I sank into the lavender scented bath, oh the luxury, and even more coming from drought stricken Australia where the idea of a bath is riddled with guilt. Muscles relaxed, lungs breathes easier. Ever since urnieta the grass and the pollen of the pyrenees has gotten into my eyes and ears and throat and a bath is exactly what I needed.

We had arrived in toulouse by train, first travelling past the glorious mountain framed cathedrals of lordes, spectacular lakes and then countryside that you don’t feel guilty about napping through.

I waited in line for half an hour again to buy tickets for the bloody bikes for our final leg of our adventure, these are the moments you wonder if you made the right choice with being a cyclotourist (when you look up car hire prices and see they are €300+ for the week not including petrol or the bore of driving you feel better). The girl at the desk spoke almost no English, to match my almost no french but we muddled through and she was so friendly and charming I came out of the whole ordeal feeling rather happy and proudly myself.

Our airbnb was on the quieter side of town (not the dodgier side just for a change) and our host zoomed over on his lunch break to let us in. He left us to our own divices and i had a poke around. There was a chicken in the yard which was delightful and ithe house itself was decorated with creativity. I love an airbnb that inspires! There was a mosaic underconstruction in the dining room looking ready for a lifestyle magazine shoot and all sorts of lovely old things. The generous balcony was what stole our hearts though, the perfect place to relax.

We took a ride/run along the canals and river of toulouse. At a red light there was a man juggling before the stopped cars, we crossed, on the otherwise two female acrobats were clowning around for cars there too. It seemed like the circus was following us. Along the river there were all sorts of fascinating little houses nestled between towering apartments, stubbornly holding their ground against developers. A man sitting on a two storey wall smoking, starring, an elderly couple creaking along, some houses more tree or vine than brick and mortar. The trees were really flowering, some covered in a blanket of fluff that lifted up and drifted lazily across the bike path. (so you see in a land where everyone drinks bottled water at home rather than from the tap I shouldn’t feel so guilty for a bath to clear the lungs)

We then sped home passed bridges and twenty somethings lazing in the sun, public flower beds that all seemed to have some sort of strange edible edited in: chard, purple basil, kale, how fun! Back to our little duplex with the veggie garden and the chook, the chook! We had left the gate open whilst putting our bikes away and she had sprinted in, we spent some hilarious minutes chasing her back into her pen. Ah just like home.

Lying in my bed in the dodgier side of Pau, I could see a watercolour postcard of a French beach. It made me think, my first trip to France was made up of postcard destinations Paris, the loire, nice, this trip is more like the ‘real France’s (whilst still only scratching the surface. That is not to say there haven’t been beautiful destinations, we have just seen a lot of the inbetween that holds france together, and not all of it you’d want to slap a stamp on. More of an adventure than a holiday one might venture.  One such moment was earlier that day when I took my shoe off and found my sock covered in apricot jam, on closer inspection of my shoe, a dend slug, langourishly rolled down the inner and ever so slowly plopped at my feet. There was some disgusted dancing after that image complete with “errrghhh” pitch increasing for potency.

We rode on the wings of the storm and only made it to the shelter of Pau perhaps half an hour before sheets of rain and hail crashed to cobblestones. On these nights a bed and a roof almost bring tears of joy.

We had ummed and ared until midday about leaving, the forecast was ominous and last night had been a thrilling taste of nature’s power. We decided to leave under grey skies, packing up just as blue sky and sun peaked from behind clouds. By the time we were on the bike it was glorious sunshine, almost too hot to ride. Oh well we had made our decision, we rode on. Dylan showed me a charming potager he had discovered on a walk and watching butterflies in flowers any disappointment at leaving a glorious day faded. We were zipping along green canopied paths, beside a river under aweinspiring mountains, it was not a day wasted in transit.

We stopped at a picnic ground by the water for lunch and suddenly a gracie dog appeared all by herself without an owner in sight. She was a bit suspicious of us but allowed pats as she shuffled.up picnic scraps from the grass, her reticence reminding us even more of our border collie at home. She carried on with her snuffling, perhaps it was her daily expedition from the farm cleaning up after careless tourists.

Then as we rode out of the hills passed a glorious mineral blue lake into that nothingness of the inbetween (which has nothing on that of America) we saw the clouds chasing and felt pretty pleased with ourselves for choosing correctly afterall.

Flash, I was momentarily blinded by the white light, Dylan’s sleepingbag silhouette imprinted on my eyes. Fifteen seconds later the boom of thunder. Ah, life is never dull in a tent. “too bright, too loud or too scared to sleep?” Dylan asked. “the first two, I’m not scared” I shrugged cockily. Ten, moments later at a gap of ten seconds I had reconsidered my answer. Seven, then the lighting was only seven km away and we winced everytime the lighting flashed knowing the thunder was going to come rumbling through the valley again. It roared and bounced through the mountains, we could feel it vibrating through the earth. I jumped and we instinctively looked to the aluminium pole in the centre of our tent, “aluminium is a poor conductor right?” “I’m more worried about the tree above us”. Two.

The day had started sunny, but the clouds were already settling around the hills like cottonwood wreaths, slicing off the peaks so they just seemed to hover unattached. We took a walk around the countryside through small mountain towns, spied a perfect little swimming grotto under an old bridge covered in moss then back through the rabbit warren of laruns. By the time we got back to the campsite it was dull grey and then the rain poured down, we sheltered on the verandah of an empty cabin, then Dylan decided to he’ll with it he’d just have to run drenched. I had no such metal and napped and dreamed in the tent, until nightfall when in the dark the show began.

There was a lulling break in the barrage of light and noise. Perhaps it was over, but not as soon as we relaxed the lighting came again and then the wait for its clumsy cousin. Fifteen, finally the light still came but less retina frying, and the thunder was more a of a hum, that silence after such a bone shaking cacophony knocked us into sleep.

I‘m standing at a bar in the pyrenees with most hideous cycling tan you ever saw, complete with ovals on the back of my hands where my gloves were, I’m trying to own it. Some how we happened to choose the most happening little town in the whole mountain range with live music on tonight and African gentlemen in full patterned robes milling about.

After a night of thunderstorms in urnieta and too humid to sleep we are feeling pretty exhausted. Then there was the long train rides where we were almost denied our bikes on (some how we charmed one of the station guards who argued our case in loud french to the grumpy train guard) then hours of riding in baking heat from pau until we reached the relief of the mountains. And that view as we rounded the bend, wow green rolling hills, the terracotta roofs of a valley town and a blue snowcapped peak behind.

I nearly didn’t come out, I have my whole life to be a granny when I return home, sometimes experiences have to be grasped with both hands. It’s an amateur choir, singing African and french songs, it makes me smile and reminds me of my own lovely mum and her choir back home. On the street some dreaded up hippy types are juggling, one of them is completely disgusted whenever anyone drops a skittle. The sun is setting over the mountains, so nice.