Get out and pass go. (The malaise of the busy urban landscape.)

September 14, 2011

Today is get out of Avignon day: a day on busy roads, flat monotonous, urbanized, and yet more tourists. The sun is nice though, as long as I keep moving and don't spend too long stopped out of the shade.

But starting this morning. My newly fitted brake caliper made an annoying squeal, whereas during yesterday's test-ride, it was silent. I had made sure that, the caliper had been correctly centred over the disc (rotor) on tightening the bolts; and I cannot see how it can have shifted overnight. Anyway, I didn't want to be stopped and fiddling with it at the side of the street, so I let it pass, assuming it would work itself out. This assumption proved spot on, as later in the morning, the rubbing noise had all but disappeared.

Cycling over the bridge and through Avignon's narrow streets, I saw on checking the city-plan, the big street outside the city walls which rings the ancient citadel; along which, are gateways, or ports, connecting the old-town to the urban sprawl all around; and it was through, Port Saint Michel, that I planned on cycling out through, as the road opposite went south in the direction of Arles. But, any street I rode on leading directly to Port Saint Michel, was against the flow of the traffic, so I reverted to riding on the pavement, which was better, as it saved riding on rough cobbles and uneven bitumen streets. In any case I didn't need another city-tour.

It's funny, how when riding on the pavement, that quite a few pedestrians step kindly to the side, while others seemingly don't notice and which I swing around; and, there's always the one that no matter how you try to avoid them, step in your way, causing you to halt abruptly. Excusing myself politely, Pardon moi, I start again and eventually reach, Port Saint Michel, pass through and across the big street ere the green pedestrian lights changed and rode south: the road to Arles and as earlier hinted at, nothing much to write home about.

Arles, remember is where Van Goth lived and somehow conjures up a romantic, fairytale images, but reality strikes on reaching yet another sprawling concrete city. The out of control population growth of the modern world, has encroached on what perhaps, in the painter's lifetime, was a balance between nature and humans. The old town core, dating from Roman times, is now besieged by overweight European and American tourists with their cameras and electronic handsets.

Is absolutely famished on reaching the shade of the rustic narrow streets at ten thirty: not a good way to be as prices here are astronomically steep. At a boulangerie, that Is glad to find, a small portion of quiche was one Euro ninety, a vanilla tart one ninety and a can of coke, one sixty. In other words, five Euros forty for a takeaway snack; not a meal.

Outside the Boulangerie, I put the brown paper bag in my helmet hung on the handlebar and rode slowly along the cobbled street to the corner where I turned uphill, got off and pushed up to where all the brightly dressed people where at, by the ruins of an old temple with barriers and railing to keep back the hordes. Up along the other side of the steep street, where stalls of craft and souvenirs and stands selling post cards. I found a place to sit and eat, on the bottom step of a stepped alley-way going up. Lots stopped and pointed their lens up this alley and shutters clicked, for what I thought; perhaps, the famous Dutch artist lived in a house in this street, Is thinking. A seller from the stall on the corner next me, said something to me. I politely replied, that I don't speak French, but he began speaking English. I said, this is a special street while running the palm of my open hand over the cobbles next me. I thought he'd tell me the tourist significance of the street. Did Van Goth live here! But his conversation went a different way. "Before we discovered petroleum", he said, "all streets were like this" (cobblestones). I didn't ganer why so many stopped and photographed here and after five minutes more in which I finished off, he bid me bon voyage, having failed to sell me an overpriced souvenir. Further up and around the corner, where more ruins; an amphitheater from Roman times.

I needed to be on the road again as I still had quite a way to go and, I wanted a coffee. I cycled back down the hill and turned unto a busy thoroughfare of the chaotic modern city, whereupon I lent the bike outside and took a seat under the awning of one of many restaurants along that side of the street. The coffee soon turned into wanting to eat lunch before leaving, having seen the food on the neighbouring table and feeling hungry again, so I ordered a pizza and a quarter of wine. The bill was thirteen ninety, bringing the day's grand total in the region of twenty Euros: dear insofar as, I still had to buy cold drinks and dinner and that's not adding a possible ten to fifteen Euros for a campsite.

Back out on the flat road, pedaling a rapid tiresome cadence, I passed many a tree shaded picnic place and I wished I'd seen a supermarche on the way out of town. While passing a petrol station, I spotted lent against the window in the shade of the forecourt roof, four road bikes heavily leaden with panniers and built-up on the back with stuffed dry-bags, containing tents and all and also displaying Canadian flags. When They came out, they were French speakers and didn't speak much to me until we met again, twenty kilometres further, outside a supermarche, where we'd the usual hungry cyclists picnic while talking about food, France and the road.

This evening, I thought it may be difficult finding a place to stealth camp, but, there's a canal, "Canal du Rhone et Sete" alongside much of the route now, where I've found a level patch in off the towpath hidden among scrub. Not the most ideal of places, but the view is across a tidal lagoon.

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