Jeremiah Watt-saddlemaker

Blog45-Pan-eurasia completed

Lisbon, let me say. Is not a city that you easily roll into. Its hilly, its extremely narrow in street width, once you get into the older portions of Lisbon you contend with cobbles and tram tracks as well as cars which really aren’t that polite. In reflection, China as it turns out has been one of the easiest countries to ride a bike in, and as far as individual cities, then I think Florence was maybe the easiest to simply ride thru. But lets not get to far ahead of ourselves, we left off with all of Portugal layed out in front of Jeremiah and his Surly bike. While Jeremiah may be a little sore in joint and tendon, we have however concluded the pan-eurasian portion of the round the world bicycle journey. Following this we will be riding on US soil and happy for it. Some will ask, what is this RTW thing I am seeing. Simply a well known acronym for – round the world, and apply it to whatever means of travel you have chosen.

AW

As stated many times now, I pick my own route, no mapped out routes provided by other previous adventure cyclists. Very simply, I look over my Google maps, try to find the smallest roads I can ride which lead me in a general direction that I want to go. It should’nt be so simple you may say, but indeed it is. My route is my route, I remain flexible to any and all advice from the road as I ride. I have on occassions, found sites along the way that appeal to me, these will get marked on the map and if it works out, we take them in.

Crossing into Portugal due south of Ciudad Rodrigo, I then turned due west and made a long arching route to Subragal. Rolling countryside swept past the wheels of my Surly, it was easy on the eyes of the rider as well. Very pretty the eastern edge of Portugal. Now I had thought that the Brits and the Croates stacked alot of rock, but here, along the eastern frontera, there is a massive amount of rock stacked. Its not simply the miles of wall that you see, nor number of complete barns made of stacked rock. Its more than that. I was caught by the sheer immencity of some of the rocks that have been stacked, adding all the more to that sense of amazement. Portugal is a wet piece of Gods Creation, with abundant rain and fog. So trees, if older, are festooned with long tendrils of Spanish Moss, rock walls will be covered with a vibrant green carpet of moss in time, all of which adds to the photographic allure of the tiny villages the Surly rolls thru. My friend Buddy Goodman ( Warthan Canyon rock stacking champion in 1987 and again in 2007) would fit right in with these folks.

There are plenty of fields where it is now obvious to me that hogs are being raised for the Iberico style hams, many fields of cattle are passed, not all are fighting type cattle, but certainly many are. Subragal, a city built around a hilltop fort which looks down at the banks of a passing river, dating back to its 1465 birth. Subragal, lay draped around the hillside, like the folds of a blanket, wrippling around the edges with the undulations of the Portugese countryside. Supragal is also the first place where I witnessed a truck load of cork bark being hauled in for its production. The whole cork thing is very interesting to me, yet I never did get to see it being harvested, nor did I fjnd anyone to talk about its harvest and production. Not for lack of trying, all I managed to find out is tbat you need a license to be a harvestor, and trees are protected. The bark is peeled away in large sheets from the trunk of the tree, leaving a vibrant red coloration to those trees that are freshly peeled. The trees are then given a number, the number tells inspectors how many years have passed since it was last harvested. There is an lbvious point atwhich the harvestors must quit or they stand to have damaged the tree, but on some trees they harvest up onto the lowest branches and on some not. Questions I would like to ask, but found no one to pose the question to.

I mentioned clear cut logging as well taking place on the red sandy soil of Portugal, indeed there is much of it taking place. Having been a logger in my own past, I find it interesting and as such parked my Surly and took a walk out thru several logged areas. Trees cut at very small diameters, down to as small as 4″, moist red sand soil, they used feller bunchers and grapple type skidders……..I could tell, there tracks were still warm………ha,ha, just kidding. What I did witness as it pertains to the Cork Oak, and place there was ANY size of this Oak growing, the loggers worked all around it without disturbing it. Within less than a year the whole area has been terraced on steep hillsides, and trees are once again planted covering and protecting the soil from erosion. And the cycle begins yet again.

While Jermiah, and his Surly bike rolled thru eastern Portugal, south of Subragal, it became very evident that the hills were getting far larger, far steeper, and poochy maggie there are a bunch of them to contend with. After Subragal, the open fields, stacked rock and farming give way to quite heavy forest cover. The forest looks to be mostly planted Pine and Eucalyptus. Huge stands of it ranging over hill after hill. It appears to be harvested at a very young age, the trees are maybe 8-12 inch diameter when you see them being hauled. It would be my guess that they go into paper production, since they are so small and cut in what looks to be 6 foot lengths.

Quite a bit of the ride was over this rather hilly tree covered countryside, so it was not all that scenenic since immature forests are hardly magnificent. topped off with heavy fog till 10 or later in the morning and you are left with nothing to do but peddle. The hills of Portugal, while nothing in height nor magnitude when compared to the mountains that Pine and I have conquered earlier in our RTW journey, were non-the-less almost my undoing. I would guess its the combination of steepness along with the sheer number of climbs all stacked onto rather tired legs. I would place the day before Lisbon’s entry as one of the toughest 5 days of the trip thus far, yet I know that there are many more that lay ahead in crossing USA.

Second from last day, and near the end of the day. I took a turn into Salvatorre da Magos, not even sure why except maybe to take abreak. Idling down the main street of this small village, at town center stands a huge bronze which lionizes the art of Portugese Bull Fighting heritage. A magnificent piece by a talented artist, fully capturing that tension between the tip of the piquet which is centered on the bulls shoulders, and the fierce look in the eye of the bull in his determination to win his way thru in this fight for life. It’s a great bronze too walk around, you can almost hear the crowd cheering, sense the intermingling odors of sweat, sand and blood as the epic battle takes it’s course. Somewhere to the far end of the main street I pass a small store front with a SADDLE………. I said a saddle. Yes indeed, sitting out front the store. Naturally, Jeremiah had to go in and check things out. Its contains some really classy leather as well as clothing items, all of which invoke the Portugese style of horsemanship and horse culture. The smells of leather and fine woolen wear greet me as I enter thru the doorway, a firm handshake and an amiable smile, again of the Portugese manner. Hooks on the walls hold handmade bridle headstalls, handmade half leggings etc, and mannequins sport all manner of traditional rider accutrements made of wool and leather. The saddler, Marco Pimental, the store is “EquiUSA”, Marco is an acfable fellow who does really fine work, I invite you to check him out on Facebook.

Its my guess the word was out, theres a biker in town. Only a few minutes into my visit with Marco, and an excited, fit, elderly fellow shows up, speaking rather rapidly to Marco about something but I know not what. Marco then explains to me after Senior Oliviera takes his leave, that Senior Oliviera is plus 80, and rides 30km everyday. I am impressed without knowing anymore, but I would later meet him again on the street before I got out of town. He wanted to show me the carbon fiber steed ( a beautiful Orbea cycle) that he rides each day, and to have a picture with me and my all steel ashphalt tractor. Just a few miles from Salvatorre, I pulled over for the night to make camp. The next day would see Jeremiah and the heavily loaded Surly roll into downtown Lisbon. It seemed that it took forever to get into town, heavy fog till well after 12, busy roads, and essentially flat till you roll into oldtown. I have an apartment in very traditional San Bento district in Lisbon. Very narrow streets, all cobble and super steep streets. My family arrives late the evening of the 23rd, we will celebrate Christmas in Lisbon and Morroco. I look forward to riding thru southern USA and on to home. My thanks too all of you for your constant Prayers during this portion of the RTW thru Gods Creation cycle trip, and I would ask for your continued support thru our America’s till we can wrap this entire trip up.

Blog44-Burgos, fighting bulls and pigs.

Seems like ages since this guy has been alongside of me, its good to see him.

While in Burgos, laying in a dry bed and thinking of what lay beyond in Gods creation, trying to decide a route and permitting sleep too overtake my eyelids. It wasn’t until the following morning while Jeremiah sat astraddle his Surly bikes crossbar that an escape route was actually formulated. Small roads, almost impossible to see on Google maps due to the poorly chosen color scheme they use, would wind there way south towards Salamanca and beyond. My only real Prayer that previous night was, Dear Lord, if yer really there and listening, then please put all these rain clouds over California and give me a little sunshine!

I should explain this image, no ticket, just that every person in the station came to my aid in finding a car wash to clean my pedals. The young lady, Patricia, walked me around the town.

I would be remiss to say that I woke to beam of sunshine poking thru the hostel window. quite to the contrary, it was foggy, dull and ominous looking. I was dressed to get wet, and mentally prepared for the worst. Burgos, lay along the banks of a slow meandering river, skeleton trees lacking the splendor of autumn leaves, brush, wild berry vines line the rivers banks. Forming a near impenatrable wall along the cold unwelcoming waters edge. My Surly bike, is pointed almost due south, taking me up and over the first major ridge. Churning thru the thick grey mire of fog, Jeremiah began to see a certain brightness under the cloud in front. Funny how a little Godly optimisim can give one extra pedaling strength. The fog soon lifted, and by 10am and just a few ridges I was stripping off Showers Pass gear to ride in a wind breaker and my cycle shorts. It was glorious to have sun washing over me rather than rain. My mood was ebulient.

Noon on days such as this, will find Jeremiah pulled over, among young olive trees,grapevines, or grazing pasture, making a cup of tea and enjoying a cheese sandwich and my favorite rich Spanish Chorizo. The vista before me is huge blue sky vault and beautiful Spanish countryside. I realize that much of what is the beauty of Spain has slipped past me, shrouded in the fog that is Spanish winter. Its a beautiful country, with splendid huge vistas, and rich ranching and farm ground in every direction. For the next 3 full days I would be given sunny clear skies underwhich to ride and enjoy Spain. Somewhere along in this row of undulating hills there is a wine growing region that encapsulates the city of Villadolid. I was enjoying the crisp clear morning aire while churning the cranks of my Surly, noticing to my left a vehichle much to nice to be field hand, obviously an owner out checking his vineyard. Well, me and my big mouth and small brain, as I ride by I see tbe vehicle owner walking up to his car……..I holler “Drink California Wine” as loud as I can. The recipient of my misplaced humour, yells right back “Alto mi Amigo”. Now surely after yelling something like that to a total stranger, he deserves a chance to defend himself eye to eye with his eristic assalant.

Would he understand if I told him that I was simply giving him the advice of close friends Walter and Jim…….both producers of fine California wines…..no, I doubt it. So, taking my lumps is in order and I turn around to face the fellow. As I roll up and even before I can tender an apology, he (Valantin Daniel Olariu), offers me 2 bottles of HIS wine from his back seat, and kindly recommends I try this before shouting California obscenities. What can I do, or say, he is so gracious in defeat. Turns out my new friend whom I know will someday drive into my yard, is a wine grape specialist from Romania. He is one of only 3 people in the world who is licensed to perform a very special type of grafting procedure. I think the most ironic twist in the whole story is when with a huge smile he tells me, “you are partially correct about one point concerning California wine, this grafting procedure was developed in California and is indeed revolutionary within the wine industry”. I leave thankful,”burdened and blessed” with 2 bottles of wine to carry to Lisbon and enjoy over the Christmas Season with my family. Burden, is wieght. Blessing, is a gift.

