French Pyrenees: A Yard of Bread

Loosening up our tightly bound rain capes, we rounded a sharp bend flying out of the moss-encrusted trees into a bright, rare French sunshine. Frantically and energetically looking around, we found no sign (literally) of France, though our GPS devices confirmed we had indeed entered another country. The Schengen area in the EU is really something special. After enduring a moody, damp two weeks in the Northern Mountains of Spain, we were nervous but excited to finally cross over into France. It felt like a huge milestone for us, having completed our crossing of the Iberian Peninsula.

Still smiling after braving two weeks of rain.

The nervousness was palpable, as in my sheltered mind we were now in no-mans land. We were finally in an area where neither of us spoke the language, and that thought was kind of scary, combined with the (unfair) reputation the French have for inhospitality from stories I had heard. As we descended deep into the valleys of the Pyrenees Atlantiques, we finally made our way to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the famous start of the Camino Frances, and a UNESCO World Heritage site. Upon setting ourselves up in the immaculate municipal campground, we immediately made our first friend with a very happy camino hiker who spoke almost no English, but managed to have a nearly hour long conversation comparing the wonders of our respective journeys so far. So much for the language barrier.

I’m still not sure how to pronounce Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

Leaving Saint-Jean, we generally followed a route called the Velosud (Southern Bike) along the foothills of the Pyrenees. It winds through famous cities like Pau, Lourdes and Foix, which are host to many medieval and modern marvels, like the famous healing grottos of Lourdes, and the imposing Chateau de Foix.

Our first night on the route landed us rain-soaked in the charming city of Orthez, where we were greeted by a very elderly woman who houses travelers in her retirement, and let us rent one of the rooms in her house. We felt horrible though, as we had just endured about a week of rain on our clothes without getting a proper wash, and the scent coming off of us could have been strong enough to tranquilize a megafauna, much less this adorable pensioner. Thankfully, she understood and allowed us to clean our clothes and hosted us for a breakfast in a room that looked like it was teleported straight from my late grandmother’s home in south Louisiana. The Cajuns really are French!

The church in Orthez. Only non rainy moment.

It was at this point in the trip where we began to develop our newly obtained bread addicti…predilection.

I could get used to this.

The itinerary we developed over the next set of days was this: wake up at dawn, cycle to the nearest possible boulangerie (bakery), and obtain 5-6 croissants and two baguettes. This is probably more than a yard of bread, but it proved to be an affordable and delicious way to fuel the arduous miles ahead, and bread culture is completely ubiquitous throughout the entirety of France.

The Pyrenees had been on our right shoulder for days — visible, tantalizing, but otherwise a mystery. We knew they existed, we knew they were beautiful, but beyond that we had done absolutely zero research as usual. This continued to turn out to be exactly the right approach.

Somewhere in those riding days between Orthez and the higher mountains, France continued its quiet campaign to teach us things we never knew, and to disprove others.

Our hosts in Bordes were Christophe and his wife — a warm, recently married couple who had opened their home to travelers after their daughter had moved out. Over breakfast the next morning, Christophe — a nature photographer and clearly a lifelong native of the region — pulled out a photo book and began walking us through it with quiet pride. Spectacular mountain passes, alpine lakes, and beaming photos of his daughter were how we spent the next hour. He wasn't selling us on anything, just sharing something he loved, despite us only being able to communicate in some Frankenstein combination of English, Spanish, and hand signals. Meanwhile Francesca had made an important discovery of her own — Christophe's wife had been quietly knitting an elaborate little sweater for their Yorkshire Terrier, and upon being asked (gestured) about it, proudly produced an entire wardrobe of hand made dog couture from somewhere in the house. Some things transcend language entirely. We sat there over coffee and bread, absorbing it all and just being completely shocked by truly feeling like we were home with loved ones. Christophe's passion for the mountains was infectious, and despite being dog tired we found ourselves genuinely tempted to abandon the safety of our planned route and just point our wheels uphill.

Nothing quite prepares you for Lourdes. After days of quiet mountain villages and empty roads, we rolled into what can only be described as a Catholic theme park — every storefront overflowing with rosaries, figurines, and laminated portraits of the Virgin Mary. The main attraction is a natural spring said to possess miraculous healing properties, the evidence for which is apparently available for purchase in a plastic squeeze bottle from every unrelated business in the city. We browsed, baffled and delighted, while my bike was being repaired at a local shop.

I had to snap this photo quick before I was trampled by hoards of pilgrims.

We were informed by the bike shop owner that the main mountain pass in the area, Col du Tourmalet, was closed until summer, with police patrolling. Feeling bummed, we scrambled to find something off the main route and into the mountains, and stumbled upon the next pass in the area, Col d’Aspin. Without reading much about it, we decided that this was our new goal and we rather ignorantly headed back south deeper into the mountains. We found another campground that seemed to be closed with a shut gate, but was one knotted rope away from now being open to two tired and wet cyclists. After a rainy but secluded night, we blearily started our mellow climb towards the Col. Bursting left and right through the morning clouds were snow capped summits adorned with dramatic rock formations. We couldn’t help but start to pedal with more vigor as this reminded us of our home in Colorado, and we concluded the mountains made us much happier than cycling the flats, despite the increase in leg pain. After reaching what seemed like a dead end in the spectacular valley, we began the final kicker on the ascent, a stout 9-10% grinder weaving through dense pine forests. After an hour or so of this, the treeless Col came into view. As we neared closer to its summit, bright, snow-capped mountains began to poke their pointy heads above the terrain, culminating in an absolutely euphoric finish to what to us was an unplanned and unknown part of the journey. We enjoyed our yard of bread at the top, complete with Comté cheese from the local area, as we held each other nearly in tears after realizing that we had come here all the way from Portugal, and that at this very place and this very time, we might be the happiest people on the planet.

Cycling Nirvana