Madonnas, Mountains and Michelin Stars

Well! A Great Day! I’m still fizzing. Honestly, if I was any more excited I’d have to send for bigger trousers. 

It started off well, in the same place that the night before ended badly. Cap Breton sounds romantic, sophisticated, a kind of 60s chic applies. Yet, after a very long day’s ride, and a great deal of deep instrospection, a grey Atlantic beating against a cold beach in a constant drizzle is not a place to be. ‘Beware! Dangerous Undercurrents!’. Quite.

A good night’s sleep and the world has self corrected, so down to breakfast served by the couple who run this place. She is beautiful, 50 going on 35. Short bobbed hair , slim – as is compulsory for women in France, wearing hipster jeans. Think Kevin Spacey’s wife in House of Cards and you’re about an inch off. He is her perfect foil, same age, fit but doesn’t work at it. He is the kind of guy that can carry a pastel cardigan worn over the shoulders of a striped open neck shirt without looking like a dick. I know this because he is. I swear, if this couple have a car with a top on it then it’s a loaner while theirs is in for service.

He is a motorcylist though and therefore a kindred soul. He covers my bike against the rain. She does not ride pillion, too scared, which she explains by doing a puckering motion with her thumb and first two fingers. I’ll remember that symbol.

There are a lot of beautiful women in France but they are not the most attractive nation. That honour, in my experience, belongs to the Danes. I know this because I once travelled back from a rally on the overnight boat. I had spent a week camping on a lake with no facilities in -18 degrees. I was not at my best. As I settled down with my book I noticed that everyone else on board was a model.  I thought the Danish Government had put an export ban on ugly people. I felt intimidated, but acclimatised as one vision was eclipsed by another. Then they all went back to their cabins and got dressed and dolled up for dinner. And I went back to mine, put a bag on my head and switched the light off. 

Anyway, talking of  visions, I spent the morning looking at maps wondering where to go. Then remembered a friend had instructed me to return with all bones intact and all muscles in the right  places. So, Lourdes it is. Truth is I’ve been fascinated by Lourdes for years. Blame my Catholic upbringing, but a town full of desperately sick people, what’s not to like? Plus, I’m keen to see a car park where most of the spaces are disabled bays. 
The ride is mundane save that I can’t find a petrol station and I’m down to the last 14 indicated miles in my tank. A sign comes up on the motorway saying next fuel in 12 miles. Hmm. I’m tempted to risk it to see what happens but discretion gets the better of me and I turn off and follow my Satnav to safety. I’m getting attached to the lady in my sat Nav. I’ll write more about that budding relationship later.

And so to Lourdes. I went straight to the Grotto. For those who don’t know, a young pubescent (there is a clue there) French girl saw several visions of the Virgin Mary in a grotto in Lourdes in 1858. The Catholic Church did an investigation and pronounced it a true vision. So it really happened. So shut up. Anyway, a spring sprung as springs are known to do and the waters healed various people and so Bernadotte was made a saint and Lourdes was made full stop. 

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Not what I found. There is a tall crucifix and then a long avenue of flowers to a large and very ornate fairy tale castle of a church: Maryland. Inside the church is beautiful, full of light and  full of the usual iconography of Catholicism but somehow more feminine. The faces are the most striking.they are real people, Bernadette, who dominates one wall, is a young girl you might see on the street. Jesus is a real figure. It is compelling in a way I find strange having had religion beaten out of me (literally) by Jesuits. One man with a vision  that spread across the world with his picture in every one of his establishments.  Somehow I keep thinking of Colonel Sanders. One thing I do know. For all its beauty, this church is suffused with wealth. Just as you’ll find in St Peter’s in Rome, or Santiago de Compostella or any major Catholic shrine. More than a simple carpenter could make in two millennia. 

So I retreat to the town and explore the first couple of streets but they all follow a pattern of arcades selling religious ornaments, icons and other forms of souvenir. The statues of the Madonna range from a few centimetres to over a metre. The oddest, to me at least, are the ‘water bottles’. These are plastic containers in the form of Mary, or Bernadette, sometimes both. Again they range in size but their purpose is to hold holy water from the Spring. Mary has a crown, which doubles as a filler cap. 

This is mine. I was tempted to fill it with Coca Cola and drink it in amongst the throng – “Vous etes Charlie maintenant?”

And so I leave and head for Spain. My route takes me over the Pyrannees which first appear on the horizon with thier tops covered in snow and cloud. Even from this far they look majestic but become awe inspiring the closer I get. It is a truly great ride. The bike is never upright for more than a few seconds as we shift left, right and left again. Moving. Shifting gears. Concentrating. Looking for it to be perfect. The whole thing is a dance  in 3D. A guy is driving quickly in a motor home of all things. Fast, too fast really, using the whole road as he frightens his wife and kids but keeps the motorbike behind him. Very macho. Except he has to go slow and wide for left hand hard bends and its just a matter of the right one..

Then I crest the mountain and the game changes. Most of the roads here have been designed and laid by a genius. I love him or her. They obviously ride a bike. But this…. The road clings half way up a near vertical mountainside.  It is one and a half car widths wide. Helpfully there are sharp edged granite blocks on the falling face. For a motorcyclist these are about mid shin, which is useful as it means if you make a mistake, the emergency services will be able to use your severed limb as an indicator of where to look for your remains some 3000ft below. Thoughtful. I am not good with heights and so this bit proves a trial, as do the tunnels so dark that the headlight and spots make no impact at all. I am above the clouds exercising restraint and sphincter control. I remember the lady’s sign and agree completely. 

Then it’s done and once again the road turns into a fantasy. This is glorious. I am not fast, but this road makes you faster. It is a snake and a roller coaster combined. As we go up one set of bends climbing a hill, the engine loud, the world canted over, the road closer than it should be, I notice the speed and realise I’m doing less than the stated limit. I wonder for a second whether the road designer posted laps records instead of maximum speeds and then remember the difference  between kilometres and MPH.  It goes on and on and on. Bliss. 

My end destination is Huesca, where I know there is a parador. Not yet there isn’t, more great planning,  but I find a good hotel where the nice French lady on reception wants to practise her English. So we discuss the addictive nature of tattoos for 20 minutes. As you do. “I have a tattoo of the pen of my aunt. And another of an open window”. I knew those lessons at school would be useful one day. 

And so the final element of this trilogy. She sends me to a tapas bar, it has one Michelin star, would that be ok? It would and it does, with the owner guiding me through the best bits of the menu. 4 plates, 2 glasses of wine, a coffee – £25 including tip. You should have been there. 

A perfect end to a perfect day? Not quite. That would be the bar on the way back that sold 86 world beers. It would be rude not to just pop in….