Day 15 - St Pierre sur Mer to Cerbere

I didn’t get a very good night’s sleep, probably with the thought of the very last day of the ride coming up. It was also a riny night with occasional flashes of lightning in the distance, and the rain pattering steadily on the van roof kept me awake.

I got up at 7:00 in order to get an early start. After the storm the air was fresher and there was actually blue in the sky, a change after yesterday’s incessant grey. I set off south down along the not quite awake seafront of St Pierre. Dodging the puddles, I headed through the slightly ritzier Narbonne Plage, past the miles of end of season, the dozens of almost closed campsites and fun parks. Thjere was good cycle provision here, being a tourist area, and I found that I was on VR8, that runs along the Mediterranean coast.

After 10 miles I turned off to take a route through the little island village of Gruissan. I stopped for coffee and pain aux chocolat, and hoped that this would help me to feel a bit more relaxed about the ride ahead. It should be very straightforward and flat for the first 60 miles, but after that I would have to follow some Pyrenean roads to get to Cerbere. That was some way ahead, but the concerns about it stayed with me all day long.

I picked my way through the narrow back streets and out onto the causeway crossing the salt marshes which linked Gruissan with the mainland to the west. This gave me the first sight of the Pyrenees away to the south, jagged peaks slowly lowering themselves as they dipped into the Mediterranean at my destination. At the end of the causeway the road crossed the Canal du Pas des Tours, which in former times linked the city of Narbonne with the sea. The canal runs through the middle of a sandbar known as the Ile de Saint Lucie, and is a nature reserve. Along the side of the canal runs VR8, mostly a reasonably good gravel track, but some stretches with lumps of concrete that make for bumpy riding. This made for a simple 5 or 6 miles of cycling, but called for constant vigilance to avoid holes and bumps. I was glad of my puncture-resistant Continental Gatorskin tyres, and I got to the end of the track at the harbour town of Port la Nouvelle without incident.

This was a strange place. Obviously a historic port and with small, single story quaint cottages, but over these loomed flyovers bringing articulated lorries into the port, and behind the cottages was a high-speed electric railway line. From there I followed the D709, which was a newly resurfaced flat road heading across the marshes, and kept up a good speed until I turned off to follow a much bumpier backroad which wound its way through vineyards until it turned me out onto the extremely busy D627. Because the stretch of the coast is essentially a long sandbar with lagoons behind, there was no option other than to peddle doggedly along the marked cycle space on the side of the road. Although of a generous width, this did not protect much against the blast from passing lorries and the constant noise. After several miles of that I turned off and took the road through the village of Leucate, which offered some 10 or 15 minutes of relief. I then had to rejoin the main road, but after a mile or so noticed that this new road lay alongside the unused old road, so I jumped off the bike, lifted it over the crash barriers, negotiated a ditch and cycled the next 3 or 4 miles along my own private road. Eventually that wound out as it faded back into the new road, but I then saw that a cycle path had appeared on the opposite side of the main road, so I jumped over the crash barriers again, waited for a gap in both lines of traffic and ran across to the cycle path.

I was now approaching a long line of holiday resorts which would stretch all the way to the Spanish coast. The cycle path I was now on took me into Port Leucate, and I could then follow the seafront road through the endless line of closed pizza restaurants, bars and frite sellers, and the occasional pensioner enjoying the post-summer peace and quiet. Eventually I found a path which led to the beach, and I sat on a rock overlooking the completely empty beach to eat my lunch.

Back on the bike and continuing to head south, I spent the next few hours alternately cycling along the very busy D81 and D914, or, when I could find the signs to it, the much pleasanter VR8 cycle path. The signs to these were rather small and access to the paths was often not clear, so I would be following the road signs to the next town and would end up on the cycle lane on the main road. After one particularly noisy and unpleasant stretch coming into Canet Plage I pulled off to see if I could find the cycle path, and was greeted by a large local chap on a bicycle asking if I had a problem. I explained that I was trying to get to St Cyprien, and recognising that I was English he exclaimed, “Ah. Long live the King!” I was continually surprised at how much French people seem to have taken in about the transition in our monarchy. Anyway, he said to follow him so we cycled back through some complicated unfinished roadworks and he showed me the road to Sainte Marie, from where I had just come. Suddenly, he realised that he was pointing me in completely the wrong direction, and leaned towards me to apologise profusely, at which point I could smell the beer on his breath and realise that he was not necessarily the most reliable informant. However, he then explained how to go back the way we had come and to go around various roundabouts and go down various roads in industrial estates and there I would find the cycle path. As I pedalled away he continued to apologise profusely about having taken me out of my way.

