25 August 2014
Le Mont Ventoux and the bikes came too.! “Next to cornwall this must be God’s country”
Another two weeks in France.
In 2012, trois fous (Myself, Grant and Kirsten) undertook a Calais to Montpellier cycle ride over ‘16 Sundays’. That endeavour followed the Seine and Rhône valleys, passing through some of the best wine regions in the country, using kilometre after kilometre of cycle paths. This time there are four of us going to Provence. Myself and Ann, and again my brother Grant, and his wife Kirsten.
One of the aims of the holiday was to climb, on a bicycle, Mont Ventoux, one of the iconic stages on the Tour de France and which saw, in 2013, Chris Froome, the eventual Tour winner that year, establish his dominance of the race.
1
25 August 2014
Mont Ventoux is also known as the ‘Le Géant de Provence’ as it dominates the surrounding countryside. It is variously 1912 metres high or as the kilometre stone says at the top, 1911 metres high. And there you have France in a nutshell. ‘What’s in a metre’? the gallic shrug would say, “we ‘ave sunshine and wine...”. I cannot imagine the uptight Brits, sticklers for rules and exactitude, putting up with such discrepancies. We of course fell into the trap of querying why there was this difference and were met with various shades of “I dunno...I don’t care...its a mountain”. I’d bet that only the English go around asking why this difference, the rest just get on with cycling up the bloody thing.
On the summit is a weather station - a white tower visible for miles - and is of bare limestone, almost always described as a moonscape and often mistaken for snow. The road going up from Bédoin has an average grade of 7%.
That figure might be meaningless to those whose bottoms are made soft and very round by sitting on them in motorcars. Just take it from me that this is steep…and is so with unrelenting ferocity for 14 miles to the top. Just go and ask a cyclist. We just do not have this sort of terrain in the UK.
Grant did it in 2013 and is back for another go. This is my first attempt. Kirsten and Ann play the thankless task...well not thankless because we thanked them...of support car. They also came to explore Provence when we were not out on the bikes.
Next to Cornwall, Provence must be 'gods own country’, although I expect a Yorkshireman to disagree, especially after the 2014 Tour de France’s Grand Départ from Leeds. Because on the first day 2
25 August 2014
God created heaven and then Cornwall, Provence and the rest of cycle friendly France. Lewisham was an afterthought. She saw it was good, thought about it and on the second day she made a wheel.
The rest we know.
On the third day she saw some shepherds*
...and then thought the better of it and invented vines, olives, garlic and fruit. The fourth to sixth day was a blur due to over enthusiasm with her new science of viticulture and it's mandatory degustations. The seventh day was a required rest day due to a god almighty hangover.
God is a cyclist.
Fact.
For she so loved the world that she gave her only begotten son to plan cycle paths and a countryside to match the splendours of heaven. Evidence of divine intervention in this regard abound everywhere and only become obvious to those who abandon motorised transport and bestride the humble vÊlo. Motorists enter their own personal hell through necessity and bloody mindedness in a state of delusion that there is no alternative. I'm inclined to accept that for the school run, which should be banned and infringements punished by penis clamping (men) or a bag and shoe embargo (women), there may be some justification for leaving the bike at home. For everything else, except of course getting your bike to Provence, then free your soul, let the wind rue your hair, feel the burn in your quads and peddle. Just. Crank. It.
3
25 August 2014
As a big thank you to god for inventing the bike and wine, France became a catholic country and built cathedrals, churches and brothels, and also put up crucifixes outside every little village to remind the peasantry who was boss, and that the only way to heaven was through imbibulation, peddling and sleep.
In that order.
The Eiffel Tower is actually made of old steel bike frames collected from every commune, departément and region in France, such is the French devotion to cycling and 'recycling'. The word 'baguette' actually means 'crossbar', and if you measure the length of a baguette you will find it the same as the crossbars on early 19th century velocipedes. This came about because peasants used to buy their bread and tie it to the crossbar before riding home to breakfast. The Popes at one point, recognising the importance of the vélo and seeking to invoke god's pleasure, came to France and built a bike factory in Avignon, which you can still see. But after a mad shepherd convinced them that they should forget cycling and instead that they should build a bridge, they fell out of favour with god who banished them back to Rome. Unfortunately, the knowledge to build bikes was lost until a few centuries later when god visited Mr Raleigh in Nottingham. She meant to visit Monsieur Relais in Nimes but had been at the Beaujolais again.
! This is not an hommage to cycling, except in an indirect way. This is merely a few 'home thoughts from abroad' made largely possible by cycling through some of the most glorious country in the world. One car, two weeks, three bikes, four people and more wine than Bacchus dared to dream of, makes for an 4
25 August 2014
excellent way to use what is left of our fixed time as mortals before we are called in the future to say, for one last time, "chapeau".
And so it came to pass that via Le Shuttle, a fair wind and a star to guide us by, we arrived in Fleurie to spend the first night at a rather charming old chateau. France is a big country, think how far Bodmin is from Camborne, tiz bleddy further than that, and then you get some idea. Thus a stop over is required to prevent death on the autoroute from lack of sleep, pastis and encouragement.
What follows are musings on cycling in Provence, an attempt to ascend the legend that is Mont Ventoux and a celebration of the vagaries, joys and sheer cussedness in the face of globalisation that is La Belle France.
! *How God could see shepherds before creating them does not matter. Time and space are interchangeable, so anything goes. Just ask God's advisors: Einstein, Hawking and James T Kirk.!
! ! ! ! ! ! 5
25 August 2014
On our way down to Fleurie - Château de La Chapelle des Bois, Fleurie. This was our overnight stop as we drove down towards Provence. We awoke to a breakfast of coffee, but no eggs, croissants and crusty bread served with a preserve of apricot and a preserve of plum. This was definitely not 'jam', as this was served in small white dishes. Jam comes in jars, hence the commonly heard phrase 'jam jar'. The butter also was presented, not placed, on the table in its dish with its own little silver salver type lid, which requires extended pinky like dexterity to remove. The breakfast room was in accord with the decor of the Château....grand paintings, chandelier lighting, and the wedding photographs of Monsieur et Madame. It looks like the Château de la Chapelle des Bois is also their family home. The verdict is that this a is 5 star rating and a real 'find', a bonus is that there were no TV in the rooms.
The village of Fleurie is 4 kms from the D road which itself is off the main A6 - the autoroute to the south. Therefore unless you know it is there, it would be completely missed. Thus, there are no kiss me quick hats, sticks of rock or fat sun burned bastards from Birmingham. Although the diary says it is Saturday, I cannot help but recall that every day feels like Sunday in rural France.
Grant was hauled into a wine shop by his conscience and was only able to escape by the judicious exchange of cash for three bottles. This proves how the unconscious mind drives behaviours bypassing rationality and cold calculation. There was just no way Grant would have been able to resist.
6
25 August 2014
Fleurie is charm itself enclosed with more domains than I could count, and the wine is superb. A taste of things to come methinks.
On route to Provence With the bikes safely back on the car, we set o southwards through the little town of Belleville, passing the bike shop, where in 2012, a repair was required following a snapped spoke. Back on the A6 and going to Provence via Grenoble in the Alps, we are greeted by a little bit of English weather, a rain shower. Mind you, it is 20 degrees outside still. I guess weather is no respecter of our status as Brits abroad, if it sh*ts on your head in Blackpool, it may p*ss on you in Burgundy.
