To the Roman engineer in charge of these things: I must insist you return and fix your bridge. It has fallen into disrepair and is ill suited for bicycles. Further, the track approaching it is muddy and my shoes are quite slippery. Aside from the “pont romaine”, the route was well considered. Concerns of traffic along the D4, through the Gorge Hérault, were unfounded. The gorge, and the medieval village of St Guilhem le Désert, were empty. I encountered perhaps a dozen cars in my first forty kilometers. Concerns of the weather, from my advisors, were also unfounded. A cyclist warned of the wicked winds of Hérault, and the baker said it looked like rain. Weather forecasts are the randonneur’s paradox. We want to see them, such that we prepare appropriately. But looking risks not liking what we see, and dissuading us from starting altogether. Not an option today anyhow. I allotted two hours to “café time”, a category that encompasses cafes, photography, and sitting on stone walls contemplating other stone walls. I had one hundred and twenty five kilometers to cover and, depending on one’s perspective, squandered or deeply appreciated half of it within the first twenty kilometers. The Col de La Cardonille was reached along the only busy road of the day Lunch, the plat du jour requested sight unseen, was a rich, sweet crock of stewed beef, mushrooms, confit onions, and fried lardons. At my request the proprietor noted down the name as “Carbonade Flamande”
The courtyard of Hôtel Le Mosaïque promised a warm sunny day, but having exited the sheltered streets of Narbonne I was greeted by a strong cold wind against my side Accessible by a rough dirt track, or had I known of it, a road from the far side, three windmills sit on the ridge separating me from Nissan-lez-Enserune. That hardly a breeze blew up there felt something of a slight given the structures at hand and the cold sweeping through the valley below. Like windmills on a ridge, a medieval castle in the middle of a town warrants investigation. Visible over the tremendous ramparts, a handful of new windows have been installed on the top floor. Lights are lit within. There is no name, nor historical record, on any of its four sides, just a simple “PROPRIÉTÉ PRIVEE”. Above the roofline, a canon points over the village. Emerging from a patch of forest, a man stands smiling, eyes my panniers, and watches me pass. On my right: A fifteen foot tall fresco on the side of a barn depicts a woman and her cat.
Olive trees, cypress, almond blossoms and vineyards. I grabbed a handful of rosemary to enjoy the scent. A woman walked along the road with a handful of wild asparagus. I paused in Tautavel, near the bottom of the gorge for a coffee. I didn’t need the caffeine, but the cafe is lively and I could savor the morning a bit longer. The gorge is cold, but the sun here is warm Sunday is no day to arrive early to a French city. I spied a small road warning large vehicles to steer clear. My small vehicle would be fine. I’d gain 10km and the Col du Canteloup. Below, in the vineyards, the boar hunters in their orange vests and caps. They wave, I wish them “Bon chance!”. The Garmin will ensure I’m not lost, but I can turn off the screen and pretend. Approaching Narbonne, the village of Bages perches on a hill, small boats dragged ashore below, and just out of reach of my lens: Pink flamingos.
So yeah, I’m relocating from Instagram. It was all bike stuff over there anyway… I departed late this morning having visited the market for fruit, and a chicken thigh to pair with the chunk of bread my host had packaged as fortification. She also supplied a bit of sour jam made from the bright yellow Mimosa trees that dot the hillside, and are indeed related to acacia Cars, bikes, and medieval, are the bridge options for leaving Ceret. I chose the medieval bridge as it would take me under the bicycle bridge and into the hills. The snowy peaks would loom around every corner of the day. Three cols before lunch, though 2 unmarked as the dirt road passes are rarely signed. The road down from Col de Puig is steep, rocky and rutted as it ducks in and out of the forest. But it’s also quiet. It’s just me and the boar hunters out here today. I paused for lunch in the park at Montauriol. Unwrapping my still warm chicken made me exceptionally popular with the band of feral cats that had taken up residence behind the mairie. Another dirt spur took me through Col de La Roca, not far from Castelnou, one of France’s many “plus beaux villages”. And beaux it was, but as I’d neglected to change shoes, I chose not to wander too far up its steep, cobbled and cleat incompatible lanes.
Crossing the Pyrenees in February is perhaps a questionable idea, but the cyclist I flagged down on the way up said it was clear, save for a bit of mud after crossing the border. Stopped for a bacon sandwich at a cavernous, and empty, social hall, where they proceeded to play the entirety of my 7th grade school dance playlist. Mr Big, Lump, The Offspring. There were 4 deer today. That’s more deer than I think I’ve seen in Europe in my entire life. 3 Cols. 2 cats.
With next weeks impending Catalunya 👉 Provence transit ride, and the high likelihood of at least some rain over the course of the week, it was time to get the fenders on. The cobbles of Monells made a fine proving ground. This ride put me over 100k ft for the year.
Probably won’t have time for this one again. The climb from Angles through Osor is dotted with waterfalls, though most well out of reach. I had to hike for a bit to get to this one. Instead of descending straight out of town I took the switchbacked turn off to Joanet. I missed a few of the fun banked sweeping turns, but got in a bonus 400ft, so that’s a win, right? It threatened to rain all day. It never delivered, but slowly deposited snow on the next hill over.
Joined Jenn on the train to Aix en Provence on Friday and, despite one cancelled and one delayed French train, made it back to Girona in time for an afternoon ride. Needed a few more feet, spun up to the TV tower that hovers over Girona. These little yellow flowers have popped up everywhere since last week. They remind me of acacia, though smell of nothing.
Frosty morning in Osor, an old mining town up the canyon to Sant Hilaire. Döner and a table in the sun.
The last few miles are a thing. Views are on point though.