The directions worked, and I was soon speeding on to St Cyprien along an excellent cycle path beside the busy main road, and then on further south to Argeles Plage. By now I had done about 60 miles, and I felt that I was going very well, but the most complicated parts of the ride were still ahead. I could see from the map that I needed to take the D914 which bypassed Collioure and carried onto my final destination, but when I climbed the hill to join this road I found that it was prohibited to bicycles, so I had to instead follow the winding and rather bumpy corniche road into Collioure. Before descending into the village I took a turning signposted to the next town of Port Vendres which meant more climbing back up to the D914. But again I found that this stretch of the road was still prohibited, so I cruised down the hill into Collioure harbour and took the corniche road around to Port Vendres, then began the long climb up the hill to the main road, hoping that by now it was open to mere bicycles. Fortunately it was.

Now, after 60 miles of barely ascending a few feet, I was on a road that went up and down constantly, as it picked its way through the rocks and valleys of the coastal Pyrenees. A series of hairpin bends took me down into Banyuls sur Mer, and there was then a long, hot climb out the village before I started the somewhat more gentle descent into my final destination, Cerbere. This is the last village in France before the Spanish border, and I had decided that this would mark the end of my cross France adventure. I stopped at the town boundary to take a photograph of the name, and sent messages back to my various followers to show them that I had made it.

As I turned the final bend and started the descent into the harbour, a strong feeling of emotion came over me at having crossed the entire country and the adventure was now coming to an end. I met Helen in the harbour car park, and we cross the road to sit at a café where I drank a large cold beer, probably the best beer I had ever had. 84 miles in the day.

I loaded the bike onto the back of the van and we drove back to the campsite, where I collapsed in a camping chair, ate nuts and emptied another bottle of beer. 930 miles across France with only one small mechanical incident and no punctures. I lent the bike against a tree and as the sky and sea turned pink in the sunset I gathered together all of my various bits and pieces to pack them in the van. I took a last look at the bike and found that the front tyre was soft. Somewhere in the last few miles of my journey I had had a puncture. But now, I did not care.

 

 This ride is to raise money for the work of World Bicycle Relief. Please make a donation now!

 

Day 14 – La Salvetat to to St Pierre sur Mer

I enjoyed a good 10 hours sleep last night, as I think that the tiredness of the last 18 or 20 days and over 700 miles of cycling is catching up on me now. I got through my morning routine of getting myself dressed and the bike ready, and had a definite sense of ‘not another day’, and of the increasingly routine nature of it. I guess that this is because of the sense of the end approaching?

It was a cool, cloudy morning and I anticipated a hard start to the day as I had to climb up into the mountains and then start the final descent to the Mediterranean. The first 2 miles were at between 5 and 8% as far as the Col de la Baraque at 964 m, and then it was a gentle ride across the mountains to the next peak, the Col du Carabetou. The views from here were absolutely stunning. I was on a rocky hilltop, and below me and in the distance all I could see was forest. I stopped to take a photograph and then joined the road and saw a sign warning vehicles of a 10 km descent of 6%, which I thought somewhat surprising but let myself go. All of a sudden the road dropped away, and for the next short eternity I was hurtling down a major road at high speed, worrying about my rim brakes fading as I tried to keep my speed under control. Part of the way down I saw some other cyclists coming up and tried to nod some acknowledgement while at the same time keeping the bike in a straight line. I am not sure how long I was dropping into the abyss, but it was probably about 15 minutes of totally being in the moment.