Toll booths on A roads are a real joy. Queuing up to pay enhances that holiday feeling; the anticipation followed by the ennui of actual monetary exchange results in soul enhancing experiences which are only topped by colonic irrigations administered by grudge fuelled and ham fisted dockers. We are missing a trick in the UK. Not enough of us are miserable weather beaten and drenched. So, to dampen the perennial optimism of your average motorway driver in England, put in a toll booth every 50 miles staed by minimum waged rural Frenchmen who have form in this regard. That way our journeys would be 'enhanced' by giving money to poor french people sitting in un air conditioned toll booths. This feeds both our visceral disdain for poor people and immigrants. 'Britain First' would lap it up, except they would complain of 'our jobs' being taken by the 'Bloody French'. They would complain even if 'our jobs' involved cleaning the congealed excremental fat from u bends with our tongues.
7
25 August 2014
As if in direct response to this miserabilis, the sun has come out as we queue at a 'pĂŠage' (toll booth) at Lyon.
By lunchtime we reach the Alps, driving through Grenoble and on alpine twisters and tunnels with the high mountains scraping the cloud laden skies to the east. We stopped at a small roadside layby to replenish. Bloody tourists are everywhere. Mostly French, a smattering of Belgians, no Italians or Rwandans for that matter, a couple from the welsh part of Wales and some Germans who no doubt were on a scouting mission to buy up what is left of France. The layby has a snack van or the restaurant to choose from. Needless to say the snack van's menu has been overlooked by Tripadvisor, whose only review might say 'no'. The French reputation for haute cuisine does not extend to mobile snack vans staed by a 'cook' who looks like his qualifications are in car maintenance rather than catering, if the stains on his apron are anything to go by. We forego wine at lunchtime, we don't want to overdo it, just yet.
Back on the road, the bloody tourists are clogging up the passage south. Cars full of fat dads, insane mums, baggage, bikes and, no doubt, sniveling bored kids all of which form a caravanserai twisting its way slowly through the valley on towards their own personal hell/ holiday. The lower orders en masse are a sight to strike fear and loathing into the heart of every high born Englishman on a Grand Tour. It has been said that your continental type is a snappy dresser. Not on holiday he isn't. His wife has abandoned all semblance of discernment, taste, judgement and, no doubt, chastity. Haute couture, as has the haute cuisine in the snack van, has beaten a retreat. However we must be thankful for small mercies, we have our own superiority to comfort us.
8
25 August 2014
We chase down the tree sloped valley floor, sharing it with a railway line that crosses our path on bridge and level crossings, with 100 miles to go. The odd Cornish type shower dampens the road but not our spirits.
On passing a sign saying 'Bison Fute - Samedi Noir' we soon discover what that means experientially rather having to translate. A 'Bison Fute' is a wise driver who finds a way to avoid a traffic jam - or bouchon. Samedi Noir is 'Black Saturday', the first day of the Grand Départ, the first day of the French holidays when everyone packs their bags, bikes and bored kids, stuffs them into a hot people carrier and then heads, generally, south. The 'wise driver' knows how to avoid getting caught up in all of this. The first day, black Saturday, is 1st August.
Today.
We are not 'bisons futes'. The bloody tourists are all on the Grand Départ, going south. Bastards. Tiz like the old A30 crossing Goss Moor near Bodmin in the old days before the bypass. I consider it a fact that the French can't be arsed to build bypasses, and so we drive, crawl, stand, wait, cry, drift, crowd, sardine like through the valley.
Slowly.
The wise driver would have flown to Avignon and then hired a car.
Grant is driven to muse on traffic flow as if it were data packets on the internet, while also being tempted to turn around and join another bouchon elsewhere. Grants' cunning plan was put into action, and so turn around we did.
9
25 August 2014
There are positives in being stationary in a traffic jam. You are generally safe from suicide bombers, you are not on fire, and it doesn't itch like herpes. So far so good. However, no beer is being drunk, scantily clad dancing girls are absent and death by a thousand cuts appears as an attractive option. No matter. We have joined the Grand Départ on black Saturday, hoping it will not turn into suicidal Sunday.
On a positive note, this turn around to an east west road to our destination in the village of Caromb finds us traffic free through another wide valley, leaving the south bound lemmings to their fate. Beer beckons.
On arrival in at our accommodation in Caromb, we find there is chilled Rosé in the fridge; ready for our sacramental celebrations. The view on the terrace across to Ventoux is just breathtaking.
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 10
25 August 2014
Le Vieil Hôpital Our home for the next two weeks is a three/four story 'house' in the medieval village of Caromb which used to be the old hospital. The clue is that it is called Le Vieill Hôpital. It sits snugly with its companions and has, opposite, houses that are nearly just as high. The street running outside the main door is not wide enough for cars, save for the old fiat 500. Thus only cats, pigeons and playing children will be found there. The road itself is suitably rutted and potholed, the drain covers are a metal menace to unwary walkers and cyclists due to decades of rain soaked and foot fall wear and tear. One pothole is so deep I swear I could see a Cornish miner working down below. I think I shall call this one 'Dolcoath' (one for the local cornish history buffs), the rest of you can just scratch your head and take it from me that it is a decent rutted pothole.
The front double doors are of ancient wood, the type you would expect to see confronting lost travellers in a horror film who stumble cross what they think are doors to an ancient sanctuary in Transylvania. There should be an old knotted rope attached to a bell to be tentatively pulled to summons the door keeper. There isn't. Just a modern button. The door opens into a dark small garden courtyard which is dwarfed on all three sides by the house rising above you where patch of blue grey sky peeps down.
Our hosts are Ian and Axell, writers and musicians and so are suitably bohemian and bare footed. Jeanette, their bilingual daughter, dances around shyly at first and then exuberantly. Ian was born in India and brought up in London, Axell is French, originally from Paris. Until about two years ago they were living in 11
25 August 2014
India. Le Vieil Hôpital is now their art and their home, and is a venue for exhibitions and music nights.
They turn out to be wonderful hosts. Art and Music are part of the fabric of the place, it exudes serenity and peace. If you cannot be creative here, then you are dead from the head up.
They moved here two years ago, to live in the house and rent out two parts of it. The stairway runs around the inside of the walls and up three flights, there is a a rope and pulley system attached to the ceiling and dropping down through the middle of the house to the cellar below. I think it was to haul dead bodies up and down during the plague. Either that or crates of wine. The decor is terracotta, cream, white, bohemian, hippy chic. Perfect. IKEA is absent.
It rained last night. Proper thunder storm heat type rain.
We wake to silence. Not cars on a motorway 10 miles away silence, not aircraft on flight paths overhead silence, not sirens in the streets silence but distant cock crowing, one cheeky sparrow chirping, silence.
It's the silence of house plants breathing, the silence of the sun rising above Mont Ventoux and the silence of a gentle but reassuring fart.
The sound of coffee gurgling breaks through while the sun peeps over the shoulder of the mountain throwing golden rays onto the roof terrace.
! ! 12
25 August 2014
Sunday Afternoon Today has been a quiet day. No exertions up mountains. Chalfonts* are silent. In fact, they are so well behaved that I've no reason to mention them.
Except I just have.
I am not given to superstition, and so I don't reach to 'touch wood', which in any case is an ambiguous phrase with a completely dierent meaning among some people I could name. You know who you are. So, leaving 'wood untouched', I can say with growing confidence that coming exertions will involve cardiovascular challenges, muscular manipulations but no rectal recriminations.
So having ticked the chalfont box positive, we enjoy our French pastoral dimanche aprĂŠs midi in a little town called Ile sur Sorgue. The linguistically adept among you will know that Ile (pronounced eeyl) translates as 'island'. So imagine my disappointment to find it bloody is not an island. Yes, it has a bit of water running around it, but come on! Where are the beaches, palm trees and; wait for it chaps, half naked dancing girls in grass skirts?