Spain is gradually flattening out under my Schwalbe tires as I roll south towards Salamanca. The day I actually arrive in this small Spanish city on the countries western edge, it is raining once again. Cathedrals and interesting town squares make up the center most region of the city. Salamanca, resides along one of the Pilgrim routes to Santiago de Campostella. The Gothic Cathedrals within Salamanca are quite simply huge and grand, but not a single one was open for me to view insice. This is a pnenomenon that I have found within Spain almost everywhere, the churches are closed up…..period. My camp for the evening was at the outer footings of one of the Cathedrals that lay along the rivers edge, tucked between a hedge and 800 year old rockwork, I would make a simple supper and then go for a walk up among the Cathedrals in the evening. Feeling pretty safe to leave my camp for an hour unattended since i could barely refind it myself upon my return.

From Salamanca south towards Portugal lies the the country most known for producing Spanish fighting bulls and the black pigs known for producing thier local favorite “Pata Negra Jambon”, ham made from the leg of a black pig…….not just any pig mind you. Just this one special Iberico breed of pig. It was along this trek thru the countryside that I sought to learn a little more about the pig since there seemed to be a ham producer in almost every village. These oinkers, are raised much like cattle, meaning that they run outside year around. They live in fields that look manicured with lush green grass and well groomed Oaks overhead. The Oaks are important within the whole storyline, as they play heavily into the flavor of the pigs meat. The heavily groomed or pruned Oaks produce abundant numbers of acorns due to the pruning. The only other food given the pigs, is a warm mash made of locally grown garbonzo beans. The sows, during farrowing season, are run in lots with large doghouse looking affairs. Each sow takes on one house, has her piglets and raises them till weaning time. The odd looking solid black pigs, with thier very small snouts and huge rear ends, still graze as a pack undisturbed for a full year before the “Grim Reaper” comes to call.

Here is where it all got much more interesting for me. The hams seem to range from expensive to costly, yet every family has one thru this festive season. The simple family hams (jambons hung for approx. 6 months) are about $40.00 € euro per kilo. The hams are hung, only lightly salted, in special underground rock rooms where they can slowly dry for as long as 20 years. Those hams that hang for multiple years are the premium jambons and only procured by the wealthy. They are collected and sought after very much like aged wines, with certain ham producers conditions allowing better drying and flavor, as well as color and texture. Nothing is wasted from these pigs and thier production. At one stop, I had a local favorite, which consists of pig snout and lips in a stew looking consistancy made of local red peppers. It was indeed good, once you got past the rather rubbery, squishy texture. At yet another little village cafe, I had a small plate of deep fried bacon and jambon ends, these were especially good with a local hard sheeps milk cheese and a piece of bread. Spain came to and end under an umbrella of puffy cumulus clouds enveloped in azure skies and sunshine. The open road west now leads me into the eastern frontera of Portugal.

Blog43- Ice challenge gone wrong

The “Ice Challenge”, it seems to be the latest cause du jour, and for that purpose it has done well. My own ice challenge has gone on for now…..5, maybe 6 days. No, not the usual 3-10 seconds of cascading ice over the head. This is pretty much an all day affair, no kidding. You can say that the fun has wore off completely. Some of you will notice that there seems to be about a week of Jeremiahs life missing since he arrived in Bilbao. The reason is, I was back in China doing a little work that had to get done or else we would have bigger issues to slay when I finally do get home.

Ever since we climbed out of Bilbao on those steep roads which take you further west, it has been very heavy overcast and dreary. First day out was 3 hours of heavy rain and the higher I climbed it turned into ice pellets as they pinged off my steel framed Surly bicycle. Somewhere along the route I had to stop and buy some food for that evening camp. I took advantage of being able to buy a newspaper and got some extra plastic bags for my feet. By the time I got moving again, well everything was trying to sieze up, no joint wanted to move. Just too darn cold. All totaled that day we hit 61 miles and were on our way towards Parc de Europa. Camp that night was by God cold. REI, states quite clearly…..NEVER LIGHT A FIRE INSIDE YOUR TENT. I understood the dangers, and did it any how.

Like most everynight this last week, I have been in the sleeping bag by 6pm…….and shivering. No sitting outside by the campfire cause there ain’t one to sit by. I use an alchohol stove to cook with, it is very efficient for a one burner affair, but thats the extent of it. My day starts and ends pretty much the same way, wrap the feet in newspaper…..I try to find pages of Obama news, wrap my feet with 2 or 3 sheets and slip on my socks, followed by a plastic bag or 2, followed by my rain sodden cycle shoes. Long johns and my Showers pass rain suit and then hit the open road with a seriously forced smile. Yes, I know, there are things called hostels and hotels, but some of this trip has to have an edge to it. I used to put all my riding clothes down inside my sleeping bag on just cold dry days, but now that the clothes are soaked thats a different story. I know just enough about cold weather survival to know, you do not want a damp, wet sleeping bag. So I came up with a different alternative, its does nothing for drying anything out, it just leaves you with clothes a little warmed up. I use my compression sack for the sleeping bag filled with the wet clotbes as my pillow. They are a little bit warm when you put them back on with great reluctance in the morning. I am so glad I finally decided to bring my pistol along after all, cause I dont think I could/would put those clothes on without holding that gun to my head.

Not alot of stops being made thru the day, my photo count has dropped right off for instance. Couple of reasons, the sky is so low and so heavy that it renders most images pretty useless. But to a greater extent, my darn fingers are so cold I just dont want to bother with getting it all out waiting for fogging to quit, wipe the lense, keep it away from your face because the diopter will fog……..OMG, by then the fingers are really shaking. I also dont stop very often thru the day for coffee or to talk, for the very same reasons, plus if you step inside and have coffee…..at least for me, I am about done. Everything just comes to a halt when the body is allowed to cool. Starting back up can be a real struggle.

As you read this blog, understand 3 things…….yes, first off I am complaining……I signed up for a bike ride……no where in the tour literature did it mention an uncomfortable bike ride. Lesson two, you will look at the images and say to yourself……..what the heck is he talking about……..the sun is always present. Correct, in the images it is, but over this however many days, I really doubt there have been 4 hours of sunshine/bluesky total. Every other moment is iether dark of night, or foggy rain soaked days with strong winds to make it all the more pleasant. And third, there is no place flat in Spain…….and that came as a surprise to me, also not mentioned in the tour the world literature.

This is what it looks like warming wet feet over stove.

My route to Parc de Europa, which is a must see…….some other time for me unfortunatley, the park is a jewel among the Cantabrian Mountains of northern Spain. It is the home to the Basque people, they were the first people group to make a stand against the Muslim hoarde’s invasion. From this region and its strong will to fight, it was passed onto other regions to do the same ( only Obama seemed to miss the message) but that momentum began right here where I am. “Sorry Senior, but dee park is no bueno for jew I tink. To mucho mas cloud and too mucho dee snow, plus dee hills Senior are mui more dificile”. This was a real common piece of advice that I was hearing as I asked about my route in that direction, several people told me the same basic thing, and combine that with a ten day forecast showing heavy rain and snow as what I had to look forward to…..gott’a rethink things. Somewhere north of a Soncillo, I climbed one ridge at 17%, and when I topped out I could not see more than 100 feet in any direction……thats it, I lost it officially. No, no, not that bad. I didn’t break the tissue out or nothing. I just made the choice that with the current weather scenario, I could ride right thru and yet not see a thing. I rode right back down that same steep SOB and never thought twice about it……once my mind is made up, not much alters me from my course.

With my Surly LHT, pointed south by south west I fairly flew…….till the next hill, which wasn’t very far away. It has been a steady routine of climb and coast,climb and coast. The coasting, because you just can’t take all the cold air coming at you right after a climb, at least I sure can’t. And my climbs now are broken up, I climb for a while, then get off and push. We changed things up so as to keep the hands and feet warmer, its the only way I can figure to keep enough blood moving to make everything else work as it should. In the end it still comes down to one simple fact. You can ride as hard you wish, you can boast of conquering a very steep grade the likes of which we never see at home. But within 2 days, everything you own is soaked, and you have no way of drying anything out……..none, zip, zero, na’da…….and you are done. That simple, the body will not work frozen.

The climb out or over the Cantabrian range going south takes me into a deep gorge, imposing rock walls corridor me towards a tiny village called Villarcado. Home to maybe 300, and as I go thru I realize, YUP, you done it again JW, left it till to late in the day and nothing is open in this sleepy little town. Its not like other days inwhich I literally had nothing including water. But I was low on a few things essential to make a meal, apart from tea, water and sugar and a half a stale loaf of bread and half jar peanut butter……..so, now you also know what supper consisted of as well. The climb out of this berg was a beast, partly because I was cold, but also its just a long steep slog. As I ride the last few ridges, it is apparant that the trees faded away several miles ago and have been replaced by thick manzanita and a little sage in spots. The wind is howling, I can see snow on the very top of my hill I have to get over. I make the climb, nothing pretty, no pro-teams have tried to sign me up, but I did make it without the aid of any drugs as well……more than alot of them can say.

“What the heck……..did you see that………..can’t be……..those are only in the remote parts of USA.”, I even rode back to make sure it was what I read. Sure enough it said “next services 61km”. Well, on I go for the briefest moment actually down a gentle grade, but am soon climbing again after having topped the pass. As I will soon come to know, its is a huge treeless mesa, undulating at times thru deep gorges. But nonetheless a huge plateau. The wind is fairly ripping across from my right to my left on the diagonal, the clouds are heavy and dense with …….snow…….theres some more. Its builds up to maybe 1/4 to 1/2 inch on the ground but is melting equally as fast……it is snow though. Let me see……..treeless……..windy……..wet………cold………dang, a person will have to pay attention to his dwelling place or one could end up in trouble. Not sure, but maybe a little over 5 miles later I ride past a small old rock barn right beside the road and decide I had better check that out. Upon doing so it does not take long to figure out that God himself put this thing here just for me. After clearing aside alot of plain junk, then a couple inches of sheep dung aside I had a resonable place to throw down for the night. Just a mat and the bag was all there was room for, I was in the bag by about 4:15 and shivering. Sure enough, about 9pm it really started to pour rain and I found my roof had a few……many, leaks. So, I dug out my rain fly and threw it over my sleeping bag.

Up and riding by barely 7am, almost too dark but couldnt sit any longer…..or lay any longer for that matter. Official sunrise here is 8:10am. Real steady diet of decent and climb, just not as steep as the mountains I had come from a few days past. To the south, I can see brightness within the heavy cloud convincing me that maybe the sun lives down that way, we shall see. Onward thru a tiny Spanish ghost town, repleat with an old church and many stone houses and barns. Nothing stirring but dust from the frigid wind sweeping thru vacant windows and doors. Rolled into Burgos about 2:15pm, hit a store and bought a few groceries for the evening. There is an outstanding Cathedral in town, I seen its beautiful Gothic Steeple on the ride in. I took in the cathedral and left to the west on a tiny road. Right along side my road was a park of sorts with many benches. The sun had just broken thru for the very first time this day. Nothing like a little sunshine to dry things out, so I took everything I had and tossed it over benches to let sunshine and wind do thier job. Heavy cloud threatened to close down my drying episode, that was easy to see. I was just trying to time things to get maximum exposure and drying, the rain began and with it so did my race to get it all packed back up. All in all, I was doing pretty good really…….or thought I was. I began with my tent parts to my right, not knowing that the wind had whipped my sleeping bag off the back of the bench……..MURPHYS LAW # 212 came into effect. There I was, rolling my tent ground cloth up, and looked to my left to see my bag, upside down in a dang puddle……soaked. I mean really soaked.

