Bonjour! J'aimerais avoir votre avis sur la planification de notre voyage de 3 semaines dans le sud de la France. Je voudrais m'assurer que ce n'est pas trop surchargé. Merci de me donner votre avis ou tout autre suggestion!
11 septembre : départ de Québec
12 septembre : arrivée à Nice + visite de Nice
13 septembre : Monaco
14 septembre : Nice + Menton
15 septembre : Cannes + Grasse
16 septembre : Fréjus + Saint-Tropez
17 septembre : Marseille (Port + Calanques)
18 septembre : Aix-en-Provence
19 septembre : Arles
20 septembre : Parc naturel régional de Camargue
21 septembre : Avignon
22 septembre : Nîmes + Pont du Gard
23 septembre : Montpellier
24 septembre : Narbonne
25 septembre : Carcassonne
26 septembre : Parc national de Cévènnes
27 septembre : Quelque chose entre le parc et Lyon
28 septembre : Lyon
29 septembre : Chamonix
30 septembre : Grenoble
1er octobre : Parc du Verdon
2 octobre : Nice
3 octobre : retour au Québec
Cycling Through Provence's Big Climbs
In the autumn of 2011, Provence was hit by apocalyptic weather—torrential rain and a particularly violent east wind, reaching 130 kilometers per hour, whipping up waves as high as seven meters. It wasn’t the best time to venture outside. Yet, I told myself that after the storm, calm would return. I kept an eye on the weather forecast and noticed that starting November 10th, a favorable window should open for a little 600-kilometer cycling trip across Provence. The weather reports promised a high-pressure system that would keep the bad weather at bay over these highlands. That was all I needed to decide to set off. The planned route would take me through Provence’s biggest climbs: Mont Ventoux, Montagne de Lure, the Verdon Gorge, the Massif des Maures, and Sainte-Baume.
And so, despite my doubts, the call of adventure was stronger. The train pulled away, and once again, a journey began at Part-Dieu station. This time, I headed toward Haute-Provence for a cycling adventure. It would be my first solo bike trip. I was a little nervous—cycling with panniers makes you feel vulnerable to theft. I’d already been robbed while traveling in a group in Peru, and that experience left me deeply shaken. Alone, I hesitated. But no need to panic—I’d read accounts from long-distance cyclists who hadn’t been robbed, even if it does happen sometimes. I was particularly thinking of a young schoolteacher who had taken a sabbatical to cycle around the world. Her students had remarked, "Teacher, you’re not sporty—how will you manage to cycle around the world?" This young woman was full of resourcefulness. In South America, before flying to China, she locked her bike to a post to take care of a natural need. When she returned, the post had been torn out, and her bike—along with all her gear—was gone. It was a shock for many, but not for her. She boarded her flight to the Middle Kingdom, bought the essentials (including a new bike) once there, and continued her journey! Remembering this story, I almost felt ashamed of my cowardice. These were the thoughts running through my mind as the Rhône Valley rolled by toward Orange, the starting point of my Provençal adventure through the big climbs.
Day One: Orange to Sault via Mont Ventoux – 90 km
9:30 AM, I stepped off the train. With all my gear, I had to navigate the underground passage—no easy feat, given that my bike and luggage weighed 35 kilos. At this time of year, I expected some areas to be deserted, so I’d packed enough to bivouac comfortably. Once outside the station, the southern light flooded over me. I understood why people dream of retiring in these sun-drenched regions. As always, after disembarking from public transport, I had to get my bearings and decide which way to go. The sun, still low on the horizon, pointed east. The roar of fighter jet engines helped me locate the Air Base 115. That was all I needed to "reset the gyros."
As soon as I started pedaling, all my apprehensions vanished. The joy of discovery and physical effort took over, and euphoria washed over me. It’s amazing how emotions can shift from one moment to the next based on seemingly minor circumstances.
The weather was splendid—the forecast had predicted continuous showers, but it was completely wrong. I quickly left the city behind. Mont Ventoux loomed mysteriously, its dimensions hard to gauge. It was even more enigmatic with its summit hidden beneath swirling, mottled clouds clinging to the ridges. It reminded me of a great South American volcano. I struggled to imagine that in a few hours, I’d be up there under that blanket of mist.
The countryside was shaking off its autumnal nighttime dampness. The vineyards, interspersed with tall cypress hedges, confirmed I was in the magnificent Côtes du Rhône wine region. The distinctive Dentelles de Montmirail were very much in evidence. The air force base wasn’t far. I passed the runway’s end markers. A Mirage 2000 flew overhead in a tight turn, followed by another roaring into takeoff. It came straight at me before climbing sharply with a thunderous roar. Thirty years spent in that captivating world came rushing back. I recalled countless extraordinary human and technical experiences from my time in the service. But the purpose of this post isn’t to promote the air force—though I might post some articles one day about travels among men at war.
I continued on my way, leaving my past loves behind. As I pedaled, delightful names rolled by: Violès, Vacqueyras, Gigondas, Beaumes-de-Venise—the crème de la crème of the Côtes du Rhône Villages appellation. I let myself be enchanted by the vineyards and the little paths crisscrossing them. I started to doubt my route, though the imposing mass of Mont Ventoux in the distance acted like a giant beacon. At a crossroads, a car appeared. I approached to ask the driver for directions, but she didn’t even look at me and sped off, clearly frightened. I’d almost forgotten what a fearful world we live in, no doubt traumatized by all the horrors we see in the news and on TV.
The kilometers started adding up, but was my day’s goal too ambitious? It had been two months since I’d last ridden my bike. True, my last trip had been good training—the Route des Grandes Alpes—but that was two months ago. I can’t just take my bike out for a day trip; I need that sense of adventure to find the courage to exercise.
Two cyclists overtook me. Intrigued by my load, they struck up a conversation. They were skeptical when I told them I planned to cross Mont Ventoux that day. One of them pointed out a small chapel near the summit where I could bivouac sheltered. That motivated me even more to reach the top on this first stage. The chapel also had a mythical name for me—Sainte-Anne, the name of my parents’ villa. It was already noon, and I’d covered 50 kilometers. Malaucène appeared—the sacred village of Ventoux’s mad cyclists. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any other cyclists today. I remembered this place in June, teeming with aspirants for the king of summits. Before tackling the climb ahead, I needed to refuel. I enjoyed a pleasant gastronomic break at Max’s. At 1 PM, I started the most famous climb in cycling—21 kilometers, which would actually be 23. I knew it would be tough, especially with two handicaps: 50 kilometers already in my legs and 20 kilos of luggage. But I was counting on my tiny chainring, which let me climb trees to tackle the steep ramps.
I set off at a brisk pace along a deserted road. My speed held up for the first few kilometers. I quickly rose above the valley, the horizon widening. I was surprised to see no one on this world-renowned route among cycling enthusiasts. During the climb and descent, I’d only see five cyclists—but I’ll come back to that. I passed a sign explaining that the effort would be roughly equivalent to climbing the Col de la Bonnette. Having done the latter in September, I figured I’d be fine. I crossed paths with my first cyclist—a woman speeding downhill. After 12 kilometers, I hit slopes averaging 12%. I don’t know if the number 12 is cursed, but I got such a "bamboo" hit that I’d never experienced before. I thought I wouldn’t make it to the summit today. I stopped. My thighs burned so much I could barely walk—lactic acid overload. I looked for a relatively flat spot to pitch my tent. It was 3:30 PM, with two hours of daylight left. But I found nothing.
I got back on my bike, intending to stop as soon as I found a good bivouac spot. But nothing came up. However, my strength slowly returned, perhaps because the slope eased, though it remained around 10%. I entered the summit mists. A cyclist overtook me. I was in the zone where I had to pass the summit. Dusk caught me in the final difficulties. The atmosphere was downright austere. In the twilight, a kilometer from the summit, a cyclist was fixing his bike. I asked if he needed help. He made it clear he didn’t understand. So I asked, "Do you need some help?" His answer was clear: "No, thank you." He showed me his new inner tube. Inside, I thought, "Phew!" If I’d had to stop, sweating in the falling night with the cold intensifying, I’d have struggled to get going again. But he managed, and I continued into the twilight fog. I could barely make out the summit’s large antennas in the clouds, like immense ghosts trying to evade sight. The bike delivered sensations worthy of mountain racing. My goal was to quickly find the famous chapel in the descent to take shelter. As I glided down the southern slope, two cyclists without lights crossed my path in the night—probably heading to the station above, its lights visible in the fog.
I scanned the roadside in the dark for the chapel but saw nothing. After a kilometer or two, I lost all hope. I stopped to put on more clothes as the cold became intense. I had no idea where I could stop on these steep slopes to set up camp. Between the swirls of mist, I could intermittently see the Rhône Valley below, dotted with illuminated towns and villages. The sight was striking. What was I doing on this mountain at night? Then the miracle happened—the clouds parted, and from the ridge above me to the east, a beautiful full moon emerged, casting enough light to consider a nighttime descent to Sault, 26 kilometers away.
In this eerie atmosphere between the moon’s pale rays and patches of fog, I began my descent through a hazy, almost unreal world. The Ventoux’s characteristic white scree reflected the moonlight faintly, dimmed by the mist. In places, entire mountainsides were plunged into complete darkness, and I lost all sense of the road’s path. Then, around a tight bend caused by a land shift, the light returned. It seemed extreme compared to the darkness I’d left behind. I could once again clearly see the road’s contours, though not its potholes or gravel patches. Still, I let the slope carry me, and the speed felt significant, though the low light prevented me from reading my speedometer. In these moments, concentration was at its peak—all senses alert, reflexes ready to react to the slightest incident that could lead to a fall.
I was relieved to see Sault’s lights growing closer. In less than an hour, I reached it, considering the final little climb that required one last push. This village, bustling in summer, was deserted at this time of year—almost dead. The first hotel I came across was closed. A quick shadow passed in a small sloping street. Before it disappeared into the darkness at a house corner, I chased after it and asked about accommodation options. Very kindly, I was directed to what was probably the only hotel open in November. I quickly found it, and the reception was open. I entered wearing my black balaclava, bought in the Ayacucho region—the birthplace of Peru’s Shining Path. At this late hour, I saw questioning glances directed at me. I prefaced, "This isn’t a hold-up." Clearly, the owners had a sense of humor—they started smiling. I took off my balaclava and asked for a room. No problem, and from that moment, the pressure eased. I really didn’t feel like going back out to find a spot to pitch my tent in the biting cold.
The stage had been nearly 100 kilometers, and it was the first. It had been two months since I’d touched my bike, and I probably lacked even minimal training, even though my last bike trip had been crossing the French Alps. I really had to dig deep to overcome my weakness on Ventoux’s steep section. I don’t remember ever having to search so deeply for the energy to keep going. I knew the stage I’d set for tomorrow was significant, with the climb up Montagne de Lure’s northern slope—Ventoux’s little sister, whose ascent is reputed to be endless, over 25 kilometers. I hoped this first day wouldn’t leave me too sore to avoid suffering excessively tomorrow.
