We awoke before dawn to an average breakfast and an eerily
quiet Royan. We jumped tentatively on the bike and wheeled down abandoned
streets down to the dock. It was decidedly cold. Slight shivers in the Lycra
were made up for by the sun creeping up the sky over the Bay of Biscay.
At the end of its long journey to the Atlantic, the Gironde river was vast at this point. The Medoc was though visible in the distance across the blue-brown watery masse. The ferry ride was exhilarating. Along the way, beautiful views, a stiff coffee and anticipation of the day ahead.
Thankfully, the collective injuries were just about holding together with a collection of strapping, ibuprofen gel and a spot of getting on with it.
LE MÉDOC
We rolled off into the winelands to a perfect blue sky and a
warming sun. One of my best cycling days lay ahead, improved by each impromptu
stop and interluding pedal.
An hour on the road and ever-increasing streams of vineyards
indicated that our first winery visit was already overdue. Without any pre-plan
or wine tour map, we selected at random what turned out to be a vast
cooperative institution, selling wine by the crate to French hypermarche.
Production for the masses, but we had the place to ourselves, taken around by a
very friendly lady. After a fair selection of tasting, we were taken to two
vast, jaw dropping halls. The first was the cellar, lined with row after row of
giant barrels, containing the equivalent of 2 MILLION bottles of
red wine. We literally chuckled with amazement at the sight. This second was the
warehouse, this time chucked full of 2 MILLION actual bottle of wine.
Outrageous. It made me thirsty.
With a bottle of red wine in each side saddle, we jumped
back on the bike to put some KMs behind us. As we made progress the scenery
turned stunning. Gentle, twisting slopes rulered by vines as far as the eye
could see.
By later morning we made it to a pretty, seemingly
well-to-do ville. Seeking another wine tour, we followed signs to a Chateaux in
la centre de la ville. It was one heck of a grand looking place, with big gates
and winery sign. We rang the buzzer. Nothing. Rang again… and again… and again
until we got an answer. We asked for a wine tour. A more than a little snooty
and not so slightly derisory voice responded “Do you have a reservation or are
you a wine critic?” After a response in the negative, we were told to go
elsewhere. Nice!
Onwards we rode, through a mixed countryside of farms and
vineyards, before we had the fortune of stumbling upon more vineyard signs. We
rode in and found a very classy winery in renovated stables. Despite out our
sweaty cycling attire, the lady who worked there welcomed us in, gave us ample
tasters and explanations as to the history of wine in the region (historic
markings, nomenclature et al). Not done there, she recommended another winery
down the road and even rang the place so we would be welcomed. Another bottle
in the bag, we cycled to the next winery, had another tour, more tasters,
another bottle in the bag and a new recommendation. And so it went on, creating
a simply wonderful day through the beautiful countryside, drinking red wine and
meeting nice people.
A little lost by this point (having been following assorted vineyard
signs rather and only very approximately heading in the direction of Bordeaux),
we found ourselves back by the Gironde somewhere near Pauillac. The river had
narrowed by this point, and we took a late lunch at a small restaurant facing
its banks. A tiny bit wore for wear, we Some late lunch by the river and we
belatedly got back on the bikes, followed the river for a bit an then headed
back in land to find one last vineyard. We found a proper grand chateaux and, resting
our tired legs, were able to sip wine before a view of sun-drenched vines spilling
into he middle distance. Not bad at all.
On we pedalled. By this point I fear we were looking less than civilized, with our water bottle holders each replaced by bottles of vin rouge, but we rolled with it. I do not know if it was the wine tasting or reality, but the countryside seemed to take one final burst of stunning. I recall gliding down a gently curving hill, bisecting the vines with elation. Cycling at its best purges everything out your mind and leaving a wonderful sense of now. It was exhilarating.
BORDEAUX
Sadly for the day, but happily for my dodgy knee and Dave’s
dodgy ankle, we were approaching Bordeaux. Looking at the map, a sensible way
in seemed along roads parallel and to the West of the river. Taking this route,
the journey soon took a turn for the worse. A combination of large roads, rush
hour, road works and cobbles brought us back to reality. There was even a spot
of rain thrown in.
Fortunately - and I mean that given previous final
destination falls in Paris, Brussels, Hamburg and Bilbao - we all stayed up
right to the city centre. This is despite some ill-advised road furniture
avoiding, pannier laden, bunny hops and a close call with my personal nemesis, mid-road
tram lines.
After some mild disappointment at the outskirts, the centre
of Bordeaux immediately blew me away. Grand buildings, beautiful boulevards and
tucked away squares, all flanked by the arching Gironde. The sun came out, we
found a café and savoured the combination of place, sun and mini achievement of
having completed this cycle tour despite the ailments.
When you complete something – be it exams, a challenge, a
trip or an adventure – I find the mind conveniently forgets about the doubts
you housed at the outset, as if they were never there in the first place. This
was a rare occasion to the contrary. Given the pretty major health issues I
rolled into this trip with, I was genuinely relieved and more than a little
surprised that we managed to finish the route.
After finding our hostel and uncorking one of the bottles we had picked up along our route, we had just enough energy left for a half decent night out in
the splendid city, sticking on the red juice for which the region is famed. Mildly
hungover, this was followed by an early farewell to Uwe, a minor hell-raiser
tour along the river with Dave on a shared electric scooter, the usual
nightmare to find bike boxes and a worse that usual rush hour public transport transit to the airport (try getting bike boxes onto a ram-packed tram!).
I was all worth it. Another 390 km in the bag and none of us to worse for wear.
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