Late Sat The 2nd to Sat 9th: After Aubenas to Carcassonne.

August 5, 2014

I am upset that I'd taken that wrong turn, as I would prefer to follow the river Rhone all the way south. Instead, now I'm going up towards low cloud and it's cooling down and after climbing through the town of Privas, it begins raining for a short while. It would just be wasting time though, if I'd taken the turning for Montelimar, twenty-five kilometres downhill, back on the Rhone, from the roundabout into town.

On the cycle-path before Privas I caught up with a beardy man cycling with his nine year old son. He told me there is a lot of climbing ahead. That I wouldn't make it to Aubenas tonight, which looks like a reasonable destination before dark, and gave me directions to the campsite in Privas. But it is only six o'clock when I'm in Privas. Too early to stop.

The climb is gradual; nothing more than seven per cent going on for around nine kilometres, with a final steep switchback to top out at over seven-hundred metres. Then the inevitable long descend with my cement mixer hub clicking noisily and the anxiety that the cracked spoke eyelet could go at anytime. Reminding me of an old western movie, where the wagons are chased by the Indians. And the camera closes in on the wedge holding a wheel on falling out. Everybody knows what's going to happen next. But the suspense is how far the wagon will carry on before the wheel finally comes rolling off and the wagon topples over. The crack in my rim is flexing open and close with each hard pedal-stroke. But when will it eventually go and I go from having a nice true wheel, to a wobbly wheel in which I can't use my rear-brake.

I make it beyond Aubenas, a town I didn't have to go through because I take the exit for Ales at a roundabout on the ring-road. The road south is like a motorway and I get off as soon as I leave the urban area and reach the first possible place to camp, which happen to be by a pine tree windbreak on the edge of an apple orchard.

Next morning hoping to get away early before I'm seen, but I'm hopeless these days at early starts. I'm still drinking tea in the tent opening at eight o'clock, when a white Citroen van, the kind French farmers drive, come trundling along the track behind the pine tree break and stops level with the tent. No surprises I've been discovered and I sit and wait to be approached while continuing to sip tea. I hear nothing. Then finish packing the panniers, reach them out and get out of the tent and straighten up. Then hear the car door shut, the engine start up and the Citroen starts reversing back along the track. It turns at a gateway and drives back the way it came. Could be the Citroen was there for some other reason unconnected with my tent.

The hub this morning sounds like roofers hammering on a tin roof, tap tap tap, especially going downhill, whereas going uphill the hub is unnoticeable. Then at a point the racket stops.

An Intermarche stop at nine thirty, nice to be stocked up on Sunday. Second breakfast; two pain au raisins followed by coffee outside the café. Ready for the day. Sixty kilometres straight to Ales, not too hilly, just one three kilometres long climb, then an even longer sweeping descend where I wave at another heavily loaded cycle-tourer plugging away on the other side coming up.

I make Ales in the heat of early afternoon and lunch in the shade of the same city park I lunched in back on that Monday in April. On Sunday the park is the place young couples hang out. Lots of beautiful young women with boyfriends all over them.

Its the usual urban spread of hypermarkets along the ring road, the tarmac radiating up the heat as I find the way onwards, thirsty and thinking of a cold drink, following the signs for Montpellier, then find the D road to Anduza, which when I get there, is full of holidaymakers, luggage-packed cars and campervans. A few old classic cars and motor bikers congregated by the curbs and pavement cafes full of people. I feel tempted to stop for that cold drink, but think better of it, as measures are so short, not enough to satisfy thirst. Instead I stop at a shaded picnic table on the way out, boil up warm water from the water bottle and make tea, a hot drink, though invigorating, which I accompany with fruit cake.

Today has taken me into the South of France proper, with scrub clad rugged hills. The next town I approach as the sun sinks low over those hills has a great open jaw backdrop and onwards to the next place, Gange, it gets to the point where the light is low and it is no longer safe to be cycling with the regular fast passing cars. A little investigation brings me to a farm track, the old road parallel, where I set up camp and remain sitting outside the tent reading my book by torchlight long after dark, when I hear a shuffling noise coming down a cutting bank behind me. It sounds like a pack of animals. Its too dark to see what. Then hear a pig grunt, so wild boars. I say shoo and hear whatever shuffling as they run off.

View from lunching in the shade of a park, "Jardin Public" in Ales. Back in April during my last tour, I lunched lunched here too.

From bridge over the Gard in Anduza, circa 1957. Photographer unknown.

