When I first saw the Sagrada Familia I stopped in my tracks; but our children were young. It was not the season for seeing cathedrals. I knew the day would come for savouring this extraordinary building. Back home in Surrey, an idea began to form. Bike to Barcelona – from the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit in Guildford to the Basilica of the Holy Family. A pilgrimage to celebrate how the Holy Spirit leads to Holy Family.
I shared this with a good friend, Donald Hirsch, who said the thousand miles plus was too much to do in one go. He suggested three rides over three years – and he would come with me. Perfect.
In 2024 we cycled from the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit in Guildford to Poitiers, the account of our journey is here.
https://sternfieldthoughts.blogspot.com/2024/07/a-pilgrimage-from-cathedral-of-holy.html
In 2025 we cycled from Poitiers to Toulouse, the account of our journey is here.
https://sternfieldthoughts.blogspot.com/2025/05/pilgrimage-from-cathedral-of-holy.html
And in 2026, we cycled from Toulouse to the Cathedral of the Holy Family (Sagrada Familia) in Barcelona, the end of our journey.
You can see a map of the entire route here, many thanks to Donald for this...
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1yjfThnCka4mnjsjIk9vf4KrmDOVR2vFO/view?usp=sharing
This is the account of that final stage.
Day One, Friday April 10th
Toulouse to Alzonne (55 miles)
The evening before we had arrived at Paul Seabright’s home in Toulouse where we had ended our second leg. We were welcomed by Paul and his partner Charlotte, and there was plenty of conversation over a very fine dinner – Paul’s latest book, The Divine Economy1, his next project, about when politicians should retire. And there was plenty of conversation over breakfast in Paul’s courtyard garden, but it had to come to an end. We had over fifty miles before us. We set off at about 8.30 and soon found the path by the Canal du Midi, which we had used in 2025. After negotiating the Toulouse cycling rush hour, we were speeding along on the flat excellent surface in near perfect weather. An easy start.
By eleven we needed a coffee and a croissant. On cue there appeared an old looking restaurant on the banks of the canal. When I got talking to the owner I found out he owned another business in Los Angeles – selling rare second hand books. So I asked him what book he would take to a desert island. After some hesitating, he said: ‘In Search of Lost Time.’ I have never read any Proust. Another title for the reading list.
Donald told me a little about Proust, and warned me it was heavy going and there was more easy going conversation. By now we had left the canal path and were on fairly quiet French roads, or reasonable farm tracks. In the afternoon we stopped to rest in a park in Bram. Here there was an art centre, with an exhibition all about rugby balls. I was the only visitor, and I learned how the balls are shaped. First a wooden model is made, then the leather is stretched over it. That’s the randomness of a long bike ride.
At our campsite we could see the snow capped Pyrenees in the far distance. We thought they would be our challenge. They weren’t. It would be something else. We were able to eat a good meal at the campsite restaurant, and then, as is usual, Donald beat me at chess.
Day Two, Saturday April 11th.
Our wedding anniversary. Thirty nine years. I was in France, Mojdeh in the north of Turkey, speaking at a Christian women’s seminar. She was the first to text, and then I managed to call. She was walking on the beach with another lady. We talked briefly, I then sent her a text: ‘You’re the best’.
We had got up at six and were ready to set off by seven-thirty. Donald’s pedal holder had come loose. He wanted to get it fixed, but the bike shop he found on the outskirts of Carcasonne was closed. But a motorbike shop was open. We wheeled in there, and a young man enthusiastically took the bike away to mend. And gave us a coffee. Carcassonne with its medieval castle perched above the River Aude is atmospheric. Some pictures, a quick breakfast, and we were on our way.
The rest of the morning was not easy. There were long hills, the wind was often in our faces, the traffic sometimes very fast. By lunchtime I felt drained. We stopped in the quiet town of Lezignan-Corbieres and settled into a boulangerie for sandwiches and a rest. The lady who served us was talkative. She was half Spanish, but her mother had not allowed her to learn her father’s language. This hurt her. Then Barry Duvell from New Zealand introduced himself. He was a retired Physics teacher, who had ended up living in this small town. When we asked whether there were any English speaking clubs, he said, ‘You’re looking at it’. In his retirement he was writing novels and hoping they would get published. Another book person, so I asked the desert island question again. Barry’s answer was – eventually – anything by Lawrence Durrell. And when I asked him what his favourite book in the Bible was, his face went blank. He had never read the Bible; but he was happy to receive a Gospel of John.