For now, relaxation—a hot shower did me a world of good, followed by a good meal. I ate a delicious andouillette from Troyes, very fine, with a particularly successful herb seasoning. I loved it, and yet I’m from Lyon and pride myself on knowing a thing or two about andouillette—not just a sausage but a whole category! A bit chauvinistic, I had to admit, though reluctantly, that I found it better than the ones I usually eat in the Lyon region!
Day Two: Sault to Forcalquier via Montagne de Lure – 116 km
This morning, the weather was magnificent—the air clear, still, very fresh, and invigorating, as only the late season can offer on these Provençal highlands. In summer, they’re known for their scorching heat and drought, but often overlooked is how harsh they can be with cold and storms. Authors like Giono or Bosco described them and their inhabitants wonderfully in books like "Les Âmes Fortes."
The miracle of the night had worked. I wasn’t sore anywhere and felt in great shape. I set off well-equipped, but the effort and sun soon made me sweat. It was time to shed some layers—hat and gloves. A gentle warmth replaced the cold, making for excellent cycling conditions. On the road to Trinit, there was no traffic—only the occasional hunters’ cars parked in the distance. These vehicles were recognizable by their large cages, used to transport hunting dogs. Sometimes, the silence was broken by a distant gunshot. The deciduous forests were losing their foliage, taking on that dull brown hue of late autumn, though here and there, a tree or shrub still resisted, displaying vivid yellow or red. The meadows, their grass already scorched by the cold, were damp from the night’s heavy humidity. The low sun highlighted thousands of spider webs that had trapped insects during the warm season.
Behind me, Mont Ventoux dominated these vast spaces. As often, its imposing, stony summit was crowned with a blanket of clouds. What an impressive mountain—it’s always so hard to gauge its dimensions. I struggled to realize that last night I’d been at the summit and descended its immense southern ridge in the dark. I hoped to return one day in favorable conditions—daylight and no clouds—to enjoy the vast panorama from this unique summit.
Leaving the very Provençal village of Trinit, I tackled my first climb of the day—the Col de l’Homme Mort. The road rose moderately for five kilometers in gentle warmth. The view over the region widened, and I felt the sheer joy of pedaling. At a good pace, I overcame this first little challenge. Once at the pass, I couldn’t resist the ritual of photographing my bike in front of the sign, giving the name and altitude—1,213 meters.
The northern slope was austere and still in shadow. The cold bit again. The road was wet and covered with leaves in places. It wasn’t impossible that some treacherous patches of black ice lurked around a bend. I descended toward the Jabron Valley with caution. Suddenly, around a bend in a forest clearing, the freshly snow-covered Alps, gleaming in the sun, leapt into view, blocking the horizon. I thought I recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Écrins’ south face above a multitude of jagged peaks.
This snow and these mountains awakened a flood of memories of great joys, but I also thought of the guide and his client who had just lost their lives on the Grandes Jorasses’ north face, at the top of a route called the Linceul. The name comes from the face’s appearance—a great ice slope bordering the Grandes Jorasses’ north wall. It was first climbed by René Desmaison in 1968. He passed away a few years ago and, in his final wishes, asked that his ashes be scattered in the Dévoluy Massif at the foot of Pic de Bure, not far from here in these immense pre-Alpine folds.
At my feet, the Jabron Valley stretched almost endlessly east toward Sisteron. In the distance, the dark mass of Montagne de Lure’s north face loomed. This mountain shares similarities with Mont Ventoux. It has the same summit scree of bright limestone, the same forests climbing up to the final rocky stretch, and that blanket of clouds adding a secretive, austere touch to the scene.
I turned left past the town of Séderon and headed toward the little Col de la Pigière, which in a few kilometers allowed me to truly plunge into the beautiful Jabron Valley. I passed through several villages with charming local names—Saint-Vincent, Noyer-sur-Jabron. The river offered lovely views of its narrow gorges with clear, cold water. Autumn seemed less advanced here than on the plateau I’d just left. Many trees still wore brilliant colors, some revealing extraordinary hues—mixes of crimson, pink, and bright red.
Arriving in Noyer-sur-Jabron, I took a tiny road on the river’s right bank, leading in a few kilometers to the foot of Montagne de Lure. In the village of Valbelle, I picnicked on leftovers I’d brought from home—an old cheese and a somewhat stale loaf of bread. It was 1:30 PM. I began the long climb of about 25 kilometers. According to a friend who’s a cycling expert in the region, this section is tough. No wonder it’s called Ventoux’s little sister—the Mont Blanc of cyclists. The elevation gain on this side is still 1,200 meters, while Ventoux via Malaucène is nearly 1,600 meters.
I hoped to reach the summit before nightfall and avoid reliving a nighttime descent. The route wound through a vast forest, following the terrain’s folds. There was activity—mushroom hunters were busy searching for the coveted chanterelle. The climb, though never very steep (only one kilometer at 9%), was interminable. Though traffic was practically nonexistent, I was overtaken by a group of Harley bikers—I counted about forty. Perched high on their machines, hands in the air on wildly shaped handlebars, some with their feet nearly in the sky due to the high footpegs, they didn’t even glance my way. What’s this idiot doing, unable to ride a motorcycle and forced to climb these mountains on a bike with big bags! I wasn’t offended—real Harley purists often see other motorcyclists as renegades, so bikes are even lower on the totem pole! But I didn’t want to start a debate about motorcycles. In my youth, when I was a wild motorcyclist (22 accidents on two wheels), clans were divided into Japanese, German, Italian, and British bike owners. The latter, on their vibrating, oil-leaking machines, considered themselves the purest. But let’s not fight—there’s a statute of limitations, and it’s been nearly forty years.
As yesterday, a few kilometers below the summit, I entered the fog, and the light dropped suddenly. What a hostile mountain in these conditions! It heightened the sense of living an incredible experience. The conditions we encounter play a major role in how the adventure imprints on our memory. I realized once again that in France, you can feel like you’re very far away. Finally, after this very long climb, the Pas de Graille sign suddenly appeared out of the grayness. Strange! Below the sign, a kilometer marker indicated this same pass was over three kilometers away. Clearly, the climb continued. In these final kilometers through the scree, I gained another 130 meters of elevation. Finally, the road’s high point was reached—1,720 meters. It was cold and damp. I quickly covered up, added my balaclava under my helmet, and put on warm gloves. As I was about to start the descent, a car stopped at the summit, and one of the passengers was surprised to find a bike there in these chilly, twilight conditions.
A 20-kilometer descent led me to the village of Saint-Étienne-les-Orgues. I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. No such luck! Everything was clearly closed—no chance of finding shelter. Tonight was getting complicated. I already had exactly 100 kilometers in my legs and didn’t feel like pedaling anymore, especially at night. But I had even less desire to sleep outside. What to do to avoid it? The town of Forcalquier was 16 kilometers away—I hoped the road would descend. I set off in that direction. The first third was along a beautiful, lightly trafficked departmental road with a slight downhill—I pedaled hard. But it got tougher. I joined a busier road, and night had fallen. A several-kilometer climb finished the journey. I knew my magnetic lights weren’t very powerful—hence the danger. They were even less so on the climb because the slower I went, the less they illuminated. Cars coming the opposite way often saw me late and blinded me with their high beams. After passing, I was plunged into total darkness for a few seconds while my pupils readjusted to the night. I imagined those coming up behind me saw me with little warning, despite my slightly fluorescent jacket. When the roadside was clear, I always positioned myself to quickly jump off the road. But unfortunately, in this long final climb, a guardrail prevented any escape to the right in case of sudden braking behind me. That was even more anxiety-inducing since I was stuck at a snail’s pace. Time seemed long. I pedaled as hard as I could, on the verge of asphyxiation, trying to escape this dangerous situation as quickly as possible. My only reference point was the vehicles in front of me, letting me know the climb wasn’t over. Then suddenly, the ordeal ended—the road’s high point was reached. The town and its lights emerged from the void, and clarity returned. Phew! I glided down toward this little town bathed in light. On November 11th, I hoped to find an open hotel since I’d clearly exceeded 100 kilometers, and the idea of having to leave town to find a bivouac spot somewhat frightened me.
I arrived in the town center. Activity was low. The first hotel was closed, but I spotted a lit sign for another establishment further on. I headed there, got off my bike, and entered. The welcome was immediately friendly—a big cat came to rub against me. For me, that was a very good sign, and the first impression was confirmed. I still had to go out to eat. I covered the minimum distance. A restaurant advertised "Mom’s Cooking." I expected Provençal specialties, but they were Moroccan. I chose a delicious tagine with lime and olives, followed by almond and honey ice cream. Exhausted after this 116-kilometer stage, I returned to my room. As often after intense efforts, it was hard to fall asleep.
Day Three: Forcalquier to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie – 58 km
On this third day, due to the progress made yesterday, the stage would be short. I’d call it a transition between two mountain ranges. Indeed, the next big climb is the Verdon Gorge. I planned to position myself at its foot this evening in preparation for a tough stage tomorrow. I made a few purchases—bread, bananas, and medicine for stomach burns (the midday sausage wasn’t always kind to me). The weather was still perfect. The route began with a long descent toward the Durance. It’s always nice to start a cycling day with a downhill—it boosts morale and allows for a gentle warm-up.
I quickly reached the town of Oraison. Just at its entrance, I crossed the Durance, which still bore traces of last week’s heavy rains along its sandbanks. Indeed, numerous stumps and trunks were scattered along its vast gravel bed, along with less ecological debris like old tires.
A little south of Oraison, I took the D907, a small road heading due east between scrubland and meadows. There it was—the Provence we imagine. This stable autumn weather, with still air, neither hot nor cold, just a fresh feeling when emerging from a shaded valley or a slight warmth under the sun, was ideal for a cyclist. After about ten kilometers at the bottom of a small valley I quickly passed through, the village of Le Brunet appeared on the right. It clung to the slopes leading to the Valensole Plateau. A few steep kilometers along a tiny winding road, and suddenly a vast panorama unfolded as the climb ended.
What a magnificent plateau! Though known for its wind, luckily today was completely calm. Far to the east, the Verdon’s great cliffs blocked the horizon. This allowed me to contemplate part of tomorrow’s stage. This place is full of mysteries—many UFO and extraterrestrial encounter stories are associated with it. Moreover, for about thirty years, France hid its ground-to-ground nuclear ballistic missiles here, grouped in the 1st GMS (Ballistic Missile Group), under the air force. Naturally, these rockets fueled fantasies, and pacifist groups settled in the region to protest this type of armament. This gives many reasons to shroud this austere, deserted land in mystery.
I took a dirt path leading to the heart of this zone and stopped at the forest’s edge for lunch. The silence was total, the view stretched very far. But nothing strange or bizarre manifested. No Martian came to share my frankly moldy cheese, very peppery sausage, or bruised banana—sniff! I resumed my route, and as often when crossing places with strong character, I tended to slow down to enjoy them longer. The immense lavender fields stretched endlessly, not very fragrant at this season. I arrived at a group of truffle oaks protected by a fence, with large red signs warning "Firearm." Clearly, the war for the black diamond was raging in this region. I remembered a novel where an old farmer made buyers believe nothing grew on his land. Every year, he secretly stole the mushrooms from the unsuspecting owners. Then one day, they discovered the truth, catching this "polite" neighbor trying to hide a basket full of beautiful, large truffles!
