Day 16 Bayonne to Hendaye (46 kms)

This was the plan: unload my bags, stay the night here in Bayonne, cycle today to Hendaye to finish the route, catch the train back to Bayonne, stay another night, catch the train out the next day, Thursday, to my sister, Frances, near Avignon. All fine except for a national rail strike the one day I want to travel. Oh well, I’ll just have to spend an extra day here in Bayonne. That’s not too much of a hardship.

It’s an interesting and historic city of about 200,000 inhabitants strategically sitting at the confluence of two rivers within French Basque Country. While nearby Biarritz is a flashier, more upmarket tourist centre, Bayonne has its own attractions with many tall half-timbered houses lining the river, their shutters painted in the Basque national colours of red and green, outdoor cafes along the embankments and a network of narrow pedestrianized streets around the imposing Gothic cathedral built in the 12^th and 13^th centuries. There are some nice shops, one of which was relieved of some merchandise today, and friendly people although it’s become harder and harder to understand them the further south I’ve travelled!

I was worried about the ride today. I still had fifty kilometres to go. The forecast was for sunny and 31 degrees. I knew the traffic would be grim. I knew there would be a lack of bike paths. I wanted to start early and get it done before all this became too much of a problem, but it gets light a bit later down here than further north and I didn’t get away until just before seven.

Ironically, the first sixteen kilometres to Biarritz, when traffic was at its lightest, were all on bike paths, well marked and signed. No problems. Near to Biarritz things got a bit trickier. There are high cliffs and most of the big hotels are built on top of them. My maps have no contours. I knew I followed the coast but wasn’t sure if I should be high or low. The signs ran out, as signs do, and I ended up down at sea level on a cul-de-sac (ha, French word!). I would either have to go back the long way I’d come or go up the cliffs. The cliffs were enormous. There were steps up them. But being considerate as they usually are to cyclists, there was also a path, steep though it was. Up we went, Le Petit Bleu and me, thanking whoever that I had left my bags and done this bit without.

Somehow, at the top I was back on the road again, next minute heading down a very steep part and through a tunnel. I don’t do tunnels on a bike very well. Memories of Norway and long tunnels without lights on our bikes aren’t good. After a while you lose all sense of direction and hit the sides. But this one was short and the view out the other side, magnificent. I was looking towards the rest of the French coast: St Jean-de-Luz, Hendaye (my destination for the day), and there were the Pyrenees and Spain. I drew a deep breath and admired for quite a long time.

At home I get up every day and look at the mountains. They are a part of me as much as the sea is. I hadn’t seen mountains for over six weeks, since I left Nelson. They stood out clear, grey and uneven on the horizon against sky as blue as it gets at home. I was reminded of the biking Tony and I did amongst them thirty years ago when we traversed the Pyrenees on the Spanish side from San Sebastian right across almost to the Mediterranean. That was pretty hard too. But we were young and I think you recover faster when you’re young. We’d also been biking for a couple of months by that stage, through Wales and Ireland and right down through France. I came back to the present. My legs were tired. I still had 35 hilly kms to go.

The next fifteen were probably the hardest: up and down steep little roads the route took me, across railway lines and the across them again, through little settlements, past idyllic campgrounds, and sandy beaches, past cafes with people sitting having a leisurely breakfast. The housing became Spanish mountain style with sloping asymmetrical orange-tiled rooves, balconies out the front with flower boxes and names above the doors. They reminded me of Swiss chalets. I almost expected to hear cow bells. Bidart just south of Biarritz was a delight. There it was, a quiet little village, impossibly steep streets, views to the sunny hillsides and mountains beyond, yet from the map you would think, suburbia. There is a network of huge roads and motorways all around this region. I was continually surprised at how rural it was, but then that often happens when you’re on a bicycle.

And so it went on like that, people out from the campgrounds, walking, running, flexing, enjoying the sunshine, all the up-and-down way to St Jean-de-Luz. Here were more beautiful beaches, pretty holiday homes, relaxed holiday-makers and some nice-looking shops. Suddenly a proper bike path again, for a while. It wound around the sea-wall to the village of Socoa, snuggled picturesquely beside a calm sandy beach, an ancient fort still guarding the entrance to the bay.

The next part scared me the most. I knew I would be on the road, the only sightseeing route between St Jean-de-Luz and Hendaye. I knew it was hilly with panoramic views. I knew that by now (about ten o’clock) traffic had started to increase. I didn’t know that there would be absolutely no bike lane, nor edge to the road. There was a sign: 12 kms to go. I wished them over, gritted my teeth and headed up the hill.

I guess the views were great; I didn’t really look. I concentrated on the road, on the cars coming from behind, the idiots overtaking from the opposite direction, the edge of the road, the decayed edge of the road, changing gears at the right time so I didn’t have to get off and push because there was no room, and cranked over the kilometres one after the other, hoping that each hill would be the last. Here I was, for the second time in two days doing something I knew I wouldn’t want any of my family to be doing. Well, better they knew about it after than before. I just hoped the drivers would be careful.

At last I was in suburbs. They were wonderful. I love suburbs. Cars slow down a bit. Then we were alongside the beach. A huge, huge beach with acres of flat sand and beautiful clear water. Then we were on a bike path and it was signed Vélodyssée. I cheered silently. I wasn’t there yet. The bike path kept going along the foreshore; the signs continued. I wanted to get to the end, to the sign, there must be one, that says this is it, the end of the route, you’ve made it. But I couldn’t see it. I stopped a lycra cyclist. Bad choice. He’d had a tracheotomy, poor man, and couldn’t talk, well not in a way I could understand. It was horrible. Afterwards the penny dropped. I was at Hendaye Plage not Hendaye Centre although it all looked the same on the map. I hadn’t got there yet.

 I picked up the signs again. They led around the edge of the marina with promenades for walkers, runners and cyclists. It was very pretty. I had no idea it would be this nice. I loved the views across the water to Spanish villages in the hills. It was like something on the lid of one of my favourite jigsaws. I’d had enough of biking though. I just wanted it to end. In Hendaye Centre the streets were narrow and steep, congested with cars. I followed the signs down a mainish road and there was the station and a train waiting to take me back to Bayonne. I looked around. The sign must be here somewhere. But it wasn’t. I stayed a while but never did find it. I took a photo instead of Le Petit Bleu, which had been through so much, outside the train station, bought a ticket and hopped on the train. I patted his saddle. We had made it together, finally. Nearly a thousand kilometres. Just me and my Brompton, toute seule.