Stages 31, 32: A Nice Way To Finish

A thick fog had descended overnight, prompting us to layer up as if we were still in Northern France. Within a mile we thought better of the extra clothing, as the sun did it’s job and blue skies appeared.

After a total of 10km up, we completed our last significant climb of the whole 1000 miles! From experience, we knew that “significant” was the operative word, and decided to withhold celebration until we could see the sea. Such language has lead to some never-ending final stretches in the past.

The scenery leading up to stage end in Gréolières was unexpected and staggering. With minds very much set on the finish line, more wide valleys and jutting rock formations were a goodbye treat from our book and the region.

We picnicked on provisions from a Castellane boulangerie, with the company of two Canadians on a 7 week cycling jaunt covering most of France. When we set off for Nice, on our final stage – 32 – it really was all downhill from there. We freewheeled the length of Gorges du Loup, emerging at the bottom in Cagnes-sur-Mer – a little way down the coast from Nice. I made an excuse to nip into Carrefour for a half bottle of champagne and some plastic glasses, sneaking them into my pannier to be enjoyed at the 1000th mile.

We turned a corner and finally caught sight of the Mediterranean, keeping it on our right for more than 10km as we coasted along the promenade. Nous étions arrivé!

Our of the two unused pieces of kit in our luggage, swimming costumes will be used tomorrow, puncture repair equipment won’t.

All that remains to be said is a sincere thank you to Dad for inviting me on (and funding) a trip of such epic proportions. Not something I would have thought possible three months ago, but perhaps something I will consider undertaking again in the future. It’s been a real adventure.

Stages 29, 30: Gorge

After an all too short drop from our cliff side residence, the ascent into the gorge began. We passed the shores of Lac de Sainte-Croix, its azure blue waters becoming just a puddle over our shoulders within the hour. We were warned of a category 1 climb in between us and the magnificent Gorge du Verdon by our helpful guide. I was happy to set off blissfully unaware of which end of the spectrum 1 was at, but Dad looked it up, extinguishing my optimism and hope that it was at the easy end. Thankfully a good stock of energy gels and distracting views helped us up.

The chilly temperature was the only clue that we weren’t cycling through a bush fire. Neon red, brilliant yellows and literally golden foliage surrounded us. It was a shame not to have bright blue sky to set the colours off further.

We stopped for a warming hot chocolate at the world’s most miserable hotel, with one of the world’s best hotel views. Smiling was banned, as was eye contact unless completely necessary. Cat Steven’s Wild World played through a far off tinny speaker for the duration of our visit. One individual sat with two glasses of wine, one empty, possibly having been stood up by 11:30am on a cloudy Tuesday.

We carried on through the gorge, frog leaping with two Northerners as we both stopped to take pictures along the way. They’d been going 10 days longer than us on the same route, and assumed, presumably from our professional looking outfits, that we were completing the course in the minimum recommended time of 10 days.

A nice zoomy descent lead us away from the gorge, before rejoining it further upstream. We upset a speedometer as the road swung through Jabron, flashing ☹️38☹️37☹️36 at us. The scale of the geology was even more striking up close. As our path followed the river, great folds in the cliffs made the road look tiny.

Our destination of Castellane refused to arrive, the absence of a lunch stop possibly to blame. When it did, we settled into a nice hotel just off the market square. I parked myself in front of a pétanque match and set about the task of consigning our day to internet history.

Stages ½ 27, 28: Guiding Star

Parenthèse turned out to be the maison d’hôtes that kept on giving, providing an exquisite petit dejuner. One of many homemade components was a quite delicious yoghurt which I enjoyed with local lavender honey.

It clearly did the job, setting us off on our fastest 40km of the trip so far. We finished our half completed stage at Forcalquier market, where I almost loaded up my half empty panniers to the brim, narrowly resisting the urge to purchase a bedroom rug and ornamental mirror.

Yet more endless lavender fields made us want to return for the pre-harvest spectacle. The constant tease of what had just passed was impossible to avoid, printed on tourist leaflets and postcards throughout Provence.

“Corkscrew like” as a description of upcoming road makes me automatically nervous. I was surprised to arrive in Moustiers-ste-Marie with any brake pads left.

