Books to Beer in Provence: Peyruis to Arles.

July 26, 2015

I slept without hearing a sound in my roadside picnic area campsite. The only other overnighter is a campervan.

It is a meandering seventeen kilometre, uphill initially from the wide valley of the river Durance to Forcalquier, where the Intermarche by the roundabout is open Sunday morning. I top up on a few lunch items and water before tackling the stiff climb into the hilltop town centre. Having been here back in March, the bike seens to have got much heavier in the interim. Perhaps because then it was cool, so I was not carrying water and I wore warm clothes. Now those clothes take up extra space in the pannier.

Today the square is filled out with a Sunday book market. Convenient, because I'm looking for something to read. There are Fredrick Forsyth and P D James amongs others, all in French translations. I take a few photos and look around more and do come upon a stall with a whole crate of English language books, some of them pretty ancient. Lots of sixties detective novels. There's "Sense And Sensibility" No. "Bilingual Columbo" I am going to buy, as I find Leutenant Columbo hilarious; and it would be interesting to see the French translation of the text. But I settle for "The Frontiersmen" an historical narrative on early contract between "Trapper" as they were called of European origin and native Americans. Basically the New England colonies to the United States' westward expansion from 1750 on, through journal accounts. The book was first publish in 1967 and this looks like a first addition, as the page edges are yellowed by age.

The D4100 onward, which changes to D900 entering the department of Vaclues, rolls through quintessential Provence, with lengthy straights through avenues of thick trunk trees and pass sunflowers fields. Before Apt I join "Velo Route Cavaillon", a cycle path I'm on for the greater part of the day and which I came along in the opposite direction in March.

I aim to reach Pont Julian to lunch and arrive there shortly after two where I remain sat in the shade of a sapling until four.

Although it is thirty-five degrees, there seems little humidity and there's often a westerly breeze, so the climate's very pleasant. Though by late afternoon I'm feeling thirsty without much other than warm water-bottle water to drink. The final dozen kilometres to Cavaillon is on the road and when I reach the town centre, I stop at a café and order a large glass of beer. The Tour De France is on the TV screen and I relax and watch.

Beer drank I have a café cream as the action hots up and a man inside the crowd-barrier rings a bell at riders passing to begin the final lap up the Champs de Lyssee. I ask for how much I own: the server replies "Neuf heuros et quatre-vinq" What?

Though in reality, nine euros eighty, is seven pounds: in Ireland UK, you'd pay about the same for a pint of beer and a milky coffee.

There is a nice cycle-path out of town, which then ends and I'm on D99 toward Saint Remy, a busy straight shoulder-less road, much of the way enclosed in tree avenue; and it being after seven, there's houses and farms at regular short intervals just as I feel like finding a camp spot. But having checked the Michelin map, there's a left turnoff, D24, which passes through a green patch on the map, denoting woodland.

When on this road there's still large country houses with large walled gardens for a frustratingly long way as I ride toward chunky hills that enclose the valley. But eventually these end abruptly and there's a block of woodland just before reaching the hills.

Disaster strikes though when I've ridden in a track and found a nice level clearing and start putting the tent up. There's a sudden unexpected cracking snap when I've flecked a pole to put the end in it's hole, holding the pole in a hoop supporting the tent. There's the familiar elbow of a broken tent-pole sticking out on the opposite side. I've nothing to repair it, so have to make do with a saggy low roof tent for tonight.

Well, at least it is good weather so the tent isn't all that critical: it'd be misery if it were raining. Tomorrow I'll be in Arles, where I can find a spare pole.

Monday

The tent looks quite normal inside lying down. Then when I sit up, the lack of headroom is apparent. It's depressing to look at. Nevertheless, it is only temporary, as I'll be able to fix the pole today.

The sun is an orange light breaking over a ridge seen through a gap in the trees. And there's a rake of crimson circa above the treetops. The vines and the peaks to the southwest (the campsite clearing is on the edge of the woodland) are vivid colour, green and grey rock. The start of another blue sky sunny day which the region is noted for. On the road at half seven, it is already twenty-five degrees and climbing. Dry with a soft breeze: pleasant.

This D24 is a great discovery. Off the busy arrow straight tree-avenue D99 to Saint Remy, quintessentially provincial. Instead this quiet road meanders by rows of vines the remainder of the way from my campsite to the valley-side hills where there is big round pine tree forest as I climb.

I am passed by a mountain bike, then meet a cycling club of four riders sweeping down.

Soon I cross the summit and descent abruptly and leveling out, come to a tee where I turn right upon D17, the sign pointing to Arles. This road is flanked by more vines and there's a range of hills ahead, which, the road appearing flat plain, is steadily tilted towards. It takes an age to reach those hills, but on getting there, the road swings left to flank them and shelter is provided from the wind.

I meet a Dutch cycle-tourer sitting in the square having a coffee in the picturesque village Maussane Les Alpilles. I've got to mention that while sat here, the place looked familiar before it dawned that I've been here before. I stopped for coffee on a Sunday afternoon when passing in March last year. Anyway, the Dutch cyclist is just like me: been on the road four months, having ridden from the Netherlands to Portugal and is now on his way back up. Says he covers sixty kilometres per day and takes no more than one day off in the week. When I counter with "I normally like to ride ninety" says, "I'm sixty-five years old!" I laugh and say I'm catching up on you. He didn't look a day over fifty.

It is another fourteen kilometre to Arles through tree avenues and flanked by vines, the last few kilometres on the busy north-south D570, which has a wide shoulder and passes through a series of roundabouts; one with a right exit sign, "Arles Nord". There are quite a few roundabouts before I see a sign for "Centre Ville" that I begin to wonder have I passed the city.

The centre is so packed with Summer holiday makers, that I think any hostel will be fully booked. My first stop is a small Spar supermarket for a cold drink, then the tourist office where the girl therein marks the A J (French Hosteling Association) on a city-map, in a quiet street a few minutes ride away. She tell me they don't open until five in the afternoon; and, as it is only noon, I've plenty of time to sort my tent out. I saw a sign for Decathlon on the way in, so I ride back, but see a sign for a hypermarket first, which may have camping gear, leading to a huge commercial park. Around a net of service road and car-parks are, an Intermarche, an Immobiler (furnisher store), a Toys R Us, a bike shop (closed, it being a Monday) and best of all, an Intersport; in which, I find a similar tent-pole to my broken tent-pole: the only thing I need is a hacksaw to trim it to size, which I buy in Intermarche; and do the repair in a quiet spot in the car park.

When I go to the hostel at five, I find contrary to my belief, it being Summer, there wouldn't be place, there are only a few guests. Another worry I had was a notice on the door saying "Members Only" whereby I'd have to buy a membership card, adding more expense. But the young man receptionist is cool, saying "no thet don't manner" speaking English with a hint of Kiwi. He told me he lived in New Zealand for a year.

So I'll be here a few days getting the journal up-to-date and giving the bike an overhaul, as well as some sightseeing.

The next stretch will take me well into Spain.