Toronto to Bayonne

Chateau Neuf, Bayonne

Wednesday May 18.

No internet coverage from our hotel in Bayonne, which is discombobulating. Although many self righteous pilgrims say we should be free of such things, I don't go along with that view. We're creatures of our generation.

I remember when TV arrived - how it was going to be the downfall of civilisation. I believe it was the same with the arrival of radio. People limited themselves in the use of such devices of the devil and certainly didn't let their children loose on them.

Now it's the same with the internet. That's not to say that new technologies don't do harm. They do - but at the same time they bring immense benefits.

Well here in our tiny room in Bayonne, I'm fretting, but at least I can still write in a text file on my computer and share with the world at a later date.

At least I can still remember what's happened in the past few days, even if I have lost the perfect use of some of my other functions - more about that as we go along.

We've had some long periods of inaction in the past three days - we even lost six hours, measured in that artificial construct the human race uses to measure the passage of time, as we swung further to the east in our journey around the globe.

I'm not trying to be cryptic, just having trouble getting to the point.

We spent Monday morning in a state of anticipation. On a rainy day in Toronto, we sat about waiting all morning. Finally, lunch time came around and we were able to shower, close our suitcases, say goodbye to Deb and head for the airport with Joe at the wheel.

We arrived more than four hours before our flight, so after an uneventful checking in and the usual half-witted palaver of airport security we settled in to read some more and wait.

The plane wasn't too full, so we had a block of four seats to ourselves. The seven-hour flight passed peacefully enough, the time broken up with meals. Dinner was conducted at lightning speed - a gluey but passable pasta, a stale roll and some forgettable dessert washed down with tasteless lager and a shot of whisky (red wine for Cathie).

We tried to sleep. I couldn't manage to get comfortable with the two of us lying down, but eventually dozed for a very short time while Cathie got an hour or two on her back.

Just as I was thinking I might manage a little more sleep, the breakfast cart came around - a dry croissant and some sweet yoghurt with a coffee.

Eventually we dropped in to Heathrow. A very long walk down endless corridors before we came to the passport check. I made an idiot of myself shouting at people that they should put on their masks, before I noticed that the Brits seemed to have abandoned such precautions - even the airport workers weren't wearing masks.

Eventually we found a couple of chairs and settled in. Surprisingly, Starbucks had flat whites on their menu and they weren't bad at all.

Unfortunately they were to lead to a worrying situation.

I noticed a rubbish bin close by, so set off to dispose of the coffee containers. I didn't notice an evil coffee table with a razor-sharp edge that extended at shin level from the rows of seats.

A trap for innocent travellers

Focused on the bin, I whacked my leg into the table, taking off a lovely strip of skin and falling face down on the tile floor, tearing the hamstring on the other leg as I executed my exquisite swallow dive to the astonishment of the happily seated travellers around us.

There was blood oozing from my leg and a little from my hand, but the pain in my hamstring was far more worrying, bearing in mind what's expected from that part of my anatomy in the coming weeks.

Cathie played the part of Florence Nightingale to perfection, rushing off to buy sticking plasters, cleaning the various wounds and patching them up. We celebrated with another coffee and shared a cookie.

It's a funny thing about the British Airways flight to Paris - it just kept getting delayed.

Initially, the booking was for 9am. With a flight of just over an hour, a time zone change adding another hour and yet another hour allowed for getting through Charles de Gaulle airport, we would still have four hours to make it to our train from Gare Montparnasse down to Bayonne - a further four-hour journey.

The first delay was caused by the flight being rescheduled to 11am. That was going to leave us with two hours to negotiate the Metro and get to Montparnasse - tight, but probably do-able.

If only. There were further delays, we were rescheduled for 11.25. With one thing after another, by the time we all got on board it was noon before we took off - already 1pm Paris time.

The flight was really quick - only 45 minutes, but we faced a huge queue at the airport. We'd already decided that our only chance was a taxi, which internet research told us would be €100.

We got through the queue, then it was another wait for our suitcases. We finally made it out the door just before 3pm.

We had a very friendly taxi driver. Cathie's French ability came in handy as she asked him how long it would take - apparently an hour or so, but he detected the note of concern in her voice and half an hour later he was pleased to announce that we were making good time. 