As I type this, the sleeping bag hangs over a vent on the room heater in the Hostel. For $18.00, yes, I will splurge and take a room. We can conquer the beasts of cold weather and solo cycle travel on another day, for now I have a dry room and better yet a dry bed for the night. Good night to you all and may God indeed Bless those less fortunate.

Blog42- rest in Bilbao

Not really that I needed a rest in Bilbao, its just the way that things worked out as I traveled and there are a few other things going on from a business standpoint that need my attention. So, its a bit of a rest day in Bilbao, actually 2 to be exact. But no matter, its a great city to visit, and also the largest city within the Pais Basque autonoumous region.

I have learned alot about the whole Basque region since arriving here, and had a sense something was different even before I met my very kind Basque guides. We met, Urko and sister Urizio, in a rather strange manner and I have some friends to thank for helping me pull this off. A year ago, I taught a saddletree making class over in France, as mentjoned before. One of the very capable students was a leather worker by the name of Fred Javelot, talented fellow indeed and amiable sidekick of George and Natalie Brail. I was in need of having a package sent by Fed-Ex to Bilbao……but didn’t know a soul in that city or area……Fred came to my rescue and many thanks for that help. Back to my new Basque friends and our evening social event…….a most common occurrence in Bilbao. So common matter of fact, it has been given an official name or title within Bilbao, Basque country. Bar hopping as we may say in USA, here is called ” ir de pinxtos” and a group of Basque friends is known as a “quadrilla”.

Bilbao, dates back to very late 1390. The first moorings of a harbor and the first foundations of homes were laid by the venerable Don Diego de Lopez de Haro. Captured in his likeness in bust form in a central city park. The lineage of the Haro family was and still is active within the Basque region, which by the way, they are far prouder to be seen as Basque than having anything to do with Spain. The tiny Basque region of Spain, is a true AUTONOMOUS region, having its own police, its own government, and all level and rates of taxation. It, the Basque region, accounts for approximately 42%of the revenue generated in the entire country of Spain. And yet, to be understood fully for its magnitude, Basque region amounts to only 7.25% of Spains size. Basques can be accused of taking education , work and thier heritage very seriously. As a people group, they excell at and in, all three mentioned attributes. With more Univefsity educated citizens per capita than all be 2 other countries in Europe. An unemployment scene that sits around 10% for the Basque region, while national stat,s for Spain look like about 32% if you average a few different articles written about the subject. And to cap it all off, no matter who has the best coast, nor largest region……we are Basque and darned proud of it.

The Basque language, said to be the oldest language in ALL OF EUROPE. How that was arrived at, I have no idea, but that is the opinion of many who study such things…….in America, ae would call tnat person a “brick layer” I think. Whether or not its the oldest is of no real matter nor importance. What I have concluded is that without a 4 year University degree, I dont think you could even spell a quarter of the words in thier language. God God, but the Basques do use up an alphabet in a hurry when it comes to the spelling of a word. Its my own theory, that the “click-click bush people” of the Khalahari, are really frustrated Basques who moved out and south……..thier tongues simply could not wrap around that sound made by an EXZT all together.

One more tidbit……notice pleaze how I will now smoothly segway into a “FOOD” subject by opening with a typical eating phrase…..pretty cool for a guy raised in the northern Ontario bush. Anyways, if ever you happen onto a Michelin European travellers map, whose sole purpose is of course to sell tires…..you will notice that a Basque city, that being San Sebastion. Has more GASTONOMY stars to its credit that ANY other city within Europe……..lucky for these guys that Coon Rapids lays outside this same region. To say that the Basques love thier food is indeed a true understatment. They spend on average, twice as much disposable income on food stuffs as Americans do. Of course, we walk away with a bad……lets make that terrible impersonation of a Baguette cooked in a convestion oven……..Nd smile when we eat it……….all because do so saved us enough money to buy that new 9mm Berretta. Ha h! Sooner have the pistol anyways. In all seriousness folks, food in the Basque region is superb, and these folks sit for hours late in the evening enjoying it.

Two days basically, is what I had to walk, talk, and enjoy the riverside city of Balbao. And enjoy I did! How can you visit Bilbao and not taken in the world renouned Guggenhiem Museo. Avant guarde, ecclectic, masterful, a housing of modern, abrstract art…….more bent metal available in one place than the Sanford and Sons movie set…….more paint that has been sprayed, dribbled and generally thrown by the pail full at unexpecting canvas….than at a summer camp or disturbed teens. My real question after taking it all in for 6 hours, why the hell would you go to the Museo. I love art folks, but sorry, just cant find a place in my heart for items materialistic items without a soul. That is what abstract is, souless works. They are classically defined by the “nose in the air” educati as being pieces you have to learn to love…….whixh to me sounds oddly like eating Snails.

From and after the Museo, I began a walk in earnest all around the city. Its new areas, its old central city core, seen the latest in modern undertakings at reviving regions within an otherwise very vibrant city. Biased am I about things of beauty and artisitc skills,……YES, I am, I took in every Cathedral in the city, sat thru a mass in one, and took more pictures that one man should be able to take in that time. And yes, to answer your question…..2 of those pictures came out pretty good. I think I have samples product from roughly 20 plus bakeries in Bilbao. Ate hand made sausage, hand made olives, quince jam, non-pasturized milk cheese…….oh my God dont tell my friend Gloria A………but yes, I survived and loved it.

FACT 1 – we really donT have ham in USA. You will never be able to know “how right” I am till you have eaten ham here and in Italy. Sorry, its just a fact. The Basqjes take ham “jambon” very seriously. Have to since may epicurians agree, they re kmown for the best ham in the world. Here, they have what locals call “pata negro, hope I got that right. Its known as Iberico Jambon, and is made from ONLY, the hind legs of course of a special breed of black pig. The pigs are raised outside, in heards like cattle, they are fed a ration of Oak Acorns that hVe been collected Nd softened in boiling water. This produces a pig with considerable fat content, and more specifically a distinct taste. The hams are hung to dry and cure with very little salt. Once dried, approx 6 months time, they are brought to market and sold wgole to a family or by the slice. When jambon is sliced here, its not by some kid who slaps in on the delli food slicer…..oh no no. The hams are placed in a jamoneta, a golding fixture if you will, then a skilled meat slicer takes up a large thin bladed knife and proceeds to slice of slices so thin as to see thru them. Families do much the same with a whole ham at home. Its kept on the counter not in the fridge, placed under a heavy towel, and sliced as needed till finished. A properly cured ham at home is good a for a month no problem.

I fear this is me if I am on the bike much longer!!!!

FACT 2-we dont really have cheese at home in USA. Lets face it, if cheese manufacturers would simply place a string thru the middle of every block of cheese….we could double sales. It can be eaten inwhich case it tastes like wax, but comes in 2 colors, beimg white or yellow. Or we could simply use that block of cheeses as a candle when the power goes out. Yeah, I know, pretty rough……sorry you true cheese makers. But in comparison to cheese nere, its really close to the rruth. The Basques, known as SHEEP MEN, have earned a place in American history as being the best shepards in the world. Here, the cheeses most common are drier that many of the French cheeses, and for the most part are made from the milk of sheep…..and tbe best from non pasturized milk and bought locally.

WARNING – to my many European friends, this will land upon your timpanic membranes with a thud…….you will catch yourself saying ” what the heck did he just say”. In a large way, you are losing you bread culture over here. Read carefully pleaxe before you cast that first stone..its the curse of those damnable convection ovens. They should all be stored in Davey Jones’s Locker……JMO. For myself, it is profound over a 10 year period of time the difference in breads at the bakery, witnessed by myself from first trip over till today. Here in Bilbao, I have only found 3 bakers using a stone oven, all the rest are convection. France was for the most part the same. If you are buying bread in a large city or large Super Market it is most likley done in a modern convection oven. I have found that in may small villages and towns, the baker still uses a stone oven heated by wood fire. The difference is marked in crust quality and carmelization, not to mention interior moisture and texture. These attributes are the essence of bread……..loose those, and there is no good reason to return to Europe. Its insidiuos, creeping into our daily lives like dark invades our evenings. We fall prey to its quickness and convienience and soon enough forget the taste of real bread.

Thats enough ramblings from me, enough of my gastronomy opinions and rants on modern non-ART. So, I will close with this lrayer to all, that tomorrow will find you healthy and happy, able to enjoy the bounty of what God places before us each day, not asking for anything other than direction and guidance so our footfall lands upon the path laid our for us each and every day, that we would wish more for another than for ourself, that we would truly love that nieghbour not just mluth the words. Gods house is built upon the solid rock of time and promise, not upon the shifting sands of chance, fate nor luck.

Blog41- charging on into Spain

The stay with Pierre was a great Basque expierience, getting a taste of both the foods and the warm hospitality that are hallmark of the Basque people. However, I still had a few more miles to travel if I was going to claim a circumnavigation of all that God created, soI left Pierres and I charged on into Spain. The route is simple enough, from Ustaritz you climb almost vertically till you get to the top of the mountain…..then go down the other side……after that it is the same except a taller mountain….you see…eets easy. Thus you are riding thru Pais Basque country on our way to Bilbao, Spain.

My road selection out of the area was perfect, simple narrow roads with virtually no traffic……at least for a little while. For as long as possible I was trying to stay off the coast and away from shore, hopefully till I hit San Sebastian. The hills are huge, the grass still sickeningly green for the time of year, and an abundance of trees in fall color are the crowning touch to a beautiful ride. Down thru little villages I whizz, stopping only if there was a bakery, fromagerie (cheese) and occassionally at the butchers…..otherwise nothing could slow my steed down. Unless ……..its a road side stand selling homemade jams. Can’t actually have too many flavors of jam while cycling…..can you?

Made it to San Sebastian, and should have listened to that little voice in the head that says “quit early jim-bob, or you will pay the price”, confidence tells me that this town aint all that big……I’ll be just fine. Well, I could have had several really great camp sites had I listened to the little voice. Rather than do that, I barreled on into San Sebastian and got thouroughly turned around. The GPS blue dot decided to go on stike twice which initially threw me off my course. Should have listened to Pines advice ” Dad, if ever this blue dot begins to act sort’a funky and unreliable, just turn on all data and get it back to where its supposed to be in proper orientation….and begin again”…..didn’t do that iether. There are miles of bike paths thru the city and I found solice on them more so than the roads. What I found is that they dont nessasarily follow any and all roads……, mistake number two. Third mistake is trying to capture every last ray of sunshine and every last kilometer I can in a day…….I had no pressing need to do iether. Chalk it up to my anxiuos nature.

