The Descent from Calais to Catalonia

G R E E N R I V E R P U B L I S H I N G

: t n e c s e D e Th o t s i a l Ca a i n o l Cata owman S. R. B

The Descent: Calais to Catalonia

S. R. Bowman With a foreword by Sir Kristian Lebowski FRCJLT. BRC.

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Contents The Team

13

The Plan

17

The Crossing

25

Stage 1: Calais to Beauvais

31

Stage 2: Beauvais to Artenay

39

Stage 3: Artenay to La Châtre

47

Stage 4: La Châtre to Égletons

55

Stage 5: Égletons to Villefranche

65

Stage 6: Villefranche to Castelnaudary

75

Stage 7: Castelnaudary to Puigcerdà

85

Stage 8: Puigcerdà to Barcelona

97

Acknowledgements

107

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The Descent: Calais to Catalonia

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To Phylis and Walter No criticism of any cycling book, or cycling style, and no reference to any cyclist, past or present, is intended.

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Foreword

by SIR KRISTIAN LEBOWSKI FRCJLT. BRC. Chairman of the Descent Committee It is with pleasure as well as with a sense of privilege that I associate myself with this account of the Descent from Calais to Catalonia. The difďŹ culties were many. They were overcome by the determination of each member of the expedition to give the best to the common cause. No praise is too high for these men. This is a book which should be read - and re-read - by every schoolboy and by all who value human endeavour and fortitude.

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Introduction

by J. Heretyc

It is a pleasure and a privilege to associate oneself with this account of the Descent from Calais to Catalonia. The obstacles were tremendous. That they were overcome is due to the dogged perseverance, which each team member brought to the common cause. It is impossible to praise these men too highly. Every schoolboy should read this book: twice, and so should everyone who honours courage and enterprise.

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The Team C H A P T E R

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I

Some of the team prepare to start

When I was asked by the Descent Committee to lead the assault on the mountains of the Pyrenees en route to Catalonia I was deeply conscious of the honour bestowed upon me. To traverse the Caledonian Mountains and cross the Trossachs is one thing; to clamber over the Pyrenees, as Heretyc once said, is quite another. I hesitated to accept so great a responsibility, and only the insistence of the committee, particularly of the chairman, Sir Kristian Lebowski, persuaded me to change my mind.

I would like at the outset to record my deep appreciation of the selfless devotion and sound judgement with which the Descent Committee - and particularly its chairman - did its job. In no way was that judgement more effective than in the choice of personnel. If I had to do it all over again I would choose those same companions who supported me with such wholehearted and unselfish enthusiasm. I venture to say that no leader has been better served.

Our success was due to two things: magnificent team work and the splendid efforts of the support crew, without whom the expedition would have failed. In advising the committee on the composition of the team I had in mind a principle which has served me well on many occasions; to make one thing fulfil two purposes. Each member of the team was selected to be responsible for a particular organisational or technical job, and each had in addition some special quality which made him valuable as a cyclist and a companion.

How well this policy succeeded will be evident. The team members were as follows: Dale Chippen, Quartermaster (Commissariat) and Assistant Team Leader, formerly a Quartermaster Sergeant in the Royal Docks, well known for his prodigious feats of endurance on many mountains and chosen as our strong man. Had been high.

Interrupted a furlough in Cuba to join us.

Bingo Harris, Diplomat (Linguist), and Rouleur, formerly a mechanic in the collieries. Has been higher than most. Recently returned from an ascent in the Himalayas. Is known to be able to dig deep as well as climb high.

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Stevie Wander, Communications Expert (Route Finder) and Touriste-Routier, had been as high as most, and recently recalled from the Caucasus.

Karl Marx, Mechanic and Sprinteur, has been learning to get high and recently returned from touring the Netherlands.

Rev. Mark Moses, Chaplain and Lanterne Rouge, has reached celestial heights and well qualiďŹ ed to put his hands together in an emergency.

Ray Skeleton, Soigneur and Domestique, is familiar with height and a well known safe pair of hands on the road.

Lancelot Cough, Doctor and Grimpeur, and our oxygen expert. Had been high enough. Barely returned from the Alps.

Dave Rover, Photographer and Domestique, splendid on rock. Has been as high as most. Lately returned from the Seven Sisters.

Cat Barthes, Chief Scientist and Domestique, has been known to favour heights and an expert on rocks. Recently returned from hill-climbing in Malta.

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The Plan C H A P T E R

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I I

The Author before the Expedition

After three hectic months of preparation we met in Dover on the eve of our departure for a final review of our plans. Only Wander, who was to have spoken on the use of GPS gear and his own methods of route-finding, was absent. He rang to say that he had taken the wrong bus and was not quite certain of his whereabouts; but he had just caught sight of the Pole Star and would expect to join us shortly.

Chippen, although not at his best - he told me that he was suffering from Ague having ridden recently on Romney Marsh - gave us a detailed picture of the transportation arrangements. The object of the expedition was to get ten riders over the Pyrenees and down to Barcelona. This required the establishment of camps at equidistant points on the route south. It was estimated that eight such camps would be required in order to reach the destination in eight days. To accompany the team a van was needed that was large enough to carry all the equipment (bicycles) and the team and its support crew in case of emergency need.

At this point a text arrived. It was Wander, who seemed in the best of spirits. He had, he said, definitely identified his whereabouts as Buckland. We congratulated him, and said we would expect him shortly.

Chippen was congratulated on his masterly command of detail, although Marx expressed the opinion that the weight allowed for maintenance equipment was scandalously small. He particularly wanted to take a Chain Checker, a Shimano TLCN32 Chain Tool, a Vise Whip, a Cyclus Cassette Lockring Tool, a Spoke Wrench, and a Pro-Classic Workstand. Chippen was quite short with him. He pointed out that repairing derailleurs on the road in Scotland was quite a different thing from repairing derailleurs in the Pyrenees where the rarified atmosphere would probably render the pneumatic gear impracticable. Marx burst into tears and said that he might as well go home at once, as he did not seem appreciated. Harris, in his tactful way, said that he was sure that Chippen had no intention of belittling Marx’ importance to the expedition, he had only meant that such extensive repair and maintenance equipment was out of place on an expedition whose sole aim was to get the team over the Pyrenees. This brought in Rover, who said he much regretted the implication that repair and maintenance equipment was a white elephant; one of the - 19 -

great dangers was traversing the sub-standard roads in foreign countries and in particular the extreme effects of altitude on the smooth running of derailleurs.

Cough, who was suffering from a severe cold in the head, muttered something, which nobody quite understood, about “bulmonary band berebral bedema”in a kind of enraged mumble.

Responsive, as a good leader should be, to human atmosphere, I sensed a hidden discord, and quietly reminded all of the words of Heretyc: the Cairngorms might be climbed by a disunited party, but the Pyrenees, never. This sobering thought had the desired effect, helped perhaps by the fact that Chippen, overcome with Romney Ague, had fallen asleep. Barthes, who was to share a room with him was distressed to find that he snored heavily, but he was consoled by Rover who reminded him that owing to the attenuation of sound waves in a rarified atmosphere the snores would be much less offensive at high altitudes Barthes then outlined the scientific programme. In addition to investigations into the hypo-graphical and topological fossiferation of the area along the route he hoped to collect and bring back pairs of living butterflies from the slopes of the Pyrenees in order to study the possibility of breeding cyclists capable of living normal lives at high altitude.

At this point Wander emailed. It was not Buckland, he said, but Pencester. He had seen Buckland on a bus, but it turned out that the bus was going to Buckland. Owing to this he had, of course, set off in the wrong direction, but would be with us shortly.

After this, Rover described the photographic apparatus, the chief of which was a three-dimensional colour holographic machine. He hoped to obtain a record of every aspect of the expedition, although a suitable love-interest would be added later by the film company who supplied the equipment. By adding crash sequences and car chases and with a patriotic soundtrack and the original material reduced to a minimum the film would be released as an epic of British heroism. If the expedition was successful then perhaps the teams most photogenic pair would feature in a sequel.

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At this point a tweet was received. It read: SIGHTED ST. RADIGUNDS. NINETEEN THIRTY HOURS COURSE WEST SOUTH WEST EXPECT SHORTLY WEATHER FINE BUT COLD WANDER. Chippen woke with a complicated gurgle and said that it was all wrong to clutter up a cycling expedition, the object of which was to get the team over the Pyrenees, with a lot of scientific rubbish. He expressed the opinion that a scientist on the expedition was even more of a nuisance than his gear, which was considerable. He told us about his friend Grump, who shared a tent on the 1984 expedition to Bartie Frere. Like all scientists, this one was very absent-minded. One day he inadvertently made tea with copper sulphate solution instead of water, with the result that he and Grump turned Blue and were colour blind for a fortnight, being unable to distinguish blue from white. One day the scientist rode off the edge of a snow covered road thinking the blue sky beyond a continuation of the snowy road. He was extracted only by great effort and devotion.

Barthes said that he did not believe one word of the story. He himself had drunk gallons of copper sulphate tea with impunity. The blue effect was no doubt due to cardiosysnthesis of the bloodstream due to the rarified atmosphere. He strongly resented the idea that all scientists were absent-minded.

At this point a knock was heard at the door. It was a sergeant from the local police station. A policeman in Coombe Valley has discovered a furtive stranger loitering near the Gas Works. He had been found in possession of maps and navigating equipment and had been arrested as a spy. He had given his name as Pander and this address as a reference. We gave the necessary assurances and asked the sergeant to transmit a message to the effect that we expected to see Wander shortly.

Harris then told us about Catalonia, the country that we must travel through to reach our objective. The natives he said, were sturdy independent people, friendly and of imperturbable dignity and cheerfulness. This would contrast sharply with the French who we would have to deal with first on our way to the Pyrenees. The language of the mountains, of which he had made a special study, was a branch of - 21 -

the aneroid-megalithic tongue. It contained no verbs and was spoken almost entirely from the stomach.

Cough said this was nonsense, if they spoke entirely from their stomachs they would suffer from permanent gastritis. Harris said that this was, in fact, the national disease, being hypodermic in 95% of the population. Cough said that if this was the case he didn’t see how they could keep cheerful. Harris said that this was due to their strength of character. He said he was not used to having his word doubted, and if Cough persisted in his present uncooperative attitude he, Harris, would have to issue an ultimatum.

Cough then spoke to us about the problem of maintaining the fitness which was so essential to our success. He urged us to follow rigidly the precautions which he had laid down, and handed each of us several pages of closely-typed manuscript. He said that if we followed his advice he could guarantee immunity from illness. Here he broke down in a fit of coughing and had to be thumped on the back. Harris did the thumping and my impression was that he thumped a good deal harder than was strictly necessary. At any rate, Cough struck back at him, and a nasty incident might have ensued had not Cough been completely overcome by a fit of sneezing which made him quite incapable of defending himself.

I took the opportunity to thank all for their contribution, and remarked that I had no doubt that such little differences of opinion as might appear between us were evidence of the commendable frankness and openness with which we regarded one another, and that I had no reason to suppose that we would not make an efficient and united team. I reminded them of the words of Heretyc: in an expedition of this kind the desires of the individual must be subordinated to the common cause. The Reverend Moses said amen, and on this solemn note we woke Chippen and set about making our preparations for the morrow’s departure. * Next day we sailed from Dover. As I stepped aboard I received two tweets. One read: BEST OF LUCK: REMEMBER IT IS NOT SCOTLAND. HERETYC. The other - 22 -

ran: STRANDED FOLKESTONE WILL FOLLOW BY HOVERCRAFT SEND ONE HUNDRED POUNDS. WANDER.

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The Crossing C H A P T E R

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I I I

The Team after Final Refreshments on the First Day

The crossing was uneventful. My responsibilities as leader prevented me from spending as much time as I should have liked with the others, but I was gratified to see that the esprit-de-corps which is so important on expeditions such as ours was uniting our party into a closely-knit community. The importance of team spirit cannot be overestimated. As Heretyc once said: When you are swinging helplessly at the end of a hundred-foot rope it is important to know that the man at the other end is a friend. It was this spirit, more than any other single factor, which brought success, and I was happy to see it growing during the voyage.

Humour was not lacking. Barthes caused much amusement by turning up at the bar with a black-eye, which he had sustained by walking into a davit, while on the same occasion Chippen exhibited a bandaged hand injured during a jog around the deck.

Chippen was down most of the voyage with sea lassitude and it was a surprise to me that he had the energy for a jog. The others kept fit, except for Cough, who alone succumbed to sea-sickness.

Barthes was kept busy with his apparatus. He tested the high altitude air-pumps and whilst calibrating them discovered that the ship height was 153 feet above sea level.

Chippen said this was nonsense, but Barthes pointed out that due to the earth’s not being a perfect sphere, but larger at the equator than at the poles, the result was quite in accordance with known facts.

Rover took many photographs but by an unfortunate oversight had forgotten to load the memory card so no records exists of this portion of the journey.

Harris, to his great delight, discovered a Catalonian family on the lower deck, and spent much time with them improving his knowledge of the language. The association came to a sudden end, however, in a rather strange way. Harris came running up the stairway in a state of terror, closely followed by a small but powerful Catalan who was waving a knife. After being rescued Harris explained that he had made a trifling error in pronunciation. He had wished to express admiration for the poetry of Catalonia. Unfortunately the Catalan word for poetry is identical with that for wife, except for a sort of gurgle at the end. being unable, in his enthusiasm to - 27 -

produce this gurgle, he had deeply offended his host, with the result we had witnessed. Harris remained on the upper deck for the rest of the journey.

