Wednesday 21 March 2018

France and Spain 25/8 - 10/9 2017 Part 3

I spent the first few hours wondering if I'd done the right thing in letting Paul go like that, but at the time it was clear that I couldn't have stopped him. I felt bad that I'd let him set off to cover what must have been a thousand miles to get home on a bike that had broken down twice already and he had no phone to call for help. But he is also a big boy and if he wants to inflict such a silly scenario on himself then he can. This feeling quickly passed - I was still in the Pyrenees on my trusty old CB250, the motor was starting to move about in the frame again as the makeshift bolt was wearing but I felt confident we'd make it home. I felt okay about things at this point. The Pyrenees were much the same as before, too twisty with wet patches everywhere, gravel all over and an awful lot of road works. On the D118 I even passed another bike with UK plates, even if you feel far from home there's always someone else out there with you..
I made my way out of the Pyrenees and passed Carcassonne at about 2PM. I'd had to rely heavily on the Nav to find my way out, I wondered how on earth Paul would manage with no sat nav and no phone.

I stopped after a while to have a break from the oppressive heat and humidity, and the boring flat landscape, and had another read of the text that had been sent from the group we were originally supposed to be meeting in Austria. It turned out they hadn't gone with the original backup plan of the Languedoc at all and were going to be at Camping Moto near Crest. Thankfully I was heading in roughly the right direction, but could plan in a couple of stop offs recommended by Mr Pape - the Millau bridge and the Tarn Gorge. I stopped for some utterly delicious pork and mustard on tagliatelle and some awful Pelforth branded lager before heading up the motorway (yawn) to Millau. The CB250 probably didn't enjoy this at all, I certainly didn't enjoy crawling along at 45MPH uphill, but we made it.
The bridge is big. Quite good if you like big bridges. Shame the toll is €4.90 though! No doubt the super swanky camera system needs a lot of upkeep..

I was soon in Millau. It's actually a bit of a dump, this was next to a horrible retail park.
There were lots of camp sites to choose from though, and once I'd finally decided which one to use (the price and number of stars is highly variable) I found there was Leffe and burgers on tap just down the road. Lovely! The French make some strange burgers though, they still insist on using a baguette.. The night was admittedly subdued as I was on my own, compared to what was often alcohol fuelled mayhem with Paul it didn't seem quite right. I wondered if I am cut out for lone camping trips, despite having done a few in the UK.

I packed up camp the next morning feeling quite refreshed and strangely un-hungover. It turned out the people in the caravan next to my plot like to feed the ducks at a certain time, and this was that time.
I set off from Millau and headed for the Tarn Gorge, which was pretty damn impressive and actually a great riding road. This was also recommended by my new friend Mr Pape, who clearly should be listened to (forget Rocamadour)!

A video of the loveliness that is Tarn Gorge:
On the way out of Tarn Gorge on the eastern side a guy on a Transalp starting following me rather closely, so I decided to show him what Us Brits are made of. I essentially raced him through a few miles of the gorge, often outrunning him if any corners were involved. We finally came out of the gorge and into a little village, he pulls up alongside me and I expect he's about to congratulate me on my riding, getting so much out of so little. "parler francais? PARLER FRANCAIS??". I wiggle my hand as the international sign of not really, so he tries in English. "YOUR, err, TRANSMISSION! IT'S MOVING". Ahhh, a wave of disappointment washed over me. The rear sprocket is wiggling about, and he is so concerned by it he has felt the need to stick with me to tell me. What a come down. I pull into the next carpark and explain that I know, and that I've ground down the studs so it can wiggle about a lot. He clearly thinks I'm a complete crackpot. He also doesn't seem very impressed. I guess I wouldn't be either. According to him the sprocket is wobbling around by at least a centimetre. By the time I got home this particular situation would be very desperate indeed.

