Early‑Morning Villages & Baguette Ninjas
Rolling out from the campsite at dawn, I drifted through sleepy French villages where the only signs of life were elderly baguette hunters shuffling toward the bakery like it was a military operation. France may not wake up early, but its bread absolutely does. Fresh bread, It’s like a religion.
I was aiming for Olargues to stay with Elke and Norbert, so I decided to cheat slightly and take a chunk of toll‑free motorway — about 100 miles. Motorway riding in France is basically the UK but without the stress, traffic, potholes, or existential dread. Honestly, it makes British roads look like medieval cobblestone punishment tracks.
Fuel Anxiety: The Motorbike Edition
On a bicycle, life is simple: eat, drink, pedal, sleep, repeat. No fuel anxiety, no drama. On a motorbike? Entirely different story. Suddenly I’m scanning petrol stations like a hawk, calculating distances like an accountant, and praying the next station isn’t charging €2.61 a litre.
Total Energies, thankfully, seem to have ignored everyone else’s pricing and just gone, “€1.99. Take it or leave it.” So I spent the morning hunting down Total Energies and ignoring every other station. I asked Norbert why this was. He explained it was 50% government owned. Perhaps our government should start part owning and return some of those massive profits to the consumers?
At one service station full of British bikers, I met a Dutch rider who was fascinated by my Himalayan. He was on a FH1200 — great on motorways, terrible on smaller twisties. He looked at my setup with the kind of envy usually reserved for people who’ve just seen someone else’s holiday photos. As I left, he filmed me riding out to show his friend, a fellow himmy owner.
Filtering, French‑Style
I told him he’d probably overtake me in 20 miles. Instead, the motorway turned into a single lane of stationary traffic. Filtering is illegal in France… except when it isn’t. And this was one of those magical exceptions. On a stationary motorway.
So I filtered past lorries, vans, cars, and approximately several hundred motorhomes. Eventually the Dutch guy appeared behind me, and we rode side‑by‑side for a while like some sort of bilingual biker duet or an odd version of chips. He wasn’t on a mesh headset, so conversation was limited to enthusiastic nodding and hand signals.
His plan was wild: ride to Spain, leave the bike there, fly home, return in December for another tour, fly home again, return in April, then finally take the bike back much better than riding the long distance there and back each time.
Markets, Hills & The Return of Proper Roads
The motorway ended and suddenly I was back on glorious twisty D‑roads, weaving through towns with markets and the smell of fresh bread floating through the air. The scenery changed dramatically — flatlands vanished, replaced by big hills, sweeping bends, and long avenues of trees. France really knows how to show off some of its roads.
Arriving Early & Drinking Bravely
I reached Norbert’s place ahead of schedule and was greeted warmly by both him and Elke. I’d stopped at the épicerie in Olargues and grabbed three big bottles of La Goudale — the beer Elke introduced me to last time.
Elke warned me they couldn’t drink much because they had to clean the holiday property the next day. She had self‑control. Norbert and I did not. We moved from beer to red wine like true professionals. Elke prepared a fantastic meal, and we chatted well into the night.
The veranda overlooked the valley, and with no moon, the stars exploded across the sky. The Milky Way was bright — the kind of night sky you forget exists until you’re far away from light pollution. The sky, almost of my childhood. Magical stuff.
Warm Nights & Chimney Repairs
Being 500 km further south meant the night was much warmer, and I slept brilliantly. In the morning, Norbert brought me coffee (legend), and after breakfast I helped him fix his wood‑burner chimney setup. Elke joked it was still a Workaway — which is how I first met them. Honestly, it was a pleasure.
Before I left, Elke asked if I could swing back for another night after Spain. I promised to keep in touch.
Maps, Toilets & Mosquito Mystery
Stopped in Saint‑Chinian for a map. Spoke French. Got answered in English by an English girl. Doh!
Got cash without a fee — do NOT use Crédit Agricole, they’ll rob you blind for €6 on each withdrawal.
The public toilets in Saint‑Chinian were the cleanest I’ve seen in France. They even had mood lighting that dimmed gently instead of plunging you into darkness mid‑pee. Revolutionary.
Mosquitoes, however, have found me. I haven’t seen any, but I’m covered in bites. It’s like being attacked by invisible ninjas. My eyesight must be so much worse than I thought, as I can’t even see the little bastards! I brought a bite‑neutralising gadget that shocks the skin like a tiny taser. Haven’t used it yet. Might have to stop being a Jesse and give it a go. (Have since done so, not so bad, seems to work. But I have so many bites!)
Narbonne, Decathlon & The Road to Spain
The riding shifted between sweeping valley bends and long straight plains. I headed for Narbonne to visit Decathlon — my Alpkit tent already has a hole in the fly. Also grabbed a cold drink because temperatures were now in the thirties.
Tent‑repair goo acquired, I pointed the bike toward Spain.
I remembered my old cycling route into Spain, mainly because I have it on Google earth, I’d recorded it all and loaded it into Google Earth. I’d forgotten how insanely hilly and twisty it was. Back then I was catching cyclists even fully loaded. On a motorbike, I’m slower than the other bikes, but I take the route steady. No need to reenact MotoGP., accidents and all.
Crossed the old border near Portbou and rolled into Tossa de Mar.
Campsite Chaos & Pizza Salvation
First campsite: full. Guard gave me three alternatives. First on the list had space — Camping Turismar. €22 for the night, more expensive than France, and the ground was basically rock. Pegs? Forget it, if need a jack hammer.
Shared the shower with tiny mosquitoes. Tent pitch was miles away. A bloke on a scooter guided me there like some sort of campsite tour guide. Apparently I’m not allowed to park the bike next to the tent. I think I’ll ignore that.
Managed to grab a beer and a pizza though. So the day ended well, even Wesley turned up. The Dutch guy on the FJ. If last seen him halfway through Spain. So I’m writing this last bit, three sheets to the wind after we shared several very reasonably priced large beers!
