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"Glimpses" extracts from Leah's journal.

Early Days.

The mosquitoes had feasted and, as I emerged from my tent, bleary eyed, punch drunk, my heart sank. It was another boiling blue day. I sought solace in eating a pain au chocolate, dutifully supplied by Simon. Energy food. I peered out from under the tent door and surveyed the passing French campers. "Bonjour," I barked, my kennel cough returning. It was a bright August morning and I had less than an hour to pack my panniers and heave them onto my bike. Showers were psychological. In two hours I would be swimming in sweat. Hills would become mountains in the mid-day heat and the valleys would become God's roller coasters. Simon would be a mere shadow on the horizon and my legs would burn and my chest rasp. Normandy in summer, verdant, reminiscent of the rolling Sussex Downs we had left behind, was no place for a novice cyclist like myself.

September.

My life had become ruled not by school bells and the ticking of clocks but by the position of my enemy in the sky and the clicking of my gears as the terrain changed. I had begun to see the world through bicycle eyes. Even when walking, as a hill approached, my hands would twitch, ready to change gear.

Miracle Cures.
Normandy drifted away and the land became flatter. The Loire meandered peacefully alongside us. We found a cycle path from Orleans to Chateauneuf, purely by chance. Cormorants rested on the raised platforms along the river and storks took off and landed, scattering the territorial, screeching seagulls. My legs were no longer throbbing at each revolution and cycling had become as easy as it was as a ten year old, tearing along at breakneck speed looking for thrills. A nasty sting from a bee caught under my glasses broke the daydream and I screamed in a panic until I managed to pluck out the pulsating guts and dagger from my lower lid. Simon arrived just in time to administer antihistamine and antiseptic. Relief did not come until a passing Angel of Mercy, masquerading as a tyre fitter, pulled up in his van and rubbed my eye with a roadside flower.
	It was not until I awoke the following morning that the warning "it may swell a little" was actually taken seriously. My face was in two halves. One side was still me, the other with elephantine swellings that John Hurt would have been proud of. My eye was buried beneath a mound of flesh. Pouring with rain, my face hidden, we dragged ourselves to the local teaching hospital. Student nurses phoned other student nurses to come and stare at the bedraggled freak who had burst through the hospital doors, babbling in a strange tongue and waving a phrasebook. They finally provided us with an address of a local medical center and we scurried off. A high dose of steroids and eye drops was soon procured and the swelling subsided. As a one-eyed cyclist, I found myself crashing into walls and pedestrians and so we were stranded in Sunny - sur - Loire. Within one day of camping, however, the ants invaded. Within two days, birds began to call for a share of our breakfast and strange earwigs scuttled across the floor. By the third day, plants began to grow around the tent doorway and strange creatures made their homes in the roof. Before we, too, turned into moss covered stone, we set a tentative leaving date.


	La Guerche.
	The clouds blushed a luminous orange pink in the setting sun. Ripples of light danced on the backs of flying fish as they leapt to catch flies above the still lake. The camp was peaceful. Birds quietly argued in the branches above and we watched, mesmerised, as a kingfisher darted from the trees and plomped into the water. We were settled for the evening. The bottle of cider was half drunk, the bikes locked, bellies full. It was almost time to retire, ready for the ride tomorrow. My legs were no longer tender to touch and muscles were appearing which powered me along my route. The flat "Peche" area had been cycled with ease and we were back to the roller coasters only this time we started early and finished before the blistering sun was too high in the sky. We had our routines and rows had become bickerings. The pace was less punishing as we were becoming fitter. The European campers were friendly. The local French indulgent of our "Allo Allo" attempts to communicate. I felt that the punishing time was, for now, over and I could begin to enjoy travelling again. The bats swooped above our heads and the stars glimmered in the night sky. There was only the soft clunkings of Boules being played somewhere on camp and the soft rumbling of thunder in the distance.

	Mid September.
	The fleece was out, the scarf too, and later, Simon's down jacket. We left Moulins and cold beers from convivial English folk behind and began our ascent into the dizzying heights of the Livradois National Park. We stayed en route in the grounds of a Chateau and then entered Helter Skelter country! We walked mainly, as our legs became jelly when we tried to pedal uphill. Les Chelles was reached after a day's toil but is was well worth it. From our perch, we looked down on the surrounding valleys, the clouds skirting the tips of the hills below. Peaceful and so so quiet. A welcome rest. That night, the tent was fully zipped. There were no drafts and, surprisingly, no condensation. For over a month we had suffered with wet sleeping bags and heads. That morning we looked at each other sheepishly realising our previous folly. Tents, unlike houses do not need any overnight ventilation. The mornings in the mountain were fresh and chilling. As we whizzed down the 5km ride into Olliergues, childish glee deserted me as the freezing wind caught me unawares. Simon soon appeared from a Petit Casino with gifts of chocolate and I was bathed in sunlight and chocolatebutter roll. We soon found a camp in Ambert and sat sipping wine in the rose tinted sun drenched pine forest.