San Sebastian sits tucked into a atlantic coastline cove, with sun bleached sand as its doormat, a huge Cathedral occupies a prominent piece or realestate right at shores edge. Everything from the glistening sand inland is housing, apartments and people. And its getting dark now very quickly. At this point I already know that I will not be beyond the grasp of city lights and sounds of its nocturnal opera, so I need to start considering how to camp tonight. NO, a motel room is out of the question and budget. I decided quickly that I would have to do the “bum sneak”, making myself as quiet and invisible as you can when fully surrounded. Riding past what I think was a University of some sort, I noticed what appeared to be a stairwell that ran behind a hedge but immediatly infront of a main building. That would work for me and I head over to investigate……nearly perfect, no street lights close by, the stairwell is about 8 feet wide and flat for a section then drops further down…..and, best of all, its a dead end stairwell that leads to a locked basement door. The hedge mentioned, which is also my clothes changing screen, is about 5 foot tall. Cant get any better than this when your in a pinch. My choice was to set up a minimalist urban camp, just my matt and bag on my ground sheet, that way if the Policia did show up it would not be such a major chore packing up. Had a couple of fried sausages and a baguette for supper, desert was dried figs and sweet tea. Got into the bag about 8, read my bible and then some Tom Clancy, shot the yard light out at about 9.30 and went to sleep. Peacefully. Sometime about midnight, the wind came up and I began to feel rain drops. Figured since no one stopped by to complain nor ask what I was doing, it would be safe to set the tent up incase it raIned hard.

The rain never amounted to anything really, although my bag would have gotten pretty wet had I not set up, the morning sky consisted of broken cloud and anxious sunshine. Packed up camp and was gone before any students or staff showed up…..no one would ever know I had spent the night there. From San Sebastian west, my route hugs the old coast road which as it turns out does not really hug the coastline. Every few miles the road veers off inland for a ways to take yet another pitch allowing it to vault over yet another rocky headland on its march up the sun sprinkled Atlantic shore. The headlands, tall, rock strewn eddifices of Gods hand at work, eerily reminiscent too those we summited while plying Italies coast. Once summited, the ashphalt ribbon plunges equally as steep and contorted on a death spiral towards the imposing shoreline far below. Jagged boulders placed as if by giant toddlers, having no rhyme nor reason as to thier placement, except that they are there. Whatever rocky surface isn’t swept clean by wind and salt spray from an angry Atlantic ocean, is left with a heady coating of brilliant green moss, from the rocks edge the shoreline rises like a wall of granite. Imposing and stark against a blue sea and the green that is Spain. The patterns and rythms repeat as if timed by a “Metro-Gome”, every fourth or fifth alcove within the stoney shoreline harbors a sleepy little fishing village repleat with at least one church which was often acts as the head of the town square where all socializing takes place in a quiet Spanish manner.

The twisted bitumen that I traverse, ribbons its way on around a huge Atalantic bay to the seaside viilage of Onadarrua where a traveller can take one of two possible routes available to him. My intention was to ride further west into the Spanish hinterlands and visit a Monestary and a very remote hilltop village, but advice from two other cyclists convinced me that heading north on a more major road would be the better part of prudent. My original route was actually closed in two places where the road had slid away. I wind my way north, along the course of a minor waterway, constantly rising up and away from waters edge and into the tree lined mountains that are its stronghold. You will work hard on a loaded tour bike to attain any of the coastal mountain summits. Roads of 10-15% grades are the norm. Quiet camp one night, had me setup right beside a clear stream, while on another evening I found shelter between two huge boulders allowing me to take refuge from a wind whipped into a frenzy over the cold Atlantic waters and sent in search of ME.

Rays of far off sunshine, tinted red and bright pink, broke thru the envelope of heavy grey cloud that had moored itself over Pais Basque region thru the night. Who would win this battle for occupancy of the sky was as yet unknown too all who looked up at it. Three miles of stiff climbing takes me skyward towards the ancient Basque retreat of Mixtiopien, harbored in an alpine valley that lay infront and below me. Its the award for slogging up thru the climb, my reward would be robbed from me on this morning by a mob of clouds fighting for thier piece of heavens expanse. At this point I have left the seashore far to the north of me, having crossed two main mountain ridges to lay siege upon the valley that will now permit my access to the city of Bilbao without major interruption.
While not exactly flat, it would best be described as gently undulating with just a few stiff climbs right as you approach the city. My steed had a freshly cleaned chain, oiled and running as slick and smooth as a Nascar machine would be inclined, the legs felt strong for being well into the afternoon. The events that transpire, I blame it on the one and only RC-Priest I have met thus far in my entire journey…..keep in mind I have now been to over 100 cathedrals and allowed into no Mosques. However, during this same time I have met and visited with 3 “Sheefs is the way it sounds, yet I think the spelling is Shiek”. A huge cathedral came into view near a vintening region, maybe the first wine region in Spain, La Riolla. I decided I would add it to the list of cathedrals I visited. Locked tight, its a condition that I find many Spanish Churches in, quite different than when in Italy for instance. Just some bums cardboard bedding lay outside the alcoved front doors of the church, and me, thats it. Off to my left, I hear voices and head that direction hoping to maybe find there is another point of entry to see that beauty that it withholds from me at present. 3 men, walking from two vehicles, come thru the parking lot. I try to talk to the first pair as best I can, but they blow me off without any desire to to engage. The third man…….what the heck, he’S THE ACTUAL PRIEST, he is wearing the classic black strait collar shirt with a notch of white at its center, a wool vee neck over that S he is headed into the church. His adress in okay English to me is, more accusatorial than inviting, “What seems to be your problem”? Guess I am caught off guard, or speechless, as I register the manner of delivery and the expression on the face that delivered it. Sorry folks, but I am accustomed to my Pastor backhome, whose face wears a warm smile, his heart beats with a yerning to help. These are attributes of a man who carries the word of God out in deed, these are the attributes of a shepard to his flock……not what seems to be your problem! When my mind finally engages the words and actions of the passing Priest…..my first thought is to hike him strait off the ground with a size 11 right in his rotund butt……..but then how “christian” would that make me…..maybe we upset christians are supposed to keep all kicks below the knee…….what are the rules, anyone know. Instead of expressing the anger and dissappointment I am harboring, I try a different tact. ” I dont actually have a problem, actually, I am quite Blessed. I was however wondering when or if the doors to the Cathedral will be opened today?”…..He is still walking away from me……he waves his hand over his shoulder in more or less a get lost fashion and says……..”maybe one hour….maybe two”. Really, thats it. And you wonder why faith in Europe is sitting at such an abysmal level……could it be the shepards have forgotten how to shepard…..or maybe have lost sight of the lost since they themselves seem to be a little lost from Gods directions. Some of you may read this and take offense, while thats not my intention it may be the result. I make no claim that my observations are scientific by anymeans, they are simply the as it happens circumstance I found myself in. I would ask you this, how the heck can anyone ride thru this much so called christian country, and only meet 1 priest out on the street……..Sorry folks but God did not hide the lost inside the church like some teenage prank, he intends our appointed shepards to leave the safety of the sheepfold and hunt for the lost, guiding them back to the salvation that is our safety. So, take it from this episode that as I leave I am just a tad cranky.

Out onto the road I go, pondering the chain of events that just took place. Only a few miles later and maybe 3 roundabouts later, I think I had better check my GPS to be sure I didnt get messed up. Just as I am putting my phone back in place 8 cyclists go past me, riding in classic paired peloton form….2 by 2 up the road. Thier faces house those smiles that are mostly mocking, and sometimes even a look of discust at those of us who choose a less beautiful but more functional “ROAD TRACTOR” ……( NOTE TO SELF- when I get home, I am painting Agnes in the iconic colors of American farming……John Deere green with yellow deep rimmed wheels ) Fine, be that way I say to myself, while I may not be able to smartly spank a Priest……I can however soundly spank you smug @#%*!’s. I thouroughly jumped old Agnes out onto the pavement, didn’t quite squeal the tires upon entry to to the road but that was only because the pavement was wet. Fell into the drops and put 14000km of leg muscle to work, they were maybe 500 yards out in front of me, but I was closing like a fighter jet on them. My intentions where to simply catchup and ride into thier tiny overly smug peleton…..hard enough to do on a loaded tour bike coming from behind. My arrival was rather shall we say, unexpected, even maybe, unwelcomed……..to darn bad, here I am now deal with it. About the 3rd rider back, a taller fellow, with an all black carbon fiber bike and clever yellow appointments…..he seemed to notice first and was shocked that such a primordial creature as Agnes and I are when teamed up, would have sought refuge in HIS well appointed and groomed peleton. It was obvious that I was not welcome, did not belong, and would not be allowed to stay and taint such a lofty pool of riders.

He did it…….he did it first…….he said something over his shoulder to the man beside and behind him in order. His long muscular “shaved” legs came under tension causing him to levitate from his saddle and gain speed as he left the fold of the peleton. First the one, taunting, daring, throwing down a gloved challenge to the “unsightly” moored in thier midst. Dont hide in our folds, ride to the front or ahead of us if you want our respect. His shaved leg cohorts gave a quick look over thier respective shoulders at me, as they too fled the coop and peeled off ahead. The Priest slapped me, but you guys sure as heck aint. I had 2 gears reserved as of yet unused in my “catch” of the peleton. Lesson one a real road beast does not have to have shaved legs, and lesson 2 never mess with a guy upset after church. I buried myself in the drops and cranks, no standing for me to leave the rest behind as the bike is too heavy for that. Just keep the back flat, the toes down and the hips locked level on the seat frame while you transfer every ounce of energy you can to the whirling cranks. Agnes is loud in flight, like the rush of wind over feathers passing you with all her bags catching the air as she passes you. Within maybe 100 yards I drop the first of three making up the breakaway. He had no chance, being maybe 30, brain stem not even fully developed yet, what chance did he have but that of foolish youthful pride…..he’s gone and licking his wounds with the catching group. Drop a gear, and get the arms buried in those drops, tight, neat and taunt, now pull deeper with each pedal stroke, listen to your breathing and count the 3 beat of in and out, make sure its deep and full like an opera singer. His bike, the 2 man, is a pure model of “tour de france envy” every carbon fiber wieght saving gadget known to man, I know, I own 2 of them back home…..bin there done that. Those shaved legs are whirling, flailing really, as he sees that he is about to be passed, and smartly so by…….”what the heck, how old is that guy…….omg, but this is embarressing…….when I get gome, I am selling this bike and taking up golf”. By the time junior realizes he was just soundly spanked by grand’pa on a fully loaded tour bike…..he cant even see all the bags clearly due to the tears in his eyes. He is now in my past, and just the road warrior lays ahead.

Harboring one gear to my benefit, and a reserve of “I’ll teach you mentality” I find a slip stream of softened air behind him some 30 feet behind and close my approach…….finger is ready for the shift into my last gear……..the ashphalt passes as smooth grey now, no contour, no shape…….just smooth grey………..races are not won by pure muscle alone nor by the fastest car…..skill and cunning come into play…..I slide Agnes out to his left allowing him to see me from the corner of his left eye…….then slide off behind to the right of center and wait for my pounce. You can see his radar at work, his head turns left, anticiparting that I will be sitting there……..he glances and I am not………his back softens in his anticipated victory, his mind assures him that he has dropped the neandrathal on a stinkin loaded tour bike….with his head still alittle higher ( a telltale sign of less tension in the legs )he searches to his left again before claiming his prise……I am not there, nor have I idled my bike so there is no freewheel noise…….I lay off his right shoulder as quiet as “Red October” waiting for the moment to spring the trap layed…….there it is boys, time to fly and give it all, hit the shift lever and grab that last gear, bury those legs as deep as you can and try not to distort the smile you wear as you pass him on the left side…….his misstake, was thinking he had dropped me, then double checking to his right after having checked the left side first. I was passed him, and he jumped onto the cranks now in anger and made the chase a tight one, my 4 length lead would shrink, he would get to my back wheel and give me a thumbs up in appreciation for my courage………….no more than did I get to see his salute than we both hit a tight 5 way round about……I am telling you folks we were flying and the road was literally just smooth grey.