Then suddenly, I was in St Pons de Thonnieres, a somewhat grim and run-down large town dominated by heavy traffic rumbling through from Castres to Beziers. I stopped to regain my breath and look for pains aux chocolat and a coffee. I eventually found the former in an ‘artisanal boulangerie’ - everything is artisanal these days it seems. I propped my bike up outside next to a group of teenage boys hanging around outside their lycée and scored the bread, came outside and one of the boys asked me if I was on a cycle tour. I explained what I was doing and we had a nice conversation in French about crossing the country. When he asked me something I could not understand, one of his friends pulled out his mobile phone and did a Google translation to get it into English, which we all found rather funny.

I cycled out of St Pons on the D907, and of course, because it is a valley town, I soon found myself on the long climb out. This ascent was about 4½ miles, not too steep, and probably averaging about 5%, and with it being a cloudy day it was not too hot. As I climbed I came into a very different landscape again, scrubby trees, yellowing leaves showing that autumn was coming. By the time I reached the Col de St Colombe at 634 m the landscape was arid and rocky, empty like nothing I had seen before. Then the descent to the coast began, winding down through rocky valleys and wilderness. I swooped through the hamlet of La Garrigue and pulled up at a viewpoint to take in the whole of the Narbonne coastal plain: I could see for miles and miles and miles. Then I was suddenly aware that the land around me was changing: no longer was it arid and rocky, now I was into vineyards, this was the land of Minervois wine.

The descent ended with a short climb into the town of Aigues-Vives, and suddenly the magical emptiness and beauty of the forest and mountains ended. This was lowland, commercial France, and I suddenly had to contend with traffic again. I took a long straight road south which brought me into St Marcel , and I then took a left turning and followed a road which arced to the east and south, weaving its way through mile upon mile of vineyard. And suddenly I was dealing with a fresh easterly headwind. Bizarrely, while in the mountains the air was still, but now on the coast my old nemesis was back.

Eventually, I found myself in the seaside town of St Pierre sur Mer, where Helen had settled the campervan into an aire close to the beach. As I approached the town I crested a small hill and suddenly there was the Mediterranean. In my planning, I would arrive on a warm, sunny late afternoon and the sea would be blue and sparkling: today there was thick grey cloud, and the sea was grey and not particularly sparkling. But I had crossed from sea to shining sea. I had done 58 miles today and climbed 8000 feet. My total was now up to 846 miles, and I had just one more day to do to get to the Spanish border.

 This ride is to raise money for the work of World Bicycle Relief. Please make a donation now!

Day 13 – Broquies to La Salvetat sur Agout

My third Sunday on the road, and I now expected that it would be a very quiet day with few people out and about. The village boulangerie opened at 9:30, so Helen and I walked up and I bought my croissant and pain au chocolat to be eaten with any coffee I might find on the way, although I was not optimistic.

For some reason I felt somewhat more anxious than normal as I set off in the cool morning air to drop down into the misty valley. Suddenly, as I picked up speed on the descent the bike started to shimmy, a weird cycling phenomenon where the bicycle and rider hit a resonant frequency and the handlebars start to vibrate quite violently. It is a scary thing to happen, but once you know what is happening you can ease it by standing on the pedals. I pulled to a halt, checked everything on the bicycle, making sure that the wheels were not out of alignment, that all was well and I set off again. The shimmy started again. So I went down the hillside very slowly, feeling relieved when I got to the bottom and puzzled as to why it had happened this morning and not on any previous descents. All I could think was that I was shivering slightly in the cold air, and that this contributed to the resonance.

Back through the tunnel, this time with my front lights on, across the bridge and then started a gentle climb up a river valley on the D902. It was a lovely, calm morning and it was slowly getting warmer, when suddenly the second problem of the day came. I stopped to pick up a car tyre lying in the middle-of-the-road, and when I started again my chain jammed and and, to my horror, a link broke. I pulled off to the side of the road to see what was going on, but knew that I had everything I needed to fix the problem, always carrying a spare chain. Within a few moments a car pulled up beside me and a young chap jumped out, asking if he could help in any way. Fortunately he spoke very good English and seemed to understand about bicycle chains, so we discussed how I would repair it, and he went on his way. I took the broken chain off and put the replacement on, and all seemed well. I pedalled on for perhaps half a mile and then as the road levelled out try to shift into a higher range on the chainring, but it would not shift. I stopped to have a look, and realised that the whole front shift mechanism had slid down the tube by 2 or 3 mm. This must have been connected with the chain jamming, but how it had happened I had no idea. At first I wondered if I needed to abandon and call Helen, but realise that I could try to loosen the shift mechanism and move it up the tube. So I did that, tested it out and realised that everything was working okay, if not as smoothly as before.