We were revived and enjoyed our afternoon ride through the expansive space between the Massif Central to the north, and the Pyrenees, in the south. Our campsite was a few kilometres outside Narbonne, so while I put up the tent, Donald kindly took off again to get our supper. We heated this up in the site microwave; ate; crouched into our tent, and so to sleep. I was exhausted.
Day Three, Sunday April 12th
Up again at six, and out of the campsite by seven thirty. We then had two hours of magnificent cycling along another canal path. After about half an hour, there was a large lagoon on our left signalling that the Mediterranean wasn’t far away, and beyond the canal on our right, another one. And in the far distance, the Pyrenees. We didn’t see a soul, but in one of the lagoons there was a group of birds standing in the shallows, either egrets or flamingoes. All was at peace.
Our path led to a port, and then a road heading towards the sea; but I needed re-fuelling. So we swung into the town of La Palme and found a small boulangerie that was open. With our bikes parked outside, the camping gear easily visible, and my Brexit Union Jack helmet2, both the staff and the few customers were curious.
One old lady stopped by our table and told us she was ninety-one. I asked her if she had had a good life. She paused. Then said that her first husband had been no good; the second, ‘Okay’. I found it interesting that she defined her life by her husbands. It makes sense. And it made sense of this long journey to the Cathedral of the Holy Family. What makes a good life? Our family, or extend that, our close relationships. I talked with Donald about this. He had another angle. His father, the economist Fred Hirsch3, had loved his family, but if had been asked about what makes a ‘good life’, he would have started with his intellectual work. Family though would still have been in the mix.
After this breakfast, we were soon by the Mediterranean; but it wasn’t a smooth blue under a sunny sky. All was grey and windy. The forecast was rain in the evening, and winds of up to fifty miles, starting in the night, and continuing the next day. Donald, being a great planner, already knew about these forecasts and we had decided not to camp in the rain. He also had ideas about dealing with tomorrow’s wind when we were meant to cross the Pyrenees.
When we arrived in St Cyprien Donald headed off to try and book a room in a hotel. I was meant to follow, but fell into conversation with an Irish couple who were having a drink outside a bar. This was an important encounter. Almost randomly they told me that cycling the coastal route round the Pyrenees, known as the ‘Corniche’, would be fine. They sometimes went to Spain and back in a day. I knew that Donald had ruled this route out for the sensible reasons that being scenic there would be a lot of traffic, there was no promise of a safe cycle lane, and there were a lot of hills to climb.
When I got to the hotel, it was fully booked, but the receptionist allowed us to sit in the lobby and Donald expertly negotiated with booking.com. We soon had an apartment and as we arrived, the rain started. I mentioned my conversation with the Irish couple, but Donald was not overly impressed. All his research – and he had spent a lot of time on this – showed that this coastal route would not just be harder physically, but possibly dangerous. His route was to go about ten miles inland and climb over one of the first foothills. The problem was the wind. Coming down a steep hill with fifty mile winds coming in any direction would not be wise. Donald did not want to abandon this route; his preference was to ride just five or six miles the next day, and book into a hotel, wait for the wind to subside, and so get going on Tuesday. We would have to put in a some extra miles in Spain, but it should be fine.
We had supper in an empty beach cafe. We were the only customers. We talked about Donald’s work with Citizen’s Advice, and my writing project about the life of John Bendor-Samuel. And so for a night’s rest on a proper bed.
Day Four, Monday April 13th
We woke up to the news that there was no guarantee that the fifty mile winds were going to ease off tomorrow. That would mean two days of hanging around this side of the Pyrenees. The conversation about the coastal route with the Irish couple came more into focus. I decided to broach the subject again over our coffee and croissant after our five mile ride to Argeles. Thankfully as I began, the wind was not particularly ferocious. So I suggested we try this coastal route and if the traffic and the wind was horrific we would turn back and wait to do Donald’s original route. If our experiment worked, then that would save us having to wait in France and then having to have two days of seventy mile rides in Spain.
