France...

I seemed to remember that Morocco was just a hop, skip and jump away. Rosy specs of time and affection for the Citroen I did this journey in last time gave the impression that an early ferry from Dover should see one in Tangier for a late lunch. Ah, not so.

The riding in France was as hard as any I’ve ever done. A week on and the days have merged into a haze of leaden skies; sudden, violent downpours and freezing, blustery winds threatening to throw you under the wheels of the truck in the next lane. One day I did barely 120km before giving it up as just too damn dangerous. One daily pleasure though was the sandwich. Get a baguette from the boulangerie. Carve off a generous chunk with the trusty Opinel and tear it open. A slice of brie, warm and gooey from its’ spot in the ‘lunch bag’ (an old canvas pouch which hangs close to the exhaust). I’m about to snap this king of sandwiches shut when I remember: “Hang on, I think I’ve got some chorizo left.” Yes, there it is, nestled under the emmental in the lunch bag. The king of sandwiches becomes deified.

I was nearing the coast South of Nimes and looking expectantly for the Med to appear, when I was taken by surprise by the Pyrenees. I crested a rise and suddenly there they were, dominating the way ahead. Great shoulders of snow and ice rising pristine above the dull brown of the everyday world. A moment of regret as I realised I wouldn’t get to play in them this time, then I spotted the Med. A deeper blue than I remembered it, the wind whipping it into foam around the rocks and bays near Montpellier.

Tomorrow I should be in Spain.