I had no choice but to bail because I had to be sure that I was still headed in the right direction, towards city center Bilbao. My check was quick, and they, and I are headed towards Bilbao. About half mile further on I once again caught thier peleton, I didnt even stop nor slow to allow the jumpers to react, I simply frieght-trained them. they bailed into it and gave chase, our run lasted for some 3 miles, and yes, they made a game approach to the second affair. Leap frogging thier strongest rider to my hind wheel, that tall shaved leg fellow gave me a broad smile and a second thumbs up as he finally rode past without ease but past. The very last rider in the group gave me an equally broad smile and wave, then with hand signals warned me that the big hills lay ahead yet and I should back off and take it easy.

Good advise, I took it to heart. Backed off ol’Agnes enough that the flames on the tires went out and the Holy Smoke cleared……what’d ya think, that I was alone in that race…….what’da’ya think I Pray for. Within maybe 5 miles we drop down off the last row of hills that surround the port city of Bilbao. Thouroughly sweated but rejoiceing in a quiet victory. Praise God for good health, strength and yes even a little old aged foolishness……….I know there is no paramutual betting allowed in heaven……but I am sure they were watching the race play out. Good night and God Bless…….better yet………go be a blessing, from what I hear about the goings on in USA right now, we need Jesus in a large demonstrable way.

Blog40-up thru Pais Basque

The roads were indeed wet as I left fond memories of George and Natalie further behind with each pedal stroke. The threatening clouds were just that, threatening, never amounting to anything but bluster. By evening those grey clouds broke and scattered for the open ocean further south, leaving in thier wake a magnificent sunset to end a long day on the cranks. I am now headed north up thru Pais Basque country. North, too yet another friends house.

My route is along the smallest most remote “D”roads I can find. Abundant hardwoods are festooned in thier autumn splendor, vibrant shades and hues are dabbled like so much paint on an artists easel……God has his hand in the landscape on display. The countryside is rolling a little higher and steeper with each passing mile. One full day of brilliant sunshine is followed by a nasty day of rain and wind which kept me pinned in my tent for the entire day. Survived the day of rain without much damage to me, my tent or contents.

Broke free of the mud and mire that was my bedding ground for away to long. Further south, and many short steep climbs, takes me along cathedral trail as I came to call it. As you rode along, it just seemed that each distant hill had a Cathedral sitting at it’s crest. A statement of a time now past in largely secular France. Each day comprised some 25-35 short and often very steep climbs. The further north by northwest I went, the longer and harder the hills became, down to the point that some I simply had to push my bike up. The grand vista which lay always over my left shoulder, was that of the snow mantled Pyrennes. The white caps of snow recede into the vibrant hues of hardwood trees which inturn gave ground to the verdant green pastureland. Grazing white sheep dot the green grass like giant cotton balls across the Pais Basque lanscape.

Busy with pedalling, grunting and farting to claim yet another hilltop village, I was passed by a small truck with 2 road bikes in the back. We all waved and smiled and I rezumed my pedalling. Some few moments later I actually crested that hill, arriving in a small town square with a tiny church as its focal point. There on the side of the road was a fellow biker sort of cheering me on, I stopped in order to catch my breath and exchange cycling pleasantries. It turns out this fellow had met up with the two fellows in the truck mentioned earlier, they were bedecked in the latest racing spandex and team colors, ready to tear up the roads of rural France. They were sort of laughing scoffing at my road tractor…..eh, bike. Her all black paint, and dull colored appointments, bags hanging off any and every place you could hang something from. She is no beauty when sitting beside the carbon fibre works of art they road…….too many smiles and snide comments for to simply shut up. All 3 of these fellows were and still are younger than am I, so, I motioned for the very first fellow I met to come over with his bike……it took a little coaxing, but finally he rolled his bike on over. Holding it by the crossbar, I hoisted it over my shoulder one handed, nothing difficult, it only wieghs like 11 pounds. Then I motion for him to come around opposite of me and hold my bike…….slowly, tenatively he approaches the offside of my bike….holding the seat and handlebars…….I ask him if he “has” my bike because I will let go. With a broad smile he nods and claims his metallic prize. His smile oh so quickly fades into that of total shock, eyes like pie plates as both he and the bike fall strait over backwards…….perfectly pinning him to the ground with its wieght. Oh how I wanted to slap my leg laughing…………but no, not me, I held my composure as I helped him out from under my steed. All three left with a little more respect for those who travel the long lonesome road of a world voyage………..soon as they left I tossed out all the bricks I had put in my bags…just kidding.

Much of my ride or roads has coincided with the Compostella route. The via de Compostella has actually several routes and names. So let me explain if I can. You may even want to rent the movie called “The Way”, starring Martin Sheen….a good flick. This movie set in modern times uses the Compostella as the scripts backbone, and the people you meet in the movie

added the human story to a biblical frame. Yes, the Compostella is a biblical pilgrimage story of one Saint James. But, like all good stories there are twists, turns, and yes even an occasional half truth. Once here, in Europe that is, you will find there are actually three walks by various Saints, it,s just that the pilgrimage of Saint James is the best known. Since I am now in Spain, I will add yet another bizarre twist to the whole Compostella story. The reason for the original walk was one of duty and a Godly calling by that of Saint James, walking from Rome to Santiago de Compostella on the sea coast of northern Spain. That pilgrimage journey has morphed over the years into many who walk for a Godly reason, but it may have to do with asking for a miraculous healing, or thanks for such an event…..but with an eye and heart towards God the creator. Slowly the secular crowd have also taken to walking the Compostella as well. Since the original Compostella route makes abundant use of abbeys and churches as places of refuge for weary travellers on thier personal pilgrimage…..it stands to reason that overtime the secular nonbeliever types would have thier voices heard as well. So, as I am told today while in Ondarrua Spain, located on the atlantic coast, there is a new route growing in popularity which takes in more scenery and hotels and far less hardship and churches. Trust a total disbeliver to screw up an intimate human spiritually guided story.

Anyways to the point. Once again the day finds me rolling into the base of yet another hill in my path towards days end. Ahead of me is a walker……I have seen enough of them that I can pick them out from simple day hikers. He is an aged man ( oops, turns out he is same age as myself ) slightly stooped, walking stick in hand and a backpack…..the classic “compostellaian” as I call them. Rolling up beside him, he turns to greet me and our visit begins. I can see he wears the Compostella sea shell around his neck, and he carries a simple stone in his pocket, which he proudly shows me. The sea shell is an adornment visible on houses who have over the years supported the travelling pilgrims with both food and shelter, a marker to all who see it declaring your intenttions as a pilgrim. The stone on the other hand is carried as a symbol of the wieght of your personal infliction, and at the far end of your journey you toss your stone onto the mountain of stones carried by thousands of others who walked before you.

This fellow was placed in my path by God not by accident. Please read on. Being from Spain, and being 65 when he began his walk, he wanted it to be a true or real pilgrimage likes that of James. He left Barcellona

with what he could wear, a simple blanket to sleep, but not one penny in his pocket. He has never bought a meal, never bought a hotel room and never went without. Kindness of Christ and the saints who dwell among us has been his constant companion on this incredible pilgrimage……but in a very bizarre way it gets even better. Eventually our visit turns to myself and my own journey which is always fun to share. Quickly though, my mention of Mongolia and Russia ellicit a broad smile and excitement in his eyes, it was easy too see the chage in his composure. He begins to tell me about his nephew and a friend who left Barcellona 2 years ago as well, and how they are travelling around the world and rode thru Russia and Mongolia just this summer as well. It is astounding to me, just how small the world is and how interconnected our lives become if we just have the courage to get off the couch and begin living the life that God has planned for us. I ask Antonio, my trekking friend……”does your nephew have long hair that is very curly, and does his friend Carlos have thick black hair…..are they maybe 30 years old. “Yes, yes, thees is my nephew and Carlos, do you read they story?”. No I said, I am pretty sure I met them both in Russia. His face went totally blank, like someone just pulled his hard-drive out……..the look that followed was that of disbelief. Seeing that we had a bit of a mental disconnect, I get out my phone and scrolled back thru images……sure enough, I find the 2 guys Pine and I met and whom fit the description he gave. When I showed him the image, it was unbelievable for him that I would have an image of his nephew in my phone……..I thought he was going to faint or kiss me for joy. We both acknowledged God’s divine hand within moments and events like these, both of us knowing we are pilgrims on different journeys but with the same end goal. If you go back to Blog post 15, you will read my mention of both these fellows and thier own amazing 50,000km journey thus far.

Dang but I am long winded at times, but just too many good stories and memories too not take a moment and share them with all of you. My itinerary has me rolling headlong into the village of Ustaritz at the heart of Pais Basque country. Where proudly the Basque lay claim to a region within both France and Spain….as, thier own. Just a provincial region south I was rolling thru Gascogne where it seemed cows and cereal grain farming ruled. But rolling out of that region into what is Basque country it is easy to see that sheep have amply replaced cattle, and grazing takes precedence over farming. The grass is still thick and vibrant green, yes, even this late in the year. The hills just get steeper by the minute, so tractor type farming would not work here. Within Ustaritz is another friend, Pierre Duinat, or the wild haired one as I call him. We both met during my saddletree making class, and a good friend he became. Knowing my route took me north, he made me an offer of a place to stay and a meal if I so chose. Pierre lives as a widower, a man preoccupied with interests and hobbies, and like many of us….TIME is his curse. The house is 3 story, huge and grand all in one breath. The ground floor is all hand cut stone of some 16″square, hardwood timbers make up the roof of each level, rock cut and stacked 3 stories tall and 3 feet thick at ground level. The upper two floors have 12″wide heavy oak flooring with hand forged “TEE” style nails holding the beautiful character laden boards in place. High 12 foot cielings, heavy hardwood doors and shutters at every turn. You wind your way vertically in the house on a 8 foot staircase. Each room repleat with a 6 foot wide fireplace, the dining room has an 8 foot wide fireplace. And it all sits in the middle of 20 unspoiled acres of assorted fruit and nut trees. Built in 16 something, it was the last place that Jean Lafeyette slept in his home country before setting sail for the Americas to aid us in our War of Independance.
Thankyou Pierre for a great visit and fine meals sitting in your garden.

Blog39-tree lined roads and farms

Sunrise in Villeveyrac, France

Its after 10am when I am ready to leave the smell of leather, and good friendship behind in Villeveyrac. Got my parcel sent off to my friend Don, following that I lead my trusty steed out of the stable, took a tight twist of mane in one hand, my toes on the nearside pedal…..and with the effort of a man much younger, swung my leg over……oh that feels good too be back in the saddle again. The route is simple enough, head west for a few days and then turn north towards Spain, on tree lined roads taking me thru farms and villages.

