchairs, or even laid out on hospital trolleys complete with oxygen bottles, drips and tubes. There were many attendants, nurses and helpers in a variety of outfits - white stockings and uniforms, blue berets and scarves, scouts and guides. The town was solid with hotels (more than anywhere else in France except Paris), hospices, clinics, dialysis units, convalescent homes, maisons de retraite, etc. Ambulances rushed in and out of the Sanctuary, rescuing those whose pilgrimage was in vain. Feeling puzzled, sad and a bit indignant on their behalf, we got a postcard for Jeff Mason and family (who have enjoyed 2 visits with the Leeds Diocese) and ice creams for ourselves.

We cycled back to the campsite, later returning to the Sanctuary on foot (a good half-hour's walk) to watch the torch-lit processional service at 8.30 pm. The day's intake of pilgrims (many of whom come by Jumbulance via the nearby airport) form a slow procession from the Grotto and round the grounds, ending in the huge square in front of the Basilica for a service, delivered in several languages. Wheelchairs, invalid carriages and rickshaws went first, each occupant clutching a candle, legs wrapped in gaily knitted blankets - hundreds and hundreds of them, we soon lost count, the number was staggering, certainly over 700. The majority were elderly (mostly women) but we were moved to tears seeing spastic children and teenagers too. The wheeled contingent was followed by those who could walk, many in groups proudly carrying their banners - from Italy, Spain, Ireland, England, indeed all over Europe, and even from Australia, USA and Singapore. Each party was welcomed in its own language over the loudspeakers.

It took over an hour for the end of the crocodile to reach the Basilica, as it was growing dark (even on Midsummer Eve). We walked along the river to the Grotto where Mary appeared to 14 year old (later Saint) Bernadette in 1858 and told her to drink from and wash in the spring. On her 13th (!) appearance, Mary asked the girl to tell the priests to build a church there so that people might come in procession. Now 5 million pilgrims a year visit (the torch-lit procession is held every evening from Easter to All Saints Day) and yet there is an appeal running to save the mosaics in the Basilica (only 100 years old), damaged by damp from a leaking roof. If any chapel could have afforded to fix its roof in time, it's this one! At the Grotto a few crutches and walking sticks are hung from the roof of the cave, candles are lit and prayers said, but the only miracle we saw was the (simple?) faith of so many.

We walked back to the campsite as the crowds dispersed at the end of the service, hoping the sick had enjoyed the kind of spiritual holiday, camaraderie and attention that Jeff once described, under no illusion about a 'miracle cure'.

A rainy morning, on which we cycled into Lourdes to post Jeff's card and make some phone calls (including Comfort, to renew Rosie's insurance), then moved Rosie to Leclerc's car park to shop and eat lunch. The weather improved as we drove north-west to Pau, then south to Laruns (the short cut over the Col d'Aubisque being strictly for cycling).

Laruns has a few campsites but first we checked the Aire Communale listed in our new Guide Officiel des Etapes Camping Cars. We found a pair of large, free, municipal car parks right in the village, complete with clean toilets and the usual borne with free dump point and a supply of water or electricity for 10 FF tokens. We didn't need these, as we'd refilled and recharged at Lourdes. We settled in with a couple of others, then walked round the village.

Seeing an English VW-Holdsworth waiting to check in at the nearby campsite, Barry told them of the free Aire Communale up the road and we had 2 new friends! Brian & Ros from Hampshire, on their way home from a holiday in Spain, gave us a lift back and joined us. By now there were about a dozen French outfits, reassuring Ros that it was "all right to stay there". They were amazed - been coming to France for 20 years and not discovered the Camping Cariste's secret. Margaret took the guidebook round after dinner and stayed talking over coffee and cherries while Barry watched Le Vieux Fusil (film set in war-time France), a tribute to his linguistic improvement after practice in Corsica and Morocco.

55 miles. Free parking.

We drove Rosie a couple of miles up the Col d'Aubisque road to the little spa of Eaux-Bonnes, parked in the centre (no charge, of course, and no height barriers) and saddled up for a morning's hill-climb (2 hrs up and 30 mins down again). We'd missed a recent cycle race over, with the riders' names freshly painted on the road and the kilometres counted down. It was steep (average 8%), rising for 5 miles to the ski resort of Gourette, then even steeper for another 3½ miles to the summit. We're used to French and Spanish racing men honking past us, but who are all these friendly English lads with labels on their bicycles Raid des Pyrénées - Hendaye-Cerbère? When we reached the top (1709m/5640 ft) they were resting and lunching at the cafe. Interrupted by a helicopter repeatedly landing to carry buckets of concrete to a cable car station above, we talked to a few of them and the woman in the back-up car.

On an orgzanised endurance ride, they are cycling coast to coast across all the major cols of the French Pyrenees from Hendaye (French-Spanish border near Bayonne, where we crossed in January) to Cerbère, on the Mediterranean border - 500 miles and many tens of thousands of feet in 90 hours if they want the badge! Well impressed, we learnt that today's route still included the Col de Tourmalet, which we'd ridden from Luz-St Sauveur (and of course the road in between). Even with a van carrying their baggage, and meals and hotels arranged, this is no Cycling for Softies tour (nor for us - one col a day is plenty!) We turned for a cool descent, stopping at a quieter bar a mile down to drink coffee and watch the circling eagles before our own effortless flight. Lunch in Rosie before moving her back to Laruns for a peaceful evening.