It was however market day. This means more people per square metre than Scotsmen in a bar, Frenchmen in a brothel or the Cornish in a pasty shop. Bleddy heaving it was. Kirsten bought a hat, Ann bought some tomatoes, and Grant bought the first beers. We dipped our toes in the cold waters of the river whose source lay only 4kms away in the limestone hills of Provence. I bought lavender.
! 13
25 August 2014
Following a sumptuous lunch of various salads (Squid or Nicoise) the rest of the afternoon found us at a local beauty spot known as Fontaine de Vauclause. The Provence landscape is mainly limestone hills, escarpments and cliffs rising vertically from the scrubland and the farm land around. Water is soaked up in the rock and at various places gushes out through deep caves set at the base of cliffs to become rivers. When it does, the water is so clear that the colors are lit up in aquamarine greens and sliver streaks as it glides over the river beds. It's the inspiration for the mineral water industry and makes sense, because when you see it then drinking ice cold clean clear water filtered through thousands of years worth of limestone just has to be good for you? The first entrepreneurs such as, and I'm guessing Msr Perrier, or Msr Highland Spring, would have seen this and thought "bugger me I have a multi national globalized brand on my hands here". Of such stuff are legends made of.
So, we sat at a riverside cafe in the shade and watched the clear health enhancing waters flow by...and drank beer and coke both made with water that has passed through the urinary systems of a thousand human beings before being recycled by chemically enhanced water purification processes that has as much in common with the natural water cycle as I have with a hairdresser. That's progress for you.
On the way home there was a statutory visitation of the local cave or 'caahv' as the French would say it. It is the law that vineyards and their retail outlets must be visited at least once or twice or three times per week. It might be even more times than that. The penalty for not doing so is the losing of friends, poor tasting food and the development of the personality of a mushroom. So, not wanting to break the law we duly 14
25 August 2014
exercised our duty and came away with something nice. The 'caaahv master' even insisted we try some before we bought! The bastard. However, 'England expects' and all that. Suffice to say we will be able to hold our heads up high over the white cliffs of Dover upon return having not let the side down. In case you are wondering: Beaume de Venise, 2012. Bleddy ‘ansum with or without a pasty.
I hear it also cures Chalfonts*?
! *Chalfonts St Giles.
! Today We Ride Red sky in the morning is said to require a warning by shepherds? Commentary on matters meteorological by ovine herders strikes me as them being out of their depth. This is borne out by today's experience. The weather is a bit like Cornwall when it's got its hat on and is behaving itself. Except here it is a bit warmer.
Grant calls early this morning and I creep from slumber up to the terrace as the sun sits behind Ventoux. The black shoulder of the mountain is hiding the sun as it makes its way heavenward sending shards of red into the sky. There is cloud high above the top and this is turning pink and red against the blue in the sunrise.
English shepherds by now would be wetting themselves, I suggest they nibble their local mushrooms.
! 15
25 August 2014
Preparations
This involves ensuring we are well watered and fed before the off. Breakfast of eggs, croissant, baguette, apricot conserve and coffee. The route is about 40 miles up hill and down dale. I don't look at the temperature because I don't need to be told in hard numbers what the sun on my back is telling me. Kirsten and Ann will hang around the flat and do 'stuff' and meet us for lunch.
The road out of Caromb is empty as we pace between a parade of plane trees standing either side of the road shading our way for half a kilometre. This appears to be a feature of all the towns and villages and their approach roads. We immediately pass vines and in the distance to our left Ventoux rises majesterially, its summit clear of cloud and calling, nay daring us, to sally forth and try. Not today.
We pass through the village of St Pierre de Vassols and Modène; both of which are asleep. Not even a dog barks at us. The road whispers as the bikes hum. I swear I can hear the grapes growing as the sunshine swells their beautiful little hearts.
We then head towards the town of Bédouin, this sits at the base of Ventoux, and is of course is rammed with cyclists and shoppers on market day. There are many nutters on bikes heading up the mountain, some really serious in their approach as they fly by in a blur. This is the hardest and classic start for Ventoux, marked by a yellow and white Kilometre stone - stone 0 - right beside a bike shop. it is from this stone that you can time your ascent.
Heading off in the opposite direction to the cyclists and on up to our first Col, the Col de Madeleine at 449 16
25 August 2014
meters. The surface is as smooth as melted chocolate with just the odd few patches of gravel and pine cones. The road ascends up through the Provençal countryside, kilometers are marked by small yellow and white posts familiar to anyone who has visited and driven in France. I'm expecting a long hard drag, but happily the tarmac slips beneath the wheels with 'relative' ease. It is not as hard as I thought, so perhaps the long miles in Cornwall is paying off. Mind you, I am not being lulled into thinking Ventoux will be quite so accommodating. I guess today is like playing football against a team of one legged drunkards and thinking to oneself "scoring goals is easy", and then on come Arsenal in the second half to teach you a lesson.
The descents are glorious, very few cars and only the road to think about. I did look to the side where, should you misjudge the corner, then your own personal hell would descend. If the trees don't get you, the near sheer rock strewn drop will. Falling off a bike on a Cornish road hurts, road rash is nasty, and passing drivers are wont to laugh while only just missing you as they swerve to avoid crushing your carbon frame into powder. I don't think that one 'falls off' a bike on these roads. Words like 'smash', 'crash' (proper crash that is) and 'die' come to mind. Helmets would decorate the trees and rocks for several metres, lycra would be shredded and egos more than slightly bruised. However that is as likely to happen as the Pope being caught in a Redruth brothel. I'm merely twisting the nose of fate. I do see a roadside shrine and flowers tied to a tree where a car must have 'misjudged' however.
We stop for coffee at a very pretty cafe overlooking a valley as it dropped in a horseshoe shape below us. The cicadas are singing, the flowers are in full voice and vines grace the hillsides in line upon line in serried 17
25 August 2014
ranks quietly producing this years grand cru. The vines cling to hill sides where the pines have given way or have been cleared. The soil looks dry and sandy, interspersed with small shrubs, herb like planty type things and many colourful small flowers. I should have paid attention in my botany lessons. Did I mention butterflies? Over the high cols there are swifts swooping and reeling, enjoying their own versions of a Spitfire dogfight.
We drop into Malaucène, a town which sits on the opposite side of Ventoux to BÊdoin and is another starting point for the ascent. There is a third start at a town called Sault, but is less severe in slope. There are cafes galore in the square and a cracking little bike shop selling Pinarello bikes. The place buzzes with tourists enjoying lunch and cyclists chilling out. Kirsten takes a liking to a black and pink version of a Pinarello but it is not yet christmas. Maybe Father Christmas could see to it that this Italian dream machine, the bikes used by team Sky by the way, could find its way back to a little village in Oxfordshire?
Ann and Kirsten meet us for lunch and we are served salads the size of football pitches. I foolishly order a side of frites. We stick to water, and in this heat that is a wise decision, I'm going through several 'bidons', cyclists' jargon for bottle, and I think I'm still not drinking enough. The decision is made to head back to Caromb via the Col de Madeleine again, turns out to be a good choice as for some weird reason I quite enjoy going up hill.
We arrive back at Le HĂ´pital early afternoon and the shepherds from this point ought to hang their heads in shame. I cook a rich tomato, chorizo and red wine based pasta sauce and we all chill on the terrace. 18
25 August 2014
Ventoux sits benignly watching us, no doubt saving its terrors for later.