Thanks Mr Frenchman, no one else ever mentioned it though I knew it moved a lot.
And then set off to Camp Moto somewhere south of Grenoble, kind of near Crest. This is where the other guys were apparently staying, the ones we were supposed to meet on Sunday.. Except I only made it by Wednesday evening and Paul never made it at all. Nice scenery though, and the roads here from Tarn Gorge were occasionally brilliant, which I had learnt is a rare treat for most of France. I also had the most excellent steak and chips on the way, served by a young French fellow who had spent time as a student in Birmingham! The steak was cut into bitesize cubes so I could just stick them in my gob, and the Dijon mustard tasted all the better for being near Dijon..
The heat was finally fading away into the evening, I was closing in on some familiar faces, the scenery was becoming better and the CB was still purring/whirring away like it always did. Things felt pretty good.
The CB garnered much interest upon its arrival at Camp Moto, far more than all the new BMWs managed. This was nice. You also get a beer shoved on you as soon as you get there, which is also nice. I sat at a table after explaining that a tall, loud man is expecting me - the landlady of the site knew exactly who I meant. Soon enough Tony turned up, beaming and shouting. After giggling at my lack of BMW he realises that there's something missing..

"WHERE'S HIMSELF?"

And so I have to explain that Paul is a teenage girl with the mental constitution of a Cadbury's Flake. Then the rest turn up and I have to explain it again.. Thankfully there were beers on offer. Supposedly they were already known as the hardest drinking group on site, of course I couldn't let the side down..

Camp Moto, with the UK BMW And Rukka Owners Club. How sad for them.


Heehee, look at them. They're so far in they have no idea how ridiculous they are. They do fry up bacon in the morning though, so there are up sides to being associated with them.

When I first turned up, Tony confided in me that he had worn out the rest of the group. They all looked knackered, but I thought it might be down to the oppressive humidity. While mooching around the camp later, with some beer in all of us, I started to find out what the deal was - it quickly became apparent that Tony was trying to cram in high mileage days on very twisty, very gravelly and very hot roads with no let up. Everyone except Tony was also hanging on my every word about Spain, the easy roads, the dry heat, the lack of traffic.. It must have sounded like heaven compared to what they were being put through. More 9% lager from the pannier please..
The next day dawned. I was originally set on going to the top of the Cime De La Bonette as it was only a few hundred miles and the highest open, public road in Europe. However I was also well aware that the CB was not at its fittest, the handling starting to feel rather strange, and that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to go break my ride home and be stranded in what appears to be a moonscape. The UKBMWAROC talked me into seeing some Alps with them instead. I figured the Cime isn't going anywhere and it might be nice to ride in a familiar group for a bit even if I hold them up so off we went to Les Deux Alpes. The Alps are in the background, behind that enormous boxer monstrosity if you can see them.
Some bits of France are alright too. It soon became apparent that I wasn't holding them up at all because the roads really were twisty and not so much gravelly as had surface dressing applied without the tar! No wonder they were all frazzled, this was very hard work.
Whenever we stopped, people ignored the BMWs and stared at the CB250 instead. I was beyond proud. It was definitely deteriorating though.. Almost like the steering head bearings have a big notch in them but they're taper bearings, that is surely unlikely. I figured I'd find out when I got home.
Some mountains are pointy. Apparently people strap planks to their feet and slide down them in the winter, and here in summer they pedal bicycles up them instead. Weird. Here in super posh ski country the CB250 was not viewed so favourably, it was just like being at home for a bit!

Me and Tony somehow got split from the rest of the group, and then Geoff appeared. We decided to leave the other two to it as everyone has sat navs and went off to get something to eat. We ended up in a very strange cafe where about the only food on offer was croque monsieur and tiramisu, both of which are of course very acceptable but I would've loved some chips or even some more bread. While in this cafe a very friendly (!) old lady started babbling French to Geoff, who of course did his best to respond because he is a gentleman, and some older French bloke started talking about how much he likes Motörhead and how sad he was that Lemmy had passed. Of course I was with him 100%, having been a heavy Motörhead fan for years but unfortunately that particular t-shirt was back at the camp site. An opportunity for free drink was surely missed..

The area of Camp Moto, just a bit south west of Grenoble, is for some reason moth heaven. We came back from the cafe in the dark through a kind of moth storm, like riding through snow. Horrendous! The UKBMWAROC had decided they were going to use toll motorways to get back home in 2 days from Grenoble, which I really properly didn't fancy. I made my excuses that the CB would disintegrate under such abuse (possibly true!) and left a day earlier, so I was on my own once again.