13 miles. Free parking.

A much longer but gentler climb, cycling from Laruns to the Spanish border.

The beautiful route followed a stream along its gorge, through the little spa of Eaux-Chaudes, climbing through the village of Gabas (on the GR10 long-distance path) then more steeply up to the reservoir/lake of Fabreges.

Much of the traffic turned off here, bound for the cable car up and a ride on the Petit Train d'Artouste which runs along a ridge (built in 1924 to carry materials for building a high-level dam). We continued, rising above the meadows grazed by sheep (this is cheese-making country) and watered by trout streams and waterfalls which sometimes splashed over the road. Passing several avalanche warning lights (not flashing today), we reached the Col after 3 hrs 20 mins. Our corned beef sandwiches were worth their weight, then we bought coffee on the French side before turning for home - one hour and 5 mins later without stopping or turning the pedals! Much sunnier today, we arrived very thirsty and another shade browner.

Later Margaret rang mum to arrange for mail at Peyrat-le-Château, and all is well.

Reluctantly leaving our free car park in Laruns, Rosie took us north via Arudy to Oloron Ste Marie (where we spent Xmas 88 in a gîte), south-west to Tardets (where we manouevred in the tight square to buy bread) and Larrau, the last few miles being steep and winding but at least the road had been widened. The campsite is terraced on a panoramic hillside, and we'd rung the owner about access as Barry remembered it from earlier cycle-camping days as being pretty small. 'No problem' said the Patron - though he didn't have to drive Rosie onto the only pitch long enough at the top of a tight bend in the steep track! But what a splendid place, red kites circling above, green peace all round. The odd name is Basque - this is the heart of Black Beret country.

57 miles. £4.30 inc elec.

Another hot sunny day (90º). Breakfast and lunch outside, the site to ourselves, we caught up on reading (Barry starting on the 660 pages of Vera Brittain's 'Testament of Youth'), diary-writing, cleaning and mending (reflectors on M's cycle, the cutlery drawer, B's cycling trousers, etc). The weather was very close, thunder rumbling in the distance ready for a storm which came in the evening. Lightning flashed uncomfortably near for a couple of hours, torrential rain fell and there was a temporary power cut (though we'd already disconnected microwave and TV in case of a surge!)

We woke to a different world, as if looking out of a plane window on the clouds. The wooded green hillsides which enfold the campsite had disappeared in the mist, along with the flocks of sheep, though we could hear their bells. Larrau is at 636 m or 2,100 ft and there was no visibility for cycling higher today.

In a fine drizzle of low cloud we walked 5 minutes uphill into the tiny sheep-farming village. A few old houses, some being renovated with coats of whitewash, new double glazing and reslated roofs, huddled along narrow alleys in the centre. There was a Mairie-cum-infant school (one classroom and one teacher), a small baker's offering Pain d'autrefois, a grand hotel/restaurant, a simpler hotel/grocer's shop, a court for Pelota (traditional Basque ball-game) and the grey stone church. Its graveyard was full, lovingly kept, the Basque family names echoing those on the little war memorial and on the 2 hotels. Those raised here don't have far to go to trace their ancestors. Many signs were in Euskara, the Basque language, strange indeed. Larraine - Hunki jin Deneri translates as Larrau - Bienvenue à Tous!

Mendi arroi la leze harroka oihan ederren artean is the legend round the emblem of the village (meaning ?? but showing it's not a Romance language, unlike Galician or Catalan, which are vaguely comprehensible). Our encyclopaedia says it is pre-Indo-European and apparently unrelated to any other language on earth, yet still spoken by half a million in Spain and France!

A damp afternoon was spent sorting out lockers, reading, baking, etc.

Barry had camped here before climbing to Spain while cycling Roscoff-Santander in the summer of 1986 (a month before we met!), and we'd returned by car at Xmas 1988, when the pass was closed by snow (though the road to the nearby Iraty ski station was kept clear). Today, dry and clear, but with a head wind, we hoped to ride it together. With perfect timing, we emerged from the campsite top gate to find 2 other cyclists waiting for their 3 slower mates to catch up. After exchanging French greetings we soon realised we were all English, and showed the 5 Men of Cornwall the village shop and drinking fountain. They'd just ridden from Tardets, 10 miles below, and were doing Roscoff-Santander! We all set off towards the Col, though we didn't expect to keep with them (well, they were younger and 100% male) but in fact, perhaps because they paused regularly as one had a strained knee, or because they were loaded with camping gear, or because we've got fit, we rode pretty much together and really enjoyed having some company and conversation as we climbed (the first time ever!) It wasn't the highest or longest climb we've done, but most definitely the steepest, using the granny gear for most of the way.

