The anti-spectacle of the Plateau de Valensole

The Verdon Gorge had been full of mighty towering limestone cliffs, sinuous downhills, and dramatic views from canyon walls into the depths of the river below. The beauty of the Verdon was definitely in-your-face, middle-of-the-magazine-pin-up type of spectacular. Monday's beauty proved to be a bit less sublime, but equally enjoyable.

At some point during our bike past the Lac St Croix we entered France's Alpes-Haute-a more pastoral, curvy, girl-next-door type of spectacular. For five hours we pedaled our beasts through hilly countryside full of pre-bloomed lavender, feral poppies, and grazing cattle. We stopped for goats crossing the road. We whizzed past rapeseed in blossom. We stopped for lunch and enjoyed the quiet landscape, disturbed only by frogs, ants, and crickets.

From Verdon

hand painted goat crossing sign

From Verdon

rapeseed in bloom

From Verdon

speak your language

From Verdon

empty roads in a bike mirror

We dropped to the river valley, biked our finishing touches on the Verdon circuit, and crossed the river towards Forcalquier where we would pick up the Luberon bike trail.

From Verdon

view of the river valley near Forcalquier

The spectacle of the verdon

Sunday was gorge day. We managed a somewhat earlier start than usual, and had the wind at our back. Thousands of millipedes crossed the road escaping the rising sun for the first minor climb to the rim. Even though it was 9:30 AM on a Sunday, the roads and viewpoints were deserted. Score. Nice canyon, too (although Utah still has my vote for best canyonlands).


We probably crushed hundreds of these little guys under wheel


Le gorge

We made good time to Le Pont du Artuby, which is the highest span in Europe, and watched a few bungee jumpers go for the plunge. The French, never content to stop at a merely thrilling, but relatively safe sport, offered base jumping (for the untrained) from the bridge as well.


Le Pont du Artuby

We made Taxing Climb #1 of the day, and went through a pair of unlit tunnels, which were mercifully short and traffic mercifully absent. We fueled up for Taxing Climb #2, to an anonymous notch high above the south rim of the gorge, where the road ascends to outflank some cliffbands. The steep 400m climb was dispatched without too much trouble, and we rode our brakes down, down, down to Lac St Croix.



Le col de I'liore



We were a little haggard (okay, half-hallucinating and cussing like sailors) by the time we climbed back up to the town of Moustiers, and certainly had our fill of the packs of smelly, loud, close-passing motorcycles that had been plaguing the roads since Lac St Croix. So there was no discussion about stopping when we saw a sign for camping right below town.

Moustiers was very cool, even in our half-demented state. It is built on the flanks of a gorge, with several natural waterfalls pouring through town, and a pretty medieval church perched high above.



Moustiers


A bottle of wine a jour makes for a fun bicycle tour

As we fell to sleep, our bodies tired and stuffed full on more pasta and wine, we agreed we could do with a little less climbing and spectacle tomorrow.

To the verdon

I was reluctant to leave camp, but I been living most my life in a squatters' paradise. Besides, we possessed two pricey train tickets to south-eastern France. I felt a pang of regret that we were skipping over this spectacular stretch of road as we biked one last time into Cebere. The Mediterranean stretched out from my handlebars and the predawn painted the hillsides purple. A warm breeze blew off the water, but otherwise it was utterly still.

That proved to be the apogee of the day. A dense, four-hour train ride led to the Marseilles train station, which was lightly mined with dogshit, as I discovered (guess how!). It was also occupied by a contingent of French police whose mission, as near as we could tell, was to hassle anybody brown skinned. However, everybody seemed surprisingly good-natured about the whole race-hassle-thing.

Later that afternoon we found ourselves in Les Arcs Sûr L'Argens, the nearest town with a train station to the Verdon Gorge. It was a gloomy afternoon and we were cranky, tired and feeling overwhelmed with the whole unintelligible language thing. A trip to the Hipermarché, a French hybrid of a Walmart, which turned into a two hour epic didn't help. Nor did the lazy, gluttonous washing machine in the camp ground, which ate six euros without washing our clothes, or indeed, even so much as a "merci."

A feast of beef stew, fromage (gouda with cumin) and wine regionaux lifted our spirits and we went to bed resolute to climb some hills and have some thrills the following day.