At one point a dolphin was sighted on the starboard quarter. This was naturally an event of great interest to us all, but particularly to myself as it enabled me to make up my mind on the very vital matter of the grouping of the team, to which I had given much thought. Our attack on the mountains was to be made by units of two men who would climb together and consequently be billeted together. I considered it important that these partners be brought together as soon as possible, to enable them to rub off those rough corners which become irksome at close quarters. I had, however, been unable to reach a decision. Chippen and Barthes, I had decided long ago, were the ideal combination to fit into a cramped room, one being small and the other large; and their personalities were so different that their was little chance of professional jealousy or monotony arising. Rover and Wander had each shown a lively and controversial interest in the other’s special subject and I thought it would be a pity to part them. Moreover, Rover was a Man of Kent while Wander was a Kentish Man which would broaden the horizons of both of them. This left Cough and Harris; and I was not at all happy about these two - both having the professional manner, which might prove somewhat stifling in a small room. But they disagreed so heartily on so many subjects that I began to be reassured, and the incident of the dolphin put my mind finally at rest. While we were leaning over the rail watching the creature blowing Harris said he wondered whether there was any truth in the Jonah legend. Cough said that he was surprised at such a remark from an educated man, and became so interested in the subsequent discussion that he forgot to be sea-sick.

They argued heatedly for the remainder of the voyage and were quite inseparable, which was a great relief to me.

Just before we reached port I received a text message: UNFORTUNATELY MISDIRECTED ST. MALO. SEND 100 EUROS WANDER. As we disembarked Harris was down with land lassitude and Cough became afflicted with a salt-water rash. Harris remarked that it was a good thing we had a doctor with us. I am sorry to have to say that Cough took exception to this innocent remark and - 28 -

was quite rude to Harris, but the latter generously overlooked this as being due to Cough’s condition. Harris then tried to communicate in a friendly way with the French Customs Officers but a riot almost broke out and he thought it advisable to retire. He explained that the natives were friendly people of imperturbable dignity and cheerfulness but that they sometimes allowed themselves to be upset by trifles.

We enquired the nature of this particular trifle. Harris said it was difficult explain in English.

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Stage 1: Calais to Beauvais C H A P T E R

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I V

Cough, Chippen and Harris show some Team Spirit

The short drive from the port to Cape Gris Nez was uneventful except for having to stop twice as Cough was travel sick and another time to separate Cough and Harris as they squabbled over where to sit. A final stop was made on behalf of Barthes who insisted that he should try and catch some butterflies before we got to the mountains as these would be useful control specimens for those that were caught at high altitude. He dispatched both Marx and Skeleton with butterfly nets and both returned with Cabbage Whites. Thus ensued another argument between Harris and Cough, the former insisting that no such species existed as that the Cabbage White in fact represented two separate species; the Large and Small Whites. Chippen woke up at this point from his car lassitude to make the point that the Green-Veined White was also often mistakenly called a Cabbage White.

At Cape Gris Nez we all disembarked from the van and unloaded our bicycles and started to prepare for our departure. Marx immediately set to work checking the mechanics of all the bikes although we had insisted as a team that each individual was responsible for bringing their own bike to the starting point in tip-top condition.

Everything was in order except Chippen’s bike which had flat tyres. Marx dealt with this as both Chippen and Cough were under the hands of our soigneur Skeleton.

Just before we set off Rover insisted we should have a team photograph. It was then that he noticed that he had forgotten a tripod and was forced to balance the camera on a wall in order to include himself in the shot. Unfortunately the camera fell and was damaged so no record was made of the departure as I didn’t want to waste any more time.

All was ready, except for Wander of course, who kindly sent us an email, saying he was on a train from St. Malo and would rendezvous with us in Beauvais this evening.

We were just about to set off when the Rev. Moses called us altogether for a blessing.

Producing a Book of Psalms from his back pocket the Reverend began the blessing with a reading of Psalm 67. He then reached into his bag and produced a small phial of Holy Water and an incense burner. I thought I heard Chippen mutter “Holy Moses” but it may have been “Amen”. Marx was summoned to produce a lighter and the Reverend struggled to get some incense alight. After prayers we held a - 33 -

moment of silence to remember lost cyclists. My thoughts turned to Wander and I added an extra prayer that he would finally be able to join us. Finally we were ready and we were off.

It’s unfortunate that we all forgot to set our odometers and timers at this point so the distance we’ve recorded is already inaccurate.

The weather was quite pleasant for the time of year and not too hot. The terrain was very familiar and much like the rolling North Downs of home with gentle ups and downs. The wind, unfortunately was a bit strong, and blew in coldly from the East.

As we were all together at this point Chippen called out the orders to form an echelon. After much confusion in which Rover and Skeleton collided this was somewhat achieved. In truth it’s supposed to be a step-wise formation which each rider is behind and offset a little from the one in front. This is supposed to ease the effect of the wind blowing in from the side but I believe our attempt was too ragged to achieve any practical use. In any case we had to break up the manoeuvre as we approached Boulogne. Chippen seemed to have forgotten all about such discipline by the time we emerged again in the countryside and besides we were already concerned with the loss of the Reverend Moses who had seemingly dropped off the back.

We pressed on knowing we had a long day and were fortunate to be able to shelter from the wind as we passed through several forests. After the leaving of which we descended down to a swampy and misty river area as we came past Étaples and continued riding through a very low flat region until we crossed another network of streams somewhere near Berck which we did our best to avoid.

Unavoidably we were now in Great War territory as we crossed the flat plains surrounding the Somme river as we rode toward Abbeville. Naturally our minds turned to grim thoughts about how this region looked a hundred years ago. We passed several cemeteries along the road and Chippen suggested that we might stop for a moments reflection. This we did on our arrival in Abbeville but much to our dismay the Reverend Moses was still behind somewhere and had not been seen since - 34 -

Boulogne. Our thoughts were down when Harris lifted our spirits by producing some Malt Loaf. This not only lifted our flagging spirits but energised us enough to resume the ride.

However no sooner had we started than Marx slipped in the gravel beside the cemetery entrance and received a puncture for his trouble. Our support vehicle had not been seen since our departure and we’d arranged a rendezvous on the outskirts of Amiens. Fortunately we had sufficient means to effect a repair and we left Skeleton behind to assist Marx with the work and to help bring them back to our group. We went on ahead.

The ride continued following the Somme upstream in a swampy flat valley. The wind was against us now as we finally approached Amiens. The city we carefully avoided but we very nearly got lost trying to cross the many-braided streams of the Somme itself. It didn’t help that there were also many tiny villages. Eventually we made our way to Saint Saiflieu where we finally ran into the support van. Lunch we thought.

Unfortunately it was at this point that we discovered that our quartermaster Chippen had omitted to pack any Coolers and that our stock of cheeses and cold meats was beginning to smell a bit rank. They had been placed too close to the engine in the van and were almost cooked. Chippen manfully excepted full responsibility for the omission and resolved to rectify the situation at the first opportunity. I was reluctant to castigate him completely in front of the others, not wishing to undermine out corps-de-esprit, but I did give him a mild reprimand.

We made the best we could out of our lunch which was at least ameliorated with some splendid French Bread. We didn’t yet realise then how sick of the sight of it we would become! Barthes had slipped off to try and catch some butterflies so it took some time to get everyone together for a departure, but after we had woken Chippen we were ready to go. Rover was unfortunately unable to take any photographs as his camera was locked in a bag. It seemed Skeleton had taken all the keys which included the key to the bicycle repair kit. Cough suggested that perhaps keeping all the keys - 35 -

together was not a good idea and was about to suggest an alternative arrangement but then trapped his finger in a brake lever and walked off wincing.

Back on our bikes we were relieved to discover that we didn’t have that far to go.

This meant that our pace relaxed somewhat although it was never enough for Marx and Skeleton to catch us up and we didn’t see them again until the evening.

Barthes and Rover took full advantage of our slow down and took turns as the Arrière de Peleton as well as imagining themselves as the Lanterne Rouge. I reminded them that we had no Broom Wagon available to sweep us up and take us to our destination as our van had now gone ahead. With our heads down and our tails up we continued making steady progress southwards through the mildly undulating country. We passed several minor villages such as Bonneuil, Breteuil and Guignecourt before gliding into Beauvais past the aerodrome.

After some procrastination we finally found our lodgings. Harris had attempted to ask directions from some locals loitering on a street corner. He came haring back to us a moment later having had to dodge a volley of small stones thrown his way. We asked what the problem had been but he muttered something about them being offended at his upright French when apparently the locals spoke a peculiar blend of Picard and Walloonian dialects. They had assumed he was from Paris and had reacted badly.

When we finally turned up at the lodgings we were disappointed to find that our van was not already there. This meant we had to sit around for an hour until such times as it did arrive. Meanwhile Marx and Skeleton joined us and told us of their adventures where they had somehow taken the wrong road. Eventually the van arrived and we were able to book in and take our showers and change for the evening.

Skeleton said he was sorry but that he would be unable to perform any massages tonight as he’d damaged his elbow whilst helping to fix the puncture. Chippen said this was no problem as we still had several case of beer left over from the ferry crossing. They were of course dished out immediately. I thought to myself that - 36 -

Chippen’s response to the disappointment of an injured Soigneur was remarkable in his instantaneous ability to restore everyone to a good mood. I thought this went somewhere to atonement for his earlier transgressions though of course I did not mention it for fear of appearing soft to the rest of the team. This is not quite the time for being emotional.

Several hours later we were all ready to go to dinner in the small town. That is all except the Reverend who had only just turned up. I mentioned that he must have a lonely day but it turned out that he had taken a detour to inspect the Cathedral at Amiens. He began to tell me some salient facts about the Cathedral, such as it was the tallest in France, but I ushered him upstairs and exhorted him to quickly get ready. Wander had texted earlier to say that he will shortly be arriving by train in Beauvais. We would call him later and tell him the name of the restaurant we would be at.

As we stepped outside we noticed it was dark already. Barthes pointed out the Ursa Major in the night sky for us and mused on its other names such as the Big Dipper and the Great Bear. He was not amused to discover that their would be a full moon tonight and he would be unable to spend much time star gazing.

We found a restaurant quite easily in the town and called Wander. He didn’t answer so we left a voice message with the details of the place. We settled down and ordered from the menu which seemed to consist solely of regional specialities. That is Pate de Canard D’Amiens as the only starter and a choice between La Ficelle Picarde and Flamiche aux Poireaux as the main course. Chippen was of course mystified and insisted on ordering a plate of French Fries and several pichets of wine to go around.

For dessert we were able to order Macaron d’Amiens and Tuiles Amiénoises and we had just received these when Wander came in. He told us that it had taken him some time to realise we had left a voice message and even after that he had left the Railway Station by the wrong exit and become confused by the direction he should take. No matter I said he was finally here with us. We quickly ordered a dinner for - 37 -

him and Chippen made sure we had another round of wine pichets. Everyone was very pleased to see Wander and I myself was relieved that we would have a full complement on the road tomorrow and that Wander could take control of the routefinding. Tomorrow would be more difficult as we would have to avoid the metropolis of Paris.

As we settled down and Wander finished his dinner, Chippen ordered a round of Calvados and proceeded to tease Rover about what a Blue Moon was and if indeed it was a real thing. Rover was of the opinion that a Blue Moon was simply when you had two full moons in the same calendar month and bore no relation to the colour of the moon. The next time this happened would be in 2015. Chippen remarked that this indeed may be so but in fact the moon had sometimes been observed to be blue and that this in fact was a rarer event. Barthes was adamant that the expression “Once in a Blue Moon” referred to the two full moons case and that he had never heard that the moon could actually be blue. Chippen stunned everyone by exclaiming that the moon was blue for two years after the eruption in Krakatoa. It was at this point where I interrupted and tried to calm the situation down before it became too volcanic.

After some kerfuffle about paying the bill we left the premises and made our way back to the lodgings. Rover unfortunately because of the full moon was unable to help us navigate and Wander of course was without his GPS. Cough however had not drunk as much as everyone else that evening as he was feeling a little nauseous, and, aided by the full moon, he was able to lead us home. I encouraged everyone to go to bed and meet early in the morning for a swift departure. I was reminded of Heretyc words as I thought of the tough days ahead; “Arriving at one goal is the starting point of another.”And with this thought on my mind, I too retired for the night.

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Stage 2: Beauvais to Artenay C H A P T E R

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V

Skeleton, The Reverend and Marx showing Customary Camaraderie

I was first down in the morning and was pleasantly surprised when the rest of the team came down one after the other to begin breakfast. That is all except Chippen who told us later that he’d been suffering from a kind of spiritual lassitude.

Breakfast, as expected, was a poor show and merely consisted of bread and butter and jam. Our hopes of getting cereals was raised by the appearance of bowls on the table but these turned out to be handle-less cups for hot chocolate or coffee. Tea was not available and neither were croissants.

This is not a good way to start the day and obviously I was required to lift moral as we were facing a long day in the saddle. I lightly suggested that we would adopt the habits of hobbits and resort to a second breakfast somewhere down the road and augment this with elevenses and of course lunch. It was not my intention to elaborate further but of course the discussion of food when one is hungry is a source of much pleasure. I allowed the conversation to continue with the insistence that we would be having Afternoon Tea and High Tea during the afternoon before Dinner in the evening and Supper to finish off. This brought us onto the question of Musettes.