After climbing 2396 ft in 5 miles we reached the Col d'Erroymendi at 1362 m/4495 ft, where a break was needed. (This was where we'd walked to on Christmas Day 1988, after driving as far up as we could. Good memories of sitting in the snow with a flask of coffee watching a mountain rescue helicopter land and eagles circle. The raptors are still there.) Harold, Kevin, Nigel et al were a super gang, led by the local GP, and they shared a huge Basque Gâteau they'd bought with us (an exceedingly good kind of custard tart). But it wasn't over yet - the magnificent mountain road levels off for a couple of miles before a final lung-bursting mile with 4 zig-zags to Port de Larrau, the Spanish border, at 1573 m/5191 ft. An amazing place and a little-used border crossing, with no habitation until Ochagavia, 12 miles below.

Wind, cloud and gathering rain told us all not to linger - just time to take group photographs by the sign, put on a few layers of clothing and say Bon Voyage all round. We missed 'The Lads' as we turned to drop back to Larrau (2 hrs - not counting pauses - up and 30 mins - without pause - down).

Back to a late lunch, a rest and a well-earned 'Cock-au-Van' for supper, then we found an unwatched 'Morse' video to end a perfect day.

Back to bright sunshine, with the wooded campsite to ourselves, we watched a variety of birds over breakfast (robin, blackbird, chaffinch, goldfinch, red kites above). We walked into the village to ring future campsites, enjoyed bacon butties for lunch (sadly the last of Gibraltar's British bacon in the freezer) and spent the afternoon polishing and cleaning. (Finished off an aerosol of Italian furniture polish and a can of Greek Auto Polish - Euroclean!)

The diary is up to date and Inspector Morse entertained us after dinner.

Rosie made her stately descent from the top terrace at Larrau's campsite, then a couple of miles down the steep winding road towards Tardets. We parked by the hotel at Logibaria, where the GR10 crosses the road, but took another footpath to the famous Pont Suspendu - a hanging bridge 300 m above the Gorges d'Holzarte. A beautiful walk, the rocky track following a stream up through woodlands, with big iridescent lizards shining in the sun, ferns waving gently in the breeze. After 2 hard miles (the hotel was selling walking sticks to the motorists) we saw the bridge spanning the gorge 1,000 ft below. We crossed it for photographs. Though swaying a bit, it was more substantial than the footbridges of Corsica and felt safe if you didn't look down! We returned to Rosie for lunch, drove into Tardets for bread and milk, then on towards Oloron, turning off before Aramits to Arette.

The Municipal campsite, just before the village, was delightful, with large private hedged pitches, new toilet block and free hot water. The only other occupants were 2 gipsy vans, but they had no kids or dogs, gave us a polite Bonjour and carried on with their dhobi. When Madame from the Mairie came round at tea-time for the money she greeted them as old friends.

After supper we planned and packed for a 2-day ride to Spain and back - crossing the mountain range twice for a grand finale to the Pyrenees.

20 miles. £4.30 inc elec.

Leaving Rosie with the gipsies, we set out at 10 am, when the threat of rain had passed. It was cloudy and cooler, good for our highest climb this season, from a low starting point (Arette is only 340 m/1122 ft). The road went through the village and then followed a stream through cow pastures and woodland, rising very gently for the first 5 miles. We paused to watch a junior school party learning to climb on the cliffs before our route got seriously steep, winding its way up through the clouds (a triple arrow on the Michelin map, 15% or 1-in-6 for a couple of miles). Then a misty plateau with low visibility before climbing again, now above the cloud. From Arette, signposts had counted the 27 kilometres to Pierre-St Martin, a deserted ski resort 2.5 km before the Col. We ate our sandwiches on the steps of one of the abandoned cafes, surveying the mess that is left in summer, without the blanket of snow to transform the scene.

As we climbed the last mile or so to the Col de la Pierre St Martin (the Spanish border) we were in bright sunshine, looking down on a blanket of cloud pierced by peaks, as from a plane. We reached the top (1760 m/5808 ft) after 17 miles in 3½ hours' riding time. Another 18 miles following the Belagua stream down to Isaba took a further 1 hour, through a short tunnel and a series of zig-zags, dropping to 813 m/2683 ft. The Spanish road was rougher, the landscape empty and wild, the main hazard avoiding the horses and foals grazing at large.

Isaba, the first habitation since Arette, was a pretty village with steep cobbled alleyways and stone houses decked with wrought iron balconies and flower pots - very Spanish. The main hotel, Hostal Lola, had a splendid room with its own bath. Soon the bicycles were resting in the kitchen store-room and we were laid out with coffees and TV. Later M walked round the village in the afternoon sunshine and bought pop, chocolate and biscuits from the only shop, ready for tomorrow's return over Larrau. The woman didn't speak a word of French but luckily was happy to accept their Francs!

We ate at Bar Txiki, a simple bar-restaurant next to the hotel (less formal and expensive) and had an excellent 3 course menu with wine, bread and coffee for 1500 pts (about £6) each. Fish soup, pork steaks & chips, crème caramel with ice-cream and a whole bottle of local rosé. We slept well!

£28.80 for 2, Bed & Bkfst.