This thing all things devours;
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays king, ruins town,
And beats mountain down.

A resonant riddle from Gollum as bike touring ‘Time’ continues to slow.  Two months in.  The last five weeks in a tent.  Crossing over to Spain.  The familiar sound of the ocean washing our ears and souls as we’ve met the Mediterranean. Time off the bikes opens again.  To swim in warms seas, rest and soon, be with our chosen family.

A treat of slower-bike-life, the chance to read beyond a bed-time-book.  A perfect B-man recommendation: Four thousand weeks; Time Management for Mortals.  The finitude of our lives and impossible probability of existence. The genesis of time as a social construct for monastic prayer to it’s evolution as a bedfellow of productivity in a capitalistic world.  Life as a series of problems to solve, that we’ll never complete.  The recognition to be mindful in the split second we’re here. Time continues on regardless, turning stones to meal, biting steel and bringing mountains down.

For Donkey and I, who can sometimes er on the Bull in a China shop (BICS) spectrum when it comes to getting problems solved, to finally be slowing down again has been bliss.

Our last evening with the Lot was spent in Le Bleymard. A wee mountain town, teeming with early summer hikers. The river now a mere stream behind our tent.  Rising into the cooler mountains, a cosy night cocooned in our down sleeping bags then up for another climb to Col de Finiels.  Leaving town, pushing beyond the forests, we met ski fields and open hills.  The landscape reminding us of Western China. These deja-vu’s from our prior years of cycle touring, another washing tide and heart warmer.  Ascending the summit amidst familiar surroundings, our friend Pascale came to mind.  A legend of using her time her way, that was cut too short. She stays with us on these peaks, climbs and constant tides of memory.

The descent from Finiels;  the sky had cleared, the wind still cold, we’d popped all our clothes on for the way down. Then Brian let me go first.  Donkey is our planner, he chooses the routes and usually leads the way.  He likes to go a little faster on the downhill #BICS, but this time he waved me ahead.  And what, a, descent!  Taking it slower, no cars, rolling from dappled sunshine to open edged curves of winding mountain roads.  The single driver who pulled up behind us, mindfully and kindly stayed back, letting us glide the 10-15 minutes to reach the end.  In unison drawing beside each other at the bottom, this had been our best descent to date. Donkey commenting that going at a different tempo, he enjoyed it all the more.  The beauty we can miss in life, when we go to fast…

From the descent of a lifetime to the bosom of Gorge du Tarn, a UNESCO heritage site. The valley carved by the river, pot-marked with castles and tiny settlements.  It was time for another day off as we blissfully rolled into Castelbouc.  Sitting in the shadow of the namesakes castle, swimming in the cool waters of the Tarn.  Though my legs didn’t get much of a rest, as a tick bite from the Dordogne had started looking dodgy, which meant a cycle to Saint Enime to see a pharmacist.  After trying to make an appointment with a local doctor, we changed our route to visit A&E (ED) in Millau.

These changes in ‘plan’ bring unexpected treats. A night watching folk music in the city’s park. Taking in the stupendous Millau Viaduct, adorning the city with it’s triangular sails. People and paraglider watching.  Millau sits in a basin surrounded by peaks in the convergence of two rivers.  A perfect spot for human winged enthusiasts and tourists to glide in the currents of cool air. And a smooth visit to A&E to confirm I had lymes and get some antibiotics, boom!

The slower pace of life, these moment to watch the world go by, slurping up the gliders in the sky or absorbing the melody of crashing waves on rocky coastline, reminders all to the beauty in stopping, sitting back and simply taking it all in.  We live in a world where our eyeballs, ears and attention is monetised.  Distraction is always only an device away.  Perhaps the hardest thing to do in our modern lives, to merely do nothing. 

The first day of antibiotics wasn’t an excuse for Donkey and Horse and we climbed again like a hungry monkeys up a banana tree.  500 metres above the Dourbie, a tributary to the Lot, to meet the windy plains above.  As our wheels neared the end of day, a view point off the plains allowed us to see Millau’s Sails in the distance.  You don’t often get this perspective across open land when cycling, a wonder to see what our wee legs get us through in a day.

At altitude the ‘season’ in France is even shorter. The planned campsite where we’d been hoping to stay wouldn’t open till end June.  So it was our first night wild camping.  Putting the tent up at dusk and down at first light. Having our post-cycle wash in a freezing river.  This basic living, daily rythm of building our home, setting up the campstove each time we fancy a brew and getting to places in the time it takes our legs, provides another mindful back drop to slow us down to the here and now.

More delicious descents the following day and we arrived at the tiny town of Saint Jean-du-Bruel.  The fabric, essence and simplicity of France is these small towns. Always a baker, butcher and grocer along with a few bistros and cafes.  Everyone shuts for 2-3 hours in the afternoon.  The pace is delightfully chill, and it gives us biking-boys everything we need to convalesce.

Climbs from the off leaving Bruel.  Starting in the rain. With the antibiotics, laden bikes, soggy weather and climbs mingling, it’s been tougher going.  Insult to injury, our next night we were kept awake by a cacophonous chorus of Frogs at a lake campsite in Rocozels;  we now know why frog’s legs are on the menu…get me a net, a sharp knife and a sizzling pan! Luckily the next day into Tarassac, we rolled along the old train line for the last 20km to a beautiful campsite on the banks of the Orb.  A day off to use our legs for a mini hike up the Gorges d’Heric was wild swimming gold.

A slight change of route then to Carcassone to meet a friend for the evening.  Coming out of the hills to the flat, the temperature’s started to rise. Cycling up the Canal du midi with a banging head wind, the next day we opted for the train back to Narbonne to rejoin our planned route. 

And so to the Mediterranean. Both the French and Spanish border sides were full-on.  Lots of people, lines of new terraced houses and hoarded Cash n’ Carry stores that had me coming out in a cold sweat.  Though the heat brings with it new architecture, different textures and terrains, riper vines from when we left in Bordeaux – now bursting with early grapes, paddy fields for Spanish paella and Cypress trees shading country roads.  Europe is incredible for providing this palpable transition in a mere few kilometres. As one country fades another simply bubbles up around you. A few nights sweating it out in the tent and we’ve arrived at Sa Riera on Spains Costa Brava.  Not on quite as tight a budget as last time, we’re in a chilled Airbnb over looking the bay.  Unwinding our legs, waiting for the chosen family to arrive and taking time to write this travel log.

If we put ourselves at the centre of the world, we perceive things to happen to ‘us’.  As our tempo tick tocks down to a slower beat, we’re grateful to spend time this way.  One of my online meditation teachers said that we (humans) are time.   Simply part of an unfolding series of events, with no control, like leaves dancing in the wind, for a brief moment.  We hope at some point today, you get to look up and see the magic in front of us all. Life, time, it’s all we have.