I made my way north past Lyon and then, annoyingly, through Dijon. Things were not going swimmingly because I hadn't loaded maps on to the Nav for this part of France, it was never part of the plan - this meant the Nav had base maps only. This would have been okay were it not for the fact that the base maps didn't know which roads were toll roads, and after ending up at a toll (that promptly went blank when it saw my numberplate!) I gave up with it for a bit and just headed northwards by myself. It's easy really, just keep the North Star back'ards like Paul must have done.

Here I am in a very friendly campsite in Saulieu on my own. Camping on your own is boring but also peaceful, I was shattered by this point and was in bed by about 9:30! The bloke on the gate let me in for the cost of a bicyclist, and I was most content as I pitched up and finished off my anchovy pizza and cream cake that I'd bought earlier from a boulangerie. It is quite the life.
After packing my tent away wet for the first time in the whole trip (and it only got worse the further north I went..) I carried on. I still didn't have the right maps on the Nav as I expected to come from Germany/Belgium as was the original plan. After it kept insisting I use toll roads I gave up on its routing capabilities and set it to compass mode, just generally making my way north. This actually worked really well and it was a lot of fun to wind my way through empty French countryside, I'd recommend it. Despite my best efforts I still ended up skirting around Paris but it wasn't too bad at all, and afterwards I found myself bimbling through vineyard territory during harvest. It was near magical, and I couldn't help but chuckle to myself while I thought about the poor UKBMWAROC guys hammering down the motorway, missing all of this lovely(ish) France.
This picture is bitter sweet for me because on the one hand things were going well as I finally wasn't just going east to west, but on the other I'd just received a text saying the K100 had been stolen off the driveway that night and the police were still looking for it. This didn't put me in the best frame of mind for country lanes.

As you travel north through France it could be argued that the scenery gets less interesting..
As do the roads.
But at least the boulangeries stay excellent, even the weird frankfurter pastry thing was alright. For only the second time on the trip I had to ride through rain, a storm actually, and the sadness of heading northwards got ever stronger. Knowing I still lived way further north than even the top of France was a terrible thought.

The final camp site way up near Arras, only ~80 miles from Calais. This was also the first municipal site I'd managed to find, these are much vaunted for having good facilities and being cheap but this was €10 a night (more than Saulieu!) with very basic facilities. The urinals were on the outside of the shower block in the centre of the site for all to see! I turned up at 7PM after the Nav showed me where it was (having finally travelled to an area where I had proper maps again!) and was met by people who did not speak a word of English. After learning that "parcel" means tent (makes sense, I guess) I was told to set up my (horribly wet) tent and wait for the man to arrive. Around half an hour later the local gendarme appeared on a bicycle and took my money.. How very French indeed.
I set off into town in search of food, knowing the site was locked up at 10PM for some reason. When I got into town about a mile away there was a fair on in the street, which of course meant everywhere was busy. I eventually found an American style diner and had probably the biggest burger I've seen in my life, with Camembert in it, and chips on the side.. I couldn't finish it at all. Eventually I had to leave and made it back for 9:50, phew. I could hear the gates being locked, they don't mess about!

And so, 10/9/17, the final day had arrived. With so little distance to cover to reach Calais there was no rush, so I packed away my now merely damp tent and bimbled generally northwards while faffing about with filling up and buying yet more food from a boulangerie. The CB was still getting admiring looks, helped by the fact that it was Sunday which apparently means bike day. After wending my way up I found myself in Calais proper, which is actually a nice enough little place, but there was no putting it off - I may as well head for the Tunnel, maybe they'll let me catch whichever train is next - this was the first time I had been early but they're accommodating enough if you're late, what could be the problem.

And so I arrive a mere 4 hours early. I put my debit card into the machine and it informs me that I can either stick with my original crossing time or change to the next train for a bargain price of £41! The bloody ticket cost £42 in the first place! So I had a long wait. Happily, after not that long, the UKBMWAROC all turned up so the hours were whiled away quite amenably. I couldn't believe how cold and miserable the weather was, or how fat many people seemed to be this far north. Get me back to Spain please.