So I packed up all of my tools, trying to clean off my now very greasy hands as much as possible, and set off again, feeling somewhat anxious about the reliability of the chain and the shifter.

It was now getting hot, and would eventually reach about 30°. At the top of the valley I pulled off into an aire to think about what had happened and to think about the day ahead. The countryside ahead now looked very different. I was going into the Grands Causses and the Mountains of Lacaune which would, at about 1100 m, be the highest point of the ride. I could see that the hilltops were now arid and bare, and pointed in places, not covered in lush forest. Still feeling a little anxious about the reliability of my chain and shifter, I set off towards the mountains.

For several miles the road dropped gently, then there was a long, fast, steep descent into Belmont sur Rance, an old town with narrow streets. As it was about midday the cafés were open and people sat on the streets drinking their cold beers. I noticed one group looking at me as I waited at a traffic light, and in my paranoia was convinced that they were laughing at me and what I was about to try to do. This would be the longest climb of the whole enterprise. It varied between 5 and 8%, but with a few short, slightly steeper sections and wound up and up and up for about 8 miles. Slowly I moved out of the forest and into dry, rock lined valleys, concentrating on just keeping the pedals turning, and every now and then trying to cheer myself up by thinking that the views were stupendous. After nearly 2 hours I was at the (almost) top, stopped to congratulate myself, pedalled on for a half-mile or so and then found a final stretch of hairpin bends to climb up so that I could then look down on the town of Lacaune, in the valley miles below. I would have to drop down into this and then climb out the other side. Such is cycling in the mountains.

The descent into Lacaune was relatively shallow, but I felt that every foot of descending meant more climbing to come. It was now mid-afternoon and everything was shut. I had hoped to find a café where I could have a cold drink to prepare myself for the final climb, but ended up taking sanctuary in the shady arch of a local church, where I sat and ate some fruitcake and enjoyed my final apple.

The climb out of Lacaune seemed to average about 8% and went on for something over 2 miles, but then I reached the Col de Piquotalen at 1004 m, and I thought that that was probably the hardest part of the day done. I could not really tell from the Michelin map exactly what lay ahead, but after the col the road turned slightly downhill and I then started on a wonderful 8 mile steady, gentle descent, moving from the dry, rocky hilltop down into forest and eventually turning me out into the resort town of La Salvetat sur Agout. Its tourist business is based around a large mountain lake, and we were camped for the night in a site overlooking the lake.

It had been the shortest day of the ride so far, at just over 47 miles, but had included over 8000 feet of ascending. I had now completed 788 miles. Tomorrow I would climb to the top of the Monts de l’Espinouse and then drop down onto the Mediterranean plain.

 

 

 This ride is to raise money for the work of World Bicycle Relief. Please make a donation now!

 

 

Day 12 – Bez to Broquies

We were staying at 900’, so it was a cool night but there was a beautiful sunny morning. I knew that this was going to be a more difficult day, so I set off earlier than usual, 9 o’clock, and for the first time wore a long-sleeved shirt under my jersey.

For the first mile I had a steady downhill, so felt quite chilly but then turned a corner and started on an 8% climb for about 1 ½ miles up to the ancient village of Peyrusse le Roc, one of those particularly French places that seems to be clinging to the edge of a hillside with steep valleys dropping away beneath. After that the landscape levelled, and I cycled for 6 or 7 miles along flat roads running through ploughed fields: the harvest was in up here.

By 10 o’clock I reached Montbazen, where I cycled around until I found a boulangerie and then settled in at the Adoise Occitaine for my morning fix of coffee and croissants. I then realised that the dual languages for all of the village name signs around here were in both French and Occitan, and the symbol of Occitan seemed to be all around.

