BONJOUR FRANCE

Southern France

After crossing from Spain over Le Perthus which is apparently one of the Pyrenees lowest mountain passes (obviously a lie giving the burning in my thighs, rosy cheeks and distraught lungs) it was into France. Here the wind had decided to turn into an exceptional bastard and hit me from every angle possible. Cheeks were ruffled, chins were wobbled and wrong turns taken, but soon France began to unveil her rugged beauty.

I took this as an opportune moment to switch from Spanish to French maps. It seemed the French were a little underwhelmed by the name of the NII, thinking a jazzy D900 would be more appropriate. But it was no more exciting, the bland dual carriageway mysteriously empty and fervently wind battered. It seemed to take particular delight in howling about your ears for five minutes, then stopping dead, only to reappear below and give the underside of your chin a good seeing to. It was also creating a hurricane of household waste. first, a pilchard tin whistled past my spokes. Who eats fish by the side of the road? There was no time to answer as a fizzy pop can bounced with deadly intent towards my face. I ducked left, tropical I noted, as its pineapple logo whistled past my eye socket. I veered to the safety of a supermarket car park.

I made it to the town of Pollestres which, sadly, wasn’t the place where Bowie’s seventies stage costumes were manufactured but did provide me with my first French cultural exchange and rare possibility of a Starman anecdote. Sadly, as I placed my bounty of cheese, meat and fruit on the checkout my French wasn’t up to the barrage of questions fired at me and I ended up clutching six plastic bags I hadn’t asked for. I took a table for one behind a large sign advertising washing detergent and ate my saucisson baguette, its cheese slices trembling in the breeze. I’d become surprisingly adept at picking some of the worst places to have a picnic: sunless car parks, glassy backsides of petrol stations, ant-infested verges and now wind-rushed supermarkets. Hark at the glamour Bowie’s lyric had bestowed on me.

I skedaddled onwards, high up into wine country on the lazy insistence of my sat-nav. Even though I knew it didn’t feel right, I trusted this bike robot from the future and, besides, wine country really wasn’t that a bad place to get lost - even if it was a long way from anywhere, especially Bowie. As I rode into the lawless wind and fought up and down valleys flanked by rustic vines, the lactic acid began to burn and carefree whimsy was replaced with an itch of lonely uncertainty.

That’s why it was quite frankly a delight when ten kilometres later I spied two cyclists on the side of the road. They were going to get a monstrous talking to. Pulling up with a maniacal look that screamed, ‘Speak to me about Bowie, pleeeeeease!’ I gathered myself.

Turns out they were a group of Russian touring cyclists big on smiles, back pats and wraparound shades. Teethy grins, points and an enthusiastic vandalisation of my notebook was the upshot of this little biker exchange. The Bowie thread and meaning to Life on Mars? lost as my diary was decorated with drawings of the river Volga, people’s names and someone’s uncle’s address. It was settled, I was to visit Kazan after October 2nd when they finished their cycle trip. I wasn’t really sure what just happened, but I think being talked at about Russian rivers made me feel better. I burned on into late afternoon as chateaus romanced, the flitting wind serenaded, my lungs filled with a sea-salt breeze and the glinting coastline of the Cap d’Agde announced itself in a blaze of burning sky.

I turned into a campsite and decided my isolation was over, the contents of panniers spewing over the bustling campground and old French people’s sandals. But as I set up camp for the night and looked at the tangle of salt-crusted clothes, half-chomped baguette and quick drying towel draped across my bike (that doesn’t dry you quickly at all), I realised these were now all my worldly possessions and had stated to feel like my home. Also, handily, it acted as a clothes dryer, armchair, kitchenette and small fromagerie.