Not exactly speeding


Afternoon gloom over the artuby

Vendredi dawned bright and clear. Or so we guessed, when we finally stirred from our sleeping bags at 10AM. It was well towards noon by the time we had set off, and the clouds were already building in the distance. Some pleasant climbing on nearly deserted, forested roads led to a bigger climb on a bigger road and le Col de la Grange. The thunder reporting in the distance on the climb finally materialized into a light rain. We donned our rain gear and carefully made our way down from the Col.


Chateaudoble with rain

Despite our best efforts to wait out the rain in a tiny cafe in Ampus, it continued in fits and starts. By the time we had arrived at the base of Big Climb #2, we had lost all desire to continue further. We found a cute, cheap (by French standards) pension in Montferrat and watched French TV in hopes that osmosis might force a little more of the language into the void between our ears. My favorite program was on trained circus cats. Their tricks sucked eggs compared to the trained dogs on the show, but I enjoyed the arduous, intricate, pointless effort involved in the training. Sisyphus would smile.

Samedi, despite feeling quite spry on the climb to Comps Sur Artuby, we quit while we were ahead and made early camp in the cheap municipal camping (only 7€!). After all, the trip through the gorge was supposed to be the most taxing leg of the randoneé.


Outside comps


The jury unanimously returned the verdict: delicious

Costa Brava

After some bike fixing, food buying, late sleeping, internet using, and being kicked out of a nicer restaurant for trying to change into biking gear in their bathroom, we headed out of Toroella and promptly got lost. After an hour of repeatedly asking directions from randos on the side of the street, we ultimately ended up on the wrong road in the right direction. It was one of those roads that was too wide and straight for cars to want to slow down in anticipation of obstacles in their path, but not quite wide enough for one bike + two cars. We quickly tired of the rapid traffic buzzing our shoulders, and took a detour on more quiet roads.

Happy to find a less busy road (with goofy glasses)

From bikinggirona

The coastal winds on the Costa Brava kicked up. Pedaling our loaded bikes against walls of headwinds coupled with more than a few detours due to not having sufficient maps landed us near Empuria Brava in late afternoon. We found ourselves blocked by a newly formed river over the road. The wet ford looking unappetizing, we headed to the signed camping to ask directions, and decided to stay the night. I am beginning to think that wrong turns in the Mediterranean only bring unexpected delights.

"Dangerous Currents" blocking our passage

From bikinggirona

The view from our beach side campsite. Note the Rosé in the water cage.

From bikinggirona

Wednesday we began our climb into the Cap de Creus on the easternmost part of Spain's Mediterranean coast. I soon remembered how different meters are from feet, as the 400 m climb to the pass with a loaded 50 lb bike quickly dropped me to my lowest gear. I was passed by several Frenchmen yelling "Bonjour" and "keep up" as they blew past me in race kit. I was barely able to mutter a hurried salutation before they were out of view.

When I caught up to Andrew near the top, he had a huge smile, and said proudly "I passed two racers and was complemented by a French man." Which, yes, is a pretty big deal in this land overrun with bikers training for great races.

View from the Top, road to Cadaques

From bikinggirona

We topped out to amazing views and the scenery kept coming all afternoon as we dropped from the road to Cadaques into a line of tiny towns linked by fun, banked turns. I could have ridden those roads forever.

Self portrait attempts on fast and fun roads through northern spain

From bikinggirona

The riding was so fun, it was tempting to continue on into France, but being advised of the type of roads past Llança into France by several bikers, we decided to take a quick local train across the border.

By early evening we were wandering the deserted streets of Cerbere, searching for a place to spend the night. In the window of the closed tourist office, we saw a flyer for municipal camping. Using our very minimal French with much hand gesturing, we were able to find out that the camping was a few kilometers out of town on the right...so we headed off in the direction we had been pointed.

Arriving to a closed appearing registration station, we were bummed. But hadn't we seen campers in the distance across the water? We continued down in good faith, and sure enough, hidden on the cliffs, we found a city of squatters/campers. Again using our jibberspanishfrench we found out that the camping was free for however long we would like to call it home. We pitched our tent and cooked dinner with a mindblowing view of the sea. Free squatting privileges with such a view...France you've got my heart.

feral flowers at camp

From bikingFrance

not too bad for a free campsite

From bikingFrance