And so we were. He pulled up at the station at ten to four. The train wasn't due to leave until 4.11pm and - joy of joys - the taxi fare was €58. Even if we did have time to conquer the Metro it would have cost us about €30, so for not much more we had a scenic drive across Paris and made the station in good time.

In fact we were so early that the departure platform wasn't even showing. It did shortly though, so we sauntered in that direction, scanned our bar codes (thanks internet) and found our seats, expressing great satisfaction with each other and in our abilities as travellers.

The train was wonderful after all those tightly-packed flights. We swished smoothly through the countryside at 300km/h. I had a cold beer, although it was another tasteless lager. The French try to romanticise it by calling it blonde, but it's the same insipid muck - I'm sure some of my brothers would love it.

Even the exotic-sounding Croque Monsieur is just a toasted cheese sandwich with a bit of ham, although it was pretty nice.

We slid into Bayonne at 8pm after far too many hours of travel. Our hotel is only a couple of minutes' walk from the station.

It's old but very quaint - just across the street from the priory where pilgrims would seek shelter on their journey to Santigo de Compostela hundreds of years ago.

Priory - taken from our hotel window

We hadn't meant to, but we got a room with twin beds. They were very comfortable, the room was dark and the temperature was perfect. After quick showers, we dived beneath the covers and both fell asleep for the next 11 hours.

That brings us to Wednesday. Great breakfast at the hotel. It wasn't included in the price, but we splashed out, taking the precaution of slipping rolls full of ham and cheese, little madeleines and even some sweets into our bags for lunch.

We wandered around the lovely town - narrow streets, huge old cathedral. The question was hanging over my hamstring; it's still only partially healed - we wouldn't want to be walking over the Pyrenees on that, or at that speed, so rest our hopes on a continued recovery.

As well I was afflicted by hay fever, so with eyes streaming I limped back to the hotel for eye drops, soothing muscle cream and a spot of lunch. (Note, as I post this a day later, the air in Bayonne is reported to be of dubious quality and people afflicted by breathing issues should stay inside)

And now I'm joining Cathie in a brief and hopefully healing siesta.

And so it was. I fell quickly into a deep sleep, to be wakened by a voice close by. I didn't fancy a gallic bloke whispering in my ear as I lay on my single bed by the window. I opened my eyes to see a man outside, which is a strange thing when you're on the fourth floor.

Earlier in the day we returned from the town to find the entrance to our hotel blocked off by an enormous cherry picker. A while later there was a knock on the door by a man wanting to come in so he could help his elevated mate replace the renovated shutters outside our window.

The gruff French voices that disturbed me from my slumber were the same pair, replacing the shutters in the next room. Just as well I'm too old to be caught in flagrante.

It was 3pm, so soon after we set out again to find some hay fever medication and perhaps some beer, whisky and wine and an evening meal to eat in our room.

We found a pharmacie next door. As all such establishments do, this one had in its flashing green cross a temperature reading - 38 degrees!

We made haste (slowly) to the nearest supermarket, where we acquired beer, whisky, red wine and two salads for the modest outlay of €34 and repaired to our rooms (I've always wanted to say that).

Now we're reclining on our lonely beds, reading, drinking and chatting. As you'd expect, the washing we left rudely hanging in the window is quite dry, since the sun in its daily journey is shining squarely on to it. Strangely, despite the best efforts of the sun the room is reasonably comfortable - I suppose that on the fourth floor we're at altitude.

We're certainly training our climbing muscles, as we've been up and down the stairs at least four times today. When we arrived last night we used the lift, a quaint affair with two layers of doors and with a maximum occupancy of three, although decided this French appellation applied to the days when people were less obese, as we'd had trouble squeezing ourselves and suitcases in. 

And now it's Thursday.

The internet has picked up, so I can post this. I'll add a photo album soon. In the meantime, off to breakfast.

Further to that - Here's all the photos since we left Canada, including a whole lot from our walk this morning: https://photos.app.goo.gl/xapEahK89FjPWGyE6

This morning's walk was an odd one. We were looking for something but didn't find it. On the positive side, my damaged leg improved as we went along, so that's good news. Here's the Relive video of the walk: https://www.relive.cc/view/v1vj7mGd4YO