Screwball Rally 2013: San Sebastian to Sete

I was up and at 'em at 6am this morning. Woken by the sound of the Spitfire crew packing up their tent. At 6am?! Quoi? I snook out of the tent to say good morning and to find out what they knew that we didn't!

Matt was Brighton Perky having used the ear plugs I'd given him and had a good nights sleep. He informed me that they were going to do the route to Sete via a mountain route through the Pyrenees. The 'direct' route that we were expecting to be given by Marshall James that morning was approximately 350 miles. We knew by now that these estimates were optimistic and presumably based on clear road signs, no wrong turns or diversions of any sort. We also knew that the Ark and its passengers weren't capable or even willing to do 'direct'.

Mandy and I talked with the Spitfire and Tintin crews who also wanted to do the mountain route - an additional 100 miles at least. In the end, it was only the Spitfire team who opted for this. Mandy and I were put off by the talk of endless hairpin bends and the ease of getting totally lost ... we didn't want to be setting up camp in the dark in Sete that night. We made the decision to avoid toll roads and to find a nice little French village in which to have lunch.

The Pirates pitch and signs of partying still evident

Mandy: Yours truly managed to lose her camera from the shenanegans the night before. All campers were enlisted in 'Operation Sony' ensuring the most enormous chunk of humble pie being scoffed for breakfast when it did indeed turn up at the bottom of my "no, I have already looked" handbag. In my defence, a small black device in a large black hole can be easily overlooked. It was en exceedingly chastened Ape that drove us off for Sete!

The idea was to run alongside the Pyrenees, have a more scenic trip, stop for a true Gallic lunch and camp in daylight.

Besides being slightly side tracked by a Tour de France monument between Pau and Tarbes on Highway A64, it worked in a prolific, if passe sunflower, gorgeous tree lined road, charming French farm tootle to St Girons where we plumped for a pit stop. James Hunt would not have been amused and nor was the pavement cafe we chose. We weren't sure if it was just because we were British or possibly because I was a primate, but we were so studiously ignored as to incur a healthy degree of restaurant rage. It took over an hour to procure a salad that was virtually thrown at the table and the service peaked at hostile. Even I managed fury!

Hungry monkey

The only polite gratuite we could think of ...

We left as soon as we could polish off the spartan lettuce and tomato, leaving our written tip "never whistle with a mouthful of custard" and slowly kerb crawled them with "King of the Swingers" at full blast.

Moderately childish but made us feel a lot better. Having lost so much time, we pressed on to Sete with an increasing speed and decreasing fuel economy. A storm was brewing as we arrived and the sea crashing onto a long sandy beach right beside the camping area. In the haste of erecting a tent onto a patch of sand so hard as to be a contender for concrete, we bent the poles and I impaled my good foot.

Limping off to the sea for nature's panacea of salt water, I was joined by Jo in tiger suit who in true Tigger style bounced and bounced and bounced and then slipped hilariously into the surf. Sadly, the salt on my lens does not do it justice! The site was akin to an end of season Charlie Mannings (for all you local to Suffolk shores) but we nevertheless had a great meal out before retiring amidst thunder and sheet lightning blazing the night sky. Our first night of rain in store ...