Chippen, who had just joined us, and was busy devouring bread and butter, made plain that we would not be stopping for a formal lunch today but would be provided, on the road, with a mobile lunch: the infamous Musette. Harris enquired after its contents but Chippen remarked that he had yet to formulate todays rations but hoped to be able to include Fig Rolls. Everyone was satisfied with this except Cough who suggested he didn’t really need any help with his bowels at this stage.

Before leaving the table I exhorted Wander to go over the route for the day but he was only able to do this briefly as he had yet to properly initialise all the GPS equipment on everyone’s bike. All that is except Harris who affected aspirations to being a Luddite and refused all such encumbrances on his own bicycle.

An hour later we were all ready for the group departure. All our luggage was packed into the van and all our bikes were ready to hit the road. The Rev. Moses was just about to prevent us leaving by suggesting a prayer but I said that we couldn’t do this everyday. It sapped morale to suggested we needed divine intervention to get us through what really was essentially a bike ride. His prayers, I told him, must be silent - 41-

on our behalf. He was slightly unhappy at this and spent most of the day in a sulk. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that in any case a good number of us were fairly agnostic on the matter of religion if not downright atheist. I felt had no need to remind him of the privations we had suffered as children when forced to sing in the church choir when in fact we had always been tone-deaf or had passed puberty months ago. Nonetheless it was disappointing to note that the Reverend once again drifted off the back of our wavering pelaton to plough his own way to Artenay.

Very soon our little group was stretched out and Wander took off up front as the route finder. After him went Chippen and Barthes with typical enthusiasm. The former was suffering from cadence lassitude but was expected to recover shortly.

Then came Harris and Cough. The latter had developed German Measles but was receiving the best of treatment at his own capable hands. I stayed behind to meditate for a while on the responsibilities of leadership, and so brought up the rear.

After several hours ride, somewhere after Marinnes in the forest of Vexin, I was gratified to see in front of me the photographic gear, fully operational, with Rover in command. I left him behind to pack up his gear with Marx and carried on. An hour later I was surprised to see him once more again operating the camera. I concluded that he had passed me without me noticing – as might easily happen – and was glad to congratulate him on his energy. He looked at me in surprise and swore that he had not moved from that spot since setting up his camera over an hour ago. I was about to remind him that this was neither the time nor the place for such witticisms when I was astounded to hear a call from behind. Imagine my amazement when I found it was Wander, who, instead of being in front, had evidently dropped behind and been passed by the rest of us. Following him went Skeleton and the Reverend and then to our mutual bewilderment came Chippen and Barthes.

I must admit that I was completely baffled. It was one of those moments when one doubts one's own sanity. I had, with my own eyes, seen the four people who were now with me set out ahead of me. Of these I had passed Rover, who had nevertheless appeared ahead of me, while the others, whom I had not passed at all, were now

- 42-

behind me. It was too much to believe that we had passed each other in this complicated way without noticing it.

The question was: where were Harris and Cough?

It was Rover who supplied the answer. “Wander you fool” he cried. “You've been and gone round in a circle!”

At once it came clear to me. We were stretched out along the circumference of a circle, everybody following everybody else. Rover had gone on filming us without bothering to identify us as we passed, and we had all gone round twice. If it hadn't been for him, who was the only easily recognisable feature of our route, we might have gone on all day.

Confirmation came shortly afterwards with the arrival of Harris and Cough. I think they must have been suffering from deafness as they were shouting at each other as though they were half a mile apart instead of only a bicycle length. I congratulated myself on my arrangement of the party; two men who would carry on a spirited conversation after several hours hard riding at this place were obviously kindred spirits. It is one of the deepest rewards of leadership to find that ones manipulation of the human element has been successful.

I decided that the occasion was suitable for a halt, and over a glass of beer we discussed the reasons for the mistake. I asked all to give their opinion candidly, without regard to susceptibilities. It is my belief that men are better friends for facing the truth together, and that evasion of any kind leads to distrust in the long run.

It was encouraging to hear how they responded to the appeal. Rover was particularly outspoken and this, I thought, was a good sign in one who was to be Wander's constant companion.

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What none of us could understand was how Wander, using his GPS, as he assured us he had done, could have turned through a circle. The problem was solved by Rover, who made Wander demonstrate his method. They went off together, and soon they too, were discussing the matter at the top of their voices. Deafness I thought, was unusually prevalent that day.

When they returned Rover gave us the answer. “The silly fool forgot to normalise the compass of the GPS”, he told us. “Naturally, it pointed north in which ever direction he took.”

“It might happen to anyone” I said. It is my experience that a man supplies his best when he is trusted. Nothing saps a mans confidence in himself so much as mistrust from those over him. It would have been fatal to the expedition to allow Wander to doubt himself – to say nothing of the effects upon him in later life. I take no credit for my forbearance; such things are the essence of leadership; either one has them or one has not.

For this reason I sent Wander off again after the break, confident that he would not make the same mistake twice.

Nor did he and I was gratified when we crossed the River Seine at Les Mureaux as it meant that we had left that confounded and confounding forest behind. Although it was only an hour later as we passed the signs tempting us to visit Versailles that we entered another forested area at Rochefort-en-Yveline. It was fortunate that this time Wander was able to keep us on our south bound track towards Orleans.

On our final few hours a cold wind blew up behind us from the North. Was it the Mistral? None of us really minded as it was a tail-wind that fairly blew us down the gently undulating roads on our way south.

As we rode into Artenay Wander piped up and said that in fact we were riding onto Saran which was a further five miles. This induced groans all around especially from Cough who was now complaining of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, this of course had - 44-

been compounded by the fact that Chippen had neglected to pack neither toiletpaper or baby-wipes for the expedition. This continuing failure of Chippen's to have packed properly for the expedition was beginning to rankle, however I was determined to maintain order and discipline within the ranks and refrained, at that moment, to mention this lapse of his. I think a quiet word would be in order and would search for the appropriate opportunity. I was of course aware that however much I criticize him for his lack of application to his quartermaster duties I knew that it would make little difference either to the contents or the organization of our stores. I silently hoped that we would not be let down quite so inconveniently on subsequent days.

It was at this moment, just as we were arriving at our lodgings for the evening, that Skeleton informed me that the baby-oil had leaked all over the van and subsequently he would be unable to offer anyone a soothing massage this evening. Again I held my counsel.

As usual the Reverend wasn't with us on our arrival but, as if by some, miracle he turned up later and had no trouble ďŹ nding us. He had, of course taken a diversion from our scheduled route, and visited the Notre Dame Cathedral in Chartres. He then proceeded to tell me something of the history of the place and the Sancta Camisa but I'm afraid I rather rudely cut him short by remembering that it was my turn in the showers.

At dinner that evening we were faced again with an incomprehensible menu. Harris did his best to decipher the offerings and called over the waiter to help. An altercation ensured when Harris started to converse in French and the waiter stormed off. Apparently the OrlĂŠanais they speak around here has some very particular vocabulary and the chap had got annoyed when Harris continued to address him as boy. We were served Rillettes as a starter, which turned out to be a kind of pate, and Andouilettes, a rather greasy sausage. I refrained from mentioning that this often contained tripe and other less savoury parts of the pig. Chippen of course found nothing to his rather forlorn taste on the menu and ordered Pommes Ă la dauphinoise. He was happy with this as it consisted of potatoes cooked in garlic - 45-

and cream. As usual Chippen was quick off the mark in noticing that the menu actually implied that beer was available and after some prompting the waiter was able to show the local brew, called Eurélienne, came in four different varieties. All four were quickly ordered in quick succession so that each could be evaluated in turn.

They were; Blonde, Rouge, Brune and Blanche, which were all acceptable apart from the Blanche which was considered too acid.

After a thorough tasting Marx popped the question as to why the French were so generally inept at producing decent beers. The more travelled Rover pointed out that French Beers from Alsace and Flanders were perfectly respectable, but Skeleton pointed out that these areas were sometimes in France and sometimes not depending on the results of various wars and invasions and could therefore not be counted as proper France. Chippen then woke from his slumber to quip that he blamed the Romans for insisting that wine be produced instead of beer as they made their way north fighting the Gauls but then changed their tune when discovering how excellent the beers made by the monks in Belgium were and insisted that no wine was made at all in that country and only beer. The Reverend then laid into the argument by saying that this was unreasonable as Christianity had not reached Belgium by this time and so this myth must be apocryphal. Harris mumbled that by his reckoning Belgium was only 200 years old too and the Romans could never have been there. Things started to get rowdy as Marx pointed out that the Belga tribes were there even if Belgium was not and it was at this point that I had to step in and smooth the situation the only way possible in the circumstances. I ordered more beers. Chippen also ordered a round of Cognacs and this had the effect of quietening everybody down so that by the time we were ready to leave everyone was very sleepy and ready for a nights rest.

When Barthes mentioned that we should all notice the spreadeagled lights of Orion in the night-sky as we walked home he was roundly shouted down and I was glad to get everybody back to our lodgings safely. He muttered to me privately that non-one had been interested in his sighting of a Black-Veined White either. I reassured him that his scientific contributions to the expedition where very important to me and to our sponsors back home.

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Stage 3: Artenay to La Ch창tre C H A P T E R

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V I

Wander, Rover and Barthes taking a deserved break

As has become usual the mood at breakfast was downbeat. Many of the team were stiff and sore from the previous days exertions and the morning was unseasonably cold. It took some persuading to revive Chippen from his mattress lassitude but eventually we were all gathered together around the breakfast table. The repast, of course, was singularly dull with not even a fresh croissant to savour. Morale was low but Wander managed to lift the mood by remarking that todays ride was a straightforward plunge directly southward over relatively mild terrain and was a little shorter, at 105 miles, than the previous two days. Cough remarked that this was long enough and thought he would be in for a rough day as he suspected he might have Shingles. Though he had no medication for such a condition he showed remarkable fortitude in merely suggesting that he take a flask of Eau de Vie on the road with him.

Within the hour we were ready to start and we pushed on together, in line, through the city of Orleans. Unfortunately Wander soon found himself lost in the warren of streets surrounding the famous Cathedral and all of us were confounded by the difficulties of riding on roads which had tram tracks to deal with. Inevitably we lost the Reverend early on as he no doubt felt the need to explore the domain of Joan of Arc. It was only after we had crossed the mighty River Loire and then a the smaller River Loiret that we managed to re-group, all that is except the Reverend who was acting more and more like the Espoir he is. It was just as well that we stopped at this point as our GPS was firmly indicating that we were going in the wrong direction and should be going north. After much arguing amongst Wander and Chippen and Harris it was determined that a mistake had been made on the route finding “Chartres” had been entered instead of “La Châtre”. Once this had been resolved we were back in the saddle and back on the road due south. At the back of my mind though it occurred to me that the Reverend’s GPS would still be at fault.

It took a strong dose of strength and leadership on my part to realise that it was better to sacrifice a member than delay the whole group.

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The day was gradually warming up and we were, for a change, without wind as we rode through the plains besides La Ferté-Saint-Aubin and we made steady progress as Rover, Skeleton and Marx lead the way. We experienced little more difficulties than false flats as we swung through Chaumont-sur-Tharonne and onto Saint-Viâtre, stopping briefly shortly after this village in a small forest for some welcome Garibaldi biscuits and a toilet break. However we were detained by losing Barthes.

Fearing that he had become disorientated in the trees we started shouting. He returned ten minutes later to apologise profusely: he had apparently been chasing a Wood White, which is rare back home. I was reluctant to admonish him for showing such scientific keenness, but I implored to take more care in future. Rover tried to take a photograph of the group at this point but was aghast to find that his memory card was full and that his spares were in the van. No matter, we were soon on our way.

Soon the train was in full force as we swept through Selles-Saint-Denis and in another hour came to Châtres-sur-Cher. Surely this wasn’t our destination? But no, it turned out that Châtres was a common name in these parts. This came as some relief to poor Wander who was beginning to doubt his own abilities with the GPS and his route finding duties. To relieve the tension I suggested we stop for lunch. I pointed out that we had made good time and expected the rest of the day’s ride to provide no difficulties of terrain or direction. Besides, I thought, perhaps the Reverend would have time to catch us up.

Everyone was pleased to discover that Coq au Vin was the Plat de Jour and soon everyone, bar Chippen, was tucking in. Chippen was happy with his Chèvre Cheese and chips and more than happy once the bottles of Sancerre arrived at the table. As usual I was concerned at the amount of wine being drunk but consoled myself that at least they were re-hydrating themselves. I surreptitiously made sure that the flasks of water were continuously passed around.

Imagine our surprise when, towards the end of the meal, the Reverend belatedly appeared. Another plate of Coq au Vin was quickly ordered and we all accompanied him when it was decided to taste the local Vouvray, a sparkling delicacy of the - 50 -

region. Chippen wanted to compare it to a Muscadet, also from the Loire, but I suggested we refrain until the evening. He was disgruntled but nonetheless concurred.

It was some time later when we managed to get back on the road. After crossing the river we were soon back in gear and on our way through Genouilly and on the fast track towards Issoudun. Little was impeding us as we rode the generally flat terrain until Chippen lost control and slid into a ditch beside the road. Fortunately we were all there on hand to drag him out and rinse the pondweed from off both him and his bike. He was muttering and cursing as expected but had suffered not the slightest road rash and we were soon on our way again.

