---This is a work in progress--- Heat, the terrible heat. Only the thought of cold miserable days back home can lift you out of the sluggish funk that one finds themselves drifting into, when every movement, and seemingly even thinking causes you to sweat even more. The car's thermometer hovers between 40 and 41 degrees celsius, in the shade and at sixty miles an hour.
We are driving south on the french N107. The surrounding countryside is still green enough to remind you that for most of the year this region has a more temperate climate. More than a few months of this would reduce the area to a desert. We pass a sign reading 288km to Bordeaux. Our journey would be longer than that of course. Over a thousand miles of the winding single lane roads left to local traffic, or those to cheap or poor to pay for the toll autoroutes that whisk you up and down the country at ninety.
At this rate it will be two days before we begin to see the slopes of the Pyrenees, and then we must travel over them, or rather skirt around them, into what I imagine must be the hellish cauldron of Spain. Occasionally, we happen upon one of the typical french tree lined stretches of straight road - a style of road building I agree with. These are usually bordered by fields of sunflowers, cut straw and maize. It's approaching eight pm, but it's still far too hot to consider stopping. Must keep going, the wind blowing through the windows is the only relief from the heat.
I have noticed that the heat and the driving increases tobacco consumption drastically, but when you light up the wind sucks the smoke away and billows it all around you, rendering the experience a distinctly unsatisfying and choking one.
In front of us is Lee's mint green Fiat panda ("Dance!" special edition), the other car in our little convoy. Mine is an elderly VW passat with the best part of 150 thousand miles on the clock already. It's running well, making 38 miles per gallon at this relatively sedate pace. Over the pair of cheap walkie talkies we have taken with us, we talk about the heat, discuss stopping and occasionally yell confused and conflicting directions at roundabouts.
A piece of advice for anyone wanting to drive in france - it's very difficult to get petrol after 8pm. This is because all the cashiers in the petrol stations go home and the only way to get petrol is to use a credit card. The pumps helpfully only accept french credit cards, it seems. We have just passed Niort and we have just under three quarters of a tank. Should see us as far as Bordeaux by tonight, given some luck, and a following wind.
Later that night, after having crossed bordeaux successfully, we turned off the main road to look for somewhere to stay for the night. Driving along country lanes, between vineyards we eventually see a small overgrown track leading into a forest. Driving up the narrow track, trees and bushes brushing the car we begin to realise that it might carry on for miles, and there is no possibility whatsoever of turning round. Mindful of having to reverse back the whole way, we decide that it is so seldom used that we don't need to try and find the end and decide to stop for the night right there in the middle of the forest.
The next morning, we set off, bleary eyed. It's the first time I have driven off after sleeping in the car, and it's a strange feeling. Like having a motorised bed. Later that day we navigated through the horror of the Tolouse ring road, narrowly escaping death/serious injury more than once.
We stopped in a town on the Garonne river to cool down at around 3pm. Would be nice to go for a swim in the river, we thought. So we did. I was a little concerned to note there seemed to be a water treatment facility right next to where we were swimming. No matter, now, a few hours later, I still don't feel any ill effects. I'll put my trust in the french water treatment system.
We continued on through the town of Carcasonne, with it's huge castle dominating the town. It still seems to be impossible to buy cigarettes, and we are beginning to suspect a heinous Gallic conspiracy to deny foreigners fags and petrol. All the places you'd expect fags to be sold don't. We are rationing out Lee's Galouises now.
After Carcasonne, the foothills of the Pyrenees finally come into sight. As we near Perpignan the hills are studded by windmills, their blades turning sluggishly in the muggy evening heat. It's about 9 when we stop in Perpignan to fill the tanks and discuss our plans. We decided to push on across the mountains into Spain and then Palamos that night. After loading up on a couple of petrol station coffees we head up the narrow winding non-autoroute road to spain. I mentally prepare myself for a gruelling slog but after only half an hour of driving up we come up to the border crossing and blast right through it, hardly slowing down. We are in Spain with absurd ease. To the left and above us we can see a viaduct of the autoroute. Even from this distance we can see that there is a huge tailback and there are hundreds of trucks waiting to cross the border. Smirk.