Donald listened carefully, but needed to check things out on the internet which was patchy where we were. We found a better cafe and the map was spread out on the table. Donald’s hesitation was that if we started, then we would be adding a lot to our ride if we then had to come back for his route. And now the wind was beginning to pick up a bit. My hunch was to give it a go, and then came the clincher. There was a train line all the way along this coastal route. Donald had it confirmed from both the waiter and the internet that the trains were running. Here was the safety back up. If the coastal route was a nightmare, we could catch a train back.
So, must later than usual, our cycling began. And my appreciation for Donald’s graciousness increased. He had put a lot of work into planning the Pyrenees route, and now it had been discarded.
The Irish couple were correct. The road was safe, indeed there were good cycle paths all the time. And, not surprisingly given the weather, it wasn’t very busy. But the howling wind was something. I don’t think I have ever cycled in such conditions. Sometimes it was so strong that it almost lifted you up a hill; and then you turned a sharp corner and it attacked you. The only option was to get off the bike and walk; and sometimes just to stand still till that particular gust eased. However we were never in danger. The route worked. And on more than one occasion Donald told me how he appreciated my pushing for this coastal route, rather than waiting one or two days in France.
The scenery was very dramatic. Sheer cliffs, the sea, the winding road down to a small town in a bay, and then up again. All these towns were very much ‘out of season’. Hardly anyone was in the street. At one where we had a brief rest there was a young Swedish couple and their two small children playing nearby. The husband was a teacher, so he and Donald has an animated conversation about education. I decided to talk to the wife who was looking after the toddlers. I explained about the pilgrimage, and then asked if she was a Christian. She said she was, and that she had been confirmed. However she admitted her faith was faint. She had not read the Gospel of John, so I gave her a copy, and encouraged her to enjoy her faith. I hope this random encounter helped her.
Entering Spain was a little depressing. The old checkpoint offices at the top of a hill had been vandalised and were covered in graffiti. But the views of the sea on the descent down were truly magnificent. We had only cycled twenty five miles today, but it had been hard going and we were ready to rest. So we stopped at the first seaside town, Portbou, and had a beer in a dingy bar with a fruit machine and an unfriendly barman. Here Donald presented me with a ‘Certificate of Pedalling Achievement’ for cycling through France. He is well acquainted my thinking on some subjects. There was a line of exclamation marks, all crossed out. I loathe exclamation marks. They are noisy, vulgar, and intrusive. Donald also knows of my disdain for the French Revolution and its vacuous and abstract slogans of ‘Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity’. So he complimented me with these three words: ‘Liberality, Equanimity, and Felicity’. This was kind, thoughtful and humorous.
Again because of the wind, we blanked camping and again got accommodation through booking.com. It all happened very easily.
Day Five, Tuesday April 14th
We planned to leave around eight thirty, so I was able to have some time for prayer and reading the Bible. My Old Testament reading for the day was Psalm 104. Not surprisingly I was very struck by the mention of wind in verses 3 and 4:
He rides on the wings of the wind
he makes his messengers winds,
his ministers a flaming fire
Was God riding on the wind that sometimes pushed us, sometimes forced us off our bikes? And what was the message of these winds? These questions were in my mind for most of the day.
It was a long hill out of Portbou. We climbed and climbed. And then, after breakfast, the road became busier, the cars and lorries faster, and there always seemed to be another hill. But then it was time to leave this busier coastal road and we disappeared down a small country road. It felt like the time of stress and effort and dealing with the wind and the hills all suddenly finished. There we were on an empty lane, on the flat, with a blue sky above us, hardly a breath of wind, and in the distance, beyond a green wheat field, the snow capped Pyrenees. The view of the mountains from the Spanish side, the south side, is more magnificent. They appear clearer, more in focus.
In the afternoon we started to use a special bike route for the Pyrenees area. It was called the Pryanexus. It was fine when it was sign-posted; but more than once the signs petered out and we were left to work things out from Google or Koomoot. It was a stop and start sort of ride – but no hills, no wind. We were on the plains.
Our campsite was a little eerie. It was a vast out of season holiday park. There were hundreds of static caravans, a huge pool, restaurants, bars, an entertainment stage – and hardly a soul around. Just one watchman who let us in, and one other camper.
