Week 6, Au revoir France, first sighting of the Mediterranean, flirting with the Pyrenees & Ola Espanya Total 2551 km

Week six comprised of the most beautiful and challenging riding to date; Montpellier to Barcelona. Leaving Montpellier on the Tuesday morning bound for the Mediterranean coastline and affirmation of warmer climes, my last French flutter on this journey and a stretch that would see me contemplate my time spent on French soil and all the highs and lows it brought. I made my way down to Se’te in some rather windy conditions, giddy like a child as I first laid eyes on the Med, a major milestone and definite psychological landmark, I had officially reached warmer conditions and the residents of Se’te were well aware of it as I celebrated in a rather loud fashion screaming at the top of lungs YEAH BABY!!!!

I set up camp that night on the verge of the Canal du Midi just outside Beziers, I had been convinced to follow the canal inland by an enthusiastic retiree that knew the region well and travelled the canals regularly in his houseboat. I had cycled a little too close to the town of Beziers to find a secluded spot to pitch my tent that night and struggled to find a hidden patch of grass to lay my head as most spots around the town centre that showed promise were taken by gypsies and they didn’t seem too keen on my late arrival. I searched well into dark for a patch before finding what seemed a suitable enough spot under the conditions, not too convinced by its vulnerable location I slept with the bike in the tent that night and rose early before sunrise to ensure a swift and friction free exit out of Beziers a town I didn’t even  bother to visit.

Towards Narbonne where I was determined to pop into one last decent Boulangerie (French bakery) before my crossing into Spanish territory, a pleasant surprise as I cycled into a beautiful town with canals and stunning old architecture, had my lust for the salted sea air of the Mediterranean not been so strong I might have hung around long enough to scoff my French baguette that was now stuffed into my pannier accompanied by a wedge of cheese en route to the beach. I followed another canal out of Narbonne towards Port-la-Nouvelle and onward to Canet-Plage on the coast. I was now back on the coastline and flanked by kitsch newly built beach villas, a far cry from the jaw dropping French architecture I had grown accustom to further north. My last night on French soil was nothing less than a fairytale, I had traversed roughly 1300 km’s in France, the sun was setting over the Pyrenees mountains  I could hear the Med crashing on the shore and I was wolfing down my final baguette and block of French cheese as I crawled into my tent for the night.

From Collioure south, the Med and the Pyrenees merge in a breathtaking, leg breaking stretch, a rollercoaster of long climbs and equally long descends, snaking along the coastline as you seem to spend more time going up and down than actually moving forward, not too fased by my lack of progress and completely awed by my surroundings I was given a little kiss goodbye as I broke a spoke on the very last climb out of France, she wasn’t content without a parting embrace as she forced me to take a little time out to replace a spoke on my back wheel and have one last gaze over her majestic coastline.

Wheel mended, I climbed up and over the pass to cross into Spain my second burst of jubilation for the week as I ticked another box and crossed into new territory, my fifth country on this trip with 2331 km’s on the clock. Quickly reminded by the slower pace of life in this neck of the woods as I meandered down into Portbou to find everything closed and the streets empty as people took their afternoon siesta. A huge climb into the mountains to sleep under wild olive trees just outside Cadoques that night. Sweeping down a 6km descent out the Pyrenees into the valley near Roses to cut across the peninsular and back to the coast near Palamos, I was now hugging the Spanish Med which was littered with a combination of tacky caravan parks and gorgeous secluded stretches of coastline running the Tossa De Mar, probably the most challenging but beautiful stretch of the ride so far. I rolled into Barcelona on Saturday afternoon a very tired and hungry man after an extremely beautiful but testing 470 km slog for the week and a little closer to understanding the real meaning of hunger.