The real endurance test comes later, when we realise it's still someting like 150 km to Palamos along slow, busy roads, at night. Eye fatigue kicks in really quickly when you're driving at night. We make a couple of wrong turns but eventually we start to near the town. I am completely disorientated on arrival, as it's been many years since I have been there. But eventually we stumble across some recognisable landmarks and find the flat. After slogging up the four storeys of stairs to the door I collapse onto a handy nearby bed. Landing on a soft bed when exhausted is one of the purest pleasures I know of.
My notes from the stay in Palamos are almost non existent, a fact which I attribute to initial exhaustion but also the purchase of a large amount of very high quality booze. The 80% wormwood absinthe was especially evil. We swam in the sea, drove to isolated beaches, visited Figueres, Cadaquez, ate in several restaurants. One particular night I remember we had got very drunk and headed out for more beers. We were given some hash as a gift - bitten off from a larger chunk in the moroccan style - at the table next to us at the beach bar we were at. We smoked it all at once and then went swimming. It's nice being tossed around in the surf for a while at past midnight and then not being cold when you drag yourself out of the sea. I almost managed to keep my hat on the whole time, save for a bigger than normal wave which took me unawares.
Apart from that time, finding anything good to smoke was difficult in palamos. By the last night we knew where the best place to hang around to find it was but by then we had to go.
During our time in palamos we went down to Barcelona for a night to check out the sights. We parked up almost within view of the breathtaking Sagrada Familia cathedral (estimated completion date: 2044) and went sightseeing. We didn't get that much done on the first night, but did visit a couple of genuine looking bars in the medieval part of town. In one I watched with amusement the banter between the bartender and a old man who cursed and complained at him and everyone else, but you got the definite idea that this scene was played out, and had been played out, for years, to everyone's satisfaction and good humour. We left in the direction of the waterfront area, but that proved to be a mistake. Rows of expensive soulless bars later, and sobering up fast, we desperately tried to get back to the old part of town to find some cocktails, but by then everything was starting to close. We had a few beers in a couple of places but the moment was lost. We bought a carrier bag full of ice cold beers from a man on the street and wandered in the direction of Las Ramblas. This is the last place to die out at night. We found it bustling with people at four in the morning. Luckily picking up some weed was easy here.
However, politeness required us to humour the madman from whom we bought the hash for several minutes while Lee had a much more coherent discussion with a nearby dutch guy. After about 20 minutes of conversation consisting of this man's makeshift spanish (directed mostly at the girls) and incessant maniacal laughter, we dragged Lee away, fearing four our sanity. We piled into two taxis, reeling drunk and stoned. Lee and Lydia's taxi pulled up next to us and I yelled something at it, trying to get Lee's attention. I suspect our taxi driver was trying to take advantage of our condition, because we diverged from Lee's taxi even though our destinations were the same, and we were sent on what felt like a very circuitous route. Suddenly I saw Lee and Lydia by the panda, already having got out of their taxi. I yelled "Aqui! Aqui!" to the driver, thrust some euros at him and we piled out of the car.
Outrage! Some careless or spiteful oaf had reversed his Renault Scenic into the parking space in front of the panda, but actually crashed into the panda and shunted it back into the car behind, and then had just parked up and left the panda pinned between the two other, bigger cars. Lee is incensed and says he feels like throwing a brick through the window of the Renault "..or something". Instead we settle on writing "conyo!" on the dirt on the back of the car and smoking a joint and leaving it till the morning. Alix, Sebb and I meander our way back to the passat which we parked a couple of blocks away and fall into a awkward sleep. Sleeping in a car parked in the middle of a city has it's downsides. At least we picked a quiet street.
The next day we explored the cathedral and went back home to Palamos.