The sky this morning looks like rain here in Gange, where I sit at an outside table over coffee, checking the Michelin map. There's straight on with a green line denoting scenic, though it looks mountainous, deviating torturously this way and that. And there's the road towards Montpellier, then off to Clermont de Henault. Both look the same distance.

The rain holds off and I end up taking the road to Montpellier, which turns out a delightful riverside gorge road until it turns away up a hideous hill. Cresting the hill then I descend into a wide plain rimmed with rugged hills. A bit like Mendoza. The road I want splits off at a village called Londres. A quiet road to begin with, then it joins with another where there must be a quarry in the vicinity, as I'm constantly passed by road-building material laden tipper-trucks.

The heat is stifling as I reach Saint Andre by the motorway intersecting. And my back is in pain, noticeable when I lift the bike over a high curb in order to take a shortcut into a Lidl car park to buy cold drinks. An incredible stabbing pain when I lift and I have to put it down quickly. I think I may've put my back out pushing the bike up a steep bank yesterday evening to get into my campsite, I slipped and reacted to save the bike from falling by twisting sideways suddenly.

There was lots of picnic tables in shade to the side around noon, a little early for stopping, but not now when I want to stop for lunch as I ride in the open service road parallel to the motorway. Its nice then to be riding a road through an avenue of trees. Eventually, stop in the shade of a church to lunch in a village a few kilometres before Clermont de Henault.

Foregoing the shade, taking the grapevine. Hot sun and strong wind is the shadow that ripens the wine.

Tree avenue roads providing shade, typical of the South of France. Actually I wish I'd taken more photos on this section; village arquitecture, with paint peeling old red Route National road signs on street corners.

Bike at rest in the shade during lunch in a place near Clermont de Henault.

I camped at a municipal campsite in a mountain valley, cost eight euros. I needed water is the main reason for a slip of frugality and the shower was reviving.

The next day I'm on the road at nine, knowing I'll have to cover a hundred kilometres to Carcassonne and a much needed rest day as my back is still killing me

I climb gradually all morning up the river valley to Pon, where I stock up at the village's small Super U. The way ahead looks difficult on the Michelin map. There is a choice of two roads, but both involve climbing out of this deep steep sided valley. Though, the yellow D road to Narbonne doesn't looks as serve as the other squiggly parallel lines road over the green area with light shade around the edge indicating a mountain massif, but this road looks to be a much shorter route to Carcassonne. Despite this, I choose the road to Narbonne, which turns out to follow a valley for a few kilometres, then winding up, though not too steeply.

Back in the low country and about thirty kilometres short of Carcassonne, I ride into a village, crossing a bridge over the Midi Canal. The quayside below, packed with people, is lined with cafes and painters claim available wall space to display and market their work. And I make my way down and indulge in a coffee by the canal side. Cyclists on all kinds of bikes pass with luggage loaded racks. It is pleasing to look at the tranquil canal water with flat land either side.

Street leading to middleage citadel in Carcassonne.

It being high-season and the Middleage Citidel milling with holidaymakers, I keep my fingers crossed the hostel won't be full, as I push the bike through the people up the cobble stone street to the hostel. There are plenty of beds when I get there, but the reception guy puts me up three flights of steep stairs on the second floor, something which is tiring as I'm supposed to be resting. I'm reminded of a cycle-courier work college once. Our office was on the third floor and he hated walking up those stairs after riding a bike all day. One day he commented "Eddy Merckx lived in a bungalow!"

The wifi is only available in one common room. This room is locked at night, but I didn't know. The first evening I sit down to update my journal and work away into the night. At 2 AM as I'm sitting with my computer on the table typing away, the miserable night-watchman appears in the doorway with a look that says it all. "When are you going to finish so I can clean in there and lock-up and get a few hours sleep before breakfast time". I'm obstructing his little world. I had a little world once, as I worked at night too and with few people around to supervise me, it was a very comfortable job, until someone from the office turned up and hung around the whole night, keeping me on my toes.

The next day I get to the bike shop. They replace the bearings and repack the hub as I wait. I think they may've done a good job, as the mechanic is in the work shop for almost an hour, giving me time to have a good look around the large showroom. I end up buying a nice fat (1.75) Continental touring tyre, to replace the skinny tyre I've on the front; which, is too thin for riding on bumpy city streets, where each deviation gives such a jarring. I've been out on the new tyre, which cushions me against such.

I'm well rested and no longer have any pain in my back. So I am off in the morning. Ryan the American guy sharing my room asks me, which way am I going. I answer, I don't know. I'll plan that tomorrow. Then say south. South of the border before the law catches up.

Today's ride: 304 km (189 miles)
Total: 3,143 km (1,952 miles)

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