In these vast spaces, I felt good—a sense of plenitude. It’s strange that I only conceive of cycling through wandering. I struggle to plan a day trip. And if I do, it’s highly likely I won’t get up. I need that sense of adventure to fully appreciate my physical effort. Maybe one day I should get psychoanalyzed, but at my age, it’s probably too late! Today, I had all the time in the world—the stage was half as long as yesterday’s, with very little elevation gain. Not a sound, an impressive calm, a beautiful landscape—I pedaled in a wonderful place. That’s probably happiness!
I reached the village of Puimoisson on the plateau’s eastern edge—only 12 kilometers left to Moustiers. I took my time, sat at a café terrace in the sun, and leisurely enjoyed a coffee while listening to the village come to life. I was delighted by these melodious southern voices, bursting into great laughter. There are places where, despite the anxieties caused by our debt-ridden, dysfunctional societies, some have decided to take life on the bright side and show a saving insouciance.
The rest of the journey was a simple formality—I let the slope carry me toward the pretty little town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, clinging to the cliff and famous for its faïence. Arriving early for once, I went to the tourist office to choose a comfortable hotel. Indeed, the Hôtel des Restanques was very comfortable and admirably well-located. But at this time of year, I’d have to return to the village center for dinner. The very kind receptionist reserved a table for me at La Treille Muscate, a restaurant with a magnificently arranged room on the church square. It was only 3:30 PM—I continued to take my time, showering and relaxing in front of the TV. Then I set off to explore—or rather, re-explore—this village I’d visited several times before. But I’d never climbed to its chapel perched in the middle of the great cliff towering over the houses. A stony, aerial path led there. The first mentions of the Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel, known in ancient times as Notre-Dame d’Entre-Roches, date back to the 9th century. It’s one of the rare "respite" chapels found in Provence. These are chapels where stillborn children were brought to be revived for a few moments, just long enough to baptize them. They could then be buried religiously, ensuring the salvation of their souls. I was also very moved by reading some ex-votos, like the one from "A mother for her three children returned from the war."
The place was impressive, especially as night fell. I was alone and watched the shadows fill the great cliffs above me. With an old climber’s reflex, I looked for possible climbing routes among these slabs and cracks. But climbing is probably forbidden here, too close to the houses. Then I descended to stroll through the village, admiring the magnificent, finely crafted faïence patterns found in many shops. Finally, dinnertime arrived, and I joined my restaurant, which had been highly recommended. I was delighted by the foie gras ravioli and the pieds et paquets—the chef’s specialty. I’ll come back with family.
Day Four: Moustiers to Fréjus via the Verdon – 122 km
A hearty breakfast prepared me for the day’s tough efforts. Next to me, four Chinese people chatted animatedly. Of course, I didn’t understand a word—it was a language with strange intonations and sounds. I left the dining room and prepared my bike on the terrace. Seeing the volume of my luggage, my Chinese friends rushed over and asked to take turns having their photo taken in front of this funny setup. All laughing, they took photos in front of what they probably considered a French coolie off on some trading business! When they show these photos to their relatives, they’ll likely be perplexed about what motivates some to travel by bike rather than car. For them, the car is a symbol of success—according to an article I read last year, 14,000 cars are registered in China every day!
This morning, the air was fresh. As yesterday, I started with a long descent, this time leading to the edge of Lac de Sainte-Croix. A strong, biting headwind slowed me down. It wouldn’t last, as it was generated by the gorge’s outlet, which I’d reach in a few kilometers. On this cold morning, the lake’s shores exuded great tranquility. The sun was still hidden behind the Verdon’s mountainous mass. Trees with yellow leaves stood out against the water’s pale blue. The bridge marking the gorge’s beginning at the lake’s edge was an ideal spot to admire this natural splendor. At this early hour, the play of light and shadow on the water and the immense cliffs delivered a grandiose spectacle in beautiful harmony. This first contact with the gorges, which I knew well, amazed me.
Once past the bridge, the wind calmed. A little further on, I began the long climb that would take me to the top of this immense natural gash, which water had taken millions of years to carve. I was in good shape and highly motivated by the splendors to come. First, I reached the village of Aiguines, which offered a magnificent viewpoint over the lake. Then I continued toward the Corniche Sublime, where countless breathtaking panoramas unfolded as I progressed. But the climb was sustained and long, requiring effort—though my small chainring worked miracles. I first passed the Col d’Illoire, already 500 meters above the lake. Seeing all these great cliffs, countless climbing memories came flooding back. The classic routes of the Escalès cliff, over 300 meters high, flashed by. Routes with legendary names—La Demande, Les Écureuils, Luna-Bong, and many others. The one that left me with the best memory was ULA—a crack, vertical or even overhanging, of sheer beauty rising above a 40-meter slab in one go for 280 meters of sustained, beautiful climbing on extraordinary rock. It made me want to return to climb there, to immerse myself in the atmosphere of those past times. But climbing habits have changed—now routes are accessed from above by rappel, and people don’t always bother to do these great climbs in their entirety, focusing instead on shorter but technically much more difficult enterprises.
At almost every bend, I stopped and scanned these great cliffs, searching for memories of past experiences and emotions in these secret rock folds. The road climbed well above the pass, exceeding 1,200 meters. It was cool, especially since I was sweating. Finally reaching the high point of the Corniche Sublime, I couldn’t gain speed on the descent—my gaze was always drawn to this astonishing canyon. Around a bend, two cyclists with funny small-wheeled bikes. Wow! It was a couple of Australians doing a year-long tour of France. We chatted passionately about our two-wheeled experiences for a moment. But time was passing, and if I wanted to reach Fréjus before nightfall, I’d have to pedal seriously.
I stopped at the Pont de l’Artuby, where bungee jumping was in full swing. But I quickly set off again toward Comps. The wind was against me, and it was climbing. I started to doubt whether I’d make it to the coast that evening. At 2 PM, I was in Comps-sur-Artuby. I didn’t stop, knowing that before reaching the coast, I’d have no alternative to bivouacking, and I had 70 kilometers left to cover. Sure, it should be downhill, but a few climbs were on the program. After a descent out of the village, I crossed the Artuby River again on the Canjuers military camp. A several-kilometer climb followed, fortunately not too steep. I took the D19 toward Barjols. From there, despite the late hour, I opted for a tiny road passing through Claviers, a small perched village. Time passed quickly, but the kilometers added up. I regained hope. Fifteen kilometers after this last village, I reached Saint-Paul-en-Forêt via a magnificent forested route. I had plenty of time to observe mushroom hunters. I asked one who clearly had some in a plastic bag. He gave me this hilarious answer with a magnificent southern accent: "I only picked the bad ones." No reply was possible. I moved on with a smile. A little further on, another hunter carried a basket. As soon as he saw me, he quickly hid it—just in case I saw what it contained. Arriving at the village involved a steep climb, and I was close to 100 kilometers. I still had a little over 20 kilometers to go before reaching Fréjus. The race against nightfall had begun. Over there to my right, I saw the sun setting behind Roquebrune-sur-Argens’ distinctive rock. The sea appeared. There it was—I was in Fréjus’ industrial zone. On this Sunday evening, traffic was heavy. Indeed, many had taken advantage of the return of good weather after very heavy storms to go for a walk. After quite a few detours, I arrived at the seaside just as night fell. My odometer showed 122 km for the day. I quickly found a simple hotel, ate just as quickly, and went to bed.
Day Five: Fréjus to Solliès-Pont – 92 km
Once again, the night had done its restorative work, and I prepared to cross the Massif des Maures feeling quite fresh. The weather forecast was still favorable for today, but a deterioration was expected tomorrow. I tended to trust it because the east wind was blowing, and in the region, that’s a sign of rain. For now, in the short term, this wind would be very useful—it would push me generously throughout the day.
I started calmly along the harbor quays, looking at the boats. Then I joined the road to Saint-Aygulf and followed the coast for forty kilometers to Port-Grimaud. All these seaside resorts—Saint-Aygulf, Les Issambres, Sainte-Maxime—reminded me of my youth when we spent all our vacations fishing, whether from shore, underwater, or by boat. Looking at the sea roll by, I knew what the seabeds looked like under that surface hiding them. The marine areas we knew best were now under the parking lots and commercial zones of Saint-Raphaël’s new port. In our youth, these infrastructures didn’t exist, and their construction came at the expense of coastal marine areas. Our wonderful fishing spots were permanently buried. I remember seeing the first big trucks that came to dump their loads of earth and rubble, destroying all those wonderful places—sandbanks, seaweed beds, groups of rocky holes teeming with fish that enchanted our youth. Over forty years later, I can still visualize them in my imagination under those parking lots and stores, with the names we gave them—my brothers and I: le casse-croûte, le casse-pipe, les montagnes, la digue, la grille, la mare à mulets, la petite-plage, le trou, etc.
Let’s not be overwhelmed by nostalgia. I left the coast and took the little road through the Maures to Collobrières. The route led from ridge to ridge following the terrain’s movements. At this time of year, the region was admirable. Due to the heavy storms of recent weeks, water was streaming everywhere. Waterfalls and streams murmured all along the way. I didn’t recognize the Maures, which I knew for their dryness causing apocalyptic fires. Indeed, around a bend, I came across a small rest area where a memorial had been erected for three firefighters who lost their lives here while fighting one of those gigantic fires fanned by the mistral.
This forest holds treasures—first, the cork oak, then the arbutus, chestnut trees, and of course, mushrooms that love this granitic soil:
The cork oak can be found all along the road. It’s the forest’s essential element. You can recognize it by its light bark (before exploitation), which forms large bulges along the trunk. But after exploitation, the trunks are much smoother, less voluminous, and dark in color. The arbutus is a large berry with red skin covered in small protuberances, growing on the arbutus tree. This fruit, common in Mediterranean areas, ripens in November. That means today, there were plenty around me. Its flesh is orange, with the consistency of firm purée, and it crushes softly in the mouth. The taste of this berry is sweet and excellent. I didn’t hold back—I gorged myself on them, which served as my midday meal. Sometimes I had to climb embankments to get them.
The chestnut tree, a true industry of the region, brings wealth to the surrounding villages. They make candied chestnuts, ice cream, and other products derived from chestnut flour. Be careful not to stop just anywhere to pick this fruit, as the tree owners might not agree. They even make this clear with signs and surround their chestnut trees with fences. Mushrooms—saffron milk caps and porcini—are highly prized in the area. I saw a few hunters, but it clearly wasn’t miraculous. Supposedly, there had been too much rain?