Onwards to La Remise, then I found myself on a brand-new bypass, swinging around the town first downhill then climbing uphill until I found a roundabout where I turned to the right and then started a fast straight descent of about 400 feet down to cross a river, and then to climb up the other side. Not such a steep climb, but it was about 4 miles and I was now warm enough to take off my long-sleeved top. I was now up in beautiful wooded countryside, and I stopped in the village of Colombies for a sandwich and to lie on a bench and look at the sky through a pattern of sycamore leaves.

I felt that I was progressing quite slowly, but shortly after my lunch stop the D997 started to turn downhill, and I then found myself on a 10 mile steady, not too fast, descent, fast enough to feel the exhilaration but not the anxiety. That brought me to the old bastide town of Sauveterre de Rouergue. This had a beautiful central square lined by cool, dark arches, and I found a shady spot to sit and enjoy the silence, being completely alone in the heart of the village.

This was still a landscape of causses, or plateaus, and after leaving Sauveterre I suddenly found myself on a steep descent for what seemed like miles, dropping into a gorge, until I came to the familiar small bridge, the right-hand turn and the start of a climb up the other side. On descents like this as a cyclist you become fully alive and in the moment, alert for any holes or obstacles that could be disastrous, your heart jumps when a vehicle comes in the other direction as you have to focus on finding the space between the vehicle and the edge of the road, the wind rushes past your ears, your eyes water, insects slap into your face. And then, in moments, it is over. You drop into bottom gear and everything goes very quiet, just the sound of the trees, of tyres crunching through gravel or hissing on the tarmac, of the creaking of my shoes in the cleats, and all that occupies your mind is the need to keep the pedals turning, looking up occasionally at the road ahead and hoping that the next 200 yard stretch of uphill leads to the crest of the hill, wondering what the curves in the skyline mean, being totally in your own head but in a completely different way to the descent. In France such climbs can go on for many miles, and perhaps take a slow climber such as me an hour. Hard, exhausting, but a major, and for me, very important, experience.

At the top of this climb I pulled over in a small hamlet and found a bench in the shade to rest. An old chap came out of his house on the other side and greeted me, asked me where I was going and reassured me that the road to my next destination, Requista, was ‘plat’, but the tilt of his hand indicated that it might be a little uphill as well. However, reassured, I set off and found myself speeding along a reasonably flat road with a welcome tailwind.

When I arrived in Requista I found that the entire town centre was closed to traffic, and that the streets had been taken over by street vendors, most of who were selling second-hand goods, and that all of the café’s and restaurants were open and doing good trade in the late afternoon sunshine. I thought that it was about the most people I had seen in one place at the same time since I left Pointe St Mathieu what seemed like months ago.

A brief exchange of messages with Helen and I knew where she was, at an aire in Broquies about 8 miles away. To get there I had to drop down to the valley of the river Tarn, and I found that this was the D902, a major road but which dropped at about 8% for several miles. My descent was complicated by having to follow a car whose driver was even more anxious than me, so that I had to keep applying the brakes to avoid going at more than 35 miles an hour. Several times other vehicles descending roared past the pair of us, making it a somewhat terrifying experience and I was glad when I reached the bridge at the bottom. I turned off the main road and followed a small road along the banks of the river for some miles until I came to the turn for Broquies, which took me over a narrow bridge and then immediately into a single lane tunnel through a cliff face. As I went into the tunnel I suddenly realised that it was not illuminated except for small lights showing the tunnel walls, and I had no front light. Although there was a traffic light system controlling movement through the tunnel, I was worried that my slow speed would mean that an oncoming vehicle might not expect to find me coming towards them. It took me what seemed like an eternity to get to the light at the end of the tunnel.

After that I took a left turn and climbed slowly up to the village where Helen was parked for the night. It had been quite a day of, literally, ups and downs. I had covered 70 miles and completed 11,000 feet of ascending. My new total miles completed was 741, and slowly the end was coming into sight.

 

 This ride is to raise money for the work of World Bicycle Relief. Please make a donation now!

 

 

Day 11 - Martel to Bez

The Queen died yesterday. All of my life has been as a ‘new Elizabethan’, so it is something of a shock to find that she is no longer here. We will have to get used to King Charles III.