By now the wind in Psalm 104 was coming into focus. Wind, of course, is the Holy Spirit. We know that from Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus in John 3, we know it from the Day of Pentecost in Acts 2. God absolutely rides on the wind of the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit is His constant messenger. Our journey started at the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit, it is due to end at the Cathedral (actually Basilica) of the Holy Family. The Holy Spirit brings about Holy Family. But why the ferocious speed, the howling, the gusts that pushed us of our bikes? And why on hills? Why was the wind sometimes with us, sometimes against us. Unpredictable, even wild.
That’s family.
There are times of free-wheeling down hills with the wind on your back; but there are plenty of hills. On this bike ride, most of the time the wind was helping us up those hills. That is a picture that stays with me. Our family, like all families, have climbed some hills: but we were helped. And at times that same wind has stopped me in my tracks. Thank you.
The drama of the wind and the hills as we neared the Sagrada Familia made perfect sense. God is family, God is for family. The good life is nearly always a life of good relationships, often in an actual family, or with a close set of friends. And so the Holy Spirit is there (surely for everyone, not just Christians) to help us as we faithfully climb the hill of staying together, and sometimes there has to be frightening strength. And then, as happened today, there are no more hills, the wind is gentle and the road is kind. That is also family.
Day Six, Wednesday April 15th
Apart from a minor drama with Donald’s phone, which was dealt with by a kind work colleague, the morning’s ride was easy going. Some of it was along the coast, some on quiet country lanes or tracks, and a few busy roads. We felt we deserved a proper cooked meal – we had not had one for perhaps two days – so we headed for the plaza in a town called Llagostora in search of a decent looking restaurant. We found ‘The Casino’, outside, all was very normal, inside, it was vast, with very high ceilings, almost like a converted railway station. Plenty of atmosphere.
The afternoon ride to Sills was also easy, and mainly car free. Our campsite was in the middle of nowhere, and, again was virtually deserted. Reception was shut, but outside sat a young Swedish lady. She had just started a biking expedition in the opposite direction to ours. She was cycling the Euro Velo Route 8 from Barcelona to Montenegro. Well north of two thousand miles. On her own. We talked quite a bit, but still no receptionist, so I went and found a spot and put up our tent. A friendly lady came round later and I went up to give our passport details and pay. She hadn’t been on time because her father had just had an operation in the hospital. Knowing we would be miles from any shops we had bought some food earlier which we now ate in a deserted restaurant area which overlooked the campsite. We talked about the journey of faith, and the lost sons in Jesus’ parable. Both were lost to the father. One for the pleasures of life, the other for thinking their moral life meant they were owed something. Which were we?
Day Seven, Thursday April 16th
It was a cold night. I took the tent down wearing gloves. On the next pitch was the young Swedish lady. I asked her what the poetry was behind her trip, the motivation. She said she wanted to test her mental health, to be alone with nature. I didn’t take this to mean that she had mental issues. She was wanting to test her character. On nature I told her about Psalm 19:1 - The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands’. She said she wasn’t religious, but she listened. I told her my own story of being encouraged to seek God with all my heart, and how her life was precious. When we wheeled our bikes away she wasn’t in her tent, but I left a Gospel of John on her bike. I hope God speaks to her.
Today’s ride was fairly easy, just a few hills, and by mid afternoon we were at our last campsite. Our sixteenth over the three years. It was called ‘Barcelona’, and we were just twenty three miles from the city. We had a long and leisurely dinner in the site restaurant, and then played chess. A pleasant change. I won. Over dinner we reflected that this would probably be the last time we would do such a long ride (this leg was over 300 miles). But we were so grateful that we were able to do this in our late sixties.
From this campsite I had written to the clergy of the Sagrada Familia explaining the pilgrimage to them, and that we had been sent off from Guildford Cathedral with prayer from the Acting Dean. It would be wonderful if we could be met by prayer. I wasn’t expecting a reply, but one came swiftly. A priest would not be able to meet us tomorrow. Given this is one of the busiest Christian sites in the world, that is not so surprising.
The Final Day, Friday April 17th
We were on our way by seven thirty. Our ride started on the N 11, a very busy coastal road. Thankfully we were only on it for a couple of kilometres and then the magic of Google swerved us away from the coast and onto tracks which went between allotments. These tracks then took us round the back of Mataro. The bike paths were good. Going along one there was a young boy, no more than ten, pedalling along, and holding on to his back was a younger girl, probably his sister, on roller skates. A good way to get to school. They will probably talk about this to their grand-children.