It is pastis time, the sun being over the yardarm. However, we have been remiss and have not bought a bottle. This will not do. We are after all in France and it is mandated that we observe the time honoured tradition of afternoon pastis. Take a tall tumbler, pour a ‘quantity’ of clear golden green liquid and add ice and water to taste. Watch as the liquid turns creamy, swirl the glass, raise it to one’s nose and take in the aroma of aniseed. I find that a certain degree of sunshine enhances this process. If you like add a small bowl of preferred nibbles, for examples olives, sit back and let Madame ‘alcool’ do her tummy and brain warming fandago as slip quietly into a mild form of oblivion.
A rest day in Paradise Another rest day in paradise. Provence has 4 things particularly that I would pick out as those required for heaven. Virgins are not on the list, so there's no need to strap on a bomb vest. In no order of preference: wine, sunshine, stunning scenery and a cuisine of fine ingredients. With all of the above on hand what more could one possibly ask for? At this point I am aware, given the known level of degeneracy among certain 'acquaintances', that indeed 'more' could be asked for, but for now that little list will do.
The wine varieties are mostly a grenache/syrah mix often in an 50:50 mix but not exclusively so. The sunshine makes for full bodied Côtes du Rhone, perfect with just about anything really. The next time you are out buying wine, look out for Gigondas, Vacqueyras, Baume de Venis and of course Cotes du Ventoux. Chateauneuf du Pape is probably more 19
25 August 2014
familiar to Brits. Further south you will come across Cotes du Luberon.
After breakfast we set off for market day in Vaison La Romain. This town dates back 2000 years when the Ligurians from northern Italy built a bridge across the river. Imagine a valley narrowing towards a limestone gorge that has been cut through by the river. Just at the point when cliffs start to rise over a narrow impasse, the river slices through creating a small gorge, upon which a bridge was built. This bridge is still there, still carrying traffic but now instead of Roman legions, it carries gawping tourists like us. Vaison is divided by this river, and rises high particularly on one side of the medieval town. We walk high over the town to enjoy views across very old orange and yellow sandstone buildings with red pantile roofs, interspersed by poplars, cedars, pine and plane. The streets are donkeys' width narrow, and are home to artists and cafés, a bit like St Ives but without the gulls and the pasties.
Vaison La Romain We stumble into a photo gallery displaying a bicycle. This no ordinary bike as it has gold on its black frame and drew inspiration from the Goldeneye Bond Film. The gallery displays the work of 12 photographers who all used the bike as a starting point for their art. I guess many of the artists taking pictures of this bike must be French because there are scantily clad ladies, and unclad ladies, adorning said bike, but of course all done in the best possible taste. I had to check that the pictures were not fake, and so it took a while for me to linger, to take it all in. I think I like art. The bike, should you wish to buy it, will cost 11,000 euros. The pictures will set you back up to 2,000 euros. As I have often mused, I'm in the wrong job. Linus would like this.
20
25 August 2014
After lunch we return to Caromb via a village called SĂŠguret. This is again too picturesque for words, sitting as it does upon a high outcrop of limestone as an old fortified town, overlooking the vast plains below. I just can't begin to describe the indefinable beauty of both village and landscape, it is literally breathtaking. The outcrop is part of a limestone escarpment of hills and high jagged rocks which rises above the lowland farms and vineyards. At every twist and bend in the roads vines cling again to hillsides. I know I've told you this before, believe me though it is truly stunning. Before getting back to the car we buy a huge punnet of black grapes which are like putting the sweetness of juicy heaven in your mouth as they turn into a fine grand cru before you swallow. Then, we are forced into a 'dĂŠgustation' in a wine shop. A 2004 bottle of Domaine de Pourra Mont Bayon later, we head home.
Tomorrow: Mont Ventoux. 1,912 metres high, that's about 6,000 feet. No flat bits. Carn Brea is about 200 metres, Ben Nevis is 1,344 metres.
This mountain is a legend, I've read the horror stories, I've watched Chris Froome take it on in the 2013 Tour de France. Tom Simpson during the 1967 Tour collapsed and died on it. There is a memorial to him up there. Mind you, unlike Tom I shall not be taking alcohol and amphetamines. Ventoux means 'always windy' and if the Mistral blows you and your bike will be in the Mediterranean in 5 minutes.
Tonight we prepare, and in line with the Velominati's rules, and Dave Brailsford of team sky's application of adopting 'every marginal improvement', I have 'shaved those guns'. Rule #33.
21
25 August 2014
We are up at 6.30. The weather forecast is perfect.
What can go wrong?
Le Mont Ventoux The alarm goes off at 6.30 and I have to remind myself that I'm on holiday. At this point we are all up, eggs boiling, tea made and last preparations for Le Mont Ventoux are undertaken.
Some cyclists have rituals before a ride out. This ensures we are not at home to ‘Mr CockUp’ or his partner, ‘Mrs 'F**k mewhatwasthat?' Our rituals involve hydration, clothing, fettling and various creams and lotions. The Chalfonts threaten to make an appearance but are quickly dealt with by the aforementioned nuclear option prescription cream as a precautionary measure, and as a pre emptive strike. I think excitement and adrenaline has certain effects on one's colonic system with the result that at least three visits are made to the smallest room within half an hour. Each visit then requires ritual cleaning routines involving the complexity of a Japanese tea ceremony, but only less fragrant.
Each member of the party has their duty to perform, so briefing sessions run with military precision. Well, with as much precision as can be mustered by two women scared witless by the appearance of a weeny black scorpion in the bathroom. You would think we have an infestation and a zombie nightmare going on. This thing is so teeny and harmless that compared to it, a tea leaf with attitude is scarier. Putting such predatory arthropods on the 'to be dealt with later' list, Grant and I set off about 7.30 to ride to Bédoin at the base of Ventoux.
22
25 August 2014
This is a preliminary warm up of about 10 kms rising only 500 feet. Did I say also in glorious early morning sunshine and blue skies? The weather gods are smiling upon us. Ann and Kirsten will follow on in the car to provide water, support and a cheery wave. This part of the route is simply heavenly, with gradients to make a steam railway engineer smile.
On the way to the real start, I have an unplanned dismount at one point due to new shoe clips. I'm not used to them and underestimate the force required to unclip my foot from the pedal and fall ungraciously sideways. The only damage is to ego and a scratch on my knee so small that the black scorpion would have been overjoyed to have inflicted it. There is a small amount of blood.
We pass through Bédoin, then St Colomb to an unmarked hamlet called St Estève. The gradient hits about 4% at this last stage, which in English means a steepness to trouble a drunk but not your granny on a good day. However, at St Estève there is a hairpin bend which is the start of gradients of 7-11%. This is eye watering ramp style gradients. This is where the road becomes a stairway to heaven, or the gates to hell. Once you turn onto this ramp you know there is no return until the top of the mountain is reached over 18 kms away.
The road stays within a pine forest, the temperature drops to 15 degrees (15 degrees, in Provence!), and we are on our way up through hairpins which have gradients on the inside steep enough to turn one religious. There are a few hardy cyclists out doing the same as us, many pass me and I mentally wave them goodbye. Some young spindly bastards are using granny rings which means much lower gears resulting in their legs spinning faster than a Moulin in the 23
25 August 2014
Mistral. Grant gets in the zone and his tempo soon gets him ahead and disappearing into the trees. This route requires your own personal plan and focus, without which Ventoux will spit you out like a cheap vin ordinaire at a wine tasting.
Not much happens except for the turning of the cranks, upward ever upward as the road creeps with an almost audible continuous 'shush' apologetically beneath the wheels, accompanied by the gentle humming of the chain on cog. The machine works with physique with only one goal in mind, to move forward, keep moving forward. And up. Breathing is moderate and heart rate is well within threshold range otherwise death or embarrassment will ensue before the top. The focus is on the turning, turning of the cranks trying to gauge when to push on, when to hold back. We turn left, then right, then left......but always up.