The CB250 at the Eurotunnel, ready to come home - which it just about managed.
Sitrep: Engine mount holes in motor ovalled. Front lower engine mount destroyed. Upper mounts destroyed. Clutch destroyed. Cush rubbers destroyed, rear wheel destroyed. Exhaust farts away like a good 'un. Oh and the tacho cable broke somewhere in Spain. It's all round fucked. It'll be back though. Friendship with Paul was also destroyed, we didn't speak for months after and don't chat like we used to 6 months on..

Ending mileage: 93014
Total trip distance: 3884 miles
80.7 MPG attained, ~£265 spent on fuel
~€750 spent in total

Actually no, it won't be back.
The frame is cracked, this was the cause of the strange handling like the steering head bearings have a big notch in them - it was the frame flexing. This bike is done in.

Bugger.

Sunday 18 March 2018

France and Spain 25/8 - 10/9 2017 Part 2

And so we left Camping Ain and set a vague course for south. The roads were initially very broken, which threatened to cause yet more metal fatigue for the wiring of the Nav, but this quickly passed and soon we were on a glorious ribbon of tarmac that was freshly laid and no doubt paid for with limitless EU money. We soon caught up with a bunch of French riders who were out for a bimble, so I managed to blast past them on the mighty CB250. Paul reckoned they were just chillin', I reckon they were just slow. After a couple of hours we stopped to soak it all in.
Spain.
It was so different almost straight away. Exotic, even.

Things managed to get even more righterer as we headed into the plains. Bloody loved Spain at this point. We also found that La Paul has a lovely little pub (Bar La Paul) with very friendly staff, sausage egg and chips were had plus a glass of lager. The owner of the pub demanded a photo with us afterwards, if all of Spain was going to be this welcoming then we were in for a very good time indeed.
Oh yeah, it was also my 30th birthday that day. This fact completely passed me by at the time, such was the excitement of good roads in exotic locations.

After riding for far too long into the evening we gave up finding a camp site (do we never learn?) and checked into a hotel, more out of desperation than anything. The hotel was Hotel Caserío de Vadillos in Puente De Vadillos and was something like €30 each to share a room for the night. Mr Pape had said don't bother camping in Spain as hotels were so cheap, he was kind of right. He was also kind of wrong though, as the food was actually pretty nasty starting with cold ham soup, main course was bacon or something slathered in grease and dessert some slightly boozy custard. Even the beer was bottled, nothing on tap. Thankfully there was a TV showing the weather, it showed constant rain over the Picos - we'd made the right choice! The breakfast in the morning was toast (yet more bread..) and individually packaged cakes, very Spanish yet also totally unwelcome.

In the morning we made our excuses, said goodbye to the large dog who lived outside the front door and, with high spirits, we set off further into the unknown. Well, I did.. I watched in my mirrors for the next 100 metres or so but no sign of Paul. Did he drop it pulling out the driveway? Nah that's not like him. Did a car drive straight into him, perhaps? The hotel entrance was on a particularly nasty bend. I turned around and headed back with a degree of trepidation..

His fuel pump had stopped pumping.
A little back story: Paul had bought this VFR 9 months previous as a non runner, which turned out to be the fuel pump not working. He bodged it with a semi-repair and then, because it was working, forgot about it. I guess it's an easy trap to fall in to.

If we were in the UK I probably would've made sure the recovery people were on the way and then left him and gone home, but out here there was no chance. I had to sit around until he fixed it using parts of a ball point pen.

While I was sitting at the side of the road, I idly pulled on the engine bar of my trusty little CB250. A bike that was seemingly unbreakable, that could be offroaded with abandon, that never gives any trouble.. I shouldn't have looked.