There’s no time to get bored along this little road, from which you can sometimes see the sea. I passed the Col de Taillude at over 400 meters. I began the descent to Collobrières, the chestnut capital, whose festival attracts many people. Before entering, about a hundred meters from the first houses, a cyclist—probably an agricultural worker—came toward me. As he passed, he cheerfully called out, "Go on, little guy! It’s almost there!" We both smiled. At the end of November, the village was cold and almost deserted. Dead leaves swept the wet streets of the town. You could feel winter on the way. I continued my route to Pierrefeu-du-Var, on the western edge of the Massif des Maures. So I gave my last pedal strokes in this pretty little massif so characteristic of Provence.
I looked for a hotel in Cuers but without success. I descended toward Toulon and finally found one on the outskirts of Solliès-Pont. It catered to people coming to work in the region, so nothing very bucolic. But if the weather were to deteriorate tomorrow and turn to rain, I could quickly reach Hyères or Toulon station, which was a significant advantage. Indeed, November rains aren’t usually very pleasant on a bike.
Day Six: Solliès-Pont to Cassis via Sainte-Baume – 85 km
This morning, contrary to the weather forecast, the weather was beautiful, and the latest bulletin seemed to contradict yesterday’s. So no escape to Toulon—I resumed my route toward Sainte-Baume. I left the hotel via a tiny road that, through ups and downs, led me via shortcuts to the road to Belgentier. My body had gotten used to intense daily efforts, and I felt in Olympic form. At a good pace, I launched into a long climb with a moderate slope. The road was busy, but fortunately, the side lane for cyclists often made the exercise more pleasant. The villages rolled by—Méounes, La Roquebrussanne. Near the latter, I observed a Tiger combat helicopter in training. It hovered motionless for long periods—perhaps the pilots were training to master their increasingly sophisticated weapon systems, requiring even more learning?
I left the busy road and headed via an almost deserted route toward the village of Mazaugues. The climbs became steeper. A long descent, and there I was in this pretty village. A grocery store, which besides selling a few ingredients also served as a café. I sat near the electric heater—it was cold, and I was sweaty. I watched customers come and go and listened to the shopkeeper tell me about village life. The name Mazaugues comes from "water mass," which is why drought doesn’t usually affect this area. Apparently, you can even find mushrooms here in summer! I had a good time, and as I was leaving, a local cyclist started a conversation and told me about her dreams of long bike trips, currently limited by her situation as a mother of terrible children. She settled for day trips with her club, which was already good in this very hilly region. I told her the story of a man who, at 73, cycled solo around Morocco. So no panic—she still had thirty or forty years to realize her wildest dreams!
I was warned that it would be a tough climb to reach Sainte-Baume’s northern slope. Indeed, over eight kilometers, the average slope was sustained, but the landscape was wonderful. Here too, water was streaming everywhere. I passed one of those famous icehouses that used to supply Marseille with ice throughout the year. This northern slope of Sainte-Baume is very cold, and this characteristic was exploited in previous centuries to produce ice. Large cylindrical structures, well-protected to the north and semi-buried, received large quantities of water in late autumn, which froze during winter and was kept cool for months until the following winter. Ice blocks were cut and delivered by cart to the city. That’s how, in ancient times, ice was available in summer to keep fish fresh in Marseille. Did pastis exist at that time? If not, the ice cubes must have been bored!
Once the climb was over, the long ridge of Sainte-Baume appeared, and I could see its characteristic antennas. Nestled at the foot of the cliffs, the magnificent millennial forest revealed itself with its autumn colors. I stopped at the monastery. I’d been there several times before and had even slept there during a long walking trip. The welcome had been first-rate by the Dominicans, especially the sisters in their long immaculate robes. They radiated a serenity that was very contagious. Don’t hesitate to stop there for the night. I struggled to get back on my way—some places have a special spirit.
I was soon at the end of my journey. I continued along this magnificent mountain to the Col de l’Espigoulier. To the north, another immense wave of white limestone rose—Montagne Sainte-Victoire, a high place in Provence that painter Cézanne made world-famous. Once at the pass, the entire city of Marseille spread out at my feet, the Mediterranean coast revealed itself from the Calanques to La Ciotat, passing by the famous Cap Canaille, Europe’s highest sea cliff. Above me, bathed in sunlight, Bartagne’s northwest face, very popular among climbers, showed all its reliefs. With an old climber’s reflex, I spotted the many climbs I’d done there. I let myself be carried into a steep, winding descent toward the village of Gémenos in a beautiful setting full of cliffs.
A few more kilometers of climbing toward the Col de l’Ange, then toward Roquefort-la-Bédoule. In this last climb, I raced with two cyclists, admittedly not very young. Then, in a six-kilometer descent, I reached Cassis station, the endpoint of my six-day journey through this wild Provençal land between sea and mountain. I experienced great pleasure during these 570 kilometers through these renowned yet wild French massifs. As always, when a beautiful project comes to an end, you feel a bit orphaned by a beautiful dream come true. You have to quickly envision the next one to avoid a vague sense of emptiness taking over. My next adventure is already taking shape in my mind, but that’s another story.
In the autumn of 2011, Provence was hit by apocalyptic weather—torrential rain and a particularly violent east wind, reaching 130 kilometers per hour, whipping up waves as high as seven meters. It wasn’t the best time to venture outside. Yet, I told myself that after the storm, calm would return. I kept an eye on the weather forecast and noticed that starting November 10th, a favorable window should open for a little 600-kilometer cycling trip across Provence. The weather reports promised a high-pressure system that would keep the bad weather at bay over these highlands. That was all I needed to decide to set off. The planned route would take me through Provence’s biggest climbs: Mont Ventoux, Montagne de Lure, the Verdon Gorge, the Massif des Maures, and Sainte-Baume.
And so, despite my doubts, the call of adventure was stronger. The train pulled away, and once again, a journey began at Part-Dieu station. This time, I headed toward Haute-Provence for a cycling adventure. It would be my first solo bike trip. I was a little nervous—cycling with panniers makes you feel vulnerable to theft. I’d already been robbed while traveling in a group in Peru, and that experience left me deeply shaken. Alone, I hesitated. But no need to panic—I’d read accounts from long-distance cyclists who hadn’t been robbed, even if it does happen sometimes. I was particularly thinking of a young schoolteacher who had taken a sabbatical to cycle around the world. Her students had remarked, "Teacher, you’re not sporty—how will you manage to cycle around the world?" This young woman was full of resourcefulness. In South America, before flying to China, she locked her bike to a post to take care of a natural need. When she returned, the post had been torn out, and her bike—along with all her gear—was gone. It was a shock for many, but not for her. She boarded her flight to the Middle Kingdom, bought the essentials (including a new bike) once there, and continued her journey! Remembering this story, I almost felt ashamed of my cowardice. These were the thoughts running through my mind as the Rhône Valley rolled by toward Orange, the starting point of my Provençal adventure through the big climbs.
Day One: Orange to Sault via Mont Ventoux – 90 km
9:30 AM, I stepped off the train. With all my gear, I had to navigate the underground passage—no easy feat, given that my bike and luggage weighed 35 kilos. At this time of year, I expected some areas to be deserted, so I’d packed enough to bivouac comfortably. Once outside the station, the southern light flooded over me. I understood why people dream of retiring in these sun-drenched regions. As always, after disembarking from public transport, I had to get my bearings and decide which way to go. The sun, still low on the horizon, pointed east. The roar of fighter jet engines helped me locate the Air Base 115. That was all I needed to "reset the gyros."
As soon as I started pedaling, all my apprehensions vanished. The joy of discovery and physical effort took over, and euphoria washed over me. It’s amazing how emotions can shift from one moment to the next based on seemingly minor circumstances.
The weather was splendid—the forecast had predicted continuous showers, but it was completely wrong. I quickly left the city behind. Mont Ventoux loomed mysteriously, its dimensions hard to gauge. It was even more enigmatic with its summit hidden beneath swirling, mottled clouds clinging to the ridges. It reminded me of a great South American volcano. I struggled to imagine that in a few hours, I’d be up there under that blanket of mist.
The countryside was shaking off its autumnal nighttime dampness. The vineyards, interspersed with tall cypress hedges, confirmed I was in the magnificent Côtes du Rhône wine region. The distinctive Dentelles de Montmirail were very much in evidence. The air force base wasn’t far. I passed the runway’s end markers. A Mirage 2000 flew overhead in a tight turn, followed by another roaring into takeoff. It came straight at me before climbing sharply with a thunderous roar. Thirty years spent in that captivating world came rushing back. I recalled countless extraordinary human and technical experiences from my time in the service. But the purpose of this post isn’t to promote the air force—though I might post some articles one day about travels among men at war.
I continued on my way, leaving my past loves behind. As I pedaled, delightful names rolled by: Violès, Vacqueyras, Gigondas, Beaumes-de-Venise—the crème de la crème of the Côtes du Rhône Villages appellation. I let myself be enchanted by the vineyards and the little paths crisscrossing them. I started to doubt my route, though the imposing mass of Mont Ventoux in the distance acted like a giant beacon. At a crossroads, a car appeared. I approached to ask the driver for directions, but she didn’t even look at me and sped off, clearly frightened. I’d almost forgotten what a fearful world we live in, no doubt traumatized by all the horrors we see in the news and on TV.
The kilometers started adding up, but was my day’s goal too ambitious? It had been two months since I’d last ridden my bike. True, my last trip had been good training—the Route des Grandes Alpes—but that was two months ago. I can’t just take my bike out for a day trip; I need that sense of adventure to find the courage to exercise.
Two cyclists overtook me. Intrigued by my load, they struck up a conversation. They were skeptical when I told them I planned to cross Mont Ventoux that day. One of them pointed out a small chapel near the summit where I could bivouac sheltered. That motivated me even more to reach the top on this first stage. The chapel also had a mythical name for me—Sainte-Anne, the name of my parents’ villa. It was already noon, and I’d covered 50 kilometers. Malaucène appeared—the sacred village of Ventoux’s mad cyclists. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any other cyclists today. I remembered this place in June, teeming with aspirants for the king of summits. Before tackling the climb ahead, I needed to refuel. I enjoyed a pleasant gastronomic break at Max’s. At 1 PM, I started the most famous climb in cycling—21 kilometers, which would actually be 23. I knew it would be tough, especially with two handicaps: 50 kilometers already in my legs and 20 kilos of luggage. But I was counting on my tiny chainring, which let me climb trees to tackle the steep ramps.
I set off at a brisk pace along a deserted road. My speed held up for the first few kilometers. I quickly rose above the valley, the horizon widening. I was surprised to see no one on this world-renowned route among cycling enthusiasts. During the climb and descent, I’d only see five cyclists—but I’ll come back to that. I passed a sign explaining that the effort would be roughly equivalent to climbing the Col de la Bonnette. Having done the latter in September, I figured I’d be fine. I crossed paths with my first cyclist—a woman speeding downhill. After 12 kilometers, I hit slopes averaging 12%. I don’t know if the number 12 is cursed, but I got such a "bamboo" hit that I’d never experienced before. I thought I wouldn’t make it to the summit today. I stopped. My thighs burned so much I could barely walk—lactic acid overload. I looked for a relatively flat spot to pitch my tent. It was 3:30 PM, with two hours of daylight left. But I found nothing.