	Haute-Loire. Le Puy-en-Velay.
	As we walked-pedalled-pushed up the7km forested mountain towards Le Puy, we were soon tempted to park our bikes alongside the cars at the forest edge and join the locals as they hunted for wild mushrooms, a favoured delicacy in the Haute-Loire. We had only sketches of what the edible mushrooms looked like but soon had a sizeable booty. Loaded up and happy, we were off again and reached the 1000m summit an hour before dusk. Comparing our mushrooms with the piles other, more knowledgeable campers had, possibly thwarted a nasty case of food poisoning and we satisfied ourselves with photographs of our deadly specimens. The next morning our descent into Le Puy began, the biggest Helter Skelter ride so far. A winding, twisting, speeding, cheek-wobbling descent. We pulled into a picnic spot, both grinning inanely for at least ten minutes, unable to speak. Le Puy and her magnificent statues a-top huge rocky outcrops, beckoned us from the valley below. It was the evening before the final day of the Renaissance festival and drums were beating. There was ale to be sampled and fun to be had.

Landos - Cowbells and mushrooms and cognac and coffee.
The mountain range stretched out before us. The wind in our faces, we set out again. The Mistral stung my eyes and whipped my hair across my face. If I stopped pedalling, I came to a standstill. The cognac and coffee procured by Simon that evening was welcomed and required. Another mountain camp, freezing and damp.
	Rewards were to come, however, and as I pedalled out the next morning, an unusual sight greeted me. Although it had definitely not snowed in the night, there were mounds of white snow in the surrounding fields. On closer inspection, I was to find that the snow was indeed huge white field mushrooms each bigger than my two hands cupped together. I was in mushroom heaven. Without a bag to stash a potential horde, I satisfied myself with one gigantic plume strapped to my bike and dreamed of mushroom curry later that evening. The morning's cognac had made me pleasantly warm and I grinned broadly as I cycled, the cowbells tinkling in the distance ushering us towards the Ardeche.

The Biggest Helter Skelter in the World.

The landscape changed once again and the scenery became more dramatic. Fir trees interspersed with heather and sharp rocks and boulders lined our path. The Mistral still held us in its grasp and due to this tearing, biting wind; we struggled, even on the winding, downward slopes. Through the clouds below, I spied "Rivendell", a tiny village bathed in a silvery light at the base of the range. "That's where we're going," grinned Simon and the race began. We averaged 50km/hr with no stopping for 10km. Occasionally Simon would glance back with the same maniacal grin on his face I undoubtedly had on my own. Amazingly, there were few cars and I flew round bends like a professional. At the bottom, I could barely breathe and when I could, I laughed. Great fun.

The Rhone.

The road to Marseille was strewn with vines. Red and green grapes adorned the roadside and scented the air. It made my mouth water. I could hardly contain my excitement when I found a discarded crate of succulent purple grapes by the kerb. I leapt off my bike and scooped up the bunches which had littered my path. I raced after Simon to gloat. Another free meal.

Marseille.

The gentle slope to Marseille rapidly became a downward spiral and we reached top speed yet again. The decaying houses raced by and I only glimpsed the poverty around me. A twisted old woman on the pavement; parked in her wheelchair reaching out to me; raggedy children hanging around on street corners; beggars stopping and staring. Strange deals were taking place on side streets. I pedalled hard to keep up with Simon, hoping each red light would turn to green before I reached it. When we arrived at the port, I rested, ashamed of my wealth as a wrinkled, weather beaten old man rummaged in the bins. So, France does have her dark secrets. A world away from the fairy tale Chateaux and candy houses. Marseille soaks up her sins.

Goodbye France Hello Corsica.

I marvelled at the setting sun turning the disappearing port a beautiful hazy pink. Finally a tangerine ball crowning the turquoise sea. Soon darkness and the lighthouse blinked farewell. I felt a sense of achievement and anticipation. Corsica promised a few days rest and our passage to Sardinia. North Africa loomed closer.

Simon's Ponderings.
Why France?
France, where the wine is cheap enough to put on your chips, has got to be a cyclist's dream country. Early risers get gorgeous cakes and pastries for breakfast, the drivers are careful and considerate, and summer afternoons are too hot to progress any distance, making a siesta in a village square essential.
Get fit cycling across France, hah, get fat cycling across France.


	The Col.
	Clouds gathering, shadows falling, rain threatening, prepare descent, tarmac hissing, barriers missing, gravel frightening, keep alert;
	Bends flashing, drops appearing, chasms glinting, losing height, turns sharpening, signs appearing, cutting corners, glad not walked;
	Traffic slowing, cyclists speeding, brakes warming, peddling stopped, ear grinning, whoop invoking, adrenaline pumping, rivers glimpsed;
	Smile inducing, breath taking, awe inspiring, photos missed, wheel spinning, thought provoking, altitude dumping, was that 10K?
	Cigarette.

Leaving.

I'll be glad to leave France. There are a thousand reasons why I should be happy to stay cycling across this vast country: the pastries in the morning, the cakes in the afternoon, the blue cheese for roadside snacks and wine to be consumed at any time of day; the fact that abundant campsites with hot showers are separated by perfect tarmac and stunning scenery, along which considerate motorists and Sunday cyclists happily co-exist; that navigation is made easy by Tourist Offices open during sociable hours, supplying impeccably accurate, free maps. No, I'll be glad to leave because it represents a milestone. We have traversed one of the biggest countries in Europe, from the brown English Channel, across the plains of Normandy, through the Auvergne, over the Massif Central to the blue Mediterranean. Europe is behind us. Africa is ahead.

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Before here we were in the UK. After here we were in the Corsica.

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