"OH MY GOD. OH MY FUCKING GOD. THIS MOTOR'S ABOUT TO FALL OUT."
Paul sensed the genuine alarm and rushed over. It was bad. The top engine mounts were broken right through, both sides. Did this happen when it fell over back at passport control? Had it been like this for ages and I hadn't noticed? I have no idea. Here is a video of the whole lot moving, taken when safely (!) back home:
Clearly all the bolt holes for the engine and mounts were badly ovalled too. It was emphatically agreed that I should find a garage to get some help on the matter and so I left Paul to his little bodge job and gingerly carried on to the next village Canizares, hoping my bike wouldn't fall to bits underneath me.
I found myself in a village square and gently left the CB on its stand. The locals didn't speak a word of English but I was directed to a building in the centre where the local councillor worked or something like that. I made my way inside and climbed the stairs, only to be confronted with a closed door. After around 5 minutes a toilet was flushed and I met the man who could speak English and help! I explained I needed a garage for some repair work, so he took to the phone and made several enquiries. He couldn't find one. I was told to go to Piegro, the next decent sized village, as there might be something there. Ok, anything is better than this current situation..

The man at the Repsol petrol station in Piegro who again spoke no English told me to go to the church, and then down slightly to a man who can "solder". This led me to a window making place. I circled round Piegro again, but the directions led me back here. It must be it..
The bloke refused to weld up the top mounts due to all the petrol (which is fair) but he did make me a bolt for the bottom mount out of all thread and a couple of bolts. He also shoved a 13mm spanner on me, knowing I might need it to get home. I tried to give him €5 but he wouldn't take anything, despite having spent half an hour trying to help me and getting covered in oil and grime in the process. Thanks dude. He most likely expected me to set off straight for home like someone with sense, but that's not how we do things.
At least it got me home..

After a couple of texts in the baking sun it was decided that Paul would meet me here, but he never turned up. After some more texts it transpired he'd run out of fuel on the way over because he had bypassed the fuel pump and then found that only the very top of the tank could be gravity fed into the carbs. I met him at the now familiar Repsol, where some kind Spanish person had given him a lift to get a jerry can and some fuel.

A little further on from the Repsol we found a proper garage where Paul could fix his ultra reliable 90s Honda in a more convincing manner as that kind of tank range would be a constant burden. It turned out to be a couple of melted/broken wires in the pump due to his doing half a job originally.
It was not a small task, especially in the Spanish heat. This was the first time Paul threatened to go home. I busied myself by riding around the village, marvelling at the way the low gearing of the CB250 allows it to climb very steep hills with little effort and at the lifestyle of the retired local men who sat around a public pool drinking lager. I also eventually scored some parma ham and bread off the local butcher for some sandwiches, which were delicious because it was a real struggle to get - the bread was the butcher's personal supply!
Eventually, with some supplies from the garage, it was back up to strength. The CB was doing alright with it's new bolt too, I was happy with it. Sierra Nevada still beckoned, so we set off into the evening.

We eventually ended up at a really quite marvellous hotel in Lezuza, €25 a night for a room and we could put our bikes in the garage round the back. Cheap beer in frosty glasses happened. Good food, including deep fried pancake things and hot chocolate for breakfast. Yes to Spain. Not too keen on the petrol station attendant trying to sell his knives though.
The next day, after laughing about how Paul had fallen asleep while on the phone to Beth that night (is he ever not on the phone?), we continued south - yet further into the desert. The complaints about it being too hot continued. You can take the boy out of Yorkshire, but not the Yorkshire out of the boy. This was in Ubeda.
Look at his fed up little face. He'd be happier if it was 8C and lightly drizzling.
Bloody hell Spain, where have you been all my life.
Some sort of dam. Of course the watey's edge was sought. Of course Paul was also straight on his phone because we had stopped. Something wasn't quite right with him by this point but I ignored it, perhaps he was just tired. Perhaps he didn't like leading, as we were using his phone and not my Nav by this point. There was an awful lot of phone use though..
The other side. Everywhere and everything was so dusty and dry.
Here is a video of the run down to Gentle Penis (oh ok, Penos Genil), some great scenery and roads were passed through that day:
Soon we were tantalisingly close to the Sierra Nevada. Spirits were once again high after a great day of riding through desert and eating amazingly greasy roast chicken from a van in the street.