I got back on my bike, intending to stop as soon as I found a good bivouac spot. But nothing came up. However, my strength slowly returned, perhaps because the slope eased, though it remained around 10%. I entered the summit mists. A cyclist overtook me. I was in the zone where I had to pass the summit. Dusk caught me in the final difficulties. The atmosphere was downright austere. In the twilight, a kilometer from the summit, a cyclist was fixing his bike. I asked if he needed help. He made it clear he didn’t understand. So I asked, "Do you need some help?" His answer was clear: "No, thank you." He showed me his new inner tube. Inside, I thought, "Phew!" If I’d had to stop, sweating in the falling night with the cold intensifying, I’d have struggled to get going again. But he managed, and I continued into the twilight fog. I could barely make out the summit’s large antennas in the clouds, like immense ghosts trying to evade sight. The bike delivered sensations worthy of mountain racing. My goal was to quickly find the famous chapel in the descent to take shelter. As I glided down the southern slope, two cyclists without lights crossed my path in the night—probably heading to the station above, its lights visible in the fog.
I scanned the roadside in the dark for the chapel but saw nothing. After a kilometer or two, I lost all hope. I stopped to put on more clothes as the cold became intense. I had no idea where I could stop on these steep slopes to set up camp. Between the swirls of mist, I could intermittently see the Rhône Valley below, dotted with illuminated towns and villages. The sight was striking. What was I doing on this mountain at night? Then the miracle happened—the clouds parted, and from the ridge above me to the east, a beautiful full moon emerged, casting enough light to consider a nighttime descent to Sault, 26 kilometers away.
In this eerie atmosphere between the moon’s pale rays and patches of fog, I began my descent through a hazy, almost unreal world. The Ventoux’s characteristic white scree reflected the moonlight faintly, dimmed by the mist. In places, entire mountainsides were plunged into complete darkness, and I lost all sense of the road’s path. Then, around a tight bend caused by a land shift, the light returned. It seemed extreme compared to the darkness I’d left behind. I could once again clearly see the road’s contours, though not its potholes or gravel patches. Still, I let the slope carry me, and the speed felt significant, though the low light prevented me from reading my speedometer. In these moments, concentration was at its peak—all senses alert, reflexes ready to react to the slightest incident that could lead to a fall.
I was relieved to see Sault’s lights growing closer. In less than an hour, I reached it, considering the final little climb that required one last push. This village, bustling in summer, was deserted at this time of year—almost dead. The first hotel I came across was closed. A quick shadow passed in a small sloping street. Before it disappeared into the darkness at a house corner, I chased after it and asked about accommodation options. Very kindly, I was directed to what was probably the only hotel open in November. I quickly found it, and the reception was open. I entered wearing my black balaclava, bought in the Ayacucho region—the birthplace of Peru’s Shining Path. At this late hour, I saw questioning glances directed at me. I prefaced, "This isn’t a hold-up." Clearly, the owners had a sense of humor—they started smiling. I took off my balaclava and asked for a room. No problem, and from that moment, the pressure eased. I really didn’t feel like going back out to find a spot to pitch my tent in the biting cold.
The stage had been nearly 100 kilometers, and it was the first. It had been two months since I’d touched my bike, and I probably lacked even minimal training, even though my last bike trip had been crossing the French Alps. I really had to dig deep to overcome my weakness on Ventoux’s steep section. I don’t remember ever having to search so deeply for the energy to keep going. I knew the stage I’d set for tomorrow was significant, with the climb up Montagne de Lure’s northern slope—Ventoux’s little sister, whose ascent is reputed to be endless, over 25 kilometers. I hoped this first day wouldn’t leave me too sore to avoid suffering excessively tomorrow.
For now, relaxation—a hot shower did me a world of good, followed by a good meal. I ate a delicious andouillette from Troyes, very fine, with a particularly successful herb seasoning. I loved it, and yet I’m from Lyon and pride myself on knowing a thing or two about andouillette—not just a sausage but a whole category! A bit chauvinistic, I had to admit, though reluctantly, that I found it better than the ones I usually eat in the Lyon region!
Day Two: Sault to Forcalquier via Montagne de Lure – 116 km
This morning, the weather was magnificent—the air clear, still, very fresh, and invigorating, as only the late season can offer on these Provençal highlands. In summer, they’re known for their scorching heat and drought, but often overlooked is how harsh they can be with cold and storms. Authors like Giono or Bosco described them and their inhabitants wonderfully in books like "Les Âmes Fortes."
The miracle of the night had worked. I wasn’t sore anywhere and felt in great shape. I set off well-equipped, but the effort and sun soon made me sweat. It was time to shed some layers—hat and gloves. A gentle warmth replaced the cold, making for excellent cycling conditions. On the road to Trinit, there was no traffic—only the occasional hunters’ cars parked in the distance. These vehicles were recognizable by their large cages, used to transport hunting dogs. Sometimes, the silence was broken by a distant gunshot. The deciduous forests were losing their foliage, taking on that dull brown hue of late autumn, though here and there, a tree or shrub still resisted, displaying vivid yellow or red. The meadows, their grass already scorched by the cold, were damp from the night’s heavy humidity. The low sun highlighted thousands of spider webs that had trapped insects during the warm season.
Behind me, Mont Ventoux dominated these vast spaces. As often, its imposing, stony summit was crowned with a blanket of clouds. What an impressive mountain—it’s always so hard to gauge its dimensions. I struggled to realize that last night I’d been at the summit and descended its immense southern ridge in the dark. I hoped to return one day in favorable conditions—daylight and no clouds—to enjoy the vast panorama from this unique summit.
Leaving the very Provençal village of Trinit, I tackled my first climb of the day—the Col de l’Homme Mort. The road rose moderately for five kilometers in gentle warmth. The view over the region widened, and I felt the sheer joy of pedaling. At a good pace, I overcame this first little challenge. Once at the pass, I couldn’t resist the ritual of photographing my bike in front of the sign, giving the name and altitude—1,213 meters.
The northern slope was austere and still in shadow. The cold bit again. The road was wet and covered with leaves in places. It wasn’t impossible that some treacherous patches of black ice lurked around a bend. I descended toward the Jabron Valley with caution. Suddenly, around a bend in a forest clearing, the freshly snow-covered Alps, gleaming in the sun, leapt into view, blocking the horizon. I thought I recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Écrins’ south face above a multitude of jagged peaks.
This snow and these mountains awakened a flood of memories of great joys, but I also thought of the guide and his client who had just lost their lives on the Grandes Jorasses’ north face, at the top of a route called the Linceul. The name comes from the face’s appearance—a great ice slope bordering the Grandes Jorasses’ north wall. It was first climbed by René Desmaison in 1968. He passed away a few years ago and, in his final wishes, asked that his ashes be scattered in the Dévoluy Massif at the foot of Pic de Bure, not far from here in these immense pre-Alpine folds.
At my feet, the Jabron Valley stretched almost endlessly east toward Sisteron. In the distance, the dark mass of Montagne de Lure’s north face loomed. This mountain shares similarities with Mont Ventoux. It has the same summit scree of bright limestone, the same forests climbing up to the final rocky stretch, and that blanket of clouds adding a secretive, austere touch to the scene.
I turned left past the town of Séderon and headed toward the little Col de la Pigière, which in a few kilometers allowed me to truly plunge into the beautiful Jabron Valley. I passed through several villages with charming local names—Saint-Vincent, Noyer-sur-Jabron. The river offered lovely views of its narrow gorges with clear, cold water. Autumn seemed less advanced here than on the plateau I’d just left. Many trees still wore brilliant colors, some revealing extraordinary hues—mixes of crimson, pink, and bright red.
Arriving in Noyer-sur-Jabron, I took a tiny road on the river’s right bank, leading in a few kilometers to the foot of Montagne de Lure. In the village of Valbelle, I picnicked on leftovers I’d brought from home—an old cheese and a somewhat stale loaf of bread. It was 1:30 PM. I began the long climb of about 25 kilometers. According to a friend who’s a cycling expert in the region, this section is tough. No wonder it’s called Ventoux’s little sister—the Mont Blanc of cyclists. The elevation gain on this side is still 1,200 meters, while Ventoux via Malaucène is nearly 1,600 meters.
I hoped to reach the summit before nightfall and avoid reliving a nighttime descent. The route wound through a vast forest, following the terrain’s folds. There was activity—mushroom hunters were busy searching for the coveted chanterelle. The climb, though never very steep (only one kilometer at 9%), was interminable. Though traffic was practically nonexistent, I was overtaken by a group of Harley bikers—I counted about forty. Perched high on their machines, hands in the air on wildly shaped handlebars, some with their feet nearly in the sky due to the high footpegs, they didn’t even glance my way. What’s this idiot doing, unable to ride a motorcycle and forced to climb these mountains on a bike with big bags! I wasn’t offended—real Harley purists often see other motorcyclists as renegades, so bikes are even lower on the totem pole! But I didn’t want to start a debate about motorcycles. In my youth, when I was a wild motorcyclist (22 accidents on two wheels), clans were divided into Japanese, German, Italian, and British bike owners. The latter, on their vibrating, oil-leaking machines, considered themselves the purest. But let’s not fight—there’s a statute of limitations, and it’s been nearly forty years.
As yesterday, a few kilometers below the summit, I entered the fog, and the light dropped suddenly. What a hostile mountain in these conditions! It heightened the sense of living an incredible experience. The conditions we encounter play a major role in how the adventure imprints on our memory. I realized once again that in France, you can feel like you’re very far away. Finally, after this very long climb, the Pas de Graille sign suddenly appeared out of the grayness. Strange! Below the sign, a kilometer marker indicated this same pass was over three kilometers away. Clearly, the climb continued. In these final kilometers through the scree, I gained another 130 meters of elevation. Finally, the road’s high point was reached—1,720 meters. It was cold and damp. I quickly covered up, added my balaclava under my helmet, and put on warm gloves. As I was about to start the descent, a car stopped at the summit, and one of the passengers was surprised to find a bike there in these chilly, twilight conditions.
A 20-kilometer descent led me to the village of Saint-Étienne-les-Orgues. I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. No such luck! Everything was clearly closed—no chance of finding shelter. Tonight was getting complicated. I already had exactly 100 kilometers in my legs and didn’t feel like pedaling anymore, especially at night. But I had even less desire to sleep outside. What to do to avoid it? The town of Forcalquier was 16 kilometers away—I hoped the road would descend. I set off in that direction. The first third was along a beautiful, lightly trafficked departmental road with a slight downhill—I pedaled hard. But it got tougher. I joined a busier road, and night had fallen. A several-kilometer climb finished the journey. I knew my magnetic lights weren’t very powerful—hence the danger. They were even less so on the climb because the slower I went, the less they illuminated. Cars coming the opposite way often saw me late and blinded me with their high beams. After passing, I was plunged into total darkness for a few seconds while my pupils readjusted to the night. I imagined those coming up behind me saw me with little warning, despite my slightly fluorescent jacket. When the roadside was clear, I always positioned myself to quickly jump off the road. But unfortunately, in this long final climb, a guardrail prevented any escape to the right in case of sudden braking behind me. That was even more anxiety-inducing since I was stuck at a snail’s pace. Time seemed long. I pedaled as hard as I could, on the verge of asphyxiation, trying to escape this dangerous situation as quickly as possible. My only reference point was the vehicles in front of me, letting me know the climb wasn’t over. Then suddenly, the ordeal ended—the road’s high point was reached. The town and its lights emerged from the void, and clarity returned. Phew! I glided down toward this little town bathed in light. On November 11th, I hoped to find an open hotel since I’d clearly exceeded 100 kilometers, and the idea of having to leave town to find a bivouac spot somewhat frightened me.