Then, I hear a grating noise every few turns of the crank, a noise such as that which results from unoiled machinery, or machinery that is about to have a catastrophic breakdown. Such as one's crank bearings crumbling, rendering forward motion impossible and tears of self recrimination to flow. Thoughts return to the need for a rapid repair on another bike at another time in another part of a France. Bugger. This time, however, I'm up a bloody mountain without a crank. I remember at that point that I'm British and on public display, so upper lip stiffened, sinews toughened up, resolve renewed, I carry on regardless. If I'm going to hit by lightening then so be it, I have no where to go but, you guessed it, up.
God must be having a day off and is busy torturing some other poor bastard rather than me. Taking her eye off my predicament, as she must be, the issue rights itself. I've no idea what the issue was or is. The 24
25 August 2014
bike is running smoother than my mate Linus on a date night. I'm not even a Catholic and so 'Hail Mary's' would have been of no use to me in any case.
I pass a chap stopped by the side of the road. He is a big chap. Very big. I've seen this before on other trips, and have been surprised by how fit these big boys can be. When I say big, I really mean fat, not as abuse, but as obese and as description. He then, in a few minutes, overtook me and for a while I was following a huge blue Lycra clad bottom up a mountain. This prospect was frightening. I had a good few miles to go, and the thought of buttock following was a harrowing thought.
God must be having a day off from torturing me.
After a few metres, he stopped and got off his bike to walk. Hallelujah! I've given my life to Jesus!
The road keeps going, and soon I see Ann and Kirsten and a welcome banana.
Eventually we reach Chalet Reynard, a welcome cup of tea stop with Kirsten and Ann. Only 6 kms to go. However, these 6 kms are not for the faint hearted. At this point the mountain becomes a moonscape with about 6 or 7 hairpins with the tower at the summit teasing you as it comes into view and then disappears around the bend. Here it becomes a mind game as the last km gets steep. Very steep. It's been steep since St Estève but this is taking the piss.
Did we do it?
Yes we did. The last 100 metres was a wall, but at that point no one cares. The top is a crowd of cyclists and their supporters. I cross the line and remember my 25
25 August 2014
inadequacy regarding clipping out thus avoiding making an arse of myself in front of the whole of Europe. The 'sommet' is festooned with frippery involving sweets, biscuits and souvenir paraphernalia. I stu multi colored bon bons and various butter biscuits, and they go down as well as a gin soaked party of girls on a hen night.
The view cannot be described adequately. You have to go to the top of mountains to really appreciate their awe inspiring qualities. So, put that slice of cake down, get yer boots on and tramp up a hill. If you can't do that, invite the gin soaked hen party, try ketamine and acid, while sipping hot chocolate and malt whisky (joke).
The ascent takes about 3 hours, the descent takes about 30 minutes with judicious use of brakes. As we fly down we pass many cyclists coming up, as well as cocaine filled adrenaline junkies driving cars at speeds indicating their complete lack of interest in safety, theirs or anyone else's. We apply one of the key rules : "keep the rubber on the road" back down into BĂŠdoin. Job done. Still alive.
Lavender, Sausages and Time. When Zeus sat down with Odin to discuss our earthly condition, and the severity that surrounds our attempts to pacify the conditions of our existence, they came up with few suggestions to ameliorate our mortal struggle. They then ran it past Yahweh, just in case the 'chosen' might be interested, in between their bombing exploits, and Allah. The latter two, not being fond of pork, decided to pass on the idea, and Allah particularly was having too much trouble organising the virgins for the swarms of martyrs coming to visit, that she found the whole discussion rather tiresome. 26
25 August 2014
However, when Jesus and his Dad heard about this wheeze, they wanted in, fond as they were of festivals, feasts and fiddling. They also put in a good case for the oversight of Southern European countries, and suggested various gratifying, if unedifying, ameliorations, including intoxicating liquors, fermented dairy foodstuffs and buggery.
And so it came to pass that Lavender and Sausages were also gifted to the people of Provence. The Gods also gave them Time to enjoy it all by decreeing that lunchtime shall be sacred and not allowed to be used for non foodstuffs shopping, handbag cleaning or cavity wall insulating. A blind eye was turned towards activities of an erotic nature.
The lavender harvest is coming to an end in the fields around the town of Sault, but there are still enough to assault the senses with colour and smells. The countryside is a Monet painting, especially in the evenings, as light interacts with nature to provide a sensual melange of sensory overplay that requires a pastis in the evening sun to counteract. Lavender is bought in bunches, in bags, as soap, as pot pourri, as essential oil. Cafés and shops are painted lavender just in case you missed the local produce. It has magical powers of healing, cures infertility, scares scorpions and spiders and can turn one religious. I don't think it can be eaten though. We now have bunches of the stuff in the flat, resulting in wafts floating around the various rooms greeting us each time we enter. I think I am now pregnant because of it.
The local boucherie would have provided the sausages except we forgot the eccentric, to English sensitivities, opening hours in villages like Caromb.
27
25 August 2014
Thus we visit the local convenience store, the equivalent of a Spar or Co-Op, helpfully called 8 à 8, indicating its hours of opening. Except it isn't. They close for lunch from 1230 until 1530. This is the taken for granted meaning to the French when they say 'open all day'. We, being English, take 8 à 8 literally. This cultural difference explains our antipathy to the EU. We just do not understand our continental cousins, and we apply rules literally, while they see rules as mere guidance. This Gallic lacksadaisical application of time to activity, extends to the closing time. Having sourced 8 huge Toulouse sausages for dinner, along with sundries such as beer, wine and a bottle of Ricard, we head for the checkout to pay, whereupon the outer doors are being closed, shutters rolled down and the check out girl's demeanour becomes as sour as an old marriage. We think "what, 8 already?". In fact it is 7:30. I ask for the closing times and am informed that it is indeed, "19:30 tous les jours".
The shop should really be called: "8 until 1230, when we have lunch and a post prandial snooze and perhaps a little furtive romancing, as after all we are French, and then 15:30 until 19:30, mark you, 19:30". Granted it does not have the snappiness of 8 à 8, which they pronounce as 'weetahweet', but it does at least have the characteristic of accuracy.
Imagine turning up at St Pancras for the 8 o'clock Eurostar to Paris only to find it left 30 minutes beforehand? Imagine you being ready for your pasty at 1230 only to find Philps/Rowes/Hampsons does not open for another half hour? Imagine thinking a female orgasm taking only 30 minutes only to find it is actually three weeks? Timing is everything. Just ask a priest with a choir boy a day before the boy's 16th birthday. As we are surrounded by pleasant aromas and tuck in 28
25 August 2014
to the victuals, the Gods above smile and are both pleased and appeased with their gifts to mortals, and we pay our own homage to the bountiful pleasures that flow down to us. Thus are our short lived and potentially miserable existences made manifestly blessed.
Les Gorges de la Nesque Limestone and water is a terrific combination. The water is the sculptor's chisel fashioning the rocky landscape into hydro-geologic works of art. The results are very deep, water cut gorges, caves, pillars and sheer cliffs rising in majestic dominance over our puny and vulnerable being. The grey of the limestone is also stained with black and orange streaks, the green of the covering vegetation provides a patchwork of colours adding variegation and texture.
