June 6

The hikers like to make an early start. Everyone is up and about by 7 and leave before 8 am.  I load the bike and say goodbye to my host who reminds me of John Cleese but without the rudeness or funny bits. Last night at arrival, I declined to purchase dinner as I already had eaten. However he still offered me a free dinner including ice cream when I sat with the hikers while engaging in conversation. I declined both and explained that while riding a motorcycle, you need to limit your intake.

I came here to ride the mountains, and that is what I am going to do. I am now in Spain, south of the Pyrenees and will ride back north again, crossing the highest passes and through the thick forests along its southern slopes.

Around lunchtime I am back in France and pass the famous town of Lourdes. It is renowned for its “healing waters”, or so they let millions of RC believe. The only thing I observe is a circus of activities mainly to do with the accumulation of money. Martin Luther would have field day here. If these waters are supposed to work, why are there so many shops selling wheelchairs and the like? A good friend of mine (who is in a wheelchair) told of a joke that goes around. “I went to Lourdes and came back with…new tyres”. There is an element of truth in that. If this is all for real, there should be wrecking yards full of old wheelchairs and crutches.

Anyway, it is weird to see people walking along running their hands along the wet rocks. There are a few drips here and there which make them stand in line to catch them. No need, however, just go to a shop and buy a Mary shaped bottle and fill it from one of the dozens of taps on the other side of the cave.

 I look at it from a distance and think. “I just hope for one miracle:  That a certain group of these people who are part of this organisation keep the hands off our children.”

I ride on towards Saint Plancard, where I had booked a farm stay in the middle of nowhere. I only had an approximate location and a name. Riding around does not produce a result.

So, back to the village where there is no one to be seen until I spot an old lady tending to her garden. Yes, she knows and tried to explain the location, but there are too many left and right turns to remember. A local farmer had seen me going up and down the road and was waiting for me with his dog. I got a more straightforward explanation now as I was closer to my destination

Turn left and go up the mountain track! Ok, Mercy messieurs.  On top of the hill, I find many farms and stop at the second one I pass. Another lady walking around her barn looks at me when I stop. When I tell her where I need to go, she says: ”Wait here, I get my car so you can follow me.”  500 meters down the road, I find the place.

The lady bids me farewell and hands me a bottle of cider.

I am greeted by a 24-year-old young man from Bath in England. His parents had purchased one of these derelict farms, of which there are many, and made a sea change to France to retire there. The restoration which is also funded by renting out rooms is slow but steady. An excellent place with massive oak floors, ceiling and furniture, and with a large open fire in the living area. At night I do some writing accompanied by the two dogs who beg for attention.  We eat cherries fresh from the tree and enjoy the view towards the mountains in the distance. Life is good.