Set on a cliff edge, our last town of the day was plus beaux indeed. Originally a community of cave dwelling monks, it is now a thriving tourist town. The cutest part, for me, being a gold star strung between the clifftops overlooking the winding village streets below. We scrambled up to the old chapel, stopping constantly to take more pictures and the setting sun kept improving the colour of the patchwork rooftops.

It was a treacherous walk back down the uneven stone path, polished by years of congregation and day-tripper foot traffic.

Stages 25, 26, ½ 27: Evading Ventoux

A day of great variety. We began in Chateauneuf vineyards, ended surrounded by freshly harvested lavender fields, and had a good measure of Gorge de la Nesque in between. All under the gaze of Mont Ventoux from start to stop.

Having enjoyed our host Danielle’s speciality hot chocolate for breakfast (homemade in a copper pan), we took the first opportunity for Dad to enjoy a caffeine fix at Bédarrides. It was market day, and a very jolly soundtrack of French oompah music greeted us. I went shopping for sandwich supplies, excited to make use of my fishnet bungee cord. A last minute Decathlon purchase I had conceptualised using for this exact purpose. We stopped a little further again at what I would describe as a drive through bakery – every town should have one. By the time we paused to enjoy the picnic, some miles later beyond Villes-sur-Auzon, the bread was still warm and the cans of Orangina still cold.

What followed was described by our guide as “perhaps the best 30km to cycle in France”. Others had cottoned onto this, and it was nice to see such a high ratio of bicycles to cars, motorbikes and camper vans. I wouldn’t be surprised if mode average vehicle was, in fact, bicycles. There was a sense of camaraderie in the road, and for once some other women in Lycra!

The gorge was breathtaking, with many picturesque arches to enjoy for their cool air and skill of framing the landscape. It being a Sunday, there were many motorcyclists enjoying the same fun, though somewhat disturbing the peace on what is clearly a road designed for the sole enjoyment of cyclists.

About half way through the gorge, with some climbing to do, the same road a few bends further on took off like an accent aigu against our immediate path. The shadow of Ventoux, still casting a watchful eye on our progress.

By this point the title of our blog becomes redundant, as we have very much arrived in Provence. I hope you will allow artistic licence for the sake of alliteration. “Pedalling to Provence” had more of a ring than “Pedalling to the Cote d’Azure”.

In Sault, at the end of stage 26, we stopped for a lavender ice cream. It tasted like soap but given our locale, had to be done. After consideration of both our energy levels and future stages, it was decided that carrying on as far an Banon was a good idea. It seemed a reasonable sized town that was likely to be a safe bet for somewhere to sleep and eat.

By good luck, the remainder of our journey was predominantly downhill, taking us through acres of rolling lavender fields. The green-grey cropped mounds flowing in uninterrupted lines with the sinuous landscape. Their tranquility stopped abruptly by the shadowy figure of Ventoux on the horizon.

It turns out the best way to experience French hospitality is to show up unannounced in a remote town on a Sunday, ideally late afternoon. As we had no plan other than “let’s get to Banon”, we let Google maps lead us to Maison d’Hôtes Parenthèse à Banon. The lovely owners of the establishment had just said goodbye to their weekend guests, and were left visibly tired having also organised a 1000 entrant mountain bike event that day. I’m sure they had planned a night off hosting, but after seeing our Lycra and eagerness to come inside their hospitality shone through. They set us up with a lemonade on the terrace while they hastily made up a room. I’m so glad they did. It was no surprise to see displayed proudly on their reception counter a booking.com rating of 9.6.

After a short peruse of the famous Librarie le Bluet, our minds turned to dinner. With only bars open in the town, a very kind barman suggested a snack place about 1.5km down the road. We set off on foot and found it to be permanently closed, and in fact a vendre. When he saw us coming back he took it upon himself to drive us back along the route we’d walked, plus about half a kilometre more, to the snack caravan he had doubtless given us sufficient instructions to find. They produced a warming vegetarian tagine cooked dish. It took a little while, which was completely fine, but some apology fries appeared nonetheless.

Stages 23, 24: Grape Expectations

Our day began with a 10m walk from our hotel to rejoin the route in the direction of Pont D’arc. The road took us around the back of the arc, for an even better view than we’d enjoyed twelve hours previously. We were overtaken by a cycling club on the subsequent climb, which it turned out to be a brutal warm up. We made several stops on the way up to take in the ever improving vista, the opportunity to catch our breath and take on water was of course of secondary importance. The first Col of the day signed at less than 400m altitude seemed impossibly low. 4000m would have felt more accurate.

