I meant to say this about our evening in Dax: we had hoped to be able to eat dinner at the number one spot according to TripAdvisor but there was a handwritten sign on their door saying “complet”, so we headed to the town square. Dax isn’t a popular tourist destination but the French apparently enjoy eating out, so many places were busy. Atypically for us, we were drawn to a SPORTS bar supporting rugby which is, apparently, more popular than soccer in southwestern France.
We’ve actually really enjoyed sportsbar meals we’ve experienced in our travels, e.g. pubs in Wales where we cheered with South Africans in rugby world finals, or in Porto’s official football club where we enjoyed a buttered bun and coffee at 7 a.m. The hamburger I had in the rugby bar in Dax on Thursday night along with a side of haricots verts – !!! – was spectacular.
Friday morning we said goodbye to our charming host and hit the trail. You will see from the videos how well we appreciated the service roads that run close to and parallel to the busy highways. I took advantage of a sunny spot in one of the trail diversions that was laced with gorse to sprinkle some of my mum’s ashes which I’ve been carrying in a Ziplock baggie in my pannier since we arrived in Lisbon almost a month ago. Saturday the 9th would have been her birthday.
Just down the road, Ride with GPS said that we should continue with a service road. We rode around and walked around for about thirty minutes trying to figure out where that trail might actually be.
Travelers’ tip. Sometimes your rule of thumb just has to be: if you choose that road, will you be able to recover if it was a mistake? (Also a good life lesson.)
It was a good choice to take a chance on that hidden trail. We arrived in our beloved Mont-de-Marsan where we had been in the Spring, greeted familiar staffers, checked into the room, plugged in our charging stations, stowed the bikes, and made it our mission to revisit Cremerie de Fabian to get scoopy Gorgonzola and saucisson and some baguette. I thought John was going to cry when he saw a whole store dedicated to alcohol free wine and beer, so we spent some time in there. Outcome? Disappointment: he’d rather have a Coke. But we had to try.
Like the last time we were at Villa Mirasol, we had a decadent cheese picnic in our room but purposefully did not spoil our appetites because we had a reservation in the hotel’s Michelin restaurant to celebrate the end of John’s birthday week. The meal was extraordinary. That’s all I will say.
November 9th. We skipped petit dejeuner at the hotel (hotel breakfasts are often 20 euros P.P., do the math, it’s ridiculous) and grabbed a croissant and espresso at a cafe that we had sussed out the day before. Just as was forecast, it started to pour as we were leaving around 8 a.m. No worries, it didn’t last long and we were in Roquefort’s Saturday market by around eleven only slightly soggy.
Sadly, THIS Roquefort was not the Roquefort with the cheese caves. Confusing.
A completely charming trio of 12 year olds were selling stickers “pour les combattents anciens” in the market so of course I bought one and it’s installed onto my bike. “Good. Bye! Have. A. Good. Journey! CANADA!” Adorable. I will think of them everytime I look at that sticker.
We pushed on to Bazas, arrived after 71.5 km somewhat chilled so after checking in and showering, we indulged in a lunch of OH MY GOD YOU GUYS DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW DELICIOUS PUMPKIN SOUP IS?
Fortified, we rode back into Bazas because the plaza and the cathedral (and antique store) are beautiful. Then, back to the hotel for a dinner of Bazandaise steak (they are known for their beef in this region but, to be completely honest, I’ve had better beef from the happy steers at Rowe Farms).
And… scene. We were done. (Except there was a wedding at the hotel that night and the bride and her attendants were enjoying a meal of McDonalds burgers in the lobby and happy to vogue for us. Adorable.)
