As I climb, still ever so gradually, the villages begin to feel more closed in, the houses sturdier, the windows smaller, almost fortified against the weather, and deserted save for the crowds of house martins I chase down the silent streets, swooping to catch insects in front of my wheel. I pass another of my favourite roadside animals, the donkey, and a huge free-range dog, which trots down the road in complete oblivion to my hopeful attempts to woo it, though as its shaggy coat completely covers its eyes, it’s unclear if it can actually see me.
My journey soon takes me off the grandly named Route Impériale, to my slight disappointment, and on to the D187, a fast, busy and strikingly straight road lined on one side by the usual parade of plane trees. Just as I’m cursing the dramatic effect their roots have wrought on the tarmac, it begins to rain again, and I suddenly appreciate the brief intervals of cover the trees provide. A passing lorry-load of sheep, their woolly haunches pressed against the slats, sprays me with what could be mud, but smells ominously like something worse, and I’m relieved to eventually reach Orthez, more for the shelter it provides for consuming a couple of squares of Bayonne chocolate than for its handsome 14th-century bridge or 12th-century church, neither of which I notice in my soggy despondency. The chocolate’s good, though. Extra good, possibly, in the circumstances.
From here on, the road begins to ascend more noticeably, culminating in an absolute beast of a hill coming out of Maslacq, which rears up to the horizon so dramatically that I pull over to remove my rain jacket and, waiting for a break in the traffic to spare my blushes, have time to observe a mobile home labouring on its 10.7-per-cent upper flanks. Thankfully, once I’ve conquered the first bit, it turns out to be one of those climbs whose bark is worse than its bite and I’m rewarded by a joyous downhill into the village of Lagor, where I screech to an abrupt halt by the world’s most perfect picnic stop: a table by the church overlooking the valley below, with a water tap and a bin.
I literally could not have designed it better given that it’s also, at 1.30 p.m., empty save for a couple smoking on a bench who look, I decide as I cut into the melon with my contraband knife, like they’re having an affair and it’s not quite working out as they’d hoped. Though almost devoid of perfume, the fruit proves nectarous in its sweetness and, squashed into my rye bread with a fistful of savoury, nutty jambon de Bayonne, tastes like manna from heaven, though I regret not removing my gloves before engaging with its sticky juices. Why have I never thought of putting melon in a sandwich before, I wonder? – it’s a game changer. Unable to live in the moment, I can’t help then thinking how perfect this whole set-up is going to look on Instagram – and indeed, I don’t want to boast, but it did get 564 likes, even though I can’t resist mentioning the business with the sheep shit.
As I leave Lagor, I notice the valley on the other side of the ridge is far more heavily populated than the one I’ve left, and realise to my slight shock that I’m nearer to Pau than I’d dared hope – it almost looks as though it’s at the bottom of the hill. In fact, adding a slight detour into the disappointingly workaday suburb of Jurançon in the hope of tasting their famous honeyed wine, which results in a scolding from the satnav and not so much as a single bar open for business, I actually have another 40km to go, much of which seems to be through the endless roadworks of Pau itself. May and June appear to be Digging Season on the French transport network.
When I finally reach my hotel I’m so damp and cross with the potholes and erratic diversions that even the pleasing Del Boy connotations of the address, Rue Nelson Mandela, fail to raise a smile. Though not quite Peckham, it is a tower block, and after impressing the receptionists with my serviceable but really quite modest French, I immediately blot my copybook by coming back down to complain that the key they’ve given me doesn’t work. They try it in the machine, confused, and one of them accompanies me back to the room to see for herself – quite a trek – only to announce, in the slow and kindly manner of someone addressing a small and particularly simple child, ‘Non, 229 BIS, Madame!’
Bis? I query as she unlocks the room next door. What’s that? She shrugs – it’s just bis. We reach a linguistic impasse, and I thank her and go in and look it up. It has the same meaning as 229A would in a British address. So that’s a useful piece of French vocabulary I’ve learnt, and finally explains what all those ‘itinéraires bis’ mean on signposts – alternative routes. Every day’s a school day here.