Stopped at the Abbey du Valmagne as I rode, an Abbey famous for it’s being saved because of the wine barrels it housed. It seems the secular French peasants were especially fond of looting and burning churches during thier now numerous rebellions. As is well known to the unread as well as those of higher learning, looting and pillaging is physically demanding work. And a hot tired “pillager then, and politician today”may on occassion require a tasty vineyard libation too quench the thirst, yes. But also the added alchohol helps keep the peasants anger at a near peak. Over 1300 churches were totally destroyed, artifacts stolen or worse yet destroyed by the consuming flames of ignorance and hate. Wisdom however came in an odd way to this handhewn stone Abbey, preserving its legacy for generations to come. The church was emptied out of its religious vestments, artwork and statuary, and within the interior alcoves of this magnificent construct, huge wine vats were put in place. To this day, the Abbey is well known for its wine of course, but equally so for its interesting story of survival during the era of Church destruction within Europe.

Onward west we roll, thru beautiful but rugged French countryside. The scene around is hills in any direction you look. Nothing seriously tall nor steep. Just a rythmic steady diet of climb and coast, climb and coast. Most of the farming thru this east west route is Olives on terraced hillsides, grapes and fruit trees such as Apples and Pears. Manicured ancient farms dot the landscape, surrounded by huge trees of Sycamore(Platan, in French) and Oak. The roads to and from are iether gravel with grass down the center or often they are done in cobble or stone. The ubiqutous Sycamore lined main roads are everywhere you turn out here on the less harem-scarem “D”roads that I ride. Trees grow beside the road so close that the most commonly found item thru these roads…..is a passenger side mirror. These are trees that do not even say “ouch” when struck by such as a mirror…..the average French car does not even scar the treebark. These are trees of 4-6 foot girth, and spaced every 25 feet or so. Heck, at 50 miles an hour, you’d have to drive as good as Tom Block to be able to run between them rather than into them. The only real downside for me, is that the trees roots are invasive. And the roots really cause a lot of ripples and ridges in the outer few feet of the road edge which is always a little un-nerving. JMO- but i think these trees being close is a great idea, it really puts an end to texting while driving for one thing, and secondly they effectively take idiots out of the “jean”pool.

Living on the family farm since 1107, its heritage few can relate to.

The fabled “Pink City” of Carcassonne has been on my “too see” list for quite a while. So this time I made it happen and was not dissappointed. The fortress, with high walls and red tiled rooves and towers or battlements, dates back to the year 900. To put it another way that may be easier to grasp, this walled city is actually older that Coon Rapids…….yeah, I know its hard to believe but true.The coloration of the locally quarried stone used in it’s construct, plus the terra cotta tiles that embrace each roof lends a rather pinkish overtone to the legendary city. Carcassone, which is listed on Unesco Site, of which France has the highest number of site listings followed by Wells Nevada. This is a pristine medevil city fortification. Complete with shoulder width streets, every street is cobble, all buildings inside are done in iether stacked stone or in the cruder timber frame and filled with rubble (all rubble is imported from Afghanistan, they are the worlds leading exporter of the product). Sadly even Carcassone takes on a disneyish aire of yet one more historic theme park. Candy floss, wooden swords and crying kids overwhelmed the ancient historical streets for yet another weekend in the fabled Pink City of Carcassone. Its time I done like Teddy Blue Abbot, and pointed them north, my bike that is.

Took a little side route north out of Carcassone and got up a little more into the hills of this southern region of France. As I said, the hill country here is just pretty, not intimidating to the cyclist. I wasnt up in them for but one day and headed down into Castelnaudary. Its a little tuff it seems to time my water and daily grocery buys with that of the french work schedule. I try not to load up on food nor water to early, and yet that thinking has come back to bite me several times out here in the tiny village country. Several occasions I have made camp with but 1 bottle of water and no extra food. We made due, but not in a very elegant manner as I am accustomed. The rule now is that the first town I hit between 10 and noon, is the one I restock in….period. My cycling journey passes thru countryside, peoples lives, and national holidays without prejudice or ommission. Its Veterans Day, and each small village is celebrating just as we do back home, it was great to see that respect is still placed on display for the many who fought and gave precious life.

I guess I should disclaim where I am headed. I am aimed at yet another french saddle shop, this one is the shop of noted saddler George Brail, and his wonderful wife Natalie. They are located in Mauvezin, west of Toulose France. Since I want to skip the whole city of Toulose, I choose a route south of the city. Now, I know, most of you expect the JW here is some sort of technical genious. Thanks for the compliment, but I assure you I am not. I mention this because I wanted to call George and let him know I would make it to his house this afternoon……so, I open my phone and contact list and……..what the heck, did Collen forget to put them in thier for me. Goodness sakes, do I have to do something for myself to get it done right. Well shoot, I’ll just call her and get the number. Wisdom told me to check the time at home………yup, its 3.30 in the morning…….wisdom also told me to wait. Never poke a sleeping Lion with a stick….if yer inside the cage. On I ride, thinking that my arrival into Mauvezin will just about coincide with when Collen gets up. Down thru the tiny backroads of France I roll, until at last I am riding down into Mauvezin…..but a half hour early yet for get,up,time. I head for what I consider to be the best boulangerie in France, right there beside the famous Mauveszin market square which has been holding markets since 1124. I walk into the door of the bakers, and who should be walking out but Natalie herself. Now how lucky can you get right……yeah, thats right, we both recognized the luck involved and went right down and bought a lottery ticket because of it.

George and Nat, live about 18km further south of town, over 1 high steep ridge. So as Natalie continues shopping I head out of town to arrive at the saddle shop an hour later. George opens the gate to his place, we greet as good friends and get started with the visit. There is much to talk about, since I was last here one year ago and taught a saddle tree making class. George is also the acting President of a group of artisans, all of whom hail from Europe and are involved in the making of such items as saddles, braid goods and cowboy iron work. Natalie rolls in not much more than 10 minutes later than myself. A shower, some cleaner clothes and gear in the laundry room, we are ready for some baguette and her homemade “fois grau”, which is made of the liver of a gorged duck. This stuff is the bomb folks, and I am a guy who hates liver.

The day that followed was a full one. We headed out to Auch, located further west from Mauvesin. They wanted me to see the beautiful Cathedral in Auch, for sure one of the top 3 that I have seen this trip. Hard to describe since it is massive in sheer size, a Gothic style church on the high bank of a passing river. Gothic is one of my own favorite styles. For many they appear garrish or overdone, I have even heard some say they have an evil overtone with the Gargoyles hanging over door lintels and water spouts etc.. Think what you will. For me there is so much going on with every element from stone, to plaster, wood and rock…..that is just fascinating to see all that artistry in its collosal form. Built at a time when there were few mechanical contrivances to aid in its construction. And since there was no French Govermental Official over-seeing its construction, they wrapped the whole project in 300 years instead of the Goverment average of 475 years, and a 2000 percent over-budget cost. This particular Cathedral has a huge amount of woodwork on the inside, and the carving within the wooden elements alone is amazing. But then hanging from, and adorning everyone of the 44 marble pillars which are 75 feet tall, is a garnish of carved plaster that seems to ooze down the pillar from the ceiling. Paintings, frescoes, statuary and all manner of ornate tapestry and weavings fill each alcove along its 365 foot long interior. Which part did I like the best you ask, why, the “no smoking” sign I guess because it was written in Olde English font….just kidding. For me and with this particular chapel, it would be the wood work first, followed by the Gargoyles around the outside. Incidently, I did learn something while in Auch. Its the home town of Three Musketeers character Dartangnon (you may want to double check my spelling), who was indeed a real person. He died during a siege of some far off city, but I cant remember which one.

We ended the day in an interesting manner. We had dinner at a splendid Morrocan restaurant, where we had cous-cous with a vegetable and lamb type stew which we put over the cous-cous. I was both sad and surprised because her cous-cous was actually better than mine……who’dathought! Really great mint tea and sweet cakes for dessert. From Auch we headed back towards Mauvezin in and absolute deluge of rain, sure glad I wasn,t in my tent when this storm hit. We made one more stop, and that was at a french Fois Gras farm to see the ducks being fed first hand. Small pens hold only 20 MALE ducks each. They are raised totally outside for 14 weeks, then brought inside for 2 weeks of “forced feeding” I say that without the intention of having it sound harmful in any way. Each duck is hand caught in its turn by the feeder. A slim plastic tube is inserted into the ducks throat, sitting atop that tube is a special corn grinder. The duck is fed ground wet corn till his gizzard is full and gorged. The feeder constantly massages the throat and gizzard checking to see how full the duck is. Once the feeder is happy with the amount of feed he has given the duck, its turned loose to wiggle his tail, quack to his friends and eventually to try and slip back in the feed line. You think I am joking, but they actually come up and nibble on your sleeve trying to get another go-round.

The following day had me leaving the Brail Saddleshop by 10am. Loaded and pedalling under lead grey clouds and very wet roads. Thanks George and Natalie for friendship and great food once again. Always a fun place to visit.

Blog38-generators,Christ and hill climbs

Its been a wild few days to be sure, my brother Niel got on the plane about 9am out of Nice, France. Which left me time to get back to the Hotel pack and get on the road by about 10.15am. I can only sit around a town for so long and then the “stir crazy thing”sets in. Gott,a move, gotta do something, so might as well ride ( I know it should be a horse and it will be when I get home Sis, promise). Besides, the truth is, I was missin my own cookin. On another note my wife brought me Bible Tracts to hand out, so far I have hit 75 or 80 that I have handed out. The reason for the title to this blog is because of just how wierd this night has turned out to be. I done a little buck naked Preachin…..honest injun I did., but not at all by plan. We climbed for 12 miles, not all climbing mind you, only to arrive at the top and find my blue GPS dot moved and had tricked me into riding the wrong road. Now, I am considering my options for the morning and what they may be. As my Pastor and friend Rob would advise, they would say -Pray about it, and I will.

With my tent setup near the back end of a gravel parking lot about 100 feet off a traffic circle, and my stove setup to heat water for tea, just as the sun was dipping below the horizon and the clouds were on fire in all thier glory. It all seemed to me a good time to step behind my tent and have a quick bath. So with that in mind, I took out my OTHER clothes I wear at night ( almost the same just less sweat in them ). Add a little water here, and a little water there,, after all you are using about a quart of cold water to clean off the high spots from head to toe…..bare butt naked……..never even heard him drive in. Yes, a fellow drove in with a tiny little car which was covered in some sort of flame motif. By the time I seen him, he had already opened his door maybe 20 feet out in front of me. He walked with a purpose did this tall thin fella, I actually thought this was gonn’a get really ugly the way it was coming together. I should have known that being naked is one of the best ice breakers there is and renders most hostile situations to something akin a gong show. Pretty sure I surprised him as badly as he had surprised me. Not sure whose eyes were bigger once he knew my undressed state. But surprise did not halt his advance oe bit……as he came on I had the wisdom to instantly drop the water bottle and grap my camp towel. With a left hand full of camp towel and my equipment, water dripping from my nose, elbows and other places he stops 3 feet from me……a little bewildered as to what to say or what to look at first. So, realizing the awkward place that he found himself in, I began the dialogue……”hey hey, up here buddy, yup talk to me right here…..the towel is just a decoy……..dont worry about it for now. He says, What are you doing like this on private property…… in what was very broken english, enough I got the drift. Sorry I say, I didnt realize that the parking lot was a private affair. Yes yes he exclaimed rather excitedly, “ees is mine”. “Why are doing with a velocipede, what for”. So now with only one hand available, I have to explain that I ride for Christ, to meet people and see the world……try that with one hand tied behind….your someplace. “May I stay just tonight I asked”. To which he replied by making a rather loud motor noise which really confused the whole dialogue……about that time a 30 foot motorhome pulled in and stopped right in front of our debate stage. The driver steps out and walks right over to a tall thin man and another with a “too tiny” camp towel and goosebumps on the cheeks of his but you could hang a baseball cap on…….dang but that breeze was cool. He as it turns out, is surprised as the tall thin fella when it comes to my state of dress………”what does he do” he says not too me, but to the tall thin fella. He also then makes rather eboulliant gestures and noises like a motor or something. As it all turns out, these 2 fellas run a mobile wood fired oven pizza kitchen right out of the old motorhome, and the noise motions were a warning that once they setup thier generator I would not sleep well. Fine, I understand and accept the discomfort……..can I just put some clothes on……..no, I am not embarresed……..I am frozen. They left to go about thier work, and I dressed. Maybe an hour later they came over for an earnest visit about my trip, about Christ, about salvation thru Christ, and about what I do when not cycling. Maybe another hour goes by and they brought me over what has been the best 4 cheeses pizza I have had too date. A situation that began looking as thought it may not be too pleasant infact turned out quite remarkable. Handed out yet 2 more bible tracts in the process and never dropped the camp towel.

