The Ride

This isn't actually my bike as it is too big. I found it at the top of a mountain

1.

I had been climbing steadily for the last two and a half hours up a mountain in the Jura region of France, 50 kilometres north-west of Geneva as the crow flies, when my bicycle rounded a bend and the road plateaued for the first time in what seemed an age. It was with some triumph and some relief that I flicked my gears out of the lowest three of the twenty-four settings for the first time since starting out that morning and cast a glance over my right shoulder at the mountainside that I had just conquered. I had had some indication that a change was imminent from the graffiti on the road a kilometre back - Go Lance Go! You are now leaving the American quarter. Have a nice day - but the satisfaction of having overcome yet another of what was surely a very few remaining obstacles on my path to Geneva came suddenly and felt good. I hadn’t done it quickly and I’d said some truly filthy things to the hairpin turns on my way up, but I was done and, for now at least, was sitting on top of the world.

I continued along the ridge for a pleasant while, perhaps twenty minutes, during which I wondered how far it could be to Mijoux - the town I had planned to find some lunch in - and what wonderful local produce could be found there. I had not had a really great cheese lunch for a few days (having recently discovered the delights of crepes) and, seeing the dairy cows filling the passing fields, I began to hanker for something strong. Maybe a blue cheese. Maybe even a small, smoky chevre might be nice with a fresh baguette that would surely be waiting in the boulangeries that would be reopening now, after their apparently mandatory, country-wide, two-hour break in the middle of the day. Perhaps there would be market and I could get fresh fruit. Who knew? I wondered what days they had markets around here, but then, realising that I couldn’t remember what day it was, concluded wryly that an answer to my question wouldn’t have got me far anyway. As ever, my only option was to ride on and find out when I got there.

Mountainous regions in the Parc du Jura near Switzerland

After a few short kilometres though, I was brought back to the present moment as a sharp left turn hugging a cliff-face signaled the beginning of a steep decline in the road. I rolled down the incline with a furrowed brow and after a few minutes concluded that the decline was not going to cease any time soon and began, once again, cursing the road in the foulest language, taking time to articulate in detail the depraved intentions I held for each of its family members. I knew there were at least 45 kilometres of road between myself and my destination for the day, the village of Gex, which would be a sizable, but manageable, task on good flat road, but to climb that distance was a different thing altogether. I squeezed on my breaks to complete the first of many hairpin turns with a heavy heart and sagging shoulders, reflecting that, on a bike in the mountains, what goes down must surely come up.



2.

I had seen on my travels maybe half a dozen castles, the odd cathedral and abbey, some really super natural spectacles - waterfalls, mountains and cliff formations - not even to mention the beautiful and elegant towns and countryside, when I began to feel the need to unwind a little and spend some time really relaxing, or did I?

Chateaux de Sully

Not that life was difficult in any way, mind you. I would wake at maybe 9:30 or 10 each morning and, after taking down my tent and loading my pack, I would find a boulangerie to have some breakfast. My day would then consist of perhaps five hours of leisurely riding, interspersed around a couple of hours of exploring the landmark or two I had chosen for the day, before seeking out a place to sleep.

Fontenay Abbey stands out (Or Does It?). I remembered it vividly from my childhood memories, though I had called it Redwall Abbey back then and it was inhabited by woodland animals wearing clothes and having adventures. It was all as I had imagined - the grand chapel, the serene gardens. Even the pond harvesting hundreds of big, fat trout was there.

And the Chateaux de Sully was great. The family living in it had been there for some hundreds of years, at least since the the French Revolution, they claimed. Apparently an ancestor, the Duchess living in the castle at the time, had died at an inopportune moment. However, a clever servant preserved her corpse in whiskey and propped her up in bed whenever the revolutionaries came by, thereby managing somehow to stop them sacking the castle of its owner and possessions and keeping the family’s fortunes intact. (Or Something. It’s All A Bit Hazy!)

But after a week or two of this I wished simply to relax and unwind. To speak English for once. So I decided to see a movie (AT LEAST I THINK I DID). But the only English movie showing was Inception, which I’d already seen (PERHAPS!) And it was only showing in French. So I had to see it in French. Which was ok and I could follow it, but really only because I’d seen it before (OR WAS IT ALL A DREAM AND I ONLY THOUGHT THAT I HAD SEEN IT BEFORE!!!???!!!)

This is a maze I actually got lost in

3.

Finally, the people were lovely. I remember only one occasion when someone pretended not to understand my French. I had asked where a boulangerie was. He explained that he couldn’t understand me, but before I could repeat myself, the woman standing next to him (presumably his wife) smiled and told me that it was just around the next corner.

Everyone I spoke to in cafes and bars along the way took great interest in the whole trip and went out of their way to tell me nice places to visit and give me directions to get there; the couple of farmers that I asked had no problem with me camping on their farms; and even the waiter who served me  a lump of raw mince, accompanied by a raw egg-yolk and some raw onion (also known as ‘tartare traditional’) was faultlessly graceful in his explanation of how the dish worked. (Basically, you mix it all together and eat it. It’s actually really good.)

Yet another great looking French town

But one act of kindness stands out. I had arrived in the town I was hoping to camp in late for some reason and had hoped to get some bread to go with the cheese I had bought for dinner. The boulangerie was already closed and the patisserie was out of bread, so I rode on. I came upon a creperie, and, while the door was half-shut and the place was clearly closed, there was someone still cleaning up. I asked the girl there if she had any bread I could buy and she came out a moment later with three quarters of an old baguette, which she gave me for free. We had a chat for twenty minutes or so (in English) at the end of which she opined that it was really too cold for camping (which it was) and that, seeing as her brother was away anyway, I should stay at her place, which I did. Had a great time and being inside and in a bed after those couple of weeks of being on the road was just marvelous.

Very, very generous.


Best to all,

Michael



Post-script: For those that would prefer a more direct approach, click this link for a map of the route.

(It looks much nicer if you click on the tab on the top-right of the map called 'More...' and then select 'Terrain'.)

I would have liked to have posted up photos taken along the way, but the task is apparently beyond me.

Distance traveled was somewhere close to 747 kilometres over 15 days, which comes to a pretty casual 50 kilometre per day average.