I arrived in the town center. Activity was low. The first hotel was closed, but I spotted a lit sign for another establishment further on. I headed there, got off my bike, and entered. The welcome was immediately friendly—a big cat came to rub against me. For me, that was a very good sign, and the first impression was confirmed. I still had to go out to eat. I covered the minimum distance. A restaurant advertised "Mom’s Cooking." I expected Provençal specialties, but they were Moroccan. I chose a delicious tagine with lime and olives, followed by almond and honey ice cream. Exhausted after this 116-kilometer stage, I returned to my room. As often after intense efforts, it was hard to fall asleep.
Day Three: Forcalquier to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie – 58 km
On this third day, due to the progress made yesterday, the stage would be short. I’d call it a transition between two mountain ranges. Indeed, the next big climb is the Verdon Gorge. I planned to position myself at its foot this evening in preparation for a tough stage tomorrow. I made a few purchases—bread, bananas, and medicine for stomach burns (the midday sausage wasn’t always kind to me). The weather was still perfect. The route began with a long descent toward the Durance. It’s always nice to start a cycling day with a downhill—it boosts morale and allows for a gentle warm-up.
I quickly reached the town of Oraison. Just at its entrance, I crossed the Durance, which still bore traces of last week’s heavy rains along its sandbanks. Indeed, numerous stumps and trunks were scattered along its vast gravel bed, along with less ecological debris like old tires.
A little south of Oraison, I took the D907, a small road heading due east between scrubland and meadows. There it was—the Provence we imagine. This stable autumn weather, with still air, neither hot nor cold, just a fresh feeling when emerging from a shaded valley or a slight warmth under the sun, was ideal for a cyclist. After about ten kilometers at the bottom of a small valley I quickly passed through, the village of Le Brunet appeared on the right. It clung to the slopes leading to the Valensole Plateau. A few steep kilometers along a tiny winding road, and suddenly a vast panorama unfolded as the climb ended.
What a magnificent plateau! Though known for its wind, luckily today was completely calm. Far to the east, the Verdon’s great cliffs blocked the horizon. This allowed me to contemplate part of tomorrow’s stage. This place is full of mysteries—many UFO and extraterrestrial encounter stories are associated with it. Moreover, for about thirty years, France hid its ground-to-ground nuclear ballistic missiles here, grouped in the 1st GMS (Ballistic Missile Group), under the air force. Naturally, these rockets fueled fantasies, and pacifist groups settled in the region to protest this type of armament. This gives many reasons to shroud this austere, deserted land in mystery.
I took a dirt path leading to the heart of this zone and stopped at the forest’s edge for lunch. The silence was total, the view stretched very far. But nothing strange or bizarre manifested. No Martian came to share my frankly moldy cheese, very peppery sausage, or bruised banana—sniff! I resumed my route, and as often when crossing places with strong character, I tended to slow down to enjoy them longer. The immense lavender fields stretched endlessly, not very fragrant at this season. I arrived at a group of truffle oaks protected by a fence, with large red signs warning "Firearm." Clearly, the war for the black diamond was raging in this region. I remembered a novel where an old farmer made buyers believe nothing grew on his land. Every year, he secretly stole the mushrooms from the unsuspecting owners. Then one day, they discovered the truth, catching this "polite" neighbor trying to hide a basket full of beautiful, large truffles!
In these vast spaces, I felt good—a sense of plenitude. It’s strange that I only conceive of cycling through wandering. I struggle to plan a day trip. And if I do, it’s highly likely I won’t get up. I need that sense of adventure to fully appreciate my physical effort. Maybe one day I should get psychoanalyzed, but at my age, it’s probably too late! Today, I had all the time in the world—the stage was half as long as yesterday’s, with very little elevation gain. Not a sound, an impressive calm, a beautiful landscape—I pedaled in a wonderful place. That’s probably happiness!
I reached the village of Puimoisson on the plateau’s eastern edge—only 12 kilometers left to Moustiers. I took my time, sat at a café terrace in the sun, and leisurely enjoyed a coffee while listening to the village come to life. I was delighted by these melodious southern voices, bursting into great laughter. There are places where, despite the anxieties caused by our debt-ridden, dysfunctional societies, some have decided to take life on the bright side and show a saving insouciance.
The rest of the journey was a simple formality—I let the slope carry me toward the pretty little town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, clinging to the cliff and famous for its faïence. Arriving early for once, I went to the tourist office to choose a comfortable hotel. Indeed, the Hôtel des Restanques was very comfortable and admirably well-located. But at this time of year, I’d have to return to the village center for dinner. The very kind receptionist reserved a table for me at La Treille Muscate, a restaurant with a magnificently arranged room on the church square. It was only 3:30 PM—I continued to take my time, showering and relaxing in front of the TV. Then I set off to explore—or rather, re-explore—this village I’d visited several times before. But I’d never climbed to its chapel perched in the middle of the great cliff towering over the houses. A stony, aerial path led there. The first mentions of the Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel, known in ancient times as Notre-Dame d’Entre-Roches, date back to the 9th century. It’s one of the rare "respite" chapels found in Provence. These are chapels where stillborn children were brought to be revived for a few moments, just long enough to baptize them. They could then be buried religiously, ensuring the salvation of their souls. I was also very moved by reading some ex-votos, like the one from "A mother for her three children returned from the war."
The place was impressive, especially as night fell. I was alone and watched the shadows fill the great cliffs above me. With an old climber’s reflex, I looked for possible climbing routes among these slabs and cracks. But climbing is probably forbidden here, too close to the houses. Then I descended to stroll through the village, admiring the magnificent, finely crafted faïence patterns found in many shops. Finally, dinnertime arrived, and I joined my restaurant, which had been highly recommended. I was delighted by the foie gras ravioli and the pieds et paquets—the chef’s specialty. I’ll come back with family.
Day Four: Moustiers to Fréjus via the Verdon – 122 km
A hearty breakfast prepared me for the day’s tough efforts. Next to me, four Chinese people chatted animatedly. Of course, I didn’t understand a word—it was a language with strange intonations and sounds. I left the dining room and prepared my bike on the terrace. Seeing the volume of my luggage, my Chinese friends rushed over and asked to take turns having their photo taken in front of this funny setup. All laughing, they took photos in front of what they probably considered a French coolie off on some trading business! When they show these photos to their relatives, they’ll likely be perplexed about what motivates some to travel by bike rather than car. For them, the car is a symbol of success—according to an article I read last year, 14,000 cars are registered in China every day!
This morning, the air was fresh. As yesterday, I started with a long descent, this time leading to the edge of Lac de Sainte-Croix. A strong, biting headwind slowed me down. It wouldn’t last, as it was generated by the gorge’s outlet, which I’d reach in a few kilometers. On this cold morning, the lake’s shores exuded great tranquility. The sun was still hidden behind the Verdon’s mountainous mass. Trees with yellow leaves stood out against the water’s pale blue. The bridge marking the gorge’s beginning at the lake’s edge was an ideal spot to admire this natural splendor. At this early hour, the play of light and shadow on the water and the immense cliffs delivered a grandiose spectacle in beautiful harmony. This first contact with the gorges, which I knew well, amazed me.
Once past the bridge, the wind calmed. A little further on, I began the long climb that would take me to the top of this immense natural gash, which water had taken millions of years to carve. I was in good shape and highly motivated by the splendors to come. First, I reached the village of Aiguines, which offered a magnificent viewpoint over the lake. Then I continued toward the Corniche Sublime, where countless breathtaking panoramas unfolded as I progressed. But the climb was sustained and long, requiring effort—though my small chainring worked miracles. I first passed the Col d’Illoire, already 500 meters above the lake. Seeing all these great cliffs, countless climbing memories came flooding back. The classic routes of the Escalès cliff, over 300 meters high, flashed by. Routes with legendary names—La Demande, Les Écureuils, Luna-Bong, and many others. The one that left me with the best memory was ULA—a crack, vertical or even overhanging, of sheer beauty rising above a 40-meter slab in one go for 280 meters of sustained, beautiful climbing on extraordinary rock. It made me want to return to climb there, to immerse myself in the atmosphere of those past times. But climbing habits have changed—now routes are accessed from above by rappel, and people don’t always bother to do these great climbs in their entirety, focusing instead on shorter but technically much more difficult enterprises.
At almost every bend, I stopped and scanned these great cliffs, searching for memories of past experiences and emotions in these secret rock folds. The road climbed well above the pass, exceeding 1,200 meters. It was cool, especially since I was sweating. Finally reaching the high point of the Corniche Sublime, I couldn’t gain speed on the descent—my gaze was always drawn to this astonishing canyon. Around a bend, two cyclists with funny small-wheeled bikes. Wow! It was a couple of Australians doing a year-long tour of France. We chatted passionately about our two-wheeled experiences for a moment. But time was passing, and if I wanted to reach Fréjus before nightfall, I’d have to pedal seriously.
I stopped at the Pont de l’Artuby, where bungee jumping was in full swing. But I quickly set off again toward Comps. The wind was against me, and it was climbing. I started to doubt whether I’d make it to the coast that evening. At 2 PM, I was in Comps-sur-Artuby. I didn’t stop, knowing that before reaching the coast, I’d have no alternative to bivouacking, and I had 70 kilometers left to cover. Sure, it should be downhill, but a few climbs were on the program. After a descent out of the village, I crossed the Artuby River again on the Canjuers military camp. A several-kilometer climb followed, fortunately not too steep. I took the D19 toward Barjols. From there, despite the late hour, I opted for a tiny road passing through Claviers, a small perched village. Time passed quickly, but the kilometers added up. I regained hope. Fifteen kilometers after this last village, I reached Saint-Paul-en-Forêt via a magnificent forested route. I had plenty of time to observe mushroom hunters. I asked one who clearly had some in a plastic bag. He gave me this hilarious answer with a magnificent southern accent: "I only picked the bad ones." No reply was possible. I moved on with a smile. A little further on, another hunter carried a basket. As soon as he saw me, he quickly hid it—just in case I saw what it contained. Arriving at the village involved a steep climb, and I was close to 100 kilometers. I still had a little over 20 kilometers to go before reaching Fréjus. The race against nightfall had begun. Over there to my right, I saw the sun setting behind Roquebrune-sur-Argens’ distinctive rock. The sea appeared. There it was—I was in Fréjus’ industrial zone. On this Sunday evening, traffic was heavy. Indeed, many had taken advantage of the return of good weather after very heavy storms to go for a walk. After quite a few detours, I arrived at the seaside just as night fell. My odometer showed 122 km for the day. I quickly found a simple hotel, ate just as quickly, and went to bed.