This was turning out to be our easiest day yet and with no wind and a warming sun on our backs we were soon on the last stretch as we kept a tidy line through the small villages of Saint-Août and Saint-Chartier and finally glided into La Châtre as a team.

Recognising our van already parked in the village we rode straight to our lodgings and a welcome rest. We were tired of course, but none the worse for wear. That is except Skeleton who had lost the tape on his bars and was suffering from blisters. A massage was again out of the question.

After resting and showering I was astounded to find that the team had the energy to attend to their bikes and give them a clean and a mechanical once over. It was a relief to all that no damage was found and Marx had little more than to do a little tightening here and there. Skeleton, of course, was forced to re-tape his bike and was fortunate that some spare had been packed. I personally thanked Chippen for this as he had suffered the indignity of knowing that his stock-taking duties had taken some criticism in the past few days. I passed over the fact that no spare gloves were available for Skeleton.

At the only restaurant in town we were released from the menu difficulty as we were presented with no choice. It took some time to realise this as Harris had tried to ascertain what was on offer, only to be confounded by the Limousin accent of the staff. It was beginning to needle him that his mastery of French was of no avail - 51 -

wherever we were and it seemed to him that no-one in the country spoke the French language properly. I calmed him down but suggesting that he do his best by deciphering the wine-list, and this he was happy to do. Before long we had an array of local wines, Anjou, Pouilly-Fumé and Muscadet on our table, much to everyone’s delight; especially Chippen, who was eager to try them all. The starter, unfortunately was Escargots, which only Rover, Marx and Harris tried. Chippen was in two minds, not being quite sure how they fitted into his vegetarian regime. In the end he decided that dipping his bread into the garlic and butter sauce was sufficient. The main course turned out to be Steak Frites; the size of the Limousin Boeuf impressed everyone and dinner was soon in full flow, as was the wine. Chippen was once again reduced to cheese and chips, practically his staple diet, but thankfully his mood was none the worse for that as the wine flowed too.

Naturally a discussion broke out when everyone was sufficiently relaxed. Cough, taking a break from his incessant scratching, declared that the River Loire, which we had crossed that day was the longest river in France at almost a 1000 km. Chippen, naturally disagreed, and insisted the Rhone was longer. Harris butted in and said “What about the Seine?”and even the usually quiet Wander was adamant that the Garonne or the Dordogne were perhaps contenders. And so the discussion passed to and fro with no possible chance of an answer as we were unable to get a signal by ‘phone of wi-fi. I had to placate the situation by encouraging Cough to pass his flask of Eau-de-Vie around and by this time everyone was too tired to argue further.

Chippen had nodded off some time ago.

Back at the lodgings I was pleased to see that I could share a room with Chippen. My affection for this diminutive giant had been growing since our first meeting. A leader should not have favourites, but I must confess that from all my companions I would have chosen Chippen to share a room with.

I found him already in his bed and said that I proposed to spend the night with him.

He said it was kind of me, but he really thought that Cough needed me more than he did. Cough, he said, would be all alone on several future nights and would be happier, during his lonely vigil, if he had the memory of at least one night of - 52 -

companionship. This was very unselfish of him and, disappointed though I was, I could not but see that my duty was with the lonely one.

I found him already in bed. He also was grateful but unselfish, saying that he would not dream of depriving Chippen of my company. I told him I would not hear of such a sacrifice and soon we were settled in for the night.

Poor Cough seemed quite low, and to brighten him up I encouraged him to talk about his home. “Had he a fiancee?” I asked him. “No”, he said, “His wife was of the unsympathetic kind”.

I apologised for my blunder, but said that I was surprised to hear that he was married. Sir Lebowski had told me he was a bachelor. Cough said that Sir Lebowski was welcome to his opinion on this, as on every other subject; but his own impression was different. I said that I suppose he found family life congenial. He said, on the contrary.

At this point he fell asleep, much to my relief, as I was finding it difficult to relate to the man. It still concerned me however that Cough was consistently unwell, he was still scratching in his sleep, and was quite unable to apply his undoubted medical talents to dealing with the minor injuries of the rest of the party. I resolved to address this matter in the morning before finally succumbing to slumber myself whilst the words of Heretyc drifted through my mind. ”A great many people in this world spend so much time worrying about their health that they haven’t the time to enjoy it.”

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Stage 4: La Châtre to Égletons C H A P T E R

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V I I

Chippen and Harris become a Cropper

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On arriving in the Breakfast Room at our lodgings I was astonished to find that everyone, including Chippen sat at table. Moreover the table was laden with a host of fresh beads, cheeses and fruits as well as a selection of cold meats. Apparently the indomitable Chippen had been roused from his night lassitude by the sounds of a market starting up outside his window. With remarkable fortitude he had managed to drag himself from his bed in time to purchase all these comestibles on our behalf; including the meats. Although it wasn’t a cooked breakfast, and lacking in the necessary, and appropriate, carbohydrates it had certainly raised spirits and improved the mood of the men no end. I noticed too that Cough had stopped scratching and was devouring the repast with some gusto. I thought to myself how glad I was that I hadn’t taken Chippen aside last night and reprimanded him for his failures in his quartermaster duties. Clearly he had felt remorse at his own application of his duties and had taken it upon himself to rectify them. I was pleased that my choice of companions had provided me with the kind of man who can adapt in such a way.

After breakfast we were all ready to depart when Wander told us that we had approximately 100 miles to ride today in terrain that would be mostly forgiving, although which would gradually see us ascend onto the limestone plateaus which we would ride tomorrow. I reminded them of the words of Heretyc;”If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll end up somewhere else.”

For several hours after we had started the day turned out out just as expected as we rolled swiftly through the coarse country-side. Soon the villages of Pouligny-NotreDame and Châtelus-Malvaleix were left behind us and we approached the small town of Vallière as the area grew more forested. Of course by this time we had lost the Reverend off the back of our group and I suspected he was off again searching for some Ecclesiastical diversion. He was rapidly turning into our own Isolés or Touriste-Routier and it occurred to me that I should perhaps put a stop to it. I knew however how difficult it can be to become between a man and his faith and I thought I should ruminate on a possible solution further.

It was at this point where Marx, Skeleton and Rover made a jump and kicked up the pace. It took our peleton a little by surprise and our group was soon split into two - 57 -

along the road. Naturally I found myself at the rear of the poursuivant group in case my leadership qualities were needed should anything untoward occur. As Wander, Chippen and Barthes also disappeared from view our group became further stretched. I was surprised that Harris had stayed behind with me. He did not like, he said, to see me ride alone, and as he was feeling much better he had decided to accompany me.

I was surprised by his fortitude and touched by his consideration. It may have been due to his kindness that I felt homesick that morning. I told Harris about my family and friends, and even showed him a photograph, when we briefly halted for a necessary break. The dear fellow was quite gruff - one might almost have said rude.

He too, was evidently was feeling the tug of home and found it difficult to hide his feelings. I put a friendly hand on his shoulder and he gave a little snort. That snort told me more than words could have expressed. I suspected that his decision to accompany me had been wrung out of him by a desire for my companionship, and that he wished to say something to me but could not find the words. So I said to him, kindly: “Is there anything you want to tell me, old chap?”He said: “Don’t be a bloody fool!” which, I thought, was eloquent, given the poor fellow’s state of mind. At this point Harris jumped on his pedals and kicked away from me leaving me to ponder on the loneliness of leadership.

However it wasn’t long later that I came across Harris again. He was stood in the middle of the road having an altercation with Chippen. They were almost at blows, before I was to able to calm the situation. Apparently they had become entangled together whilst riding side-by-side and Harris’ pedals had become caught in Chippen’s front wheel. Of course the consequences were calamitous and they were both now loudly blaming each other. Unfortunately the crash had the effect of breaking a couple of spokes in Chippen’s wheel.

It was fortunate that Marx was on hand to affect a repair and whilst I attempted to calm the two by offering them jellied sweets he set to. I took the time to congratulate Chippen on his foresight in ensuring our repair kit included both spare spokes and a suitable wrench. He rather gruffly accepted this compliment and the atmosphere - 58 -

seemed to lose its charge. Rover meanwhile had managed to capture the moment although this had nearly exacerbated the argument as Harris was adamant that it wasn’t his fault and he didn’t want to be shown in a bad light. Skeleton was here too and, I thought, rather bravely stepped between Harris and Rover suggesting that perhaps this was not the best time for a photograph. Wander and Cough, I was told, were somewhere further up the road. When I enquired after Barthes they said that whilst waiting for the repair to be made he had noticed a Bath White butterfly at the road-side and had disappeared into the woods in an attempt to capture it. It was left to me to go after him and it was ten minutes later before he stumbled back onto the road. It was lucky as it was just at this point that we were ready to leave, and I therefore felt no need to explain to him the necessity of remaining with the group when help was needed.

Shortly after this as we continued our ride through the Parc Naturel Régional de Millevaches en Limousin we came into the village of Saint-Merd-les-Oussines. Not a name to inspire, I thought. Sitting outside at a cafe in the village square were Wander and Cough already tucking into a handsome lunch. Apparently the Plat de Jour was an omelette, with cheese or ham, served with a generous half-litre of Roannaise wine. Everyone soon joined them at the table and the tempers and arguments of a short time ago were quickly forgotten amongst a renewed camaraderie and a surfeit of wine. I was in no mind to remind the men of the need to remain steadfast in times of strain as I could see that any previous discontent was thankfully short-lived.

After our repast Chippen suggested that we might join the locals in a game of Boules which was taking place in a shaded corner of the square under some spreading Chestnut trees. I was reluctant to deny them their entertainment but I was forced to coerce them into continuing, and completing our days ride. Fortunately sense prevailed and we were soon back on the wheel.

The afternoons ride was starting to seem easy in the warm sunshine when a headwind sprang out of nowhere. The wind was coming from directly south of us and though warm the wind was causing us some serious impediment. To add to our - 59 -

discomfiture the wind was also whipping sand into our faces and caused several of our riders to stop to clear grit from their eye. Could this be a Sirocco I thought to myself, blinking furiously. Harris, much to his credit, did offer his concern when he saw I had tears rolling down my face, but I was able to assure him that it was only the smallest of motes in my eye that was causing this. The dust, swept up by the wind, however was causing a bigger problem as it was sticking to our glasses and making visibility very difficult. We were fortunate that this caused no further collisions of the sort that had marred our morning. Needless to say Chippen had to apologise for the lack appropriate cloths used for cleaning glasses. I held my tongue.

Much to our surprise, and that of Wander too, who claimed that some mistake must have occurred in his GPS reckoning, we came down to Égletons rather sooner that expected. It didn’t take us long to find our lodgings in such a small place. I was about to congratulate the team on the days efforts when Chippen rather sharply took me aback by remarking that this was no time for a team talk and that he for one was off for a shower and a well deserved kip. Harris slapped me on the back, rather heavily I thought, and said Chippen would be much more convivial later after suitable refreshment. I had no need to disagree with this. However I thought I should take the time to remonstrate with Skeleton over his inability to offer a massage to his fellows on so many evenings. He complained bitterly that it wasn’t his fault that the sand and dust of the afternoon had contaminated his massage oil and that such a gritty concoction would not offer the desired relief. I had to except this. I turned on Rover after this to admonish him about the apparent few photographs he was taking to record our endeavours. He too blamed the sand and dust as they had, apparently, wormed their way into the sensitive sensor of the photographic apparatus. He assured me that he would spend some part of the evening giving the cameras a good clean. I felt I had to trust him on this. I called Cough over to ask if he had any Isopropyl Alcohol in his medicine chest but he said that it was already finished. He also claimed to have a Headwind Headache and was leaving the premises in search of a Pharmacy and some suitable tablets. I instructed him to return with some suitable alcohol too, which later, I realised was perhaps not very wise of me.

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Just at that moment the Reverend appeared in a very tired and distressed state. He had, apparently, taken a massive detour to visit the Cathedral at Limoges and had stayed some time in order to listen to a concert on its two organs. After we had sat him down with a large carafe of water he told us that he’d also wanted to visit the famous Gare de Limoges-Bénédictins, although he confessed that he was disappointed to discover that the Benedictine connection was tenuous and he could find no monks. He was just about to go into some length about how it was the most beautiful railway station in Europe when I felt that it was about time I called his attention to his continuing absences from our party. I tried to explain to him the principle of ‘hors delai’ which meant that anyone who was sufficiently late was thrown from the team. He was aghast, but I re-assured him that we weren’t about to abandon him at this point, but that he should buck up his ideas and consider the well-being of his team-mates. He was about to object by saying that he had prayed profusely whilst at the cathedral, but I had to snappily remark that this was not quite the same thing. He apologised immediately of course, and produced a bottle of Bénédictine liqueur, which he said he would bring to the dinner table this evening in order to atone. I welcomed this kindness though I had my doubts about the efficacy of such a potent remedy.