Though I’m sure it’s a great city with all manner of attractions, I’m in Pau for one reason, and one reason only: poule au pot, a dish associated with Pau as the birthplace of Good King Henri, who is said to have declared, ‘If God grants me life, I will see to it that there will be no labourer in all my kingdom without the means to have a chicken in his pot,’ a sentiment echoed by Louis XVIII, two centuries later. A laudable ambition, but given the average diet in the 17th century was mostly black bread and the rest vegetables, with only the occasional treat of salt pork or pig fat, poached chicken for all has a certain Marie Antoinette-ish quality to my British ears.
Nevertheless, in keeping with its proud heritage as the food of working people, poule au pot is usually consumed at lunchtime only. Fortunately for me and my dwindling store of Anglo-Saxon patience, I find one local institution that dares to serve its much-acclaimed chicken in the evening, too, and I can’t think of a nicer way to spend a dark, rainy night after a mighty 133km in the saddle (a trip record!) than sitting in the warm dining room at Chez Olive, tucking into a cold glass of sweet Jurançon wine with buttery goose liver pâté on hot toast, followed by a steaming bowl of intensely savoury chicken broth replete with the golden floating coins of fat so esteemed by Jewish mothers. Also in the bowl is a great ball of forcemeat-stuffed cabbage resting on a bed of poached chicken and vegetables.
I’m not the only woman in there eating chicken alone; there’s a Japanese lady who takes even more photographs than me, and the restaurant is obviously used to being a place of pilgrimage. The waiter who delivers this unapologetically beige dollop of pure comfort takes the time to talk me through its constituent parts: the forcemeat contains the chicken innards, and the broth leeks and turnips, too, as well as peppercorns and bay, and I should eat it with the rice and these two sauces, one of which is tomato-based, and the other creamy. He beams like a proud father.
Though I must confess that I have been thinking quite a lot about hot curries and spicy noodles for the past few days, I find that I really enjoy the soothing blandness of it all; it’s just so wonderfully simple: chicken, broth, root veg and plain rice – it needs nothing more, not even lime pickle. In fact, it’s the kind of thing I can imagine craving were I a 17th-century French peasant miserably chewing on a crust of old bread.
Poule au Pot à la Façon de Chez Olive
The stuffing, and the generous vegetable elements of this dish, are designed to stretch out the weekly chicken yet further, but in fact make it a complete dish in its own right, though at Chez Olive they serve it with rice, which is also a nice way to soak up the copious broth. This is a dish that it’s well worth buying a good chicken for if you can – by which I mean a chicken that’s lived life a bit, and had a chance to develop some flavour. It doesn’t need to be huge, because there’s enough other stuff here to keep everyone happy; and though they’re much harder to find in the UK than France, it is possible, if not at a butcher’s or farm shop, then online (I found one with feet! Which was thrilling, but not strictly necessary). Note that you’ll need a poultry needle and thread, or some cocktail sticks, for this recipe.
Serves 4
1 good chicken, about 1.8kg
2 litres chicken stock
1 tsp peppercorns
4 small leeks, trimmed, or 2 large ones, cut into thick chunks
4 small carrots, scrubbed, or 2 large ones, cut into thick chunks
12–16 small new potatoes
4 small turnips, cut in half if on the larger si
de, or 1 large one, cut into chunks
6 large Savoy cabbage leaves
For the stuffing
A knob of butter
2 banana or 4 round shallots, finely chopped
2 plump garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked
A good grating of nutmeg
4 chicken livers
420g sausage meat (about 6 sausages’ worth)
75g fresh white breadcrumbs
2 tbsp Armagnac or other brandy
For the sauce blanche (optional)
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp flour
2 tbsp crème fraîche
Start with the stuffing. Melt the butter in a small frying pan over a medium-low heat and sauté the shallots until soft, then add the garlic, thyme leaves and nutmeg. Fry for a couple more minutes, then allow to cool.
