Au Revoir France

Now that you're rainy and getting significantly cooler, la grande nation, we have decided to depart. I am somewhat grateful for your shift into Autumn daily drizzle as it allows me the freedom to detach and move on. Otherwise, I am afraid I may have stayed forever. Je t'aime your cuisine. Je t'aime your laid back attitudes. Je t'aime your farmers markets. Je t'aime your history.
Je t'aime your affordable Airbnb's that allow me to escape the rain and wind and muddy cycling.
I do not Je t'aime your insistence on speaking French when it is blatantly clear that I speak none where many of you speak quite fluent English, but I will forgive you this one thing.

We have hit the 400km mark of cycling. At my Dad's request here is a rundown of our last few days.
NOVEMBER 5th - LEAVE REVEL 40km.
We farewelled our amazing hosts, Gilles and Fabienne and cycled directly from their house. Though they are far from the canal that we sought to ride along, the Rigole that went through their town drained into our Canal du Midi. We thought it was the coolest thing ever, like REAL cycle touring, to be able to cycle direct from someone's house. We expected others to think similar and prepared for a farewell party and fanfare. Instead it was just us and the dogs as we pedalled away. The cycling started off dreamy; the stereotype of all that I had envisioned cycle touring in France would be. After lunch, the sun hid itself behind the clouds, the wind began to howl and our path deteriorated into a goat trail. Adelaide declared it the worst day of her entire life. We acquiesced that it was an epic day of cycling. Even Mountain Dad struggled on the muddy trail as the chariot/bike trailer turned into an anchor.

NOVEMBER 6th - LE SEGALA to BRAM 30km.
An Airbnb to an Airbnb. Mountain Dad's "rose" for the day (we're still doing our daily "rose" and "thorn," you'll be pleased to hear, Jaret) was that he is getting better at being o'kay with spending money. It rained throughout the night which reinforced my very easy decision to spend our money on accommodation that included a roof over our heads (albeit with pictures of scantily clad women on the walls).

NOVEMBER 7th - BRAM to CARCASSONNE. 25km (but maybe turned into 30km, we can't be sure)
Wind (a tail wind, thankfully). Rain. All day. The trail by our canal turned into an impassible mud bog. The impassable mud bog then became blocked by a work crew and we had to backtrack 5km. We ate lunch under a shelter for a village notice board and as we watched the locals whiz by in their snug, warm cars, Mountain Dad commented that isn't this when someone would stop and offer us their home for a brief refuge? Some respite from the elements?
They didn't.
However, once soggily returning to cycling and navigating our way along country roads, avoiding the highways, trying to find our way back to the point in the canal where a bike path might return, our Cycle-Angel appeared.
"We've only seen one cyclist all day!" Remarked Mountain Dad as he followed muddy Pierre down the country roads towards the route we were seeking.
"I've only seen four cyclists today!" Retorted our Cycle-Angel as he checked his GPS, swept an assessing glance over our bedraggled crew and led us onward.
Unlike our usual follow-the-flat-river route, Pierre led us up hill and over dale. As we all struggled and gasped our way up a rise, Pierre declared Lachlan was a "champion!" And he said it in a French accent which made it sound more impressive.
We all struggled to keep up with him as he sped along the roads.
Mountain Dad's brakes broke. He used his shoes to slow him down on the hills.
Lox cried as he thought Dad would die.
My hands were cold.
Adelaide's hands were FREEZING! So cold, she couldn't even change gears (but could manage to fish candies from the 'motivate-them-with-sugar bag').
Adelaide reiterated, in case we hadn't heard, that she did not like cycle touring. Biking, yes. Cycle touring, no.
Pierre left us once he had set us back on the Canal du Midi, laughing as he pedalled away at Mountain Dad's wry observation that it should be dubbed the Canal du Muddy.
And muddy we continued for the last 5km into Carcassonne. Tired. Sore. And still sliding and grinding out in slick mud.
We arrived at an Airbnb. That has a washing machine. And central heating.
I sent Mountain Dad to the store for dinner groceries and a bottle of wine while I washed the mountain kids.

NOVEMBER 7th - 9th Carcassonne and the Pyrenee's.

NOVEMBER 10th - we train our way to Spain. Heading to Girona to cycle on a disused railway line in the north. Hopes of less rain and a return to our tent. Even I will grudgingly admit that though I relish the swishness of Airbnb accommodation, nothing quite beats the intimacy of our Newluks unit hunkering into the tent together.