Lets go back a wee bit, my leaving Nice was not at all difficult. Basically hit the boardwalk and cycle slowly down thru the throng of people that lined the beach promenade, watching the road beside me said that it was even busier. There is a point where you just want to leave humanity behind for a spell, no matter how nice they are or how good the food is. Sure hope there are a few dark corners in heaven for a guy like me to get into and collect his thoughts. My route of choice has me on the coast down to Frejus and then from there I turn more northerly and westerly all the time. Dont get me wrong the coast is a true camera paradise, but not being an ocean and beach guy, it was wearing on me in a bad way. Stopping every 15 to 20 minutes to remove various and sundry items, bikinis, thongs, towels, sand pails from my spokes and chain was fraying my rock steady nerves. Did’nt seem to bother the folks that lost thier swim suit…..at all. Meantime, I was riding back and forth along the beach trying to be sure that each bikini wearer got her suit back…………call it the good samaritan in me, just my sense of obligation kickin in. First camp, first day after Nice, was set like a birds nest high on a rocky point of a headland. The wind was cool, the legs were tired and it was 5pm and the sun was slouched low on a clear horizon line. So that was it, there were so many houses and people around and very few flat spots to throw out even my little tent, I just threw out the bag of sleep and my mattress and cook up some couscous. Hit the sack at 7pm sharp, and slept right thru till 7am. Hot coffee, some toasted baguette (this baguette was a real one, not those convection oven specials like we get back home) we are rolling.

The previous night, I talked to Colleen and found out where my saddle making friend Yves Lesire had moved to. once armed with that bit of information we then had to workout a new route or approach to Yves place. Since going north at all would be a waste of time. We head due west, again along the French coast. the countryside gets quite rough and rocky between Nice and Marseille, it rather caught me by surprise. At one point I dropped down into a small town on very steep roads which I came to regret later upon exiting the place. Roads where in the mid 30 percent grade and 2 that I road on where cobble which really makes it fun. The tiny little village was gorgeous to be sure, very quaint and worth the effort, but the Postal lady not so much. My reason to drop down in to the town was to rid myself of some items that needed to just get mailed home………THE POSTAL LADY’S RESPONCE…..very sorry but we do not take mail……only give mail……adios ( but in french which I cannot spell ). Plenty cold and windy, the weather began to change the day before and just kept getting colder.

Down off a rocky ridge I blazed, as I made my way into Marseille, a town that I really wanted to just get thru and out the other side so I could find a camp. For some reason that is not how it ended up. I got hopelessly turned around in town and it took me and my cell phone better than 2 hours to get things right again. By now I am about 2 miles from the western edge of the city and it is very dark and I need to make camp someplace. Marseille is a rather ruff town, and I am right down in the seedy part of town with no hotels/motels that you spend more than an hour in if you get the picture. I prayed as I pedaled and looked for a campsite, sure enough,it turned up, right along the edge of shipping yard, chain link fence to keep the guard dog from me, a willow tree with low hanging branches, no broken glass etc to impail me and a large enough flat spot to pitch the tent. We made it, what more could be asked for. I was able to sit there eating and watch folks walk past on the sidewalk just 10 feet away who had no idea that I was there. Had a hot supper but no bath, just too cold. Two cups of sweet hot tea to finish the night, climbed into bed and began yet another book that Pine had helped me download sometime back. About books, not too segway off into anotber direction, but I am a huge fan of Brian Jaques writings for kids known as the Redwall Series. Since Brian has new book out I of course had to get my head into that one as well.

Esapcaped Marseille by just a few minutes after 6 the next morning. My route would take me right into the french Camargue ( Frances ranching and horse culture center). This is a special place within France for many reasons beyond the simple fact it has cattle on it. The cattle are a breed unto themselves,adapted to these wet marshy saltwater laden tidal flats. High horned and smaller than thier American cousins, fast affoot and excellent swimmers. The horses as well are an adaptation, born solid black and turning white within a few years. They as well are shorter than most American horses, lighter, and larger shoe sizes( refferencing the horses shoe size here, not the French mans foot) All of which are an adaptation to the wet environs they must operate within. The wind is howling out of the north and escaping down thru passes in the French Alps to sweep across the coastal tidal flats and escape out over the boiling surface of the Mediterranean. I was not so lucky, no escape for me. It was mostly a head wind, I had on every piece of clothing I owned and was still freezing up badly. The route I had chosen thru the Camargues is devoid of trees, nothing taller than about your waist around, no place to get out of the first gail type winds of the pending winters approach.

A portion of my route required I take a ferry crossing over to a tiny isthmus of land that bridges the saltwater like a dancing ashphalt ribbon across sea grass right up into the city of Montpellier. For 2 hours a trucker and I sat waiting for the ferry which ran on the hour???? Only to find that after the first run the Ferries operator quit and went home without telling anyone. Now that we knew there would be no ferry coming our way today we both turned back into the wind for a direct shot so 20 miles total of wasted time and energy. We would now make our way north towards Arles which is considered to be the nkrthern edge of this camargues region. The town is obviously proud of its legacy and heritage as it regards cattle and horses both as steel signs of appreciation for both animals festoon thier tiny streets. Out thru the other side we roll, right after we stock up at a Boulangerie for some pastry and bread. Further on we get some sausage and water for tonights supper. Camp, wow, one of the best I have had in sometime. We camped quietly behind a row of huge spruce trees that act as a wind break for an apple orchard. Great supper and great camp. Adios the coast and hello to more interior type small village farm ground……I am well pleased.

I thought surely I would make it to Yves saddleshop, but no such luck. Its cold again with a milder wind but in it all I realize that I will need some warmer clothing for the coming season. Since Montpellier is a much larger town than most I will be going thru, I opt to do a little shopping in the afternnoon. Tried 3 different cycle stores, all had clothing, all of it was aimed at winning the Tour de France. Hence a little to light and flimsy for a fella following my current pursuit. Had to pass on adding any heavier clothing at the moment, not for lack of trying. That evening, I camped within about 15 miles of my desired destination, but once again, it was just too dark to make it all the way. Quit for the day and found another great camp site.

I began the next day with little shopping right off the bat, there was a SuperMarket right along side the road that enticed me in, not that I needed any food. I have a friend, Don Wudel back in Canada who used to keep the saddle shop ( Chuck Stormes Saddlery where I was able to apprentice )supplied with Schimmelpennick Dutch Ginger cookies called Speculous. Since I knew they were his favorite cookie, I thought I would buy some Lu brand Speculous and mail them over to him in Alberta. So Wudel, I now have your cookies I just need to find a French Postman during those brief few hours that they are actually at work so I can get them sent. Made it to my talented friend Yves Lesires house by about noon and was welcomed in the usual french fashion……..with an embrasser…….a kiss to each sweaty cheek…….and a very fine meal. Yves, Myriam and Erin Lesire make France a must stop destination for me with hospitality,friendship and great food. Yves, not just an outstanding saddlemaker but a heck of a cook as well, prepared his world famous Shrimp recipe for me which I had heard about maybe 10 years earlier from my buddy Brock Lynch. Brock had bragged about it, and what Yves prepared indeed lived up to the boast of a Colorado salt salesman. For desert,I was served an indigenous Villeveyrac variety of apple….wow what an apple. Tried a second just to be sure and it was just as good. Friends are Gods Blessing for our time here on earth, and Yves and family are certainly that.

Blog37-Loafers, Lambo’s and Ascots

From Florence where my brother and I met up, we headed basically west by northwest. We stopped for 2 days in the Italian coastal port city of Genoa, which also happened to be the home port of non-other than Christopher Columbus. From Genoa we essentially rode the coastal route over too Nice France where my brother then flies home. This is an affluent piece of real estate that we are riding thru, with cities such as San Remo and Montecarlo among them. Indeed there are many days that we felt and looked like homeless bums as we walked among the rich and famous. Equisite ltalian leather loafers, nice suits and the european version of a wild rag around the neck….only they call it an Ascot. Not to mention the plethora of makes and models of fine automobiles that passed us.

For both my brother and I, we gravitate more to the simpler and maybe more rural style of life,food and dress….this piece of the trip was just a little much for our upbringing. To really get back to feeling a little more normal we had to go spend one night in a dumpster……well, okay….over the top maybe, but real close to that. I will explain later.

We walked Genoa and seen as many Cathedrals as a person can stand too see in one day. And I love Cathedrals. We shopped for art…..and I finally found that Don Marley poster I have been looking for. Love that Reggae beat,mon. Some of our time was spent studying traffic and deciding which roads to escape on, and we are glad we spent that time because the escape went very well. Now I know that Italy has a world class food reputation, I dont really doubt it. But we went out for supper 3 times one night, and had about the worst meals you could imagine. Not sure what our problem was, but nothing worked out. We were longing for a Denny’s when it was over, or maybe a Perini’s in Texas hill country.

Made our route choice and left early Sunday morning. Hit the cranks out of Genoa by about 7.15am. The roads were wide open and vacant. I have to interject here with a few thoughts and insights that may well offend my European friends which I dont intend to do. But here goes, who ever is in charge of road signage placement……should probably just be shot….he is an idiot. Then we have to deal with the beurocratic nepatism, pretty sure the first guy we just shot had hired his brother to actually install the signs….he should also be shot. Pretty harsh, I know. But after awhile, when you finally find your sign hidden behind a tree…..or posted some 150 yards after the junction and it is down a hill and around a corner, or worse yet the road number was spray painted on a stray dog.Well, can I just say that by then the humor in it all has vanished. It was our observation that signage really sucks in Italy unless per chance you are doing the Auto-Strada thingy. Its ironic on one hand that part of tourism is inviting people over to enjoy an otherwise beautiful country, when at the ground or roadside level it is so poorly executed…..just sayin, don’t get yer knickers all up in a knot.