Day Five: Fréjus to Solliès-Pont – 92 km
Once again, the night had done its restorative work, and I prepared to cross the Massif des Maures feeling quite fresh. The weather forecast was still favorable for today, but a deterioration was expected tomorrow. I tended to trust it because the east wind was blowing, and in the region, that’s a sign of rain. For now, in the short term, this wind would be very useful—it would push me generously throughout the day.
I started calmly along the harbor quays, looking at the boats. Then I joined the road to Saint-Aygulf and followed the coast for forty kilometers to Port-Grimaud. All these seaside resorts—Saint-Aygulf, Les Issambres, Sainte-Maxime—reminded me of my youth when we spent all our vacations fishing, whether from shore, underwater, or by boat. Looking at the sea roll by, I knew what the seabeds looked like under that surface hiding them. The marine areas we knew best were now under the parking lots and commercial zones of Saint-Raphaël’s new port. In our youth, these infrastructures didn’t exist, and their construction came at the expense of coastal marine areas. Our wonderful fishing spots were permanently buried. I remember seeing the first big trucks that came to dump their loads of earth and rubble, destroying all those wonderful places—sandbanks, seaweed beds, groups of rocky holes teeming with fish that enchanted our youth. Over forty years later, I can still visualize them in my imagination under those parking lots and stores, with the names we gave them—my brothers and I: le casse-croûte, le casse-pipe, les montagnes, la digue, la grille, la mare à mulets, la petite-plage, le trou, etc.
Let’s not be overwhelmed by nostalgia. I left the coast and took the little road through the Maures to Collobrières. The route led from ridge to ridge following the terrain’s movements. At this time of year, the region was admirable. Due to the heavy storms of recent weeks, water was streaming everywhere. Waterfalls and streams murmured all along the way. I didn’t recognize the Maures, which I knew for their dryness causing apocalyptic fires. Indeed, around a bend, I came across a small rest area where a memorial had been erected for three firefighters who lost their lives here while fighting one of those gigantic fires fanned by the mistral.
This forest holds treasures—first, the cork oak, then the arbutus, chestnut trees, and of course, mushrooms that love this granitic soil:
The cork oak can be found all along the road. It’s the forest’s essential element. You can recognize it by its light bark (before exploitation), which forms large bulges along the trunk. But after exploitation, the trunks are much smoother, less voluminous, and dark in color. The arbutus is a large berry with red skin covered in small protuberances, growing on the arbutus tree. This fruit, common in Mediterranean areas, ripens in November. That means today, there were plenty around me. Its flesh is orange, with the consistency of firm purée, and it crushes softly in the mouth. The taste of this berry is sweet and excellent. I didn’t hold back—I gorged myself on them, which served as my midday meal. Sometimes I had to climb embankments to get them.
The chestnut tree, a true industry of the region, brings wealth to the surrounding villages. They make candied chestnuts, ice cream, and other products derived from chestnut flour. Be careful not to stop just anywhere to pick this fruit, as the tree owners might not agree. They even make this clear with signs and surround their chestnut trees with fences. Mushrooms—saffron milk caps and porcini—are highly prized in the area. I saw a few hunters, but it clearly wasn’t miraculous. Supposedly, there had been too much rain?
There’s no time to get bored along this little road, from which you can sometimes see the sea. I passed the Col de Taillude at over 400 meters. I began the descent to Collobrières, the chestnut capital, whose festival attracts many people. Before entering, about a hundred meters from the first houses, a cyclist—probably an agricultural worker—came toward me. As he passed, he cheerfully called out, "Go on, little guy! It’s almost there!" We both smiled. At the end of November, the village was cold and almost deserted. Dead leaves swept the wet streets of the town. You could feel winter on the way. I continued my route to Pierrefeu-du-Var, on the western edge of the Massif des Maures. So I gave my last pedal strokes in this pretty little massif so characteristic of Provence.
I looked for a hotel in Cuers but without success. I descended toward Toulon and finally found one on the outskirts of Solliès-Pont. It catered to people coming to work in the region, so nothing very bucolic. But if the weather were to deteriorate tomorrow and turn to rain, I could quickly reach Hyères or Toulon station, which was a significant advantage. Indeed, November rains aren’t usually very pleasant on a bike.
Day Six: Solliès-Pont to Cassis via Sainte-Baume – 85 km
This morning, contrary to the weather forecast, the weather was beautiful, and the latest bulletin seemed to contradict yesterday’s. So no escape to Toulon—I resumed my route toward Sainte-Baume. I left the hotel via a tiny road that, through ups and downs, led me via shortcuts to the road to Belgentier. My body had gotten used to intense daily efforts, and I felt in Olympic form. At a good pace, I launched into a long climb with a moderate slope. The road was busy, but fortunately, the side lane for cyclists often made the exercise more pleasant. The villages rolled by—Méounes, La Roquebrussanne. Near the latter, I observed a Tiger combat helicopter in training. It hovered motionless for long periods—perhaps the pilots were training to master their increasingly sophisticated weapon systems, requiring even more learning?
I left the busy road and headed via an almost deserted route toward the village of Mazaugues. The climbs became steeper. A long descent, and there I was in this pretty village. A grocery store, which besides selling a few ingredients also served as a café. I sat near the electric heater—it was cold, and I was sweaty. I watched customers come and go and listened to the shopkeeper tell me about village life. The name Mazaugues comes from "water mass," which is why drought doesn’t usually affect this area. Apparently, you can even find mushrooms here in summer! I had a good time, and as I was leaving, a local cyclist started a conversation and told me about her dreams of long bike trips, currently limited by her situation as a mother of terrible children. She settled for day trips with her club, which was already good in this very hilly region. I told her the story of a man who, at 73, cycled solo around Morocco. So no panic—she still had thirty or forty years to realize her wildest dreams!
I was warned that it would be a tough climb to reach Sainte-Baume’s northern slope. Indeed, over eight kilometers, the average slope was sustained, but the landscape was wonderful. Here too, water was streaming everywhere. I passed one of those famous icehouses that used to supply Marseille with ice throughout the year. This northern slope of Sainte-Baume is very cold, and this characteristic was exploited in previous centuries to produce ice. Large cylindrical structures, well-protected to the north and semi-buried, received large quantities of water in late autumn, which froze during winter and was kept cool for months until the following winter. Ice blocks were cut and delivered by cart to the city. That’s how, in ancient times, ice was available in summer to keep fish fresh in Marseille. Did pastis exist at that time? If not, the ice cubes must have been bored!
Once the climb was over, the long ridge of Sainte-Baume appeared, and I could see its characteristic antennas. Nestled at the foot of the cliffs, the magnificent millennial forest revealed itself with its autumn colors. I stopped at the monastery. I’d been there several times before and had even slept there during a long walking trip. The welcome had been first-rate by the Dominicans, especially the sisters in their long immaculate robes. They radiated a serenity that was very contagious. Don’t hesitate to stop there for the night. I struggled to get back on my way—some places have a special spirit.
I was soon at the end of my journey. I continued along this magnificent mountain to the Col de l’Espigoulier. To the north, another immense wave of white limestone rose—Montagne Sainte-Victoire, a high place in Provence that painter Cézanne made world-famous. Once at the pass, the entire city of Marseille spread out at my feet, the Mediterranean coast revealed itself from the Calanques to La Ciotat, passing by the famous Cap Canaille, Europe’s highest sea cliff. Above me, bathed in sunlight, Bartagne’s northwest face, very popular among climbers, showed all its reliefs. With an old climber’s reflex, I spotted the many climbs I’d done there. I let myself be carried into a steep, winding descent toward the village of Gémenos in a beautiful setting full of cliffs.
A few more kilometers of climbing toward the Col de l’Ange, then toward Roquefort-la-Bédoule. In this last climb, I raced with two cyclists, admittedly not very young. Then, in a six-kilometer descent, I reached Cassis station, the endpoint of my six-day journey through this wild Provençal land between sea and mountain. I experienced great pleasure during these 570 kilometers through these renowned yet wild French massifs. As always, when a beautiful project comes to an end, you feel a bit orphaned by a beautiful dream come true. You have to quickly envision the next one to avoid a vague sense of emptiness taking over. My next adventure is already taking shape in my mind, but that’s another story.
Bonjour à tous,
Nous partons en Corse au mois d'août et descendons à Toulon en voiture (on est de Bretagne) et nous cherchons un lieu sûr et surtout gratuit 😉 pour y laisser notre voiture pendant 3 semaines. Connaissez-vous des astuces, des lieux sûr dans la ville (jardin, rue, parking personnel peut être) pas trop loin de la gare maritime. Nous prenons le bateau le dimanche 2 août au matin, retour prévu vers le 20 août. J'attends des infos avec impatience ! 😉 Guillaume
Nous partons en Corse au mois d'août et descendons à Toulon en voiture (on est de Bretagne) et nous cherchons un lieu sûr et surtout gratuit 😉 pour y laisser notre voiture pendant 3 semaines. Connaissez-vous des astuces, des lieux sûr dans la ville (jardin, rue, parking personnel peut être) pas trop loin de la gare maritime. Nous prenons le bateau le dimanche 2 août au matin, retour prévu vers le 20 août. J'attends des infos avec impatience ! 😉 Guillaume
Bonjour,
je suis responsable de jeunes dans une association et nous avons le projet cet été, de faire Florensac - Hyères en vélo pour finir notre camp.
Donc on est en plein tracé d'itinéraire et nous avons quelques contraintes....
On est en groupe de 10 jeunes et 2 encadrants en vélo, avec un camion qui transporte le matériel... pas de gros sac, ni sacoche sur le dos. On est autonome.
Par contre au niveau reglementation et sécurité, on ne peut pas emprunter des grands axes. On désire emprunter soit des chemins carrossable soit des axes secondaires. (pas de sentier où les pompiers ne pourraient pas acceder rapidement)
On veut faire aussi une moyenne de 50 km / jours pour nous laisser le temps de visiter au passage.
Donc pour l'instant on prévoit : Florensac/lattes Lattes/Gallician par le Canal du Rhone a Sète, j'ai lu dans une autre rubrique que malgré les panneaux d'interdictions ca roulait bien. Puis direction Arles, mais la c'est un peu flou, on ne sait pas encore si on contourne par le haut, Aix en provence - st maximin - hyeres, ou si on longe la cote -etang de berre, marseille - la ciotat- toulon - hyere...
Donc voila j'aimerais connaitre votre avis, sachant qu'on cherche le plus simple et des endroits ou on pourrait trouver des hebergements, facilement sans taper dans le camping a 45€/nuit...
Je vous remercie de votre lecture,
A bientot
Ptifiloutubs !
je suis responsable de jeunes dans une association et nous avons le projet cet été, de faire Florensac - Hyères en vélo pour finir notre camp.
