FYI: Spring in France is windy. Not cool-breeze-windy, more like bike-tipping-over-six-times-windy. To be fair, Provence and the Rhone valley areas catch most of the howling Mistrals (yes, the wind has a name) and that’s where we spent nearly all of our time because that’s also where it was the most sunny. But the Haute Alpes get the winds too. And so does the Languedoc-Roussillon, and even the coast. So maybe the winds aren’t so limited after all.
Upon our move out of Provence we thought we’d move out of the wind. Alas, no. We moved into it. Enough that as we rode along attempting to take in the new and wider landscape filled by prairie flowers and ever present vineyards we had to lean right to avoid falling over. (Note: It’s the one and only time we’ve ever leaned right.) Awe remained in spite of the wind smacking. It’s just so dang purty here!
But we had to leave. Because, inexplicably, our nine weeks of adventure, anguish, joy, frustration, amazement, depletion, and mind-body-soul fulfillment-slash-exhaustion is coming to a close.
The plan: Take a train across the Pyrenees, hang in Spain for three days and get on the plane.
The reality: The French transportation system went on strike. Meaning…no trains. To anywhere. Meaning… Get your butts on your bikes and go.
And then came the wind again. At 30 miles per hour. Sometimes gusts of 40 mph. At our backs.
So here we are in Spain.
It’s been a wild journey filled by both pleasure and pain. Rob says I’ve acquired more grey hair. Thanks hon.
After I punched him we both agreed that the pleasure quotient has been higher than the pain.
And then I caught a cold.
Ah well, today the wind was quiet, the sun was beaming, we said “Avoir” to France, switched dictionaries, and said “Hola” to Spain.
Only three days left. Tomorrow we’ll see which way the crazy wind blows and maybe just hide in the tent. I’m pooped. See you soon. We hope.