Friday, August 6

The horses and sheep were either curious, or oblivious, about my presence, I was greeted by some wild horses gazing right next to the my tent when waking up. They did not bulge when I was packing up and had to fight my way to a herd of sheep when pushing out.

So now I was midst of the Basque country with a very unique architecture. Houses were painted white, the window shades usually red, they had arched entrance doors, and one could see the cornerstones in yellow.

Following a sign from some "fromage", that is French for cheese, I made a detour, it was somewhat longer than I had anticipated, and all of it uphill, but was worth the troubles. It was a small shop in a farmer’s house, we chatted for a while. When asking whether he felt more French or Basque, he thought about for a second, then told me he was equally both. The kids still learn the Basque language at the school, but fewer and fewer actually use it in daily life.

![Say "cheeese"...](https://bikerbalazsmedia.blob.core.windows.net/blog/2021_spain/d98de-cheese.jpg "Say "cheeese"...")

On the way back to the main road, a whole herd of cows blocked the road, a car that had overtaken me was forced to back-track. The herd stopped when seeing me, then reluctantly started towards this stranger guy on a bike (that would be me), watching with their big eyes – but the danger passed, for both of us. The shepherd was following them, shoving a bike.

To round up my encounters will all sorts of animals, behind a gate I saw a donkey and a small pony counting the traffic on this otherwise quiet road.

A few kilometers later, in Saint-Jean-le-Vieux, I reached the main road, seeing some more examples of Basque architecture, loved it a lot. Then I arrived at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, a wonderful (but touristy) town, the layout of which is essentially one main street with sandstone walls encircling it. This place has traditionally been an important point on the Way of St. James, the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, as it stands at the base of the a passage across the Pyrenees. Pied-de-Port means 'foot of the pass' in Pyrenean French. The routes from other parts of France meet here and it was the pilgrims' last stop before (and biker’s first stop after) the arduous mountain crossing. The city gate is part of the UNESCO World Heritage Sites.

Here I bumped into Juriaan, who arrived here on a somewhat longer, but more flat route - so he avoided the last two summits, which were hell. He was about to head out, as he was meeting his buddies a bit further north.

I strolled the streets (actually: street, as there as just one, practically), looking at houses and fortifications hundreds of years old. Here I did a real faut-pas: someone earlier that day told me to have to try the local specialty, ris d'agneau. I understood it to be a yummy grilled meet – so I sat down in a nice, albeit touristy restaurant an ordered the food, which was not the cheapest item on the menu. You see, I do not like intestines and this is exactly what it was, the stomach of a lamb. Ouch. Well, I ordered a lot of bread with it, so I could somehow swallow it (was quite hungry) – but managed somehow. Well, I think I will stay with Vietnamese pho.

Now I was only 50 kilometers from the oceanside – not all too long. I was done with the Pyrenees and the thought of a nice, refreshing dip in the water energized me, so I started pushing for the coast. I booked a room in via AirBnB for a reasonable price – it said it was “not far” from the center and the beaches. There were hardly any other options, either they were fully booked, if not, they demanded exorbitant prices.

Before arriving town, I bought some fruits at a large round-about, the prices were definitely French city prices.

Well, maybe it was me not having been in a large town since Barcelona that I was reminded that everything is relative (as Einstein also realized). I found the room in a residential area pretty damn far from the center, so about 7-8 kilometers away. Anyhow, I dropped off my stuff and headed out on a somewhat busy ride, longing to have the first view of the ocean, which was to be a major milestone on this trip. Traffic lights, buses, pedestrians – now was surely back to civilization. Only in the very center of Biarritz did I have the first peak of the ocean, I must tell you I had gotten some goose bumps….after all, I made it from the Mediterranean all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, crossing all those exhausting mountain passes.

It was quarter to seven in evening, the beach was still very busy, the waves huge. Interestingly, I could see no one actually swimming, while there were a couple of body surfers in their wet suits, the bathers did not go any further than knee-deep, they were just jumping on the shore. Not me – I stripped into the bathing suit and I was combating the large waves and the current. One had to watch out, as there were rocks lining the beach – but if you know me, I had the pleasure of living next to the Indian Ocean (in Karachi), where I bathed every second weekend, so had plenty of practice, some say I must have been a fish in an earlier life. Anyhow, I love swimming and the more challenging it get, the more eager I am to go in. I felt pretty comfortable, I dove beneath the huge waves, which became pleasantly smooth somewhat away from the shore. On the way back to the shore, I did miss one wave, wow, with quite an immense force I was pulled down, hurdled around underwater, but knowing that one cannot really sink in salt water, I just held by breadth back patiently for a couple of seconds and was back on the surface.

As I arrived back to the shore, quite some ways away I had gone in (yes, a bit of a current), this older gentleman approaches me. “My wife and I have been watching you go in, we thought you will never come out alive, we were really impressed how you mastered those waves” was what he told me. This encouraged me to go in a second time, here I got closer to the rocks without even noticing, a coast guard on a surf board swam quickly in to warn me, thanks for that, the third time went by without any incident. I fell in love with the waters in Biarritz.

In the evening, I rode around town, luckily one of the items I had brought from my room was a sweater, as it has gotten rather chilly. I was impressed by the large elegant villas, luxury hotels, it is no coincidence that the town is referred to as “The queen of the beaches, the beach of kings".

![“The queen of the beaches, the beach of kings"](https://bikerbalazsmedia.blob.core.windows.net/blog/2021_spain/09012-biarritz4.jpg "“The queen of the beaches, the beach of kings"")

I then rode out to Rocher de la Vierge, a rocky outcrop topped with a statue of the Virgin Mary, watching the waves breaking on the shore.

Night life was in full swing, streets were super busy, the roads were blocked to car traffic, with restaurant tables covering each square meter. I found a place at an Italian restaurant – and had a delicious pizza, did not want to experiment with the French cuisine. It was close to 11 pm by the time I had gotten back home, the last few kilometers were hurting.

Here you can see the trip in Google Maps, it was about 80 kilometers, with 291 meters of climbing and 586 meters of descending.