Meanwhile, finely chop the livers, discarding any stringy bits, and put them into a large bowl. Add the sausage meat and breadcrumbs and stir in, then add the brandy and season. Mix well.
Put roughly two-thirds of the stuffing inside the chicken, then either sew the neck up, or use cocktail sticks to secure it (my preferred method).
Bring 1.75 litres of chicken stock to the boil in a large pot with the peppercorns, and add the chicken. Bring back to the boil, turn down the heat and simmer very gently for 45 minutes, then add the vegetables apart from the cabbage leaves and cook for 30–45 minutes, until both the chicken and the vegetables are done (if the chicken’s juices run clear, from the thickest part of the thigh, before the veg are done, lift it carefully out of the pot and set aside to keep warm, then turn the heat up under the pan to finish cooking the vegetables).
While the chicken is cooking, bring a pan of salted boiling water to the boil. Carefully cut out the base of the tough central core from the cabbage leaves and discard, then blanch them for 2 minutes, drain the pan (no need to wash it up at this point) and cool the leaves under cold running water to stop them cooking any further. Dry well.
Stuff the cabbage leaves by rolling a generous tablespoon of the remaining stuffing mixture into a short cylinder at the base of one of the leaves, above the cut stem, then tuck in both sides and continue rolling up to the top of the leaf. Put, seam down, in the base of the same large saucepan you used to blanch the cabbage, and repeat. Tip in the remaining 250ml of stock and bring to a simmer. Cover with a lid and turn the heat down very low. Cook for 45 minutes, then turn off the heat but leave covered to keep warm.
Once the chicken is done, keep warm while you make the white sauce, if serving. Melt the butter in a small saucepan, then stir in the flour and cook for a couple of minutes. Gradually, spoonful by spoonful, whisk in the chicken stock the cabbage rolls were cooked in. Once smooth, take off the heat and stir in the crème fraîche. Season to taste.
Carve the chicken and divide between shallow bowls with the stuffing, the cabbage rolls, the vegetables and a good ladleful of broth. (If the middle of the stuffing looks pink, and this worries you, fry it briefly in a hot pan first.) Serve with the white sauce, and steamed rice if you’d like to bulk it out further.
I order a pastis béarnais for pudding, after establishing, to my disappointment, that it’s a local cake rather than a boldly boozy take on a hollandaise – the pastis part of the name apparently comes from its anise flavouring. Not that I’m complaining, given that it comes with both crème anglaise and ice cream – the actual dream team.
The rain is making a night of it, which makes navigating an utter misery – I have to pull into a drive-through McDonald’s at one point to check the map on my phone – and by the time I haul the bike into our little room, there’s so much water dripping off my helmet that I can barely see to find the light switch. I hang my sodden clothing up in the hope that it will at least dry to damp overnight, give Eddy an apologetic pat, and get into bed, feeling fairly buoyant, to check train times for tomorrow, when I’m planning to travel to Toulouse.
But not, it seems, by train. It’s my first strike day in the South, and while this hasn’t proved too great a problem thus far, down here – as I discover now that they’ve released details for tomorrow’s action – when they strike, they really go for it. After spending 45 minutes trying to find a work-around to the problem, I reluctantly realise I have absolutely no choice but to cycle there instead – about 160km. I check the gradient. It looks like a seismograph record of an earthquake. I check the weather. More rain. I quickly turn off the light before anything else can go wrong.
Lying awake, I fret about whether I can even cycle that far – I’ve done 100 miles before, but not with this much stuff, in unknown territory, without people handing out energy drinks and bananas at regular intervals. With the dismal weather added into the equation, it feels like the universe is ganging up on me, and it’s annoying. But the fact is, I don’t have any other choice: it’s Wednesday, I have a lunch date on Saturday of the kind you’d cycle twice as far for and two cassoulets to put away first. This realisation is oddly comforting – there’s no point in worrying, so I may as well get as much sleep as I can. Which, exhausted by today’s exertions, I promptly do, watched over by a silent Eddy, who seems to be undaunted by the day ahead. To be fair, he hasn’t seen the route.