Dinner that evening presented few problems as once again with had no choice with the menu and were simply presented, au fait, with a rather inedible starter which noone could decipher or discern followed by simple roast chicken with what was called Aligot. This turned out to be a garlicky mashed potato mixed with cheese. This was ideal for Chippen who tucked into a great deal of it. He wasn’t to know that it sits very lumpenly in the stomach and was the subsequent cause of much groaning and moaning through the night. Nevertheless the meal went very well accompanied as usual by copious amounts of local wine and a fine selection of local cheeses; Avergne Bleu, Cantal and Saint-Nectaire, to name but three. At this point Chippen roused himself and complained, loudly, to me, that had he known how short the afternoon ride was going to be he would have insisted on his game of Boule. I was just about to respond to this when Harris interjected and said a game of Boule would have been impossible as the locals were playing Pétanque. Thus ensured a lively discussion on the differences between the two which was amplified by the Reverend introducing - 61 -

the Bénédictine and our host very generously offering us a free glass of Marc. I should have known that these two fiery liqueurs would not mix and the tempers were rising As Harris contested that the difference was merely about the position of the feet when the ball was thrown and that in Pétanque both feet had to be on the ground and astonished us by revealing that Pétanque was a corruption of the Provencal ‘Ped Tanco’ which means ‘feet together’. This brought about an amazed termination to the discussion and I was able to encourage everyone to retire for the night.

That evening I was able to share a room with Chippen and hoped that in the spirit of comradeship we would be able to share confidences. We lay silent for a while, then I suggested that he might like to tell me about his fiancee. He said why? and I thought I detected a reticence. I said that talking about family and friends drew men closer together. He said that since I put it like that he didn’t mind telling me; but it was not an easy thing to talk about and I would understand that he was not in the habit of chattering about it to any busybody.

I said, of course, I quite understood, and would value his confidence all the more on that account. He told me that he had found his fiancee one Saturday afternoon behind the sideboard in his father’s dining-room. She was slight and small and had a club-foot and a hare-lip and, consequently, a limp and a lisp. She was near-sighted and carried an ear-trumpet, being too nervous to use electrical equipment to aid her deafness. She was not very good-looking, but, as Chippen said, you can’t have everything. Chippen had rescued her single-handed, and this had been the turningpoint of his life. He had, he said, realised at last his boyhood dream of rescuing a maiden in distress and felt bound to fall in love with her. This he had done. She had, he said, many admirable qualities, which were none the less admirable for being hidden from the casual view. He himself was not sure what they were, which, besides giving him a sense of mystery and adventure, was proof of their delicacy. The finer qualities, he said, are never the obvious ones.

I said that I heartily agreed with him. I said also that I was touched by his story, which revealed a refinement which the unthinking would not think to find in one of - 62 -

his physique. I was moved to confess my affection for him and to express the hope that he and his fiancee would visit me at home.

His answer was a loud snore. Poor fellow, he must have been worn out. I made myself as comfortable as I could in my restricted space and occupied a sleepless night meditating on many things and looking forward to tomorrow’s endeavours.

Notwithstanding my discomfort it was one of the happiest nights I have ever spent.

The expedition was going well, we were a united and happy party; the support was splendid. I was with my friends. What more could a man want? I drifted fitfully to sleep finally with the words of Heretyc in my mind: “Happiness is not a state to arrive at but a manner of travelling.”

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Stage 5: Égletons to Villefranche C H A P T E R

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V I I I

Our Team unexpectedly join up with a group of Cycling Ladies

Our breakfast routine returned to normal when I was forced to rouse Chippen from his lateral lassitude and commiserate with Cough who summarised his distress as being a deep discombobulation. I was able to augment the usual meagre fare at breakfast with the remaining bananas from yesterday. This did little to lift the spirits.

Wander further dampened the mood by suggesting that, though the distance today was marginally shorter than previous days, barely reaching 100 miles, the terrain would provide us with plenty of challenges.

He suggested that although for much of the day we would be riding across a wide limestone plateau, called a ‘Causses’ locally, these would be deceptively hard work and periodically crossed by rivers which would entail a steep descent and a steep climb to retrieve our elevation. I reminded everyone that our efforts today would put us in good stead as we got gradually nearer the mountains, and quoted the words of Heretyc, “If you aren’t going all the way, why go at all?”

Sooner, rather than later, we were gathered outside ready for our departure. Again we had a southerly wind but today it was rather damper than yesterday and was probably an “Ostro’. I feared in may be bring inclement weather with it. I refrained from mentioning this for fear of disturbing the rather fragile mood of the team further.

In good formation the team left the village of Égletons behind and started the gradual climb up to the Causses and Saint-Merd-de-Lapleau. The Reverend, who miraculously, was still with us enquired If anyone knew who this unfortunately named Saint-Merd was, but of course he could hardly expect an answer from us. As Marx, Barthes and Skeleton rode off into the distance the rest of settled down into an autobus as we helped each other across the undulating terrain and fought the headwind. Chippen muttered something about leeches when he realised the Reverend was not taking his turn at the front but I was more than pleased to see that the Reverend had heeded my concerns of yesterday and was staying with us. Of course I was also concerned that he was causing some discontent in the peleton by not doing his fair share of the work. It is for this reason that I joined him as a wheelsucker and remained at the back of the autobus for several miles.

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Fairly soon we started an extremely steep descent through some violent switch-backs before we crossed the River Dordogne and began an equally steep climb out of the valley on the other side to reach Bassignac-le-Haut. Our breathlessness hardly left any room for admiring the views here and so we pressed on hoping to catch those out in front. The next few miles remained much the same as we passed through Saint-Privat and then Saint-Cirgue-de-la-Loutre before a long descent following a stream took us to another large river, the name of which eluded us, before following this upstream for a while and then crossing and climbing up onto the Causses once more on the other side at Les Pernière Haute. We found ourselves in a very remote area now with only the smallest of hamlets to pass through. We had long since finished the last of the bananas and I could sense that the team were flagging and quickly needed an injection of energy.

It was then, just as we were approaching Sousceyrac, that we happened to come across Skeleton, Marx and Barthes with our support van who were busy setting up lunch on a roadside picnic table. This was splendid news and I was much gratified to learn that that these three had noticed the lack of amenities in the area and taken it upon themselves to arrange, via our loyal support, to gather enough sustenance for all of us. It was an especially welcome repast which was augmented by Chippen suddenly producing a great quantity of cheese, which he said he had procured the night before at the restaurant. I wasn’t quite sure whether this was quite the done thing, to raid the cheese board, but I was not going going to chastise him at this time, in front of the men, when the mood had changed from dark to bright with some smartly realised esprit-de-corps.

With some care I encouraged the picnic party to forego the temptations of a lingering lunch and managed to get them back on the road. I felt it was imperative that we should not allow ourselves to become so sated at lunch that we would require a nap. Fortunately a huge Tarte au Noix was produced to end the meal and this provided the necessary sugar rush to rouse us. This was just as well as we still had half of our day’s ration, at 50 miles, to complete.

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The terrain in the afternoon was much the same as it had been in the afternoon. It was a rather scrubby landscape, mainly flat on the plateau, with dry-stone walls and little undergrowth and small trees. A few flocks of sheep were encountered here and there. The villages were few and far between and we passed through several of them without seeing a single soul. Ghost villages, Rover called them.

The group was cycling well together with few problems aside from the fact that the Reverend singularly refused to take his turn on the front. This caused continued mutterings from Chippen and I thought I would have to do something about it in order to retain some semblance of parity within the group. I subsequently dropped to the back of the peleton and quietly suggested that, for the benefit of all, we should just drift off the back of this group and maintain a safe distance from those doing the work at the head of our train. The Reverend was more than keen to acquiesce to this suggestion and we spent the rest of the day with our fellow riders a comfortable 30 seconds in front of us. It was thus in this way that we escaped the tongue of Chippen’s scorn for the remainder of the ride.

That was until we across the group stopped somewhere near Saint-Cirgues.

Apparently Wander had braked hard when a Red Squirrel had run across the road in front of him. So hard in fact that he had somersaulted over his handlebars and crashed head first into the road. He was, however, none the worse for wear and merely a little dizzy and with a small patch of road rash on his thigh for his pains.

These pains were multiplied by Cough’s application of some astringent disinfectant to the cuts and bruises. before long we were all on our way again and the Reverend and I once more took refuge by slipping discreetly off the tail of the gruppetto.

It wasn’t long after that that the road started to descend from the Causses, first gently and then steeply as we came down to the River Cele which we then followed, rather freewheeling, all the way to Figeac, which was busier than we expected as it turned out to be market day and it was just closing as we arrived. In no mood to stop amongst all this chaos our group managed to wend it’s way through the town, through the grislier parts of the industrial estates and back up onto the Causses on the other side.

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Our relief at being back in the countryside was however briefly cut short by the fact that we had another treacherous descent to make down to the larger River Lot at La Madeleine and an equally stiff climb on the other side to Causse-et-Diège. These ups and downs were putting a strain on the composure of the group but between gasping breaths Wander was able to assure us that the meat of the day had been done and that in fact we only had a mere 15 miles to ride. The relief all round was palpable.

It was shortly after this that we came upon a group of lady cyclists out for an excursion. It didn’t take long for Chippen to fall in with them for a chat. Harris was quick too and joined them immediately with a view to practising his French. In fact our whole group slowed down so that we could gently accompany them for a while. In view of the short distance we had to go in order to finish our day I was happy to see the men amuse themselves in this way. Harris however was to be disappointed as it turned out that the ladies were from the home-counties and were merely out for a brief ride whilst on a holiday in the Dordogne. Needless to say we did not question the whereabouts of their gentleman friends. We spent a happy halfhour in their company before we thought it best to get on. Chippen, to our amusement, tried to induce them to cycle on to our lodgings that evening for entertainment but he was dismayed to learn that they had another engagement and they politely declined.

An hour later we were descending once more from the Causses into the broad valley where we could see the rather large town of Villfranche-de-Rouergue in the distance.

It was fortunate that our lodgings were not actually in the town itself but rather in a small hamlet just to its north. Wander led us unerringly to our lodgings and we arrived much earlier that we had on previous days. Skeleton was complaining of Pins and Needles in his hands in order to excuse himself from the masseurs table but noone took any notice as a cry from Chippen alerted everyone to the fact that the place had an open-air swimming-pool. Before long everyone was in the pool, except the Reverend, through modesty, and Cough, who claimed that he thought his health was particularly susceptible and didn’t want to risk the contagion from a possibly contaminated pool. Harris further raised the mood by discovering that the place also - 70 -

had a fully stocked cold store of beers for the use of guests and consequently brought out a round for everyone. I thought it wise not to reprimand him for signing for the beers in my name rather his own. I knew I had to give him the benefit of the doubt when balancing the beers obvious contribution to the teams current joviality and the fact that I was supposed to pay for it. In fact I went back into the and bought four more rounds on the tab. That should keep them busy for the next half-an-hour, I thought, as I went upstairs for a well-earned lie down.

Dinner that evening was in-house and the menu was decided for us. We would be served with a range featuring the local cuisine. Harris had tried to make enquiries about this but had struggled when he found out that our patrons spoke only Occitan and were reluctant to engage in a more formal French. I had to sympathise with Harris’ continued attempts to grasp the language and his continued frustration at the many and varied alternative languages that we had come across on our travels.

Undismayed however he had found out that our menu tonight would almost entirely consist of duck in its varied forms and cooking styles. We were not surprised then to discover that Foie Gras was to be our starter for the evening. Chippen was ruthless in his condemnation of this delicacy and told in some rather gruesome detail of the practice of gavage, which in short is a type of forced feeding intended to enlarge the liver of geese or ducks. This information was enough to deter Cough and Skeleton from partaking but the others, especially Harris managed to finish what was served with some gusto. Our hosts served the Foie Gras with a sweet Monbazillac wine which was not to everyones taste, but of course it was finished by the time this was realised.

For the main course we were given a choice between Confit de Canard or a Maigret de Canard. Needless to say these were both duck dishes; the former being a couple of duck legs cooked slowly in its own fat and the the latter being rather bloody slices of duck breast. As both of these were presented on a giant platter is was possible for everyone to try the both. Chippen had to make do with the potatoes which this time were presented as Pommes Sarladaise; that is diced potatoes fried in duck fat with garlic and parsley. I’m afraid Chippen had to rather ignore the fact of the fat that

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was used. It didn’t seem to affect his appetite. As is common in France we were offered no green vegetables but had to make do with an uncommonly slippery salad.

Before the main course had arrived we had been offered a glass of Vin Noix as an aperitif and this had gone down very well; it’s a liqueur made from red wine and walnuts. To go with the main course pichets of Black Wine from Cahors were provided, and we discovered that these came with the price of the meal and that, much to my consternation, were constantly replaced as the team eagerly finished them. By the time the cheeses arrived, as usual before the desserts, the atmosphere was loud and convivial. A Gâteau aux Noix arrived, with an option of coffee, to round off the feast.

As is usual in these circumstances one of the discussions escalated into a bit of a shouting match. This time it concerned Phylloxera. Chippen surprised everyone by stating that the disease which had so decimated the French vineyards in the 19th Century had been caused by the introduction of grape varieties from the New World, most notably North America, where the Phylloxera Louse is endemic. This amused Harris who declared that this early attempt at genetic engineering had failed to such an extent that the French had been forced to clear their own wine varieties and import new root-stocks from all over the world. Cough remarked that it was ironic that now, when French wines were facing stiff competition with wines from the South Americas, South Africa and Australia, were in fact growing vines from these very regions. Much laughter then ensured and it was with some relief that we had no Frenchmen in our party to take umbrage at our jollity of their distant folly.

Nonetheless Rover did reprove us by calling for a toast to our hosts for providing such a hearty wine and in such copious quantities. I added that the meal in its entirety should be toasted and for this the hosts produced an Eau de Vie de Prune which practically silenced the whole room by its potent ferocity.

