September 20, 2011
Switzerland to South Africa.
This morning, I met Swiss cyclist Maurizio. I was coming down the hill from Carcassonne's medieval citadel and he was granny-gear pedaling his big touring bike up. To me it looked as if he had started very early and was arriving to stay, but no, he told me that he was setting off today and was only cycling up to the citadel to take photos. He said that he was cycling to Gibraltar and then on to Cape Town via West Africa.
But won't it be hard acquiring visas for some West African countries, I asked him. "No. I'll get the visa for the next country as I progress in the capital of whichever country I'm in" he replied, going on to say that he thinks Angola will perhaps present a problem, so he envisages flying from Kinshasa in the DRC to Windhoek in Namibia. He seemed determined to succeed and good luck to him. I left him to take his photos as I was anxious to get out of Carcassonne.
South of Carcassonne, it was steady bumper to bumper, cars and trucks. And although a D road, a five kilometre section was autoroute; barred to cyclists, so I'd to turn off and find an alternative. The alternative took me well to the west before turning south, well out of my way, but was a pleasant meandering road across tranquil countryside. If only I had had a bigger scale map, I could have been riding on these lesser-known roads all the time, but at the same time, the big roads take me directly to my gold which then was to cross into Spain within two days.
I wasn't sure where I was, apart from the sun and the blue outline of the Pyrenees being on my left. I came to a crossroads and upon a post with signs pointing onwards, backwards and right, was a sign that pointed down the road to the left, upon which was Limoix, a place on my map and also back on the direct route south. So cycling left, the road rolled on with few cars disturbing the tranquility, passing vineyards, fields of maize, pasture and wooded hills; then rounding a bend, I saw ahead of me, the D road again with the cars and trucks swishing pass in both directions.
French roads rarely have a shoulder and this road was no different. At lease French drivers all slow and give cyclists sufficient space when passing. And so it was all morning; the road was narrow and Is forced to ride tight against the edge; and for much of the way, the road passed under leafy canopy; between straight rows of trees.
There were in lots of places, roadworks with trucks and big yellow machines building a new carriageway, in effect turning the road into a divided highway; and, all villages had newly finished bypasses; but all the road widening and improvements stopped on the final section to the town of Quillan, which passed through a narrow valley closed in on either side by steep rocky crags.
The afternoon saw a great improvement as most of the traffic continued toward the city of Perpignan whereas my road split-off and switch-backed it's way up through the pine trees above Quillan. On the way up, I paused and rested a couple of times, looking back down upon the town's orange tiled roofs and church tower amid the surrounding pine clad hills. Around three o'clock, I rode up through and underneath the shuttered windows of a little place called Courdon, and a kilometre further, the road leveled out and I paused again at a sign which read "Col du Courdon 1253m".
The road dipped down a little and then leveled out at the head of an upland valley; at which point, there was a rest place with a picnic table where I stopped for a late lunch. Cycling on, the road meandered along the valley pass lush hay meadows with rows of round bales, fodder saved for a long snowbound winter; a fertile plain bordered by wooded hills; and further still, there were cultivated fields with crops of Lucerne and others with tractors ploughing, slowly labouring across from the road, turning yellow stubble over and leaving a growing band of straight fresh brown earth furrows.
On the outside of a village, I stopped at a walled cemetery. A caretaker led me in through the gate and pointed out a water-tap where Is glad to fill up on water. The village street was alive with children as I rode through to the start of another climb, which wound it's way up an east facing slope in cool shade pass diminishing pine trees; then cresting the col and riding on and through a little place of a few houses and a church, I cycled on further on a little road in a mountain bound upland landscape until a lone grove of dwarf pines. The grove had a track up one side of it. It led to a hay meadow which folded down and around the grove's other two sides, where I pushed the bike into and found a place to pitch the tent tucked in alongside the trees.
While a quad-bike ripped around rounding up sheep two fields below me, I cooked up pasta and then lay on the ground propped on my arm eating. I most have slept when I'd finished as the next I knew was the church bell clang, clang, in all seven times it echoed through the valley; seven o'clock and one hour till dark.
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