The same van passed us several times, towing behind it a canoe trailer, moving boats back upstream for more tourists to enjoy in the serpentine depths of the valley.

The whole of stage 23 was one winding road dancing along the gorge tops. Taken in isolation, both the road and the view were of astounding quality. However, I couldn’t help but be distracted by the absence of any barrier between the two. I concluded that they were best enjoyed with a dense border of trees, and from a static position, respectively. Every few hundred metres there seemed to be another opportunity for the latter.

Second stage of the day followed a comparatively less exciting view of the Rhone river. After enjoying a few km of vines, we joined the vast expanse of water, passing by a nuclear plant. Bookended by Gorges D’Ardeche and Chateuneuf du Pape, and with the lack of gear changing required it was very much endurable.

Kept adjusting my Lycra in wilful contravention of rule #7 (see The Rules). It was very much a suncream day, and a chance to extend our tans beyond fingertips and wrists. I won’t have to wear gloves soon as they are beginning to remain visible when removed.

Loveliest chambre d’hôte called Wine BnB in the centre of Chateauneuf du Pape, run by a sommelier and her two elderly cats. One with no teeth kept dribbling everywhere, but was extremely affectionate. She was adopted from the street. It was great to arrive before 1600 and make the most of her garden and sun terrace.

I was thrilled to meet Hania and Joerg, our number 1 fans of the blog and holiday friends of Dad and Sarah. We sabotaged their welcome party by arriving at our chambre d’hôte ahead of schedule, but that in no way detracted from the joviality of the occasion. They whisked us away in their camper van to enjoy an aperitif and picnic of cucumber sandwiches by the river, taking in some good vineyard scenes on the journey. Their generosity continued when they insisted on treating us to dinner, accompanied by a fabulous bottle of the town’s eponymous vin.

Special mention to the goats we met on our way through the gorge.

Stages 21, 22: A Little Lot

A soaring kite just above the pine tops came into view as we closed in on Col de Tribes, marking our highest elevation so far, and the start of a 25km descent. Blankets of trees at various stages of transformation into their autumn colours blanketed the surrounding peaks. Some more advanced than others, like polkadot orange in the vast green.

Stretched over 25km, the loss of altitude was gentle enough to restore some of my confidence with downhill lost on the previous day. Fewer than 10 cars overtook us on the whole section, and probably only twice that number passed in the opposite direction.

We stopped in Villefort for a very cheesy pizza, where our paths crossed with Dave Gibney, a fellow cyclist and an agreeable fellow. His bright yellow jersey with “St Malo to Nice” emblazoned across it caught my attention, and we exchanged stories of the route and blog URLs across the restaurant terrace. You can follow his progress and experiences of tackling the weather, without the comfort of BnBs, at davegibneystmalo2nice.wordpress.com, and sponsor his efforts for CALM.

Climbs that would have daunted us 11 days ago were taken in our stride (pedal), and soon we had regained a little of the altitude just lost. Wide vistas of the Ardeche region opened out in front of us, the familiar scent of slowly toasting pine needles filling our nostrils. Having traced it almost to its source, this is where we bad farewell to the Lot, our companion for almost 200km.

Another long decent followed, this one 16km and slightly steeper. This side of the hills the landscape changed, from green to arid.

We could feel heat radiating off the road and rocks, and for probably the first time, the wild swimming suggested at points in our guide didn’t seem like a ridiculous idea. By the way, our mid morning hot chocolate has transitioned to Orangina. 🌞

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turned onto the D252 after Les Vans which is without question my favourite road so far. If a theme park were to exist for bicycles, this would be a fun ride. Mossy, rocky outcrops above head height lined the narrow road on both sides. Small trees that looks like oak and olive let dappled sun fall on the fast, rippling tarmac wiggling through the scenery. As we turned a corner, the road took a dive and opened out onto a vine filled plateau.

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fore long, we had arrived at our hotel, a stones throw away from Pont D'Arc itself. After washing away the day, we took an evening stroll to see it lit by the setting sun, against a clear blue sky.