After Mataro, Premia de Mar, where my son, Bahram, who lives in Spain, was due to meet us. There had been a bit of a mix up over the name of the cafe, so our rendezvous was a little delayed. It was great to see him. I felt very chuffed that he had taken a day off work to do this. But there was no time to savour the moment. We needed to push on.
The ride into Barcelona was perfect. We were on the flat, right by the sea which was now its proper Mediterranean blue, the sun shining, but not scorching, with the city skyline getting nearer and nearer. And then the Sagrada Famila began to stand out from the other buildings. Over 900 miles of cycling, and now we could see our destination. We entered Barcelona, first through an industrial area, and then the dramatic buildings of the 1992 Olympics. After these, we came to the Diagonal, a wide tree lined avenue that would lead us to the Basilica.
Neither Donald nor Bahram are signed up Christians. They have their own spiritual journeys. But I had told them that when we got there I would like to say a prayer. They were relaxed. When we did get there it was heaving. People everywhere. It was going to be impossible to get to an entrance. No wonder a priest could not meet us. So squeezed by a fence virtually opposite the front entrance I announced we had arrived and said a prayer of thanks, and asked for God’s blessing on our families.
The pilgrimage was over.
The next couple of hours were intense – getting our camping kit packed up and posted to the UK, finding the accommodation I had booked for the family, taking our bikes apart and getting them into their bags for the flight home. And then suddenly Donald was in a taxi heading for the train station to travel to Valencia where his family were coming.
Yes, the original idea was mine; but in a hundred small details, Donald had made it happen. He had chivvied me to do proper practice rides each year before we set off, booked the ferries, the trains with bike spaces, the camp-sites, arranged for us to stay with Paul in Toulouse – and planned and navigated the whole route, from Guildford to Barcelona. A mammoth task. Beyond all these logistics he was an excellent cycling companion and spirited conversationalist. So much to be grateful for.
Epilogue
What is a good life?
For many of us it is a life with a family.
My wife, Mojdeh, and Yasna, my daughter, flew out from England to be with me at the end of my pilgrimage, Bahram had come from Madrid. And so on Saturday we experienced the wonder of the Sagrada Famila as a family. For me it was very emotional. No words can convey how precious family is, or properly describe those times when its beauty is framed for our hearts. And those two hours in the Sagrada Familia, in fact the whole week-end with my family in Barcelona, was such a time.
I had always hoped that I would be able to cycle those 950 miles, I had always hoped that I would enjoy the Sagrada Familia, and I had always hoped that my family would be with me. But I never knew how wonderful it was actually going to be.
Yasna and I spent nearly an hour inching round the outside of the cathedral before our entrance time. The depiction of the Passion on the West side is stark and intense. There is so much pain there. The sleeping disciples in Gethsemane; the traitor’s kiss, Pilate’s cowardice, and in the centre Christ tied to a post for the whipping. Above this, Christ is on the cross – with his mother, family, at its foot. Here is the atonement. God’s love in Christ for every sinner. But above all this pain, there is another cross. It’s empty. And sitting on a beam, almost casually, is the ascended Christ. And behind the empty cross, a descending dove: The Holy Spirit. At the end the story, all is well.
It is not that we left the Holy Spirit to arrive at Holy Family. The Holy Spirit was with us all the way. I remember the storm on our first leg, the black sky, but the white dove flying along side us, the wind on this ride. And here at our destination, behind the cross, the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit in Guildford, the Holy Spirit in Barcelona.
Physically this was a journey from the cathedral of the Holy Spirit to the cathedral of the Holy Family. Poetically that underlines that being filled with the Holy Spirit must result in family, good relationships. But spiritually there is no such journey. The Holy Spirit and the Holy Family are always together.
1For a review of the book in The Church Times see here -https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2024/30-august/books-arts/book-reviews/book-review-the-divine-economy-how-religions-compete-for-wealth-power-and-people-by-paul-seabright
2This was a birthday present from my brother, so whatever my own feelings about the flag, loyalty asks me to wear it.
3 For more on Fred Hirsch see, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_Hirsch_(economist)
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