It was decided that we set up camp at Gentle Penis and then go do the Big One with no luggage. We soon discovered that camping in Spain is a challenge because tent pegs simply don't work, the ground is not soil. Lateral thinking is required, this was to become a recurring theme. The basic premise is to just tie your tent to whatever you can, if it stays up then you win.

After hastily buying some crisps and biscuits from the camp site shop (the sun was low in the sky, there was clearly no time for proper food) we set off for the summit. This would have been easier if there were any signs for it.
 There's not a lot up there..
2500m up, on the Veteta road on Sierra Nevada, near Granada at the bottom of Spain.
And one with Paul, why not. He did spend an age trying to get this shot.
Here is a video of the climb up the Veteta, of course the CB fell on to reserve on the way up just to add some excitement to the proceedings:
After faffing about trying to find our way back to Gentle Penis (having still not filled up, eek) we eventually found the road back to the site. In the camp site car park Paul stopped, complaining about the bike smelling of fuel. Except he hadn't stopped, the bike had stopped itself - at least one of the floats was stuck wide open. Apparently his bike had been running like crap all the way up the mountain, he'd just been blaming the altitude - and quite rightly, at the top the CB wouldn't even tick over. What are the chances of it making it back to the camp site like that? He had until noon the next day or we had to stay another night, so after a night of pizza and beer and hungry, meowing cats the clock was ticking the next morning..
This was the second time Paul threatened to go home. I busied myself by faffing about having a long shower and trying the best pain au chocolat ever, with Nutella in the middle. The woman behind the counter knew they were good, by gum she was right.
Yes, that's a stick for levering the carbs off. I was just glad this wasn't happening to me. The CB250 may have been a total utter death trap but at least it never actually stopped moving and I didn't have to do anything like this. Also one of the trumpets in the air box fell off with very little provocation, clearly Paul wasn't the first person to have been in there.
At exactly ~12:20 or something the float needles and seats had been looked at, poked and put back together. The staff understood and we got away with it. Nice work Sir, good job these 90s Hondas are so reliable or we could've been in a spot of bother(!).

Video of the GR-3201, the road away from this camp site:
We rode back up the way we'd come, through some incredibly hot canyons that must have been 40 degrees, and made good progress. Paul seemed happy once again and spirits were still high, even though we could only go 2500m up the highest road in Europe. In a most uncharacteristic fit of sensibility we decided to set up camp at around 6:30 PM, having grown weary of the last minute panic we normally inflicted upon ourselves when we still hadn't stopped and it was getting dark. This is Camping Cabana, somewhere, a nice site actually. Just camp wherever you want.
The bar had taps but they were just for show, the only beer available was Amstel in little red 330ml cans. A ridiculously thick and stodgy spanish omelette was procured despite the language barrier and semi-enjoyed. Eventually it was just us and the remaining staff so a local liqueur was handed out, of course Paul was all over it but I didn't want any - Paul didn't enjoy this non-drinking at all. He also didn't seem to enjoy the way I made the barmaid giggle while he failed, which I of course enjoyed immensely.

One thing we'd noticed near Camping Cabana was that the rio's had almost run dry, mere trickles of streams. The toilets at the campsite therefore had no spare water, so you can't flush toilet paper - you have to put it in the bin. An interesting experience.

We carried on the next day, much the same as the last.. Spanish greasy spoon for lunch, absolutely delicious.
The roads for most of the way are like this, just great:
Unfortunately there is a lot of litter in Spain, as there is in France. This is beside a layby. It almost makes the UK seem clean.
There is also a near constant smell of shit in Spain, I don't know if it's because everything is too dry to rot or what. I'm not sure if you'd ever get used to it.

Near Lake Caspe, Spaghetti Western country. You could swear blind you were in Arizona.
As it was getting dark we followed a recommendation from Paul's phone that there was a camp site near Lake Caspe. Thankfully this was one of the times it actually told the truth! Yet more creative tent pitching ensued, I bloody love me some engine bars.
A romantic meal for 2 was had, while we shared a bottle of red - bizarre. There were also lots of small cats about for some reason. Afterwards we retired to the bar where we stayed until it closed much too early, and went back to our tents that had been rained on. Paul's was set up like a hammock due to the impossibility of getting tent pegs into the ground so he possibly had a bad night, it wasn't mentioned.