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Stage 20: Highs and Lows

Warned by a rather terrifying description of what lay ahead in stage 20, we planned to achieve only one stage on this day.

Stage 20 was challenging for both of us for opposite reasons.

We started strong if a little cold, as we have come to expect, but encouraged by admiring fans enjoying a coach holiday who were staying in the same hotel as us.

We followed the railway for a long time, most of which I spent mulling over a suitable description of my improving competence as a cyclist, for this platform. I needn’t have wasted the thought power.

Col de Goudard, alt. 1022m loomed ahead. We quickly established that as a rule, roads with cyclists names and motivational phrases painted across them were definitely bad news. Both the Tour de France and regional Tour de Gèvaudan take on the unrelenting slope, which presented more than enough opportunities to get off and push. Dad made the most of them, while I powered on, utilising my new found quads and making it as far as the town of Goudard without setting more than one foot on the ground at once. What I found particularly challenging was re-cleating from a hill start after resting. Little did we realise that the road soon kicked up again before we could relax with our Intermarche picnic. I decided to keep Dad company for that bit.

We soaked in the sunshine and the view at the top, my appreciation of our accomplishment somewhat dampened by a basic understanding of Newton’s third law. I was dreading the 12% decline before we’d even summited, actually. Confirmation, if it were needed, that I am not yet a cyclist. I got down eventually, part walking, crying, scooting and wearing down my breaks. All the while paralysed with fear. Seemed only fair to allow Dad to even out our average speeds.

Another gruelling up and painful down took us into Mende. We pulled in at Planèt 2 Roues bike shop who helpfully provided me with a therapy dog while pumping our tyres.

We settled into a lovely family suite at our second Hôtel de France of the day, before venturing out to enjoy the best meal of the holiday so far at La Cantine.

If ever you find yourself in Mende, this is the place to go. Run smoothly by two chefs and no FoH staff, the set menu not only caters to vegetarians, but is angled toward them. A token offering of main course beef seems to only exist to keep typically meat keen French diners interested. Turnip crumble, lentil hummus and courgette velouté were some of the highlights, all made with seasonal and local produce. Wonderful to see a passionate chef making good use of the delicious vegetables France has to offer. The whole experience was cosy and welcoming. We even overheard one of the chefs talking to another table about all the English cyclists he’s had through the door: “there is a book, they cycle from St Malo to Nice”.

Stages 18, 19: Temperature Lot-tery

Dense Fog permeated every seam and zip of our layers of Lycra as we ascended away from Figeac. A useful feature of Dad’s Garmin cycling computer is a temperature gauge, which helpfully notified us that we’d started in 4 degrees. Had we known then that the weather would reach to 29, the longest descent so far of 5km past sleepy cows, may have felt more bearable. As it happened 4 degrees would have sounded overly generous.

Turning point was our now routine mid morning hot chocolate, after which the sun came out to burn away the cold air in time for our first meeting with the Lot river. We skipped an 8km detour to Conques, on the basis that is was predominantly up and therefore better tackled by automobile.

At this stage of the route, we ran alongside the pilgrimage walk Santiago de Compostela. We’d chatted to a few along the way. Finding out that they’d also suffered poor weather reassured us that our experiences in the rain and wind had not been a personal attack, despite it feeling so at the time.

We hugged the Lot upstream through many cute towns, roofs topped with rounded slate are seemingly typical of the region. The riverside road was possibly the worst kind of ascent – it looked very much flat but didn’t feel it. End of stage 18 was Entraygues-sur-Troyère, boasting an abundance of idillic riverside picnic spots and closed boulangeries. As a result, we continued on as far as Estaing, taking a well earned rest to eat baguettes and watch some fly fishing by the ancient bridge.

For the last few hundred kilometres string of silky cobwebs have been drifting across the roads, getting caught in our bars and leaving light trails in our wake.

A final 5km ascent before a fast but enjoyable descent into St-Geniez d’Olt, had us arriving at our destination with stiff knees from lack of pedalling. Notably in single layers plus suncream. “D’Olt” is the local dialect meaning for Lot.

A local fable tells the story of a pet marmot, who lead two fisherman’s children away from the town just in time to avoid devastating floods. It is represented on the bridge.

