One man, a tent and a bike: part 7

In general, I try to leave stereotypes and expectations about a country behind, because those who don’t have any can’t be disappointed. However, as I settled in on the ferry from Corsica to Marseille for the night, I couldn’t stop wondering if I would get out in one piece and without being robbed.

The ferry docked and left its passengers on the cobblestones of the harbour. The red morning sun had just begun to find its way into the sky as I tried to find mine through the Kafkaesque accumulation of docks and waterways. After leaving the harbour, I headed west into the cool Sunday morning. Taking a look around, it was easy to see that this was one of Marseilles more troubled areas. Broken windows, graffiti on the shop’s shutters and all sorts of trash everywhere I looked. The streets were empty and I was pretty happy about my timing, because if it had been a workday, I’m sure that the streets wouldn’t have been so calm. The only person I saw was an older man in a track suit who looked like he fit perfectly in with his surroundings. He smiled and waved as I passed him uphill. All my worries from the previous night started to vanish with every meter I climbed and when I reached the top, the houses started to look nicer as I rolled over into the city limits.

The last 30 km in the greater area of Marseille was mostly unattractive industrial parks. After riding out of them, I finally got the feeling that I was in southern France. An old Roman aqueduct here, a winery there as well as the Mediterranean Sea made the route that much more beautiful and I realized how unfounded my earlier thoughts about mainland France were. On top of the view, the streets were in good condition and the drivers were considerate. The only thing that all my research got right, was the wind. The mistral blew from the southwest head-on into my direction. After 75 km that felt more like double that, I stopped to camp in a small picturesque town.

The day after, the weather was merciful as the wind and turned inland. In a small town, I bought something to eat and started talking to an older gentleman who asked me about my trip. I was quite impressed with myself that I was able to explain to him in my high school French where I was coming from and where I was going. Afterwards, I rode on into empty fields and swamps that are typical of the Provence’s interior. The coast is dominated by small touristy cities that, due to the off-season, were relatively empty. This allowed me to wild camp and after a little bit of searching, I found a clearing in a forest. I wasn’t chased away by anyone and I slept very well, which all made France look much better than what my previous internet research led me to believe.

Back on the coast, the mistral started to blow so hard that I had to dismount my bike and push for extended portions of the ride. The sea to my left foamed and roared and to my right, Flamingos enjoyed an afternoon snack in the calm waters. In the afternoon, I reached Sête annoyed from the wind that was still whistling in my ears. There, I awarded myself with some ice cream and I found a place to camp right outside of the port town. Hidden behind a dune, I was sure to be able to enjoy a little bit of prohibited camping directly on the beach. After setting up my tent, I sat exhausted in the sand and let my thoughts wonder. Then, I ate a little something and called it a night.

The next day went by smoothly and I ended close to the Narbonne Plage at a caravan campsite that offered water for free and power for paying customers. I gratefully accepted the first and then began to setup my tent behind a large bush for some protection from the wind. And once again, I didn’t pay a cent to get a good night’s rest. I woke up early to a cold morning, but it was worth it because the red sun had just started to rise and I felt the need for an early morning workout.

After taking off, I jumped into the first beach café to get on the internet and book a hostel for a couple of days in Barcelona, Spain. The Catalonian capital was roughly 300 km away and I gave myself a relaxed 5 days to take the route there.

The wind had now turned into some sort of monster that did not want to let me past. This didn’t help on the brutal stone covered streets and when they ended I came upon a closed campsite.

Hoping to fill up my water bottles, I rode around the barriers and found a working spigot. Due to the fact that everything was empty, I felt the need to take a look around and I found a small camping trailer that wasn’t locked. It was surprisingly clean, had a small platform to sleep on and a seating area. The wind was still blowing strong, so I decided to stay in the camper for the night. I enjoyed the luxury of eating at a table as outside a storm took hold. At this point, I was thankful that France was being so kind to me and giving me this camper to stay in.

I hadn’t had a shower in the last few days, nor had I looked in the mirror and this became apparent as I ate breakfast in a small family run bakery. Luckily only the family’s eyes were concentrated on me and not their noses, so it couldn’t have been that bad. 50 km later, I arrived at a campsite and helped myself to a needed shower. After, I mounted my bike and rode on with a little bounce in my step. A few hours later, I got tired and turned into the last campsite before reaching the Spanish border. There I washed laundry and my rear derailleur, adjusted my squeaking front brakes and took another shower.

As I took in a view of the snow covered Pyrenees, the mountains that separate France and Spain, I reflected on how I perceived France before arriving. My doubts about France were unfounded, except for the strong winds, this beautiful place had become one of my favourite countries that I had cycled through. Feeling thankful, I laid in my tent and fell asleep early to get myself ready for the second to last country of my European cycling tour.