That night I was fortunate enough to share a room with Harris. We were both unable to sleep, and I took the opportunity to make a few kindly enquiries about his private life. I told him that it was not quite clear to me which of our party had fiancees and which had not, and I asked him if he had one. He said no. I asked him if his parents - 72 -

were still living. He said one of them was. I asked him if had any brothers and sisters.

He said yes. I told him I had three sisters. He said Oh! There was something wrong here; nobody with a sense of atmosphere could be unaware of it. I lay for a while wondering how I might make contact with him and thinking how lonely is the human spirit, especially in grief. I suspected that Harris’ taciturnity hid an aching heart.

This is the sort of situation which a conscientious leader often meets and is possibly the one case when it is kinder to ignore the other’s feelings. Although it is difficult to speak of one’s troubles it is always a relief; it is generally a greater kindness to make a sufferer speak of his sufferings than to respect his superficial desire to suffer them in silence.

The best way to invite a confidence is to give one. Guessing that Harris’ reluctance was associated with an unhappy love affair I related to him an experience of my own which, although it caused me pain at the time, was now over and done with. I hoped that this would encourage him withe hope that his pain, too, would pass.

He made no comment on my story, so I remarked that such things happened to most of us.

Again, there was no reply. But I became aware of a peculiar sound, and on looking at Harris I saw that he was curled up in bed quivering.

The poor fellow was sobbing!

Deeply moved, I put my hand on his shoulder. The sobbing became more violent.

“Tell me about it, old chap,” I said.

I thought he was going to lose control of himself altogether. But gradually the paroxysm passed. He turned over, and I saw that his cheeks were wet with tears.

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“Tell me,” I said again.

He hastily covered his face as a few last sobs were wrenched from him. Then he lay quite still.

I could not help being aware that the atmosphere had changed, and I waited now in anticipation. I was not disappointed. He began to speak, slowly at first, hesitatingly; then with increasing fluency.

Of course I cannot tell you here what was told to me in confidence. I am of the opinion that these moments are of a similar nature to a confessional in church and I shall not embarrass Harris here with what he told me. I should add however that the circumstances and emotions he related to me in the dark that evening are not of themselves embarrassing. I shall leave it at that.

When he had finished Harris was again sobbing with his face hidden in his bedclothes. I waited until the fit had passed, then assured him of my deepest sympathy and said that I knew what a relief it must have been to tell me about it. He nodded.

He was, he said, feeling better already. He had even begun to hope that he had at last conquered his grief.

I turned from him to wipe away a tear. The rewards of leadership are nor always so immediate or so intense. I went to sleep with the words of Heretyc on my mind: “Life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think.”

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Stage 6: Villefranche to Castelnaudary C H A P T E R

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I X

Wander, Skeleton, Barthes, Rover and Marx taking a Break at a Picnic Spot.

By now our team have got used to the morning ritual, all that is except Chippen who today was late as usual with Latrine Lassitude. I hoped that this didn’t indicate that the whole group had eaten unwisely last night. Cough, as has become customary, was also feeling unwell but could only describe his symptoms as “undulations”. I couldn’t quite grasp what he meant but encouraged him to be stoic in his tribulations for the sake of the rest of us. I didn’t want him to spread any discontent, neither to cast doubt on our general fitness for the day ahead.

Outside in the sun the team prepared to leave as Wander instructed us that we had about the usual 100 miles to complete, starting off with a descent into town, and then a plunge directly southwards into the heart of Languedoc-Roussillon, which would be rife with many up and downs. I told them at some point in the day the Pyrenees would make an appearance in the hazy distance. they were not to lose heart at this and I reminded them, in the words of Heretyc, “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in times of comfort, but where he stands in times of challenge.”They gave a roar of approval and we hit the road.

As Wander had correctly predicted the first few miles were easy as we descended into the valley. The traffic in the town of Villefranche-de-Rouergue meant that the team briefly split but we were together again on the other side of town, even the Reverend, as we climbed back into the hills at Sanvensa. The sun was already high in the sky and it seemed like we were due for a long hot ride. It was fortunate then that we had a wind which was almost directly on our tail; a Cers, a dry wind from the North-East.

The van was still with us at this point so I briefly dropped back to enquire after the water situation. We were fully loaded it seemed with plenty to drink, though it was sad also to report that what we had thought were Gels were in fact sachets of mayonnaise and ketchup. Once again Chippen had let us down in his quartermaster duties. It was for this reason that I rode back up the line to have a word. I thought it best not to mention the Gels to Chippen, but I did inform him that he was to be the chief water-carrier for the day. He was of course not best pleased about this, but I assured him that the others had performed this duty admirably on previous days and without complaint. He agreed and I left him mumbling under his breath some remarks which I was glad I could not hear properly. Just to be sure I mentioned to - 77 -

Harris as I rode up beside him that he too should help in the domestique duties today. This he was more than happy to do, which I thought was very generous of him, considering that he would have to bear the brunt of Chippen's moods and mutterings. I then rode up the line and spoke to the others some words of congratulations for what they had achieved so far and also encouragement for the difficulties ahead. I passed the Reverend, Skeleton, Marx, Rover, Cough and Barthes before reaching Wander at the head of our small peleton. He was in good spirits and assured me that his prowess at route-finding would not let the team down. I, in turn, assured him that I had every confidence that this would be the case.

By this time we were descending again near Bor-et-Bar via some steep hairpins to finally cross the River Viaur at La Vicasse. Up we went again, and then down again across a smaller river at Montsirat, and then up once more. This set the pattern of the day as our north-south heading meant we would cross a succession of rivers flowing east to west. Up again through Le Nauquie and down again past Las Bessede, up again to Le Truel before a rather welcome long stretch across the top of the plateau and a more reasonable gentle descent to La Bastinette and then along the river valley to the beautiful village of Monestiés. We took a break here and were dismayed to learn from Wander that we were not yet half-way. The distribution of water and peanut cups went some way to reviving us but, I must admit, it was with some reluctance that we resumed. It didn’t help that it was now the hottest part of the day.

The ride continued much as before with plenty of ups and downs. However we managed to stay together and kept to a tightly knit group on the road. Our van was conveniently trailing us and it with some pleasure that I noted that Chippen and Harris were unstinting in their efforts to ensure that everyone was provided with full water-bottles as and when required. Harris in particular was up and down the gruppetto like a yo-yo and I by no means want to castigate Chippen by making this remark as it is a difficult job leaning on the van and handing out heavy, and I daresay slippery, bottles.

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After another sequence of tiring descents and energy-sapping climbs we ďŹ nally started a rather more prolonged descent to the River Tarn and the small town of Marssac-sur-Tarn and it was here that we stopped for a an extended lunch break. The consensus was that we should relax a little in the shade of some trees in a river-side park and let the heat of the day pass before starting off again as the day began to cool. So it was they we found a picnic table and sat down to our simple lunch. The mood was quiet and subdued. I could see that everyone was tired and the conversation consequently muted. However after some sustenance and some languid napping in the sun the mood was once more raised to its usual jocular level. By this time Chippen and Harris were so energised that they took the opportunity to take a wade in the cool river though they singularly failed to induce any of the others to join them.

Back on our bikes after lunch we were disappointed to discover that our route was along a major road. Wander insisted that we had no choice and besides we would be turning off before long. He was true to his word and before long we were climbing out of the valley again and beginning our now familiar routine of climbing and descending. Two hours later we descended down to Graulhet where we almost lost sight of each other in the winding streets. Another hour, another sequence of climbs and we were at Saint-Paul-Cap-de-Joux, another hour of the same and we were at Puylaurent and yet a further hour, in a day that was becoming relentlessly tedious brought us to Revel on the edge of some daunting mountains which Wander told us were the Haute-Languedoc. He swiftly added however that these were not on our route and we would skirt them on our ďŹ nal leg to Castelnaudry, which, he continued, was now only 90 minutes away.

Thankfully he was not wrong and we arrived in the town rather later than anticipated but relieved that our harrowing and undulating day was over. We were all together for a change as we arrived with the Reverend rather insouciantly whistling at the rear with Cough who was spluttering rather badly.

After some slight problems with cul-de-sacs we eventually found our lodgings in the town whereupon everyone disappeared to their rooms for a well-deserved lie-down.

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An hour later however and Chippen and Harris were back downstairs where they passed me catching up on the expedition log, and expressing a desire to find some refreshment. I came to the door with them where I could see, across the square a suitable establishment. I game of Pétanque was in progress under the trees and they said they would go over there and would I mind telling the others, if they should reappear, that that is where they could be found. I assured them I would, and they left in remarkably high spirits.

But not in as much high spirits as I found them two hours later when I found the whole lot of them sprawled outside the bar clutching what looked like suspiciously cloudy drinks. I wasn’t surprised that they had discovered that in playing the game of Pétanque it is customary to imbibe Pastis, a local liqueur of a yellowish colour, tasting of aniseed and liquorice, which turns milky and cloudy with the addition of water. I, perhaps, need not add that it is potent. It was with some difficulty therefore that I managed to drag them away from the place in order to go to dinner. Chippen by this time had, rather characteristically, so inveigled himself with the natives that he was of a mind to invite half the patrons to dinner with us. I was forced to put my foot down at this suggestion and implored Harris to help me convey these thoughts to the locals. It was apparent however that his attempts at conversing in French were met with somewhat hostile stares and we only just managed to escape before a scuffle broke out. Much to Harris’ dismay he discovered, too late, that the locals spoke Langue D’Oc and met with his French with some rather vulgar spitting on the floor. It was just as well, I thought, that we had not antagonised them further as I was informed that we had diplomatically lost in all the games of Pétanque. I least, I thought that was what Chippen was talking about as we hurriedly left.

Langue D ‘Oc also proved our undoing at the restaurant we found around the corner and out of sight of our erstwhile adversaries. The only thing we could find to order was Cassoulet which turned out to be a bean stew overflowing with sausages and duck legs. We were served huge quantities of this, about which I had some misgivings as to the consequences for out stomachs, but aside from Chippen, everyone stuck in with some relish. Chippen unfortunately had to make do with - 80 -

Pommes Vapeur, a rather plain plate of boiled potatoes. I noticed, without mentioning anything, that he did occasionally dip into the pot to retrieve some beans in sauce. The wine as usual was plentiful and we helped ourselves to great pichets of the local wines; mostly Languedocs and Roussillon reds. These very hearty wines matched the bean stew mightily and everyone drank in great drafts. Needless to say this was on top of the beers and Pastis already consumed.

Naturally the conversations were getting slightly riotous when Harris piped up and said, “It was a great pity we were here in this region out of season as it was great Rugby country around here.” I of course pointed out that we would not have the time in any case to break off from our endeavour at this crucial juncture to watch a football match, and then Chippen added, “What about Rugby League?”. These days this game is played in the summer months, but as no-one in our party had any idea of the fixtures it was a moot point. Cough expressed the opinion that it was a great pity that the Catalan Dragons were the only Super League team from France and even that honour was dubious as they obviously had a Spanish influence too.

Wander then surprised everybody by stating that France had a chequered history in both the codes of Rugby and had at one time been thrown out of the 5 Nations for suspected professionalism. He added, knowledgeably, that consequently the northern counties had re-introduced Rugby League to the south of France in the 1930’s whereupon it had become a great success and very popular. So popular in fact, he continued, that the Vicky government in the Second World War had banned the game and accused it of being a socialist propaganda apparatus. He then continued to tell us that this meant that the French Rugby Union had stolen many players and indeed clubs before ransacking the coffers of the league for 2 Million Francs. A sum that has never been returned. Finally, he said, the history of Rugby in France is so convoluted that several famous teams have, in their history, changed codes on several occasions. Brive, for example, having gone from Union, to League and back again.

Such astonishing information from Wander almost silenced the room but soon everything was in full swing again as the team roused themselves with a few choruses

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of “Sweet Chariot”and “The Good Ship Venus”. It was at this point that we were unceremoniously thrown out of the establishment.

On our way home the whole team were unanimous in singing some further well known songs, such as “The Hole in the Elephants Bottom”, and “Rip My Knickers Away”. It was with some difficulty then that not only did I mange to quieten them down as we passed the cafe we had been in earlier but also sufficiently quiet that we could retire for the night without disturbing anyone else.

However things were going to get worse. The horrors of that meal were but a prelude to a night such as few human beings can have endured. It was, I think, about midnight when I awoke from a nightmare in which I lay at the bottom of a cliff in the Pyrenees, to find Harris lying across my chest snoring heavily and muttering.

When I pushed him off he awoke with a cry of terror and hit me on the nose, making my eyes water. I apologised for waking him, and we settled down again. I must have dozed off, for I awoke suddenly under the impression that I was riding dangerously fast down a steep hill and about to crash. I lashed out, seemingly to break my fall, and grabbed the nearest solid object - which happened to be a cycling helmet - and lashed out with it, hitting Harris full square on the head. I asked if I had woken him; and if he said what I thought he said he is not the man I think he is. I decided after careful thought that I must have imagined it, and was just dropping off again when Harris uttered a wild cry and bit me in the ear. I woke him up and suggested that it might be safer to sleep head to foot. After some strange remarks he agreed, and I started to shuffle around in the bed. It was breathless work, particularly as the air was rather fetid and pungent.

I was almost asleep again when a horrid noise sounded a few inches from my face.

Terrified, I struck out instinctively, and found myself grasping, of all things, a mouth.

