We were sat on the top of a mountain at 6am, watching the sun haul itself higher than the peaks. What comes next? Breakfast of course.
Unfortunately, we had not accounted for such a stop on the mountain, and beyond getting out the stove and summoning a pasta fuelled breakfast, we settled for some rather curious smelling pre-boiled eggs and tried to focus on the beauty of the dawning day.
Sitting by the mountain marker, we sat about, occasionally provoking little rockslides with switches of sitting position. By the time the camper vans started arriving and pointing around at the view, we decided it was time to move on. 150kms to the sea, from 2802 meters, we were to fall to 0. On paper, this was set to be Stef’s favourite ride of the entire tour.
Tackling the winds, bends, hairpins and shoelace straggles of tarmac that lead down the other side of the Bonette, we keenly ploughed down. 30 kilometres of stunning alpine roads in which the heat, the trees and the smell of warm dry soil returned after our night in a lunar landscape. Jackets flapping for every meter of the descent, we stopped in the first town we saw, exchanged some coins for croissants and bread. Devouring our meal on the nearest public bench, we looked at the map. We had already plunged 1000 meters downhill, but the pitch of the slope was set to shallow over the remaining distance.
We carried on, gently winding through steep banked valleys, making our first acquaintance with the Mistral. Gusting fiercely up the valley like a sneeze from an unmedicated hayfever sufferer, the easy freewheeling descent we felt we were owed was cruelly snatched from us, and instead, we found ourselves snatching at gears to keep up with the water in the river below. Hanging on roads above white rapids, we rather neglected to stop, finding the going a little tough.
Each meter downhill also brought back the uncomfortable sensation of raging heat, and soon enough, the combination of wind and rising mercury saw us struggling a little. All the same, our early start had set us up for a long day, and eventually, by 5pm, we had made 130 kms and found a (bad) campsite.
Wanting a restorative shower after our stay on the mountain, we paid up, including a nasty little pricing policy that classified tents on their height. Lamenting the bind, we set down for the night, concentrating instead on a day in Nice, and the prospect of a swim in the Mediterranean sea.
Upon packing our tent, we progressed down the valley, past the industrial yards, used tyre lots and metal sheds that contain the smaller portion of the maritime coast’s economic activity. Skirting around the airport and onto the Promenade des Anglais, we finally made it to the sea – it was as blue as described.
We took lunch from a local supermarket, devoured it in the shade, and locked up our bikes before hot-footing it over the burning rocks of the stony Nice beach. Crowded by hoards from all over the world, it was quite a change from our usual mountain cohort of marmottes and the occasional eagle. All the same, we ran towards the water, and soaked it in.
Unable to find a camping spot in the city and with the steep terrain not lending itself to going wild, we set upon a plan – it being midday, we would push the final 26kms to Monaco, and wrap up country number 9.
Taking the Route des Corniches, we made our pedal strokes onwards, the sea to our right, the bare rock faces to our left. Crowded out of the road by Russian, Dutch and Belgian sightseers, the road to Monaco was an unwelcome return to the impatient driving we had witnessed in Italy, which made sense. Circling a round about and whizzing into a labrynthine network of tunnels, we soon found ourselves squarely in the Principality.
After a quick lap of the town (yes, Will made F1 car sounds under the casino), we wandered to the train station. Having been warned of staying overnight on the beach and of the relative lack of any flat land or campsites, we bought ourselves two train tickets, 15km west to the other side of Nice. Arriving at dusk, we took to a more remote beach. Cautious of police and early morning beach inspections, we kept all our gear inside our panniers, instead, sleeping just on a tarp on the beach, the Mediterranean stretching out before us, mingling in the blue hues of dimmet with the blazing lights of Nice just about the bay.
Waking to the rolling of water on the beach, we rubbed the salt, sleep and sand from our eyes before getting back on the bikes.
A short pedal to Antibes brought further super cars, casually littered around the town. Continuing again towards Cannes, we began to get the apparent theme of the coast. Sheltering from the sun under palm trees, we chomped down a baguette with a little leafiness whilst a cohort and fashion walk of top brands walked around us, occasionally pausing for much required seaside selfies.
With the relative effort that our trip was requiring, we soon started to both envy and pity these hapless and, oft topless tourists, picking stars for their hotels like apples from a tree. It was another world, and one that we hadn’t been exposed to since leaving London, and in short, it was a bit of a shock.
We wandered around, before settling on an overnight stop near Fréjus. Pushing onwards, the heat spiralled, and the wind only seemed to swirl out to sea, bringing us the hotter air of Provence. Climbs rising steeply above the blue, we took in views of Super-Yachts, luxury resorts, and bright red rocks. It was doubtless beautiful, but undoubtedly overblown.
Battling on, we made it to a bay just short of Fréjus, and inquired as to the cost of a camping pitch. Whilst €34 a night was the standard pitch, we managed to talk them down to just €20. Fatigued and frazzled from the soaring temperatures, we again handed over the money, took some time to write a blog and get an early night, all the while taking cover from the once again ubiquitous mozzies.