The next day we carried on to Andorra - what a strange place that is. They still pretend to have passport control and everything. Right from the beginning Paul overtook me and stayed ahead, which was out of character - something was up but of course nothing was said. We did the CG-2 high road, it's about 2400m and goes out of Andorra - it was cold and cloudy. The high roads were really starting to lose their appeal, they're just cold and difficult and often wet. A video of the top of the CG-2 and some nice winding Pyrenees road on the way down:
Every time we stopped Paul was straight on his phone again. Something wasn't right.

We eventually stopped at some very French camp site in Estavar, a Spanish enclave in the French side of the Pyrenees. Of course as soon as the engines were off Paul was back on his phone, I gave him a couple of minutes but then he looked up and snapped at me - "Well have you booked us in yet?". I smirked in disbelief and went inside, some schoolboy English later and we were in. Paul shot off inside while I put my helmet on, when I got inside the site I had no idea where he'd gone so I pitched up a couple of spaces away from the toilets. I put the tent up and still had no idea where he was, so went for a walk around - he'd hidden himself round the corner. Even stranger, he hadn't come to see where I was.
The picture above is from the morning after, but the night before we went out in search of food. All we could find was drink, which wasn't too bad, but then as we were walking back to the camp site Paul stopped. Did you hear that? What? A clink of pool balls. A bar game! Sure enough there it was, and so we did find food.. And more drink. And more drink. We spent the night talking English to some people, Sergei had spent some time in Margate and considered himself to be rather gangster while his friend was an obvious scumbag and his girlfriend, Laticia, was stunning and cute (Jacque, you are my favourreet!"). I spent the night mostly talking to Laticia (obviously) while she ignored Paul, which I imagine annoyed him just as much as last time. We stayed so late and drank so much that the bartender was slumped over asleep at the till and the dog was drinking out of the toilet:
I left at about 3AM when I came out of the toilet and saw that Laticia was now sat at another table, bored and on her phone, but she had clearly been ordered to move - this should have been a sign that things might take a turn for the worse but I just thought that meant Sergei had become overly jealous and that I may as well go back to the tent if I can't talk to her any more. For some reason Paul stayed a little longer, though I remember thinking he was going to come back with me. Unfortunately at this point the other guys stole Paul's phone off him, but he didn't really notice at that moment because he was too far gone on all the drink - it probably didn't help that he'd been flashing it about all night. I was woken up after eventually finding my tent by Paul outside, "Jack Jaack I've lost my phone and my wallet heelllp". I thought he had probably just fallen over in a ditch and we'd find it all in the morning but no, the phone at least was stolen. I think he found his wallet in the morning.

As you would expect with any teenage girl, the loss of his phone destroyed his mind.
The next morning I got up, went round to Paul's tent to find silence. So I had a wash. Brushed my teeth. Faffed about. Filled my water bottle. Faffed some more. Checked again - looked no different. I started to take my tent down, and Paul walks in from the site entrance, croissants and pain au chocolats in hand. Ah good, everything's back to normal.

It was not good news. He'd got up early, been into town and reported his phone being stolen to the local police before heading to the library to remotely brick his phone through google. He still actually seemed okay at this point. I happily ate the pastries and started to pack up the tent again.

While packing, Paul rides round, all his kit on and all his stuff bungied on. This was strange.

Him: "I'm going home".
Me: "Really?"
Him: "Yeah, I'm doing a Rob."
Me: "Oh, okay, see ya"
Him "Yeah bye"

And off he went. Clearly he'd had some kind of break down and the loss of his precious phone had pushed him over the edge but I'm no person to try and get help from. At the time it was obvious that I could not stop him, so I just had to deal with the situation. I was now on my own, with a death trap of a bike in the Pyrenees. The only consolation was that it was at least an old, trusted, well known death trap. Actually there were two consolations - I was also in the bloody Pyrenees! Ha.
There was no toilet paper supplied at the camp site so I set off (on my own, sob!) in search of some facilities. Such is the glamour of touring..