Gorgeous graveyards, thundering waterfalls and a tumbling bear – cycling to the Pyrenees

Hello and welcome to the latest blog from The Olivia Rose Diaries on November 7^th 2025

We arrived back at le Shack on Tuesday October 28^th – and then left again a week later on a cycling trip to the Pyrenees. The weather forecast was good so we made a last minute decision. This is what happens when you travel on two wheels rather than four – you drop everything when an opportunity arrives.

If you look very closely at the picture above, taken from the hill above Le Shack, you can just make out a vague outline of the mountains on the far horizon. The Pyrenees are roughly 70 km away and our plan was to spend one day getting there, one day walking, and another day cycling back. As always with us it’s the journey as much as the destination and we had plotted a route that kept us on the quiet back roads pretty much all the way, skirting around Tarbes and Lourdes, then picking up a dedicated cycle route which took us past Argelès-Gazost and onwards to our base for two nights, a chambre d’hôte in the pretty town of Pierrefitte Nestalas.

When we cycle we develop a very healthy appetite. My panniers are always full of emergency rations. I don’t know what type of emergency I am expecting but when you’re expending a lot of energy you need to know that food is to hand. My current addiction seems to be chunky Kit Kats so I always have a pack of them, plus apples and bananas, a fresh pain au chocolat and bread picked up from a boulangerie en route, and an energising lunch of a bulgur wheat mixture (raisins, peppers etc) topped off with a couple of slices of salmon.

Our first stop of the day was in a small village outside Tarbes called Ibos. This village used to be in the middle of nowhere but today it’s name is synonymous with a massive retail park that has spread out from Tarbes, year by year spawning more ugly concrete buildings, more roads, more cars and delivery lorries. Despite all the noise and movement around it, this charming village had somehow retained a sense of peace. We stopped outside the church for a drink and a snack and my eye was drawn to the graveyard.

By now the mountains were getting closer, and we could see that there was no snow on the high peaks yet, not surprising as the weather has been warm, still in the low twenties, but the autumn colours from the trees promised to be stunning.

Over dinner that night we discussed our plans for the next day, our intention being to take the local bus up to the nearby town of Cauterets and then walk back along an old railway line, a gentle decline of about 10km.

‘I’ve been thinking that our plan will only take up part of the day,’ said Michael. ‘We could extend it.’

I braced myself. I know what happens when Michael starts changing plans.

‘From Cauterets we could walk up the waterfall walk to Pont d’Espagne, then retrace our steps. It’s only 7km each way. And then we can walk back down as planned.’

‘We’ve just leapt up from 10km to 24 km.’

‘I know but…..’

‘And it’s a very steep.’

‘But it’s supposed to be stunning.’

‘Rocky terrain as well I imagine, which will make for slow going.’

In the end we compromised, I went half way up the waterfalls and then turned back, leaving Michael to go a bit further as his pace is much faster than mine. I would wait for him in town and from there we would walk back down together. I am a great believer in compromises. Life doesn’t work without them and they often turn out to be the best of both worlds, as they did on this glorious, uplifting day in these beautiful mountains.

Michael made it as far as the Cascade du Pas de l’Ours ( Waterfall of the Pass of the Bear) where an information board told a charming tale. Here is the English translation.

Once upon a time there lived a dog as robust as he was stubborn and a bear as strong as he was arrogant. Both lords of the land in their own way, they one day had the same idea to go and admire the river. They met on the path, one so narrow that men feared to cross it. The bear stood up on its hind legs and gestured for the dog to give way. The dog responded by baring his teeth. They fought and grappled and both tumbled to the river below, but the bear managed to leave its mark on the rock before disappearing forever.

Of course the story doesn’t end there. In this very spot a few years ago, a shepherd saw a bear cautiously cross this bridge and disappear into the forested slopes. A descendant of that first bear, or his ghost. Who knows?

‘I haven’t walked this far in ages,’ I groaned later that day as we arrived back at our room. ‘Sixteen kilometres, and steep in parts, but worth every moment. I’m quite pleased with myself! Although I fear that if I sit down I won’t get up again. Isn’t it your turn to make the tea?’

‘Too late,’ said Michael. ‘I’ve already sat down and there’s no way I can get out of this chair.’

I was less pleased with myself next morning as my calf muscles had seized up and I hobbled about the bedroom like an old woman. Well, an even older woman than I am already.

‘You just need to loosen up a bit,’ said Michael. ‘A gentle bike ride should sort you out. At least it’s down hill all the way back.’

He disappeared down the stairs before I could throw something at him. Luckily breakfast that morning was such a treat that it regenerated all my aching muscles. Freshly squeezed orange juice, fresh fruit salad, organic yoghurt, local bread, ham and cheese, homemade preserves – and something else that went by the name of pain perdu and which we had to ask our hosts to explain what it was.

Apparently it is a way of using up the stale bread from the previous day, shedding light on the name which translates to ‘lost bread’. You slice it, soak it in milk sweetened with a syrup of sugar, and then fry it gently in beaten eggs. I think it’s probably the French version of eggy bread, but it literally melted in the mouth and fortified me for the day ahead.

We left with a Foehn wind behind us, a hot wind coming up from Spain, and indeed it was so warm it felt like cycling inside a tumble dryer, perhaps an odd analogy but that’s what came to mind. Wind can be a great friend, or a foe, on a bike and this time it made the journey fly by, speeding us on our way with minimum effort on our part. We stopped and turned round for one last look as the mountains receded behind us, a bittersweet moment, their beauty so intense that we found it hard to leave. But they would still be there next autumn and so would we, for we had decided to make this a regular trip, our annual autumn pilgrimage not just to the mountains but also a quest in search of another serving of pain perdu.