Gorge de la Nesque is a cycling and tourist driving route but along a mainly traffic free road starting at Ville sur Auzon and climbing continuously for about 14 kms to over 700 metres. Then a short descent into Monieux for lunch. We start at Caromb, the round trip making 50 miles of sun blessed cyclo-tourism. The road itself is cut into the steep and sheer sides of the gorge so that on one side of the road there is a wall and on the other a drop to the bottom. There is only just enough room for one car and so this makes the numerous very blind bends challenging. One misjudgment results in smashing your face against a limestone cliff or, alternatively, crashing over a non existent barrier, then dropping to the bottom of the gorge faster than a Toff evades paying tax. The grin factor is about 11 out of 10. I say 'wow' so many times I start to annoy myself, but it cannot be helped, the scenery has more majesty than a palace full of Royals. 29
25 August 2014
While Grant and I negotiate the gorge, Ann and Kirsten visit Carpentras and plan to join us for lunch. We arrive in Monieux around 1200. This is again another very pretty village sitting on a hill, whereupon a tree shaded restaurant called ‘Les Lavandes’ beckoned. There was a least an hour to go before Ann and Kirsten would arrive. There was nothing for it then but to order a beer and some nibbles. We were also entertained by a charming waitress whose wiggle to and fro would have turned a gay man straight. I thought "Linus would have liked this". The tables are arranged around a fountain in a courtyard; the tree light dappled white tablecloths gently flapping in a very light breeze accompanied by a chorale of crickets.
The staff breeze within and around the tables, dispensing bonhomie and efficient service.
Dinner was the 'formule' of the 'plats du jour'. A 'mis en bouche' of a creamy tomato and basil aperitif, followed by fish, and a citron glacé to finish. It occurs to me that we are having a 5 star dinner in a 5 star setting in the middle of 5 star cycle route. Bon appetit!
The route home back through the gorge was easier, as this time it is a descent rather than an ascent. Brakes could be used and oft were as the road kept weaving and twisting hurriedly down to Ville sur Auzon. We make it back alive.
Upon return to Caromb it is pastis time, the sun's heat is diminishing to a balmy 28 degrees and the shade of our sun terrace calls. The clear green tinged liquid slips agreeably into the glass, the light reflecting through it sparkles and whirls as the ice turns it to cream. Condensation forms on the outside of the glass, and water droplets drip onto the table to become the only challenge in the day.
30
25 August 2014
Rain. When away on holiday it used to be the case that home was very distant, reachable only by postcard and carrier pigeon. That was part of the charm of being away, not knowing the daily grind back home. Reminders of home were few and far and in any case not too welcome. Rain is one of those reminders, it is after all partly to get away from dull leaden skies that we pack up and go. Rain on holiday is not what is required or ordered, but it does come dierently packaged so that actually it is something to enjoy. Often in southern European countries that rain arrives with a thunderstorm vengeance shouting and clattering across the landscape, often at night so that we enjoy a light show as well. It's force is something to behold, both majestic and scary.
We have not had any English type rain here, just the odd storm passing overhead at night. This means drying out the cushions on the sun terrace the next morning. The midday sun then goes to work and, hey presto, by pastis time everything is bone dry. These storms ensure Provence's landscape is at once bone dry and green. The soil underneath the vines, olive trees and fruit trees looks dusty and greyish brown, but the vegetation everywhere is verdant. Looking across the hills and valleys towards Ventoux, I can see an almost English landscape in colour, all various shades of green, yet it hardly rains during the day. We arrived on the first day in a thunderstorm but that soon cleared and we have blue, blue skies every day. There are clouds to entertain, and that is the point. They entertain with their shapes rather than as portents of doom.
Now, apps are a wonderful thing on iPhones and iPads. We use myriad to tell us the inside leg 31
25 August 2014
measurement of giraes, the price of chocolate in Peru and the number of choir boys required to service the parish priest, if the Daily Mail can be believed. We also have access to and use the BBC weather app and the BBC news app.
Using them this week is depressing.
According to the news stream the UK is enjoying one of its halcyon summers. Well, it was until recently, when we note floods and storms and winds of, it has to be said, biblical proportions. The whole of Northern Europe is getting a battering while we sit outside relaxed and warm sipping ice cold pastis in the evening. Sorry to rub it in, but wtf is going on up there?
Rain is necessary and life giving, it ensures we are alive and have bounty from the land, it carves the landscape, gives rise to our rivers, and inspires and scares in various measures. But I can't help thinking that we just don't get enough of a respite in the UK. The 250 days of sunshine in Provence is balanced by enough water for life. The sun warms the soul and inspires creativity. The news from the UK is thoroughly uninspiring. However, Brits just have to deal with it. The longer one stays here though, the less one feels inclined to deal with it. The warmth of the sun is tasted in the tomatoes, the wine and the olives. The eects of the storms and the rain can be seen on the land. Thankfully, unlike the Ride 100 London cycling event yesterday, we don't have to cycle through cold water.
The sun has just set on an hot day, we have tan lines and smiles the length of the Tamar. The full blood red moon is about to nose above the slopes of Mont Ventoux into the darkening sky. As it rises we have an 32
25 August 2014
orange marble sitting in the black slope of Ventoux. It is so beautiful one could weep.
There are no rain clouds to obscure the view.
What have the Romans ever done for us? Driving through suburban industrial estates and supermarkets into the small town of Orange, one does not expect antiquities. Indeed, the outskirts are like any other town one cares to drive through. Soulless, artless and perfunctory. They have a job to do, and they do it well but don't expect your soul to be fed or your spirits lifted, just your wallet emptied. The town centre itself, when we park, is nothing unusual and this feeling is supported by the underground car park, the likes of which are to be found in Plymouth, Paddington and Perpignan. One is only prevented from committing bloody murder by this modern barbarity to the senses, due to ample parking and decent opening hours.
The drive to the town takes us, for once, through flat farmland but always with the hills and the mountains of the Ventoux massif in view. The plateau of farmland extends for miles westwards while the massif rises from the floor to the east, it's as if a floor carpet has been pushed against a wall and rumpled up at the skirting. Within this plateau, Orange sits on a small river and has done so for over 2000 years. Evidence of this appears, though, only when we walk around a corner from the nondescript car park and are faced by a massive Roman wall of yellow limestone which forms the eastern buttress of the old Roman theatre. This wall is over 35 metres high (that's "ee's some bewdy" in Cornish). In exchange for a handful of shekels and a goat, we gain admission. This theatre is a semicircular amphitheatre such as the Minack in Penwith. The semi circle of terraces face a stage backed by the limestone 33
25 August 2014
facade which originally had decorations, 76 columns, statues in the now empty niches. Bang in the centre and about 30 metres up is a 3 metre high statue of an emperor dwarfed by the wall as it stands in its niche. The heads of such statues were replaceable and so were changed when new emperors ruled. If you can imagine the Minack, then this is its big daddy. A very big daddy, the view from the top terrace overlooks the town and across to the Ventoux massif. It is eye wateringly impressive, and if you listen carefully you can still hear the audience baying for blood, laughing at the comedies and applauding the actors. It is said that Nero had a fondness for realism or spectacle or was just a bastard, so that in plays that depicted death by burning, that is just what he had done: a real death by burning. I guess the poor bugger tied to a stick on the stage for the Emperor's entertainment had no need for a dress rehearsal.
At one time entrance to the theatre was free and so everyone came, from patrician to slave, but once inside there was strict restriction. Bawdiness often ensued, like Camborne on a Friday night but without the vomit and poor taste. Women on stage were often encouraged to get naked by the wine soaked crowd.....plus ça change? All this changed when the Empire turned to Jesus as it's primary deity and the theatres were closed down. What these early Christians started, the Visigoths in the 5th century ended when they 'visited' Orange and upon finding no parking spaces or shops open on a Sunday, sacked the city and burned the theatre to the ground. Thus there was ‘smoke on the water’ on the river in Orange.