This happened while I was taking two rest days, staying with our friends Mark and Harri in their beautiful straw bale house built on a hillside overlooking the upper reaches of the River Dordogne. We had a very restful time, a chance to catch up with life, to talk to our friends about their own lives here in France and to enjoy several delicious meals and to sleep in a proper bed.

But the road beckoned. Getting organised to get back on the saddle after a few days away took a little more time than normal, and I did not set off until about 10 o’clock. Immediately after leaving their house I had to negotiate a long downhill hairpin bend sequence which took me down to the valley floor, and I then picked up the D30 which winds along the banks of the river, passing through the ancient village of Carennac, one of those particularly French communities of houses perched on corners, growing into each other, and attracting large numbers of tourists. A union flag flew from one window, a gesture I guess of sympathy for the passing of the Queen.

There was then a good flat road all the way to St Cere, where I found a café/boulangerie where I could eat two pains aux chocolat while contemplating the rest of the day, which I thought was going to bring the most serious climbing of the ride yet.

Once I was back on the road, my expectations were confirmed. Just out of the town, the D48 started a long uphill climb, winding on upwards at about 8% for over 4 miles. Slowly the wide river valley started to spread out beneath me, and eventually I was on the hilltops pedalling along fairly flat land with magnificent views. I was pleased to pass a sign saying Col de Paudit 610m: almost Tour de France! Then the road dropped down a steady descent to Leyme before climbing again up through the woods to bring me out on a hilltop with an old lime kiln by the side of the road just before the village of Espeyroux where I stopped for my sandwich.

After that I took a left turn along back roads crossing a number of small streams and then rejoin the main road and climbs gently for several miles until I stopped at the village of La Vitarelle. I found some shade by the side of the Mairie building where I stopped for a snack, and was joined by a very curious magpie who hopped around me, pecked at my glasses case and the rubber and my pencil and even tried to eat some of the scabs on the scratches on my leg!

I reflected that during the last few miles I had seen a number of ‘methanisation’ factories, large grey domes sitting alongside large stalls collecting farmyard manure. Clearly they were using the manure to manufacture methane gas, and this had attracted the attention of local environmentalists, who in adjoining fields beside the road had erected large placards explaining why they thought this was a bad idea, making money for a few people, bad for the environment, noisy, smelly, increasing heavy vehicle traffic, and so on. I guess that this is one of the implications of large-scale, industrial farming, but I felt I needed to know more about the whole system before knowing whether it was a good or bad thing. I felt that the environmentalists definitely had a good point though.

From La Vitarelle the D86 meandered south for some miles following a ridge giving me a good view over the surrounding countryside, but then suddenly it dropped rapidly over two or 3 miles down to a river, winding, hairpin bends, forest sections, single track road, definitely what would be called technical. Fortunately I did not see any cars coming in the other direction. This brought me out onto the N22, a major road. My planned route took me across the road, but I spent a little time reflecting on the physical geography of the area. I was in an area of causses, or plateaus, with the plateaus separated by deep-sided, wooded valleys carrying rivers heading south-west towards the Atlantic. My route south meant that I would be constantly crossing these, so would be experiencing a long sequence of fast descents and long, hard ascents on the other side. It was now after 3 o’clock, and I decided that the best thing to do would be to turn right on the main road and cycle south-west down to Figeac, and follow another main road out of town to the Capdenac to the south, working on the logic that main roads have gentler gradients. It worked, and while I had to stick to the edge lines on a main road for a mile or so, I’ve soon crossed the col and am swooping down to Capdenac on a quality road for an invigorating entry to the town.

Then it’s about finding the way out. I head south and take what looks on the map to be a handy road following a river valley towards Naussac. However, the Michelin and IGN maps on my GPS do not tally and I waste a half hour wandering around trying to find the right back road. Eventually I get on it and pedal on up a narrow valley following the river and a railway line which wanders overhead on viaducts a couple of times. Finally I turn out on to the D40 and head along that until I see the signs for Bez, and a final climb of the day gets me up to the tiny village where I find Helen parked up in a walnut farm. A very tranquil place to end the day, after 64 miles and 12,000’ of ascending. 671 miles now done.

 

 This ride is to raise money for the work of World Bicycle Relief. Please make a donation now!