This was quite horrible; I don’t think I shall ever forget the alarm and disgust which it caused me. We found out later that we had both turned around together and were still sleeping head to head. Waking suddenly out of the nightmare caused by the clutch on his mouth, Harris flung himself upon me. Still dazed by sleep and terror I fought back madly, and we were wrestling all over the bed. I was soon exhausted, and - 82 -

had almost given up hope of surviving when Harris stopped suddenly and lay where he was, panting. When we had recovered our breath and wits I apologised again, and we tried to disentangle ourselves. But this was not easy as one might expect. We were locked in a complicated embrace, half in and half out of the duvets, with clothing wrapped around us. It was pitch dark. In the middle of the operation I dropped off to sleep in a sitting position, to wake screaming under the impression that a sleeve was a snake which was trying to strangle me. I struggled desperately with the shirt before I came to my senses, making the tangle ten times worse.

We went at it again, but somehow we could never make each other understand what we were trying to do. Sometimes we would be pulling in opposite directions on the same piece of clothing; sometimes we would roll over and get our legs entangled; sometimes we would strike out in a bold bid to free an arm, and catch each other in the eye. We were continually out of breath and the pungency in the air was almost choking us. Every other minute one of us would be seized with cramp or stomachache and writhe about making it worse than ever. We kept falling asleep and waking terrified after the most hideous nightmares and awful stench.

“This can’t go on”, said Harris, and then mercifully the day dawned.

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Stage 7: Castelnaudary to PuigcerdĂ C H A P T E R

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X

Chippen is surprised at meeting a Postman on the Climb over the Pyrenees

Breakfast this morning was understandably subdued. Everyone had their head down at the breakfast table - all that is except Chippen who apparently was sleeping in due to a nervous lassitude. The Reverend tried to rouse morale by offering a grace, but no-one could raise more than a murmur. Fortunately I had taken on myself my duty as a leader to raise morale and I did this by secretly arranging for a proper breakfast to be produced. It was with some fanfare that the kitchen staff brought in a platter of rugged Saucisse de Toulouse and a plethora of boiled eggs. I must admit failure in properly explaining the concept of fried eggs, but all the same eggs are eggs. When the smells of this veritable feast reached the nose of Chippen he soon roused himself and manfully made his way downstairs to the breakfast table. It was some time before I was able to get a word in edgewise. Chippen, much to his credit, further improved by producing a flask of Armangnac which he proceeded to splash into everyone’s hot chocolate.

Suitably sustained and refreshed I called upon the team to rouse themselves for what would be our most difficult day. I reminded them of the words of Heretyc: “Only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly.”This seemed to put them in the requisite mood and it was with some difficulty that I could contain their enthusiasm for leaving immediately before Wander had had a chance to carefully review the route for the day.

The excitement was too much however and Wander was unable to contain them before they all dispersed to get ready. I sympathised with him and indeed tried to maintain discipline but in the end I concluded that we should harness the keenness that had come with full bellies and strike out whilst the iron was hot. It was only in retrospect at the difficulties we encountered later in the day that I realised the error of my judgement whereof I should have contained the excitement and let Wander have his say.

Before long we were leaving the town of Castelnaudry and crossing the Canal du Midi heading towards the Pyrenees which were ominously looming in the distance.

As everyone knew this was the Queen Stage of the whole expedition they all combined in a rather smart train as we raced across the plain at a reasonable cadence - 87-

towards Fanjeaux. The Reverend, of course, was accused of wheelsucking by Marx, but I took especial care to take my turn as the Lanterne Rouge to ensure that he was not dropped. I thought that, today, of all days, was not the time for the team to get strung out along the road.

We made good time as the foothills began to rise on our way through Caudeval although at one time the group split and I found myself in the Pursuivant group with Rover, Skeleton and the Reverend. With some effort we managed to re-connect with the leaders on the road, though I suspect that Barthes and Marx made a judicial decision to slow down somewhat to allow us to do so.

As we passed through Chalabre and onto Rivel the road began to rise. The mountains ahead of us were now obvious and daunting. But we were undaunted and rode with our heads down until we reached our first serious piece of climbing at Espezel. I must admit that here I saw the first of our group in Danseuse mode. I realised at once that in order to avoid some serious bonking that we would have to take our lunch and when we arrived in the village we pulled over at the first roadside cafe.

We settled down to our repast which consisted mostly of fries when Chippen diligently produced three bottles of Crémant de Limoux to wash it down with. I was of the opinion that this was probably not the right time to be tasting the delicate delights of this locally produced wine but once I saw how easily they dispatched it I was reluctant to intervene. I did however make sure that their was plenty of water available too and that all the water bottles were filled for the long stretch ahead.

When we hit the road some time later the real work began as the gradient increased and we started on a never ending sequence of hairpin bends. By this time all but Barthes and Marx were dancing on their wheels and in time it proved impossible to hold the team together as we stretched out across the mountain. Our difficulties were increased by a Tramontane wind which swept across the peaks. In many ways this provided some relief as it it reduced the heat of the day, but this didn’t last long as it became increasingly cold as we rode higher and higher.

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Soon we were passing the Lac de Puyvalador and shortly afterwards the Lac de Matemale. I had now lost contact with all of the team and was riding alone and breathing heavy in the rarified atmosphere as I approached 2000m. I had of course ensured that I was at the back of the group, even behind the Reverend, as I felt that it was my duty to act as a sweeper and help any unfortunate who may have fallen by the wayside in these difficult circumstances.

After we had been on the go for about four hours I found the party at the edge of a large overlook – all except Wander, who was down below us. His GPS had directed him over the cliff, and rather than make a long detour in a doubtful direction he had insisted on being lowered down the cliff, intending to reach the road further below by hacking through the undergrowth. He had been down there two hours and nobody knew if he was making progress, for his voice was multiplied by echoes and reached the surface as an undecipherable chorus. For all they knew he might be completely stuck.

It is in such moments of crisis that a mans real character is revealed. The veneer of manners and sophistication which enabled him to bluff his way in the civilised world is of no avail to him now. Unless he has a heart of oak he will show some crack or blemish, some weakness which will betray him and his comrades. I am glad to be able to record that in this emergency each and all of the party emerged with flying colours. It is perhaps not too much to say that during the final stages of the assault, when things were as black as they could be and only character stood between us and destruction, the confidence engendered by this early incident provided the last ounce of effort which enabled us to win through.

Each, of course, met the crisis in his own way. Chippen, with the sang-froid of a Napoleon, took the opportunity to recuperate his strength – sapped by altitude lassitude – by taking a nap. Barthes was attempting to catch butterflies as he felt he still required more control specimens. Rover had removed the lens of his camera and was correcting it for reduced refractive index of the rarefied atmosphere. Harris was improving his knowledge of the Catalan language by a shouting contest with Marx.

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And Cough was treating himself for swollen glands, which he suspected of being incipient.

The behaviour of my companions at this time has been, I freely admit it, an example and inspiration to me on more than one occasion when panic threatened. I was both humbled by their calmness and warmed by the confidence which they evidently placed in me, upon whom the responsibility rested. They knew I would not fail them.

But time was pressing. If Wander was to be rescued from his predicament before nightfall something had to be done, and done quickly. Obviously, someone must go down after him; but who should it be? Thanks to the mornings incident I had the answer. To Rover alone should go the privilege of risking his life for his friend.

It speaks volumes for Rover's modesty that he did his best to concede the honour to someone else. But I could not allow him to forgo his real desire, and we soon had him dangling on a rope.

After he had descended some distance he disappeared from sight, and his voice became as incoherent as Wander was. We lowered away until the rope hung slack, then awaited developments.

After some minutes it dawned on me that we now had two men down the cliff without being a step further forward. Neither could communicate with us, and we dared not haul on the ropes for fear of injuring them.

The situation was desperate.

It was Chippen who, waking up at this juncture, supplied the solution. “Send down a mobile phone” he said. “We've carried them this far, let's get some use out of them”.

It was a brilliant suggestion. Chippen, I decided, must have the honour of descending with the telephone. Like Rover, he modestly declined the privilege, but I insisted.

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Soon he too disappeared from sight. I could have sworn that his last words were something about “keep my ruddy mouth shut in future”; but this could not have been the case – unless, of course, it was another of Chippen's incomprehensible witticisms.

Barthes turned on another telephone, and we waited breathlessly. Nothing happened. A horribly suspicion came over us.

“Have the 'phones been set up properly?”I asked.

“How do I know?” said Barthes. “Wander's the expert”.

It was true. None of us knew how to use the phone, Wander was to have instructed us at the meeting in Dover, but he had been unavoidably absent.

There was nothing for it; Barthes must go down. He would get Wander to write down instructions which would be pulled up by us on a line, one end of which Barthes could take down with him.

Down he went, and up in due course came the message:”Batteries not installed. Are packed in one of the loads, but Chippen does not know which one. Send down beer.”

This, I decided would never do. Some channel of communication had to be opened. I scribbled a message: “Please tell me what to do.” I wrapped the message around the neck of a beer bottle, tied the the line around it and lowered it down the cliff. I gave them five minutes to reply and hauled up the line. The message read: “Send down another bottle.”

I hope I am not unduly harsh in thinking this an inconsiderate reply; certainly I might be forgiven for thinking so at the time. But, not wishing to appear dictatorial, I did as they requested, sending with the bottle another message: “I earnestly beg of you to consider my position. All means must be used to extricate you from your predicament. Please advise at earliest convenience.”

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Back came the following: “Yours of even date to hand. Wander overcome by vertigo. Absolutely imperative you send four bottles of beer immediately, otherwise cannot answer for consequences.”

This, of course, put the matter in a different light, and I repented my quick judgment.

I have since talked the affair over with Heretyc, who confirms my original opinion that the first message was not quite in the best tradition; but at the time I was anxious to make amends for my unfounded and ungallant suspicion that the request for the second bottle was without justification, and I thereby erred into leniency.

That the message was justified must certainly be conceded; we, that is, Heretyc and I, question only the manner in which it was delivered, which made no acknowledgment of my own difficult position. But it is hard for me, who at least on terra firma, to judge the feelings of those below. Perhaps I have, after all, been unfair to them; if so, I tender sincere apology.

I naturally lost no time in fulfilling the last urgent request, sending with the beer another appeal for instructions.

The next message read: “Wander seized with convulsions. Send down Cough with five bottles.”

This worried me more than I care to say. It seemed to me that beer was the last thing one would prescribe for convulsions. But Cough who, sick as he was, pulled himself together manfully when I read the message to him and seemed almost lively for the first time in days, assured me that it was just the thing. So we sent him down too.

I gave them time to talk over the situation, then pulled up the cord. Up came an empty bottle, with this message around its neck: “Bung Ho!” At the same moment strange sounds began to issue from down below. At first I could not believe my ears, but at last I was forced to the conclusion that my comrades were singing. Having some knowledge of English folk tunes I was able, with some degree - 92-

of certainty, to identify the music as “Dinah, Dinah, show us your leg”. Although, multiplied by echoes, it sounded rather like a full-size choir singing a kind of fugal version. The result was not unpleasing, and I rejoiced that my friends had not lost heart; but unless they intended the song as a coded message it was no help to me in my dilemma. I feared that although they were putting up a brave front my companions were in a situation of great peril.

This seemed also the opinion of Harris. “They need me down there!” he said, and before I realized what he he was about the brave fellow had pushed several bottles into his pockets, belayed the rope to a rock, and was sliding down out of sight.

Time went by, and the singing continued. I raised and lowered the line several times, but no message appeared. I was well nigh desperate. Six human lives depended on my clear thinking and decisive action; but I was completely at a loss. My impulse was to descend the cliff myself, even if I were to perish with my colleagues; but this would leave us with no means of communication with the surface. The Reverend had been praying for some time and Marx and Skeleton were itching to go down themselves when to my relief Chippen appeared climbing a rope and grabbed the edge of the cliff and dragged himself over. He was singing “Yo Heave-Ho” - as well he might.

With that rope in place one by one my companions were hauled to the surface, and a cordial reunion took place. I am not ashamed to admit that I shed a quiet tear.

Wander, carried away no doubt by relief at his narrow escape – although I like to think that some small part of his feeling was genuine affection – thumped me so hard on the back that I fell down; and Barthes, who seemed a little light-headed after his ordeal, apparently thought it of the greatest urgency that he should inform me that he had measured the depth of the cliff, which was exactly 153 feet. This seemed to him,for some reason, excruciatingly funny.

When all but Harris had been safely restored to terra-firma the team seemed to forget that one more man required pulling up and they threw themselves to the

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ground. It was only with much encouragement, and the appearance of several more bottles of beer, that I could persuade them to haul Harris up.

The team then clasped each other around the shoulders and, still in a line, capered sideways on the roadside like a row of chorus girls, singing, “Roll me Over in the Clover”. Poor fellows they were still slightly hysterical from the effects of their ordeal.

It was with some difficulty that I managed to get everyone on the road again. Our day was far from finished. We were still under the shadow of Mont Louis and had some considerable climbing to do before we reached our destination in Spain. I must admit to being amazed that our team had revived themselves so much that they fairly raced up the mountain past Super-Bolquère and shortly afterwards Font Romeu. I have no explanation for this astonishing turn of speed but can only suspect that the rest at the cliff had done everybody some good and the time spent there had allowed everyone to acclimatize to the altitude.

