Boondock Puffins

We had fully intended to go for a run this morning. I was practically in my trainers – well, mentally. But the only thing my body managed to do with conviction was refuse to move. So, run postponed (indefinitely), we packed up our belongings in what could only be described as mild chaos, tetris-ed them haphazardly in the panniers, and hit the road.

The day began, as all too many of our days must, with petrol. We filled up just outside Pamplona, where even the petrol stations feel vaguely festive. From there, we pointed the bike in the direction of the Pyrénées, which is about as precise as saying you’re “heading to space” and leaving the navigation to instinct and espresso.

Now, let’s talk about riding in the Pyrénées. It’s not just cool. It’s insanely cool. Hairpin bends flirt with sheer drops. Valleys open up like great yawning mouths. Eagles glare at you with what we can only assume is disdain. It’s the kind of landscape that makes you believe you were destined to ride a motorcycle, even if, like us, you occasionally forget where the kickstand is.

Midway through the ride, in what felt like a moment of unspeakable indulgence, we stopped at a café. A café, mind you. Not a petrol station with an espresso machine and a sad-looking sandwich fridge, but a real café with chairs that didn’t swivel and a menu that offered pastries the size of a human head. We ordered a croissant so large it could be used as a pillow and two strong coffees, just to make sure our hearts kept up with the altitude.

At some point – I couldn’t tell you exactly when – we accidentally wandered back into France. That’s the thing about riding in the Pyrenees: one minute you’re in Spain, the next you’re trying to remember whether “bonjour” is the one that means hello or goodnight, and why you didn’t pay more attention in school.

The day ended beautifully, if not bizarrely, at a campsite nestled high in the mountains. It was the sort of place you discover purely by mistake, or because your GPS has given up and assumed you’re a goat. Tents were already dotted across the site like low-slung mushrooms. I, meanwhile, was engaged in a battle of epic proportions with a spider who had taken residence near my tent peg. In my attempt to flee said spider with grace and dignity, I stepped on a slug barefoot—an experience I can only describe as emotionally scarring.

Around us, campervans blossomed open like mechanical orchids, their owners unfolding chairs and drinks with the smug efficiency of people who don’t sleep on gravel. We envied them, envied their wine glasses and electricity and upright posture.

Later, we went for a dip in the nearby river because we had been hot, dusty, and full of croissant for several hours. The river, as it turned out, was fed by some unholy combination of glacier and iceberg. I emerged from it very clean, very awake, and sounding briefly like a kettle.

Tomorrow, we’ve promised ourselves that we will go for a run—specifically up a mountain, because why not make suffering scenic? After that, it’s more riding through the mountains, headed for Taüll in Catalonia, which I’m told is beautiful, possibly mythical, and definitely uphill.

Stay tuned.