There's no pleasing some people.
Touching the stones in the heat of the day, one is connected to the blood and sweat of its builders, its 34
25 August 2014
patrons and its public. The Romans came, they saw and stayed around to binge on spectacle, vintnery and debauchery. They brought comedy, tragedy, civilisation and a choice of gods. They certainly left their imperial mark, and we are the better for it even though we are distanced by some centuries. Sat on the terraces, looking at the same stage, feeling the same sun above, one knows that all human experience currently lived, was also lived by the Romans and their conquered peoples. The only dierence between the Romans and us is our ability to tame nature to our every need but our shit still stinks like theirs.
On the way home for pastis time, we stop at a supermarket in the outskirts. The Romans would approve of the fine displays of food and wine. Their only addition methinks would be a little nakedness among the service girls. At the self service checkout we realise we don't have any bags and so we ask the 'hostesse', who gives a look as if I've just farted right under her nose...not a gentle pfie of a fart mind you, but great big rip snorter of a fart tinged with aroma of pig compost. I checked my French, and yes I had simply asked for a bag and had not had my willy out as well. To her defence, she looked and talked with the same level of disdain and mild disgust to all the other customers. One can only assume her knickers were made of itchy blue serge or her father smelled of elderberries. I think she might also have a waitress as a sister.
Upon return our host, Ian, provides figs picked from the trees here in the courtyard. They are ripe and some are beginning to open. He has to struggle up a ladder in the tree with ants who also like figs. If he does not pick these figs they open and fall as a mush onto the floor. The ants would love it; this bounty would be their own personal empire, their own bread and circuses. 35
25 August 2014
Figs, tomatoes, jambon, pâte and a glass of rosÊ end the day. As accompaniment we have the local olive oil, bought 50 metres away in the mill, and Camargue sea salt. Salt should just be salt, but this is something else again. The Romans knew the value of this white gold and paid their legionnaires with it, hence "he's worth his salt". Take fresh crusty baguette, add top quality first press extra virgin olive oil and a pinch of sea salt. Just do it.
What have the Romans ever done for us?
Journey's end, almost. So, what have we learned and how have we developed? With only a couple of days left before Le grand dĂŠpart to England, there is time to think about our time here. Today was Avignon, the one time home of the palace to the popes, and Ann's birthday. Avignon is what Provence is, and in case you missed it, that means sunshine, light and fine wines. Is this all there is?
Socrates, it was I believe, remarked that the unexamined life was not worth living, or that we may as well be pigs if we do not reflect on existence. Provence is a paradox in that it at once both encourages and discourages personal philosophical ramblings. It is thus possible to agree with Socrates' maxim and also consider it total bollocks. The discouragement on reflection comes from the assault on the senses from the light, tastes and landscape. This assault means one just gives up and let experiences flow. On the other hand, standing watching the sunset stirs the emotions and makes one consider what the point of all life is?
36
25 August 2014
The Popes must have known something about that. In Avignon there is the Palais de Papes, or 'Popes Palace' in English. Rome must have bored one of them because he decamped to Avignon. The lavender, wine and cycling must have lured him here. As proof of their visit, the castle, there is no other word, sits on the banks of the Rhone dwarfing the medieval town below. Just in case anyone should wonder who lived there, a huge statue of Mary was erected. This statue is gold plated and so now shines in the sunshine as a beacon to the heathen hordes living in its shadow. Not content with Mary, they also put up a huge crucifix complete with a dead Jesus on it. To anyone without any Christian culture or sensitivities this must be a chilling sight. Imagine looking up to a statue of some poor sod hanging from a gallows. Well the crucifix is the same thing, but because we've seen this a thousand times, we somehow revere it. If the Romans had electric chairs, we'd be seeing Jesus sat in one, adorning churches all over Europe and devotees of the faith would wear little chairs around their necks instead of crosses.
Really.
Think on that Socrates!
In any case the Popes soon got bored of France and scuttled back to Rome, leaving Avignon with a fine tourist attraction. Not content with a Pope's palace, Avignon of course has its bridge, the Pont SaintBénézet, and a song to go with it. The bridge does not get to the other side of the river because a King got in a bit if a huff with the people of Avignon and destroyed most of it. There are four arches left out of 22.
The story goes that a shepherd called Bénézet heard God telling him to get a bridge built at Avignon. So, he 37
25 August 2014
schlepped over the Rhone, and told the top man to get it sorted. This humble son of the sheep shit soiled earth got a sainthood for his troubles, the French got a song and the Japanese tourists got yet another photo opportunity. Avignon is delighted with the result as tourists, us included, pay, yes pay, to walk across a bridge that stops mid stream only to turn around and finish where we start. Del Boy could not make that up. As a result, Avignon town council are millionaires based on a bit of old masonry that goes nowhere.
As for Bénézet, is it any wonder he heard god's voice? Sheep graze grass very short, and so allow other growths to emerge. Mushrooms. Psilocybin. Magic mushrooms. It is no coincidence that it was also shepherds who followed a star to a manger. Shepherds all over the world are off their faces on magic mushrooms which grow in abundance in the wake of their herds they tend. When they are not busy predicting the weather, they are gurning, having ‘enlightenment’ or the munchies. No wonder that Bénézet was off his tits and thought that he heard god wanted a bridge. Think about it, god who made heaven and earth in 7 days suddenly remembers he has not got a bridge at Avignon and so waits until the 12 century before telling a shepherd, not a mason mind you, someone who actually knows how to do the bloody job, but a bloody sheep herder! Why not invent a ferry instead?
Why does God have need of a bridge?
So, for my money it's Bénézet on class A drugs. A junkie gets a sainthood. You have to love the Catholics.
38
25 August 2014
All of this on Ann's birthday, which started with flowers, presents and of course cake. Finished off with pastis and fine wine and some of the best olive oil and ham on the planet.
All of this I arrange sober, not even a sniff of a mushroom.
Do I get a sainthood? Do I buggery!
50 miles to go. This is it. The last day here. One more trip on the bikes. I shall not bore you with glowing descriptions of the roads we take today, suffice to say we find hidden valleys full of fruit farms, as our cycles take us flying past fields of fruit trees, their boughs so heavy laden with plums that they bow lower than penitent monks with scoliosis. It is tempting to pluck one from the roadside, this would be easy as there are no hedges or electrified fences to keep the acquisitive at bay. We satisfy ourselves with photographs instead and head onwards.
Lunch is an absolute joy.
Well the food is.
We stop at a boulangerie, the ‘Boulangerie des Tilleuls’ in another hillside village called Faucon. They also serve breakfast, brunch and 'plats du jour' for lunch. The outside terrace is shaded by plane trees offering a view across the valleys to the hills beyond. You just could not make this up, it is so picturesque.
With bikes safely parked against a tree we examine the menu board and decide that the 'assiete de degustation', or 'tasting plate', is the business. 39
25 August 2014
Whereupon we wander to an empty table. There are about 12 tables, only about 3 are occupied. My first mistake was to assume that a laid table indicates that indeed food might follow if one should avail oneself of it, and by merely sitting down then we are, non verbally I grant, manifesting the need for the delivery of victuals 'toute suite'.
The waitress, and I use that word in a very general sense, thought otherwise, and indicated with a grunt, which possibly included the word 'reserved', that my fine English arse should go elsewhere. With an insight bordering on genius she then looked at me and said "Manger?"
She was not discussing the birthplace of Jesus. Whatever led her to believe that two pale faced and gaunt cyclists, who had the temerity to wander into a space adorned with tables, menus and assorted eating accoutrements, wanted food, is beyond me. But genius as she was, she sussed us out and led us to another (also free from sitting customers) table. I noted the absence of 'reserved' signs on all tables and made a note to self, to bring my psychic powers next time.