So it was that by an astonishing burst of energy that the whole team finally hauled themselves over the summit at Estavar, where we were surprised to meet a local postman on his bike. He surely has the toughest round in France. Chippen countered this remark by mentioning that he himself had once been a postman, albeit only briefly, and had quickly tired of the hills in Dover. Harris tried to engage the fellow in conversation, but true to form, he was unable to make any headway. Rover did manage to take photographs of the encounter, but they were unfortunately spoilt by his mis-use of a polarizer.

This was the peak of our achievements on our climb and we then freewheeled into Spain and the small town of Llivia. Little did we realize that this place was an enclave of Spain surrounded by France and that we still had to ride further to reach Puigcerdà. Finally we were truly in Spain and Catalonia. The relief was palpable as we threw ourselves into the nearest cafe and dispatched Wander to locate our lodgings.

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When, eventually, Wander returned to us we meandered our way to our lodgings where we could recuperate from our long day. Skeleton apologized to all when he discovered that we had no razors or shaving cream left and, because of such, he would be unable to offer a massage to anyone. Chippen also confessed that he had failed to pack headache tablets which Rover and Cough were requesting for their Altitude sickness. Nonetheless morale was high and everyone was in a jubilant mood after our exertions.

This mood continued at dinner when we were presented with a repast consisting of Pit de Monja, Cargolade, Fuet and Calcot. No-one of course had any idea what these were and we had to drag Harris out of the kitchen when he strayed in there to enquire. Apparently the chefs had taken exception at his attempts at Catalan when they were in fact Andorran which was nearby. Chippen of course forced into ordering a plate of Patatas Bravas which was the only dish he could remember from his trip to Cuba. Harris kindly made up for his linguistic calamity by ordering six bottles of Blanquette de Limoux which upset the sommelier somewhat as he thought Cava was more appropriate. To placate him he wisely ordered six bottles of these too.

By the time we were half through these Chippen was ready to ascertain the answer to the question of who invented bubbles in wine. Chippen was of the opinion that it was invented in England, though the Reverend interceded and said that the Romans were aware of bubbles in wine but were at a loss to explain how it happened. Harris chipped in and said that the Champagne area originally saw the bubbles as a mistake in the wine-making process and a nuisance as it led to exploding bottles and often fatal injuries. Chippen said, precisely, and then proceeded to explain that it was the English invention of superior glass that enabled the bottles to withstand the bubbles.

Wander then said that it was only at this point did the appearance of bubbles in wine become desirable and fashionable. Marx, rather surprisingly, said that in fact none of this was true and that sparkling wine was in fact invented down the road in Limoux.

We were drinking the original bubbles now he said, though he wasn’t quite sure if he had a Blanquette in his glass, or a Cava. Nonetheless he finished, “It was Dom

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Pérignon, on a visit to the Limoux region who stole the idea and took it back to Champagne.”

At this point I thought the situation was rather getting out of hand and took the opportunity to address everyone and congratulate them on their splendid efforts. To calm them I ordered a round of Absinthe and offered a toast to them and success and, in the words of Heretyc, said “There are no secrets to success: don’t waste time looking for them. Success is the work of perfection, hard work, learning from failure, loyalty to your comrades and persistence.”

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Stage 8: PuigcerdĂ to Barcelona C H A P T E R

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X I

Chippen and Harris on the Beach at Barceloneta

Everyone came down for breakfast in time except for Chippen who, he told us later, was suffering from Wind Lassitude. Finally we had another decent breakfast. It was such a shame that we had rode nearly 900 miles and travelled into Spain to get it. We settled down to our Café con leche, the Pa amb tomàquet (Tomatoes on Toast) and the Tortilla de Patatas (essentially an omelette with potatoes). The best breakfast of the whole trip and a fine way to start our last day. Chippen did come down eventually and had to rush through his breakfast which unfortunately did not improve his mood.

Outside everyone was already out in the sun ready to start the day. All the machines were in surprisingly good condition after the ordeals of yesterday and we were ready for the off. I reminded them them that now was not the time for failure and one last determined effort would take us to our destination. We had struggled through the climbs of yesterday and today was the day we could could relish our achievements on reaching our goal. All we needed was wisdom and maturity. I quoted Heretyc again to inspire the team to one last effort. "Maturity is realising you used to be an fool; common sense is trying not to be a fool now; wisdom is knowing you could still be a fool in the future." I was confident that we could escape any foolishness today and arrive finally, sated with our achievements.

Cough however began to splutter and claimed he was still suffering from Ozonitis.

Luckily he had taken a dose of something from the bar to counter this and was encouraged by my assertion that once we had descended from the mountains a little he would feel better. I did however neglect to mention that the ozone at the seaside at our destination could quite overwhelm him, but at the same time I anticipated that his excitement at his achievements would overcome the slight inconvenience of feeling unwell.

As we left the village of of Puigcerdà the road descended as we meandered our way towards Alp, before beginning a long slow climb through La Molina and beyond.

The wind, a Marin, was coming at us from the south-east, and we hugged together as a gruppetto to take as much out of it as we could. The plan today was to stick together on the road and make ourselves a chain-gang. I was aware however that the - 99 -

Reverend would of course do his usual disappearing trick and drop off the back. I implored him to stay with us today and offered to help him ride back to the group if ever he should drop behind. He scowled at this suggestion and muttered something about how I could be a trail angel if I wanted too but he would do as he pleased if he found some interesting distractions that may waylay him. I was forced to accept his argument that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for him to visit the churches of this remote area. I concurred as manfully as I could and consoled myself in the knowledge that I had done my best to hold the group together and that it was my duty to allow this wayward soul to plough his own furrow whilst I concentrated on the majority who were considerately helping each other up the long climb. All that is except Cough who was merely hanging on to our shirt tails.

Of course much of the day is about descending and we have a splendid time scorching down the road to Castellar de N'Hug although Chippen is embarrassed to admit that he can't find our wind jackets and that we are forced to pick up newspapers to stuff down our shirts to keep the chill off our chests.

Our next climb and descent brought us past La Pobla de Lillet with another long descent through Saint Jaunde de Frontanya and down to Borredà and up again and down again along the dusty roads to El Molanes where we decided to stop for lunch.

Harris went inside after we'd waited outside for a while and nothing happened. He came back out rather quickly however claiming that his attempt at Catalan had been misunderstood as unfortunately he had inadvertently used some Basque phrases that were unwelcome in these parts. The menu of course was completely baffling to us and we just ordered a variety of what was available: botifarra, escalivida, and escdella. Chippen of course went for the obvious and ordered Patatas Riojanas and a carafe of wine for all of us. I was shocked at this and suggested that we should really hold back from the celebrations until we had actually achieved our aims. It was of course too late. The wine had been ordered and when it arrived I was further shocked to discover that tradition demanded that it was served in a porrón which is a spouted bottle which is poured directly into the mouth. It is with some dismay that I have to report that many of these were subsequently ordered and that lunch took much longer than I would have wished. Finally the waiter reappeared so that the bill - 100 -

could be paid and we were able to rouse Chippen from his slumber by offering him a glass of Aguardiente which had been brought out, on the house, for all of us.

Maintaining our gruppetto and chain-gang after lunch was going to be a more difficult proposition.

We were just about to get going when I noticed that Barthes and Rover were missing and that I had to send Wander out to find them. Wander came back five minutes later saying he had not seen him but fortunately Barthes himself then arrived all excited about having seen a Scarce Swallowtail, which Rover had photographed. I was forced to admonish them for delaying us on our final stretch but of course I had to admire Barthes too for his dedication in continuing his studies even into the final day. It was unfortunate that Rover had been unable to photograph the butterfly properly due to his macro lens being packed up in the van somewhere.

Fortunately we did not have long to ride after lunch and our destination would shortly be coming in to view. In any case Barthes and Marx had taken over the role at the Tete de la Course and were keeping every one on the move. Chippen, struggling to keep a straight line, was often to be found taking the Sticky Bottle route as he dropped back to the van to demand more water and more sugar. All we had left was liquorice and it was as much as Chippen could do to pass this onto Skeleton who duly rode up and down the line to deliver it. I myself dropped back to Chippen in order to give him some encouragement for the last few miles. I was afraid that his leaning on the van would inevitably lead to a disaster and I was adamant that he should forego this convenience and stick himself instead on the tail of our gruppetto.

Fortunately at this time our destination could be seen.

As we came over the last hills of Saint Quirze and Saint Feliu the city came into view and we began our last descent to the ocean shimmering in the distance. We were all together except for the Reverend who as usual had dropped off the back some time ago. We wearily guessed that he had decided that the only way to arrive in Barcelona was via the unfinished cathedral of Gaudi at La Sagrada Familia. He had his destiny with his maker and we had ours on at a beach-side bar and a dip in the sea. We

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would make sure later to remind him that in fact it's not a cathedral and that Barcelona Cathedral is in fact the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia.

I brought up the rear. I was quite sad when I turned my back on the majestic stage where we had played our drama of suffering and triumph. When my companions broke into song with “If I were the Marrying Kind”, I almost sobbed. But I comforted myself with the thoughts that our suffering was not yet over, and as I followed the happy and united party I was cheered by the reflection that our friendship had been tempered into bonds of steel by the perils we had faced together.

I was tasting the keener rewards of leadership.

As we descended we of course encountered the city traffic and this played havoc with our tired legs and cross-eyed concentration. Eventually we came down to the promenade road and were soon shunted onto a cycle path running along the seafront. It didn't take long for Chippen to decide that enough was enough and to fling himself at the first bar that offered seats on the beach facing the sea. The bikes were thrown down and admirably, before even the first drinks, the team was up to its waist in the ocean, whooping and hollering.

Five minutes later the group was flopped at the bar sinking the first of many celebratory drinks. I helped load the bikes away in the van quietly as the alcohol rubbed away the tiredness.

It would have been pleasant at this point for everyone to have had the massage they deserved after such a monumental effort in getting here over the last week.

Unfortunately Skeleton was unable to deliver, even on this last day, as we had no massage-oil left anyway. Somehow it had all mysteriously disappeared. To his credit Skeleton did offer to retreat to the nearest supermarket to acquire some olive-oil for the purpose but this offer was loudly refused in exchange for a bottle or two of Cava.

This brought snorts of derision from the rest of the crew and most of it was exhaled back through the nose on tasting it. More beers were ordered to smooth the tickled palates.

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By this time the mood was getting raucous as Chippen and Harris started to

The Bicycles are no longer required mercilessly annoy the waiter at every opportunity, which were many, as the beer, flowed as they insisted that Espanyol were the proper team to support in Barcelona and all that nonsense about Barcelona being a peoples team was mere blather. I feared that the situation would get out of hand but as luck would have the long day was catching up with Chippen as his lassitude returned and he fell asleep in the warm sun.

As they sprawled there Harris suddenly asked about the cable-car strung out across the water in the distance. No-one knew so they dragged the waiter over and he said that was Barcelona. “That's Barcelona!”, Harris exclaimed, “So where are we now?”. “This is La Barceloneta”, the waiter explained, “Barcelona is 2 kilometres away”.

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The Team at the end of the Adventure We were of course dumbfounded and turned to Wander who had decided on our route and destination. He was distraught and immediately offered to get all the bikes back out and ready to finish the last 2km. “Sod off”, everyone said, in spluttering unison, “Just get another round in.”

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The Author, Chippen and Harris in the Pyrenees

Three days later we stood below the summit of the Pico D'Aneto, facing the massif of the Pyrenees for the last time. The evening sun had sunk below our horizon. The wilderness of mountains around us was a symphony in modulated shadow. Beneath us the utter blackness of river gorges. Only the Pico D'Aneto itself stood in the sunshine, its great pyramid framed against a turquoise sky. The vast icy precipices and snowďŹ elds glowed with changing sunset tints.

It was a ďŹ tting farewell from a mighty mountain range. Chippen put his hand on my shoulder and Harris took his place beside me, and together we made our way through gathering darkness to our halting-place in the valley.

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Acknowledgements C H A P T E R

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X I I

This account is, of course, a pastiche, but not a parody, of W.S. Bowman’s “The Ascent of Rum Doodle”, which is, as you’ll agree, a much funnier book.

When I say a pastiche I mean, without fear of contradiction, that it is a downright outrageous plagiarism and for this I wholeheartedly, and unreservedly, apologise.

Thanks also to those who provided the photographs used, who remain both timeless and anonymous.

I must, to finish, also acknowledge the feats of House, House, Gough, Gough, Moses, Moses, Bartolo, Skelton, Austen and Richards, who are not the Firemen of Trumpton, as you might expect, but the poor souls who completed the actual ride.

The true exploits are revealed in “Barca Ten 1000 Mile Bike Challenge.”

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G R E E N

R I V E R

P U B L I S H I N G

The Descent: Calais to Catalonia First published in 2013, The Descent: Calais to Catalonia has quickly become established as a cycling classic. As an outrageously funny spoof many thought was inspired by the 1953 conquest of Everest. But Bowman has drawn on the flavour and tone of earlier adventures, especially Bill Tyman and his 1937 account of the Nandi Devi expedition.

“Wonderful ... Descent does for Cycling what Rum Doodle did for Mountaineering and Three Men in a Boat for Boating.”S R House

“Exceedingly funny ... as if the hero of A Diary of a Nobody, had in a moment of abandon, turned to Cycling.”CW

“It is an epic. It is Homeric. It is inspiring.

Read it and be moved.”A King