We woke with the sun, it was so early and the first night in the tent sleep is always fitful, I woke more than once to the pitterpatter of the river thinking it was footsteps. We quickly packed and left no trace.

A woman emerged from the trees, backpack and walkingpole, she was clearly a pilgrim. She asked us the way, but she spoke no English and we no french so hand gestures had to suffice. We vowed to learn french, I was strangely moved that Dylan was as eager as I. You can be with someone for a longtime and they can still surprise you. I had always known him as the schoolboy who had suffered through french classes, convinced he could never learn a language, I was impressed by his enthusiasm, I tried not to extinguish his with mine.

We rode on. Another unattractive village, but our first french pain au chocolat. As always I struggled with my shyness (that people don’t believe exists) and forced jarbled french at the nice shopkeeper. When you try french people generally seem to warm to you and try back.

Then we hit the velodysée trail and ditched the road for a while. It was already getting hot, forest turned into pine plantation. Later we were told nepolean had ordered the pine planted on this coast to keep the dunes together. It was a strange dry kind of forest, but it triggered such strong smell memories: Christmas trees on a hot summers day in australia, where it was being milled, the smell of a house underconstruction.

Then those dunes, they were mountains! We locked the bikes and climbed to the peak of the dune Du pilat. “we’re the only ones here!” I yelled to Dylan as i topped the stairs only to see two lesbians in an embrace lying in the sand. Well apart from our silent companions it was just us before the morning rush and dozens of yellowy white butterflies fluttering in the breeze.

It was spectacular, forests on one side, ocean on the other. We breathed deep, but the road called once again. I emptied a mini mountain out of my shoes and we e descended just as a bus load of tourists arrived, we escaped into the pine forest once more. It was cool and quiet in the pines and I grew fond of them.

Occasionally we whizzed by some fellow travellers, olderfolk with carts and french flags behind their bikes, Japanese tourists who snapped our photo, but mainly it was just us.

Between two lovely lakes there was a stretch of hideous nothing and blazing sun, loggers leaving us without any shade, but the promise of lunch by the water kept us going. Another cyclist had the same idea, his stuff spread all across the grass drying and him only in his underwear. Dylan shook his head at how.much stuff this guy was carrying. I had a nap in the grass, a bird of prey was circling and clouds of smaller birds sparkled white then grey as they wheeled as one.

Then with the bribe of icecream Dylan got me going until we reached Mimizan. The country between was sand pine forest once more but separated from the sea by a military base whose fence came to view every now and again “interdit!”

I earned my reward of an ice cream but stumbled over my pronunciation of “mangue”, the “framboise” was tastier anyway so I let the word melt away.

We reached the beach and a shower! We took turns to swim and after a long day in the saddle it was so refreshing. Then back into the forest where we found a large picnic spot for dinner. While Dylan ran, a mini cooper roared into the carpark music blaring, put of the corner of my eye a welldressed young man in a shirt and slacks got out and began rummaging through the garbage bin, he caught sight of me but kept on rummaging, then did a burn out leaving the picnic spot. It was weird and when Dylan returned I stopped him having a look, best to leave it be.

We considered pitching the tent here, but there were lots of “nuit interdit” signs around and cars suddenly started piling in so we fled. Rising through the plantation again, it was hilly or thorny so we kept going. Suddenly a single female roller blader wobbled passed us, we must be approaching a town for an unskilled rollerbladder to be passing, or else she was a ghost. The ground was mossy and the trees smaller so we left the path and nestled in for the night.

We rode into sunset and into the forest, well a French sort of forest. We ran across the Camino de Santiago train and a giant bug flew into my eye, it was time to try wild camping again, but this was no scotland, we had to keep it secret. We found a kayaking club by a river and set up between some trees, it was warm and a bit spooky. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned to Dylan the stories I had read about people waking on this forest to find gypsies in their caravan in the middle of the night.

We left the tent flap open, our bikes glowing in the full moon light, the river made a strange squeaking like footsteps and the birds coo-cooed in the trees above.

Rays of sunlight burn through the trees. Their leaves sighing in the wind and the grasses hiss. Summer has come to Cambridge.

Students loll all the way along the grassy river banks in a post exam haze. It’s easy to be nostalgic for those long afternoons chatting on university lawns, but the stress and drudgery of the earlier seasons still burn hot for me. After all here I am riding passed them along dappled tracks with flat bottom clouds hanging in a cobalt sky, post uni life ain’t so bad if you know how to live it.

We come across an allotment garden full of flowers and overgrown with grass. I wonder if we’ll be apartment dwellers with a garden like this or country bunnies in the next few years.

At Jay’s sisters, Dylan is training the kids to be running stars. Barefoot they race up and down the street. Their competitiveness sees Dylan trapped with stop watch in hand as they try to shave off a second to emerge victorious. the youngest wanders away to find a ball, as his little legs can’t compete with his sisters. Then a bath is run and we leave the sun to set on brick walls and rambling roses.