Km: 133.1
Croissants: 1 (7/10)
High: That cold glass of sweet wine in a warm restaurant
Low: Being sprayed in the face with sheep dung
STAGE 10
Pau to Carcassonne
Cassoulet
Cassoulet, a ‘voluptuous monument to rustic tradition’ as Richard Olney describes this unapologetically rich gratin of beans and animal fat, studded with various meats and served hotter than the southern sun, is the star turn of Gascon cuisine. Many claims are made about the different versions native to its three epicentres, Castelnaudary, Carcassonne and Toulouse, but in truth they are all delicious.
As I set off through the drizzly grey suburbs of Pau at dawn, I have a nasty premonition I’m about to work up a serious appetite, something that proves correct the moment my app demands a sharp left turn off the main road and up a single-track road through the woods. Glancing down at my bar computer, I’m startled to realise the gradient has quickly escalated to an unprecedented 15 per cent. Though it’s still damp, trees dripping around me, the day is surprisingly warm, and by the time I pop out at the top (NB: ‘Pop’ may be too energetic an adjective), I’m sticky and more than a little cross with life – until, turning round to pack my jacket, I see the Pyrenees behind me, rearing snow-capped out of the fog settled in the Pau valley. It’s a truly thrilling moment – and even better, the view stays with me for much of the morning, becoming increasingly wreathed in cloud as the day wears on.
I stop for breakfast in a dilapidated little town where the only café open is full of old men smoking and watching the lottery results – I sit outside in the gloom and can’t even be bothered to finish my croissant (3/10, yeasty, puffy, almost unpleasant). Instead, I put two lumps of sugar into a fierce little coffee, and take a swig from my hip flask.
Though this is ultimately to prove one of the worst rides of the entire tour, for a few hours it’s hard to feel glum with a mountain range over my shoulder, with its bears (respectfully referred to in Basque as lo moussu, or ‘the Sir’), goats and ski slopes to daydream about.
The topography and the weather do their un-level best to keep me interested in my more immediate environment, though – both are almost comically up and down, and it takes little things like a poster for a bovine beauty contest (outside a butcher’s, of all places) to keep me going, especially once the sun comes out in earnest and the route abandons main roads in favour of tiny twisty ones that rise and fall with merciless regularity. After four or five hills, I detect a pattern – a steep, tortuous ascent through the trees, a little turn at the top to show off the demoralising view of similar climbs
ahead, and then back down, with just enough time on the flat to lose any speed before hitting the next lump on the landscape. The routine grinds me down, and by mid-afternoon, picnicking on yesterday’s bread and ham in a village full of flies but with no apparent source of water, I’m running low on liquids and feeling furious. Where’s a goddamn Spar when you need one? I cry plaintively, to myself.
Indeed, my only consolation, strange as it may sound, is that I’m on my own, which means there’s nothing to do but push on – I may feel like crying (though I have to keep reminding myself that would be a foolish waste of liquids), but though there’s no one to comfort me, or even to rail at, there’s also no one to apologise to, and no one to suggest giving up either. Plus, I’m on my own, but never entirely alone. There are rabbits everywhere, running kamikaze-like in front of my wheels, and the joyous sight of a deer, leaping through a cornfield by the side of the road in one of the valleys, makes me smile in spite of myself.
Nevertheless, I plumb some very dark depths of the soul, and find them desiccated – stopping in the town of Lombez, which would sound thrillingly Spanish if I wasn’t so jaded, I down an entire bottle of aggressively fizzy Badoit outside a supermarket and then feel very sick. A wise person would also have picked up some supplies because by the time I reach my target campsite, everything in the village of Saint-Lys has closed for the evening, including the campsite itself, but sadly I’m well beyond rational thought at this point, so I don’t.
One More Croissant for the Road Page 14