And so we rounded the last bays into St. Raphael and then Fréjus. A destination as much for the place of these names in cycling history, we paused only to procure a picnic and take a quick splash in the sea. Refreshing in and of itself, we were finding the flood of people and pressured riding around the coast to be more taxing than it was worth. Coupled with the rather eye watering cost of even the most basic supermarket sweep, we set upon another plan – we would escape the tourist stronghold of the seaside and cross Provence, skipping Marseille and going to Avignon.
We finished our evening with a 30 km pedal to Draguignan, and finding a truckstop with some flat land, set up our tent among the wild growing herbs that made for a perfumed tent. With the smell of lavender not far off, the purples of Provence became apparent as a storm threatened to soak us. Sending the sky a vibrant violet, we took a little cover under the lip of a wine cave, but spotting only dashes, we got into our dry tent and bedded down for the night.
The next morning, we aimed to make it a long day. Wanting to escape the clutches of tourist traps, we set course to make it level Marseille. Blitzing past the rolling and rocky hills, we took in the intoxicating smells whilst wrangling kilometre after kilometre in the heat. By lunchtime, we had already pushed 80 kms out and were set that evening for an easier time as we rejoined the Durance on it’s final stint towards the Rhone. Stopping for lunch in the shade of a tree, we made sure to buy the coldest drinks possible in the supermarket, and settled upon covering the last 40 kilometres late in the evening, avoiding traffic.
Exhausted we made townfall in Mallemort, erected our tent in a patch of grass and set up our stove.
The next day started with a brisk pedal on properly flat roads into Avignon. Only 40kms, we completed the trek in just two hours, and found ourselves wandering around this ancient papal city. Littered with posters for plays, we had wandered into town during a theatre festival. The streets buzzing with actors drumming up crowds and American riverboat tourists taking in the town via instructional ear peices, we sat and listened to a guitar duo enliven the streets.
Dropping some centimes in a hat, we moved on to take a look at the Papal gardens, and of course, the Pont d’Avignon. Famous for it’s incompletion, three arches strike out into the Rhone, but go no further. Renowned in France for it’s setting in a nursery rhyme, we had to stop by and take it in. The day heralded other news though – having applied for Irish citizenship before leaving on this trip, the word had got to us that Will was now officially a citizen of Ireland. A plastic post-brexit paddy, this was news that required celebrating in the most cringe worthy scenes of stereotyping possible – ah yes – ye Olde Irish Pub in Avignon.
False Irish enterprises can only sate your newfound nationality for so long though, and after quaffing the black beverage all too quickly, the stifling heat led us only to a more acclimatised establishment. Yes – across the bridge and, bang on the EU cycle route, we sheltered from the midday heat whilst taking on glasses of cold white wine and watching the Tour de France on the bar’s screen.
Once we had sufficiently plucked up courage to walk out into the sun, we hacked down towards Tarascon where we had a roof for the night, courtesy of Warm Showers. Though only 25 kilometres down river, the flat plains, searing heat and, inevitable headwind, made progress a hard task, but nonetheless, we arrived, albeit with emptied tanks and a fearsome hunger. Delphine our host opened up her door for us, and after hoicking our panniers and bikes three storeys up, we were able to sit down, drink some cold water and talk over the day done and the day to come.
Talking late into the night, we eventually got our heads down, and had our noses set towards the Camargues – a swampy stretch of the southern coast where we were promised mosquitoes and flamingoes in equal measure.
With Delphine having to head to work early, we followed in suit, and soon found ourselves on the road, covering quick early miles out of town and towards the coast once more.
Ploughing keenly on with renewed legs, the dappled dawn light neglected to highlight the massive pile of grit left strewn across the middle of the carriageway. Meters ahead of Stef, Will skidded into the gravel, had his handlebars turned, and slid across the floor.
A bleeding arm and leg for his early morning gravel surfing efforts, things weren’t going to plan. Scratching up a handlebar and grazing his front rack bag, the first port of call was checking the electricals were working. Happily, this blog post testifies that they were. Stef took up the job of picking gravel out of Will and, a little frustratedly we set off once more.
Will rather solemnly and sorely leading the pace again, we carried onwards, through Saint-Gilles and straight to Aigues-Mortes. A walled medieval town just 3 kilometres from the sea front, we paused here for lunch amongst the wash of tourists and wailing babies before deciding to take our chances at the beach in Le-Grau-du-Roi. After a dip in the sea, we made sure to avoid the mid-afternoon heat by dipping into another bar, taking the time to watch the final mountain stage of the Tour de France whilst a yappy small dog chased the first fallen leaves around the room.
After seeing everything wrapped up, we plodded on, along the sand swept beach paths towards Sète. A little distant though, we settled among the dunes for a little wild camp spot on an island dominated by a cathedral. Among freshwater lakes and swamps, we settled down for dinner and then for the night.
Waking to an incredible sunrise reflected in the shallow waters around us, we packed up the tent and were joined with further flamingos for breakfast. After having our fill, we continued on the cycle path, between two waters, along the canal towards the coastal town that was our target.
After a thirty kilometre jaunt, we found ourselves by the main portion of the harbour, and sat taking lunch among the sound of seagulls. Famous for French poet and singer Georges Brassens, we took in the waves and hummed ourselves the finest of his oeuvre. Our coastal exploits were complete.