The French can be rude, as can the English. They can even do diďŹƒdent with aplomb and superiority with panache. They leave proper drunkeness to the Scots who can do pissed on a Saturday night with Élan. This waitress is a winner of the medal d'or for surliness, and could show Parisiennes how to do disdain properly.
We sit. We dare do no other and the table is 'laid' with a blistering cold silence accompanied by knives and forks placed in the general direction of our place settings. A smile is a distant memory. I have rehearsed the order in French to impress. I might as well have covered my balls in melted chocolate and asked her to 40
25 August 2014
lick them as her response seemed to have arisen from the thought in her head "why is this piece of shite talking to me?"
I can only put this down to the possible fact that today, being a bank holiday, had put paid to her planned day of sexual misadventure with a new and hung like a stallion boyfriend armed with baby oil, perfume and an overreach in ambition. Mademoiselle had been looking forward to passion in Provence when instead had been asked to come to work and instead provide 'assietes' to arseholes, and English arseholes at that who speak French so badly that it sounds like a walrus gargling with vomit.
She no doubt spoke perfect English, but by Agincourt, there was no way she was going to let on.
It turns out that the assiete involves something called a 'tarte salÊe', which I take to mean 'pie' of some sort. Our hostess then proceeds to verbally machine gun a list of food stus at us, some of which I recognise. I'm not sure if she is telling us what tarte salÊe is, or whether she is asking us what sort of tarte we want. We go for the simple option and mouth 'pas de fromage' in the hope this does the trick. Grant does not eat cheese, and so this information is vital if we are to avoid Anglo-Gallic ennui.
We notice, and are reassured by, the waitress' attitude to everyone in the restaurant, including children, kittens and puppies. Her disdain knows no boundaries and is democratically unselective. I can only guess her boyfriend is texting her in real time, describing in great detail exactly what she is missing out on.
The food when it comes however is excellent. Our tarte is soft onions with garlic topped with anchovies 41
25 August 2014
and black olives on a pizza type bread base, freshly cooked by chef without cheese especially, served with a delicious terrine, tapenade and salad. The taste and texture is worth cycling 30 miles for. Her boyfriend can go to hang, we have the better part of the deal. Sex can wait, in any case we have sex on an assiete.
Often the price of a meal in France comes with service already included so there is no need for a tip, or 'pour boire', which means 'for a drink'. I wonder if I can take the price of the tip off; but the food is so good that we are happy to pay it. My tip for the waitress is: 'buy a dildo and smile'.
Lunch over, we carry on to meet Ann and Kirsten for coffee in a village called Sablet. This part of the Cotes du Rhone is littered with vineyards and domains such as Gigondas, Vacqueyras and Baume de Venise. It is a lesson in wine as we cycle.
Aware of this being our last day, we feel every kilometre counts and has to be taken in the moment. There is a little sadness with each rotation of the wheels. We decide on a slight diversion over an extremely beautiful valley and then a climb through a col before descending finally to Caromb. Ann and Kirsten have been busy buying local produce and so tonight we pack the car before dinner. Tomorrow we have to set off early for Arras in the north. We have over 500 miles to drive after our 50 cycled today.
Our only challenge this evening, after pastis time of course, is which bottle to open?
'Plus ça change, mais toujours la même chose'.
42
25 August 2014
Oh, dear waitress...you can have your boudoir shenanigans now, I've eaten (again). Do you have a sister working in a supermarket?
Going North. If you want to see France there are several ways of doing so. You could catch the Rosco Ferry, disembark in Brittany and hire a donkey and ride it to Morlaix. Your path would not be strewn with palms by the grateful local populace, but you would smell the butter going into their biscuits, cakes and croissants as you make your way slowly over the Breton hills. You could float down the canal du midi on a barge, sipping champagne on the top deck as the light dapples between the plane trees. You could amble around the Loire in an open top sports car, flitting between regal chateaux as the sauvignon blanc chills in anticipation of oysters. You could race in the TGV through the flat northern plains espying the spires of cathedrals such as Chartres and Reims on the horizon. You could walk along the left bank, gaze across to Notre Dame in the light of the setting sun with the tangy whi of a gauloise in the air as smoked by Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Take a little olive oil, heat in a pan and add garlic and onions, add fresh and sun dried tomatoes, fresh green leaved basil and some red wine.....breath in. Sip a pastis. You have France right there.
You could of course do what we really have to do. Sit in a car for 9 hours on an autoroute.
Thus is life's balance, yin and yang.
The car is not a bloody tardis we are agreeably informed as we pack in Caromb at 7:30. Except that is exactly what it becomes. One BMW, three bikes, four 43
25 August 2014
people and all of our stu. And of course the 'extras' we have bought: olive oil, Camargue salt...and wine. I lost count of the number of bottles, and in preparation for this journey north to Arras, wine had to be drank last night to lighten the load. Lunch had to come with us.
At a toll booth we are treated to a treatise on the management of French transport systems and the deficiencies thereof as we queue to pay. I can see a union flag being raised and the ghosts of Nelson and Wellington being invoked as the temperature outside is matched by the mood inside. Despite this we get to Arras without any unnecessary deviations.
This little battle scarred town is a delight. At its centre are two grand squares of Flemish architecture. The ground floor of all the buildings is a colonnade reaching up to 4 stories capped with the classic Dutch curved gables as seen in Amsterdam. The streets are cobbled, or pavĂŠ. The sun has set leaving a golden dark blue sky against which the church is lit from below sending light upwards against the stone setting it aglow as if alight. The square is buzzing with cafĂŠs and bars and the chatter of people discussing all manner of life's important issues such as who slept with who and where the best music is being played. We dine in a great fish restaurant served by a young man who spots the wine is corked even before it's poured.
! ! ! 44
25 August 2014
Alas, tiz our last night in France, tomorrow we head for England and its finest ale houses. We'll be back for sure.
Whenever I visit France on holiday, it is of course a time of relaxation and enjoyment. Rose tinted spectacles are donned as soon as one crosses La Manche. All the aforementioned characteristics of sun, wine, food and country combine in a heady mixture of intoxicatiing warmth that ever draws one into a blend of melancholic revery and maudlin sadness as the cold northern skies reappear. Proust’s ‘à la recherche du temps perdu’ or “remembrance of things past” with its evocation of a madeliene cake’s smell returning one back to childhood is most apt. Pastis and croissants are never the same in England and therefore do not have that same evocation. Happily the wine does, and so I shall be forced to open a bottle or two upon return to ‘recherche du temps perdu’.
Comparisons between Cornwall and Provence are unwise at best as both have unique qualities and joys. A pasty and an ale; the Sloop in St Ives; the dark black Zawns of the Penwith coastline, a storm swept beach in October followed by a log side fire in a pub. The countryside is magnificent, variously covered in heathers and gorse whose colours have inspired many painters. Cornwall has its mining heritage on display in many locations and a history to chill the soul while captivating the imagination.
Having acknowledged all of that, there is one element that Provence has in buckets that Cornwall can only dream of.
Sunshine.
45
25 August 2014
But that is it. A Cornish summer can be a hit and miss affair weather wise and so one has to focus on all of the other characteristics of the place, don’t expect to develop a great tan. But you would not be so foolish as to do so?
France has its current economic woes, and that is something that Cornwall knows all too well for itself. However, the French disdain for the anglo-american work ‘ethic’ and its shabby disregard for quality of life, should be celebrated. I hope the country continues with its long lunch breaks and its gorgiosity on wine and cuisine.
A bientot!
46