The Italian Riviera. That is what they call this portion of the coast that we rode, very few if any are more beautiful. It really was a breathtaking ride to be sure. Our route of choice was on SS1, which is a small secondary road, two lane. It meanders and tangles its way along this cerulean strip of cliff edged paradise, from south of Cinque Terra right up to the French border. Marked as an official cycle route upon many maps and blog descriptions. Along the way we occassionaly found a cycle path by pure accident…..because signs were of little help. The Italian drivers, whether that be in a several ton delivery truck, a Lambo,Porsche of a Poggio….they were too a person outstandingly considerate and courteous. Both of us want to say thanks for that fact.

The road runs right down along the shore, then vaults skyward up over rocky 1000 foot headlands that interrupt that coastal geography. Up, up, we grind. Along a narrow road with pine strewn cliff edge on our left, and a stacked rockwall or a harsh jagged mountainside to the right. At uneven intervals small paved single lane roads would heave themselves further skyward towards some unseen house or Hotel high above our ashphalt path. The houses here actually “cling” upon solid rock, wind wiping foam on mediterranean water at the same time it rips at the facade of myriad houses that dot its coast line. It all became a sort of pattern or rythm, we ride that wave-like decent thru tunnels turns and twists, flatten out a little as we come to the shore line. Wind our way thru narrow streets of yet another coastal village or city. Then repeat the whole process again as we climb yet another headland into the shadow of a setting sun.

We had some interesting visits with a couple “also traveling bikers”, one fellow I mentioned, Wheatsa from Holland. But also, Brian who has blazed his trail on a very road weary antique single speed. And a common lament is that almost all camp grounds for tenters are closed, “and wild camping is just impossible because there are people everywhere. Just want to tell you Pine and Nevada, that we wild camped every night…..no campgrounds for these two. No sireee bob. Some may not have been real pretty, like the camp where we slept behind a 20 inch tall rock wall on a pretty busy road…..and being under a street light really dealt a blow to the ambiance of the whole situation. Or better yet, the camp where we sandwiched our tents between hedges in a street corner park….also a dandy. We did however have some gorgeous camps inwhich the blue sea lay just over our shoulder as did the setting sun, like a comforting mantle at the end of a long day, stony headlands marched on up the coast like soldiers in formation.

Our route would take us thru the fabled city of Montecarlo, which lays within the Principality of Monaco. Folks, this is a place where escape is a heck of a lot harder than entry. My dear God in Heaven, but this is a proverbial rats nest or maze when it comes to roads and traffic. Just unbelievable how tangled a web you can make with roads….I know, we seen it. But in Montecarlo the surface it covered in roads so bad you simply have no room to add to the web created. So, they have moved underground with a maze akin to the Mines of Moria. Yes indeed, a 6 way traffic circle fully underground, 3 road groups were rising to leave and 2 were decling deeper while one stayed fairly flat. And not just one such narrow engineering abstraction……oh no, we hit 3 such collossal granite beasts. Loaded semi’s come rolling round corners so tight that what gets scraped off the right front corners on the way in, is reapplied to the rear left corner upon exit, cars clammer for a lane, horns and flashing lights, dark then brilliant light, you climb in a low gear only to topout, shift and turn into a hard spiralling turn to the left while your eyes try to adjust and your brain attempts to make sense of ” real near ” horn honks and those that are but echoes of a near miss from seconds ago and in some other tunnel. A full 2 hours were taken up trying to escape from a town 16 feet wide by 10 miles long and a thousand feet tall. Beaucoup cranky at the end of that day…..some serious praying done before for safe roads, and afterwards, prayers of apology after for what I was calling them. With Montecarlo now behind us, you could sense a certain amount of relief in the crew (both of us).

We finally roll into Nice France, once the home port of Vasco de Gama. Our first stop is for coffee and charge at least one phone up so se can find a place to stay. We have a tiny room in an average Hotel and I feel I paid to much. But thats from the twisted mind of a “wild camper” for you. We walked, talked and ate our ay thru Nice, San Remo, Genoa, Florence among many others. My brother and I will part ways as brothers once again, but with a different appreciation for each other and the journey made over these brief 2 weeks. Just want to say thanks to family for making/letting/allowing this trip to happen. And thanks to Jesus Christ for actually blessing the time while we were together. And thanks brother for taking time away from family and friends so you could spend time with me here in Italy.

Blog37-Loafers, Lambo’s and Ascots

From Florence where my brother and I met up, we headed basically west by northwest. We stopped for 2 days in the Italian coastal port city of Genoa, which also happened to be the home port of non-other than Christopher Columbus. From Genoa we essentially rode the coastal route over too Nice France where my brother then flies home. This is an affluent piece of real estate that we are riding thru, with cities such as San Remo and Montecarlo among them. Indeed there are many days that we felt and looked like homeless bums as we walked among the rich and famous. Equisite ltalian leather loafers, nice suits and the european version of a wild rag around the neck….only they call it an Ascot. Not to mention the plethora of makes and models of fine automobiles that passed us.

For both my brother and I, we gravitate more to the simpler and maybe more rural style of life,food and dress….this piece of the trip was just a little much for our upbringing. To really get back to feeling a little more normal we had to go spend one night in a dumpster……well, okay….over the top maybe, but real close to that. I will explain later.

We walked Genoa and seen as many Cathedrals as a person can stand too see in one day. And I love Cathedrals. We shopped for art…..and I finally found that Don Marley poster I have been looking for. Love that Reggae beat,mon. Some of our time was spent studying traffic and deciding which roads to escape on, and we are glad we spent that time because the escape went very well. Now I know that Italy has a world class food reputation, I dont really doubt it. But we went out for supper 3 times one night, and had about the worst meals you could imagine. Not sure what our problem was, but nothing worked out. We were longing for a Denny’s when it was over, or maybe a Perini’s in Texas hill country.

Made our route choice and left early Sunday morning. Hit the cranks out of Genoa by about 7.15am. The roads were wide open and vacant. I have to interject here with a few thoughts and insights that may well offend my European friends which I dont intend to do. But here goes, who ever is in charge of road signage placement……should probably just be shot….he is an idiot. Then we have to deal with the beurocratic nepatism, pretty sure the first guy we just shot had hired his brother to actually install the signs….he should also be shot. Pretty harsh, I know. But after awhile, when you finally find your sign hidden behind a tree…..or posted some 150 yards after the junction and it is down a hill and around a corner, or worse yet the road number was spray painted on a stray dog.Well, can I just say that by then the humor in it all has vanished. It was our observation that signage really sucks in Italy unless per chance you are doing the Auto-Strada thingy. Its ironic on one hand that part of tourism is inviting people over to enjoy an otherwise beautiful country, when at the ground or roadside level it is so poorly executed…..just sayin, don’t get yer knickers all up in a knot.

The Italian Riviera. That is what they call this portion of the coast that we rode, very few if any are more beautiful. It really was a breathtaking ride to be sure. Our route of choice was on SS1, which is a small secondary road, two lane. It meanders and tangles its way along this cerulean strip of cliff edged paradise, from south of Cinque Terra right up to the French border. Marked as an official cycle route upon many maps and blog descriptions. Along the way we occassionaly found a cycle path by pure accident…..because signs were of little help. The Italian drivers, whether that be in a several ton delivery truck, a Lambo,Porsche of a Poggio….they were too a person outstandingly considerate and courteous. Both of us want to say thanks for that fact.

The road runs right down along the shore, then vaults skyward up over rocky 1000 foot headlands that interrupt that coastal geography. Up, up, we grind. Along a narrow road with pine strewn cliff edge on our left, and a stacked rockwall or a harsh jagged mountainside to the right. At uneven intervals small paved single lane roads would heave themselves further skyward towards some unseen house or Hotel high above our ashphalt path. The houses here actually “cling” upon solid rock, wind wiping foam on mediterranean water at the same time it rips at the facade of myriad houses that dot its coast line. It all became a sort of pattern or rythm, we ride that wave-like decent thru tunnels turns and twists, flatten out a little as we come to the shore line. Wind our way thru narrow streets of yet another coastal village or city. Then repeat the whole process again as we climb yet another headland into the shadow of a setting sun.

We had some interesting visits with a couple “also traveling bikers”, one fellow I mentioned, Wheatsa from Holland. But also, Brian who has blazed his trail on a very road weary antique single speed. And a common lament is that almost all camp grounds for tenters are closed, “and wild camping is just impossible because there are people everywhere. Just want to tell you Pine and Nevada, that we wild camped every night…..no campgrounds for these two. No sireee bob. Some may not have been real pretty, like the camp where we slept behind a 20 inch tall rock wall on a pretty busy road…..and being under a street light really dealt a blow to the ambiance of the whole situation. Or better yet, the camp where we sandwiched our tents between hedges in a street corner park….also a dandy. We did however have some gorgeous camps inwhich the blue sea lay just over our shoulder as did the setting sun, like a comforting mantle at the end of a long day, stony headlands marched on up the coast like soldiers in formation.

Our route would take us thru the fabled city of Montecarlo, which lays within the Principality of Monaco. Folks, this is a place where escape is a heck of a lot harder than entry. My dear God in Heaven, but this is a proverbial rats nest or maze when it comes to roads and traffic. Just unbelievable how tangled a web you can make with roads….I know, we seen it. But in Montecarlo the surface it covered in roads so bad you simply have no room to add to the web created. So, they have moved underground with a maze akin to the Mines of Moria. Yes indeed, a 6 way traffic circle fully underground, 3 road groups were rising to leave and 2 were decling deeper while one stayed fairly flat. And not just one such narrow engineering abstraction……oh no, we hit 3 such collossal granite beasts. Loaded semi’s come rolling round corners so tight that what gets scraped off the right front corners on the way in, is reapplied to the rear left corner upon exit, cars clammer for a lane, horns and flashing lights, dark then brilliant light, you climb in a low gear only to topout, shift and turn into a hard spiralling turn to the left while your eyes try to adjust and your brain attempts to make sense of ” real near ” horn honks and those that are but echoes of a near miss from seconds ago and in some other tunnel. A full 2 hours were taken up trying to escape from a town 16 feet wide by 10 miles long and a thousand feet tall. Beaucoup cranky at the end of that day…..some serious praying done before for safe roads, and afterwards, prayers of apology after for what I was calling them. With Montecarlo now behind us, you could sense a certain amount of relief in the crew (both of us).

We finally roll into Nice France, once the home port of Vasco de Gama. Our first stop is for coffee and charge at least one phone up so se can find a place to stay. We have a tiny room in an average Hotel and I feel I paid to much. But thats from the twisted mind of a “wild camper” for you. We walked, talked and ate our ay thru Nice, San Remo, Genoa, Florence among many others. My brother and I will part ways as brothers once again, but with a different appreciation for each other and the journey made over these brief 2 weeks. Just want to say thanks to family for making/letting/allowing this trip to happen. And thanks to Jesus Christ for actually blessing the time while we were together. And thanks brother for taking time away from family and friends so you could spend time with me here in Italy.

	Candy Diaz on Blog 16 – Shamrocks and…
	Mark Stewart on Blog 16 – Shamrocks and…
	Jerry Gant on Blog 16 – Shamrocks and…
	Larkin on Blog 16 – Shamrocks and…
	Larkin on Blog 15 – Shamrocks and…

Jeremiah Watt Cycling around God's Creation

long distance bicycle touring

Posts by Jeremiah Watt-saddlemaker

Blog45-Pan-eurasia completed

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Blog37-Loafers, Lambo’s and Ascots

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Blog37-Loafers, Lambo’s and Ascots

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