With the gift of prophesy, a wise man would take heed of any portent. Turn over. Close his eyes. Turn his back on the day. Go back to sleep.
Neither of us have that gift. And probably even if we did, we’d ignore our own advice. Especially if offered to the other! It’s amazing how quickly a clear blue sky can suddenly cloud over. Turn into a raging storm. Toss you this way, then the other. Just as if to say “Told you so!”
Day 4 – Another long day in the saddle ends at Salles and Camping Parc du Val d’Eyre, a larger than average riverside site. The smiley lady in reception hands over a map and brief instructions on the easiest route to our allocated pitch. The map has two flaws. It’s not accurately drawn and some pitch numbers are either missing, or in excess to what’s physically on the ground. Without hoo-ha Henry leading the way, it doesn’t take much for us to get lost and totally disorientated.
It’s another reasonably priced French site with good facilities and a pool. Just what’s required to cool down in more ways than one. The riverside walk helps . . .
Day 5 – Henry’s route towards San Sebastian, is destined to take us through Sabres. A small commune in south west France, with a population of a little over 1,000. It’s market day. Or perhaps every day is market day. There seems to be no corner shop, or supermarket. The locals all buying under cover. The array of tempting fresh fruit and veg on offer, a good excuse to give Beastie a welcome rest. And for us to practise our French ‘axon’.
A couple of JWs, stand by their stand. Vainly hoping that at least one person is going to be more concerned about how they’re going to make it into heaven, rather than searching out the best produce for dinner. Believing in the drawing power of their leaflets they remain motionless. As still as a silver painted street artist. They resemble a couple of cut-out dummies, waiting for the next dummy. Yet to realise in Catholic France they have their work cut out.
Loaded with supplies, we pop into Église Saint-Michel.
At this point in time, if we’d have had a cup of tea, or bumped into a stranger clutching a bunch of lucky heather, we may well have received some insight to what lay in store further up the road. But like two of the three blind mice we venture forth.
Hoo-ha Henry thinks he has the makings of becoming the third blind mouse. With half an open eye he guides (not quite the right word) us into the beating heart of rush hour San Sebastian, a massive city, based around narrow roads. It’s a mash of constricted bus lanes and one way streets. Every road lined both sides with parked cars. To make matters worse he’s oblivious to the fact that road works bar the only way out of town on his chosen route. There’s nowhere to pull Beastie up and take stock. Henry duplicates his instructions, no doubt wondering why we didn’t turn into the street that’s blocked. So we do a couple of laps and again we become totally disorientated, lost and frustrated. In cab stacatto chatter bounces back and forth. Not quite as insinuations. Each cheese expecting the other to find a solution. An answer to a question that doesn’t exist.
With some ad-hock guess work, Henry gets ignored and we steer away from the city then point Beastie in the general direction of Igueldo and WeCamp camp site. By now it’s past 6pm and hopes of ending the day pool side, fade with the lowering sun.
WeCamp is a large terraced site. It’s heaving and other late comers are being turned away. We’ve pre-booked three nights. Horrah!! But. To pile misery onto misery our allocated pitch is a joke. Far too tiny for Beastie to manoeuvre onto. It’s a further hour before we’re found an alternative.
Over dinner, we question the sanity of driving all this way to park up on an eight by five plot of sloping gravel and mud.
Plus . . .