Special mention to the first friendly cat I’ve met in days, swiftly followed by a grey kitten with a fabulous tail who made a bee line towards us for a hug and a purr.

Stages 16, 17: The Point of No Return

Red squirrels scurried across our path on the roads approaching Rocamadour. Unfortunately our first hot chocolate of the day didn’t last long enough for the visibility to improve, but Rocamadour in fog was dramatic nonetheless. After two 4km ascents to get there, we would have forced appreciation for a total white out.

We had a horribly steep descent and tight corners going into the valley, followed by 600m climb to warm us up at the other side.

The sun tried to breakthrough on several occasions, but by the end of stage at Granat it hadn’t succeeded. We were cold and slightly sad at the absence of roadside goats cheese stalls our book had promised. Granat’s Tuesday market was also absent. Inadvertently, we found the beating heart of the town in a diner off a side street. Every table was loud, and taken. It reminded me of another passage in One Man and His Bike, where Mike develops a strong aversion to ambient noise following his long hours in the saddle with a soundtrack of birdsong and gear changes.

The sun emerged after lunch, revealing pretty countryside criss crossed by quiet lanes.

Made a French cycling friend en route whose dust we were soon eating, despite him probably having 10 years on Dad, owing to our mid-ascent rests and his absence of luggage.

There is no shortage of medieval centre ville in France. Figeac is a good example. We made use of the Office de Tourisme, to help us book a hotel room in the town’s converted bath house, and provide evening entertainment in the form of a map. It suggested a walking route to fully appreciate the ancient, almost Disney like streets.

It is worth noting that on this, our ninth day of cycling, we crossed the half way point. Officially closer to Nice than Saint Malo!

Stages 13, 14, 15: Three Stages of Two Halves

We left Brantôme hesitantly on Sunday morning, taking time to enjoy the opportunity for self sufficiency that our Airbnb provided. This was in part due to the forecast for more bad weather, evidenced by pouring rain outside as we ate. When we did leave, just after 0900, mercifully the rain had stopped.

Stage 13 took us through endless wooded countryside. The landscape exuded French gastronomy, with foie gras farms and wild boar hunters at literally every end and turn. We even passed a truffle musée, more vegetarian friendly.

I was initially curious of the hunters, interested in understanding their strategy against the boar and curious to witness the sport. However, as the miles passed, and it became clear that the area of hog habitat they were covering didn’t leave much refuge for hogs, I lost interest in their culture and began to dread seeing the contradictory camouflage suits with high via vests lurking at the roadside. Their air of self importance was evident in their reluctance for drive by pleasantries.

The wet ribbon of tarmac was not just frequented by cyclists and hunters on this particular day. A vast number of slugs – some enjoying the wet weather, others’ enjoyment cut short, left white/orange smears at frequent intervals for the duration of the three stages.

Depsite the rain holding off, the cold didn’t. As we approached about half way through stage 14, Château Hôtel La Fleunie appeared, set spookily against wooded hillside in the visible cold. It proved impossible to pass given the circumstances, despite being 20 miles short of our target. Best bath Dad’s had all year.

Being in the middle of nowhere, we were left no choice but to enjoy the Château’s gastronomic restaurant. Their vegetarian offering was impressive by any standard, not just French. Too pretty to eat and too yummy to eat slowly.

The following day, we tore ourselves away from the comfort of the château to embrace an immediate climb in the cold fog.

Met an English cyclist en route who was on his second go at France en Velo. We slowed to his pace just long enough for him to reassure us that this is very much where the easy bit ends. He’d cut a few early miles off by starting only the previous day, declaring that there were only so many fields of corn one could appreciate.

At this point the landscape began to look decidedly French. Troglodyte caves and Tour de France graffiti flew past us as the day and our muscles warmed up.

Stage 15 presented a compelling challenge for favourite stage. Partly due to the good weather, which prompted the first ice creams of the trip – we must be on holiday! We changed shoes and locked up the bikes to enjoy a lunchtime stroll through the pedestrianised streets of Sarlat, taking in a truffle omelette, too.

An amazing converted railway turned cycle track took us 10km further, and away from any hint of traffic. In fact triggering the first use of my bell toward another human. Previously and since its sole purpose has been to celebrate every 10 miles banked. We emerged alongside the banks of the Dordogne, surrounded by walnut groves all the way to Souillac.