Donc on est en plein tracé d'itinéraire et nous avons quelques contraintes....
On est en groupe de 10 jeunes et 2 encadrants en vélo, avec un camion qui transporte le matériel... pas de gros sac, ni sacoche sur le dos. On est autonome.
Par contre au niveau reglementation et sécurité, on ne peut pas emprunter des grands axes. On désire emprunter soit des chemins carrossable soit des axes secondaires. (pas de sentier où les pompiers ne pourraient pas acceder rapidement)
On veut faire aussi une moyenne de 50 km / jours pour nous laisser le temps de visiter au passage.
Donc pour l'instant on prévoit : Florensac/lattes Lattes/Gallician par le Canal du Rhone a Sète, j'ai lu dans une autre rubrique que malgré les panneaux d'interdictions ca roulait bien. Puis direction Arles, mais la c'est un peu flou, on ne sait pas encore si on contourne par le haut, Aix en provence - st maximin - hyeres, ou si on longe la cote -etang de berre, marseille - la ciotat- toulon - hyere...
Donc voila j'aimerais connaitre votre avis, sachant qu'on cherche le plus simple et des endroits ou on pourrait trouver des hebergements, facilement sans taper dans le camping a 45€/nuit...
Je vous remercie de votre lecture,
A bientot
Ptifiloutubs !
Bonjour à tous
Je suis nouvelle sur ce forum, je viens de m'inscrire. Si je me suis inscrite, c'est parce que j'aurais besoin de conseils...
En effet, ça fait déjà quelques temps que j'ai le projet de faire Chalon-sur-Saone (c'est là où j'habite) / Marseille en vélo en longeant la Saone, puis le Rhone. Cependant je suis assez jeune et je ne sais pas trop comment m'y prendre. Je sais que le camping sauvage est interdit donc je me doute qu'il faut que je prévois mes étapes pour savoir où dormir. Si déjà à ce sujet vous avez des conseils ou des idées, n'hésitez pas!! Ensuite, si il faut que je prévoit mes étapes, savez approximativement combien de kilomètres il faut prévoir par jour (je suis en VTT)? Je sais que ça dépend des personnes mais une approximation m'aiderais beaucoup car je n'arrive pas du tt à chiffrer... Enfin, c'est au niveau de l'équipement que j'aurais besoin de conseils, car mis à part tout ce qui concerne le vélo et l'infirmerie, je ne sais pas si il faut prévoir des choses particulières...
C'est un projet que je ne compte pas réaliser cette année car je manque d'entrainement et je ne suis pas majeur mais j'y pense très sérieusement. Certains dirons que je suis trop gourmande au niveau des kilomètres mais je pense que c'est un défi comme un autre et je me sens à la hauteur avec un peu plus d'entrainement.
Si vous avez fais de longues randonnées en vélo ou si vous connaissez des coins sur mon trajet, n'hésitez pas à me le dire. De même pour les remaarques, les critiques, les suggestions....
Merci d'avance!
PS: veuillez m'excuser des éventuelles fautes d'orthographes et de la longueur de mon texte.
C'est un projet que je ne compte pas réaliser cette année car je manque d'entrainement et je ne suis pas majeur mais j'y pense très sérieusement. Certains dirons que je suis trop gourmande au niveau des kilomètres mais je pense que c'est un défi comme un autre et je me sens à la hauteur avec un peu plus d'entrainement.
Si vous avez fais de longues randonnées en vélo ou si vous connaissez des coins sur mon trajet, n'hésitez pas à me le dire. De même pour les remaarques, les critiques, les suggestions....
Merci d'avance!
PS: veuillez m'excuser des éventuelles fautes d'orthographes et de la longueur de mon texte.
Bonjour à tous !
Je m'apelle Romain, 25 ans. J'habite Paris. J'ai un niveau assez débutant en vélo, en faisant peu pendant l'année (je n'ai pas envie de me tuer à Paris) Dernières randos en date, 90 km à vélo sur l'ile d'Oléron en juin. Et 30 km à VTT en septembre 2012 pour la Guervilloise dans le 78. J'ai un projet pour les vacances 2014. Je voudrais donc vous l'exposer pour avoir des conseils, des idées, etc...
Tout d'abord, le vélo :
Il s'agit d'un Rockrider 3.3 de 2003, un ancêtre. Je ne parviens pas à trouver son poids sur internet. Voilà ses caractéristiques techniques :
DECATHLON Rockrider 24 pouces - Double suspension -
- 21 vitesses - 7 pignons x 3 plateaux - Passage des vitesses au guidon par poignées indexées- - Dérailleur à pignons SUNRACE SR SUNTOUR M6300 - Double suspension - Cadre articulé à suspension centrale et réglable Touch Shock
Photos trouvées sur le net, en attendant de poster celles du mien :
http://pmcdn.priceminister.com/photo/vtt-homme-rockrider-3-3-decathlon-914972986_ML.jpg
http://sp4.fotolog.com/photo/4/3/3/ole_tus_wevos/1205012677_f.jpg
LE PROJET :
L'idée est de partir d'un point A pour rejoindre un point B. Je ne sais pas dans quelle région mais voilà le cahier des charges : Un peu de soleil (ce sont les vacances !) mais pas trop non plus. Pas de côtes de fou ! Je pense pouvoir effectuer quotidiennement 30 km. Nous serions deux. L'idée est de partir avec une remorque, le minimum pour survivre, une tente, et de dormir soit dans des campings chaque soir un différent, soit chez l'habitant (j'ai vu un site qui propose de camper chez l'habitant) donc toujours en tente. Le budget est limité ! L'idée est de profiter des vacances de manière sportive, cool, en visitant une région, passant par des villages, des coins sympas, des chemins. Pas de faire du chiffre, mais un peu quand même.
LE LIEU :
Je pensais aux landes, la côte d'azur, la côte ouest ? Il faudra rejoindre le point A en train et repartir du point B en train pour rejoindre Paris. Je crois que sur la côte d'azur il y a une grande piste de 200 km toute neuve non ? J'adore le var sinon.
La remorque :
J'hésite entre ce type de remorque : http://www.decathlon.fr/media/820/8209834/zoom_400PX_mediacom_471027056.jpg
Et ce type, monoroue ? http://www.tout-terrain.de/uploads/pics/Mule_duffle_2010_1120x560
Quels sont les avantages de l'une ou de l'autre ?
Bref, que pensez-vous du projet, avez vous des suggestions, des idées ? Mon vélo est il viable pour cette aventure ? Je pensais l'améliorer en changeant mes jantes pour des jantes à pneus plus fins type VTC voir plus fin encore ? Ca fonctionnerait ? Reduction du frottement et du poids.
Merci !
Je m'apelle Romain, 25 ans. J'habite Paris. J'ai un niveau assez débutant en vélo, en faisant peu pendant l'année (je n'ai pas envie de me tuer à Paris) Dernières randos en date, 90 km à vélo sur l'ile d'Oléron en juin. Et 30 km à VTT en septembre 2012 pour la Guervilloise dans le 78. J'ai un projet pour les vacances 2014. Je voudrais donc vous l'exposer pour avoir des conseils, des idées, etc...
Tout d'abord, le vélo :
Il s'agit d'un Rockrider 3.3 de 2003, un ancêtre. Je ne parviens pas à trouver son poids sur internet. Voilà ses caractéristiques techniques :
DECATHLON Rockrider 24 pouces - Double suspension -
- 21 vitesses - 7 pignons x 3 plateaux - Passage des vitesses au guidon par poignées indexées- - Dérailleur à pignons SUNRACE SR SUNTOUR M6300 - Double suspension - Cadre articulé à suspension centrale et réglable Touch Shock
Photos trouvées sur le net, en attendant de poster celles du mien :
http://pmcdn.priceminister.com/photo/vtt-homme-rockrider-3-3-decathlon-914972986_ML.jpg
http://sp4.fotolog.com/photo/4/3/3/ole_tus_wevos/1205012677_f.jpg
LE PROJET :
L'idée est de partir d'un point A pour rejoindre un point B. Je ne sais pas dans quelle région mais voilà le cahier des charges : Un peu de soleil (ce sont les vacances !) mais pas trop non plus. Pas de côtes de fou ! Je pense pouvoir effectuer quotidiennement 30 km. Nous serions deux. L'idée est de partir avec une remorque, le minimum pour survivre, une tente, et de dormir soit dans des campings chaque soir un différent, soit chez l'habitant (j'ai vu un site qui propose de camper chez l'habitant) donc toujours en tente. Le budget est limité ! L'idée est de profiter des vacances de manière sportive, cool, en visitant une région, passant par des villages, des coins sympas, des chemins. Pas de faire du chiffre, mais un peu quand même.
LE LIEU :
Je pensais aux landes, la côte d'azur, la côte ouest ? Il faudra rejoindre le point A en train et repartir du point B en train pour rejoindre Paris. Je crois que sur la côte d'azur il y a une grande piste de 200 km toute neuve non ? J'adore le var sinon.
La remorque :
J'hésite entre ce type de remorque : http://www.decathlon.fr/media/820/8209834/zoom_400PX_mediacom_471027056.jpg
Et ce type, monoroue ? http://www.tout-terrain.de/uploads/pics/Mule_duffle_2010_1120x560
Quels sont les avantages de l'une ou de l'autre ?
Bref, que pensez-vous du projet, avez vous des suggestions, des idées ? Mon vélo est il viable pour cette aventure ? Je pensais l'améliorer en changeant mes jantes pour des jantes à pneus plus fins type VTC voir plus fin encore ? Ca fonctionnerait ? Reduction du frottement et du poids.
Merci !
Bonjour,
J'ai le projet de la rando :La Vallée des merveilles (traversée du Mercantour )en sept 2012.C'est le GR 52 pour la traversée de St Delmas de Valdeblore à Menton : le seul problème, c'est la récupération du véhicule au point de départ : est-il possible avec facilité ( dans la journée )de prendre un car de Menton pour récupérer son véhicule ?
Sinon, il existe le GR52A en boucle à partir de Belvédère (départ-arrivée ) .Il y a 5 étapes .Pouvez-vous me dire le temps de marche , pour un randonneur moyen , de chaques étapes ? J'ai bien sûr le topo guide, mais par sécurité, je préfère avoir les avis de randonneurs , car l'année passée , sur l'ile de la réunion, nous nous sommes fait "avoir " sur une étape , le temps sur le topo guide ne correspondait pas du tout (pour l'étape Piton des neiges- bourg Murat nous sommes arrivée dans le soir tard vers 20 h ! dur, dur !!)
Merci pour votre réponse
Claude
Sinon, il existe le GR52A en boucle à partir de Belvédère (départ-arrivée ) .Il y a 5 étapes .Pouvez-vous me dire le temps de marche , pour un randonneur moyen , de chaques étapes ? J'ai bien sûr le topo guide, mais par sécurité, je préfère avoir les avis de randonneurs , car l'année passée , sur l'ile de la réunion, nous nous sommes fait "avoir " sur une étape , le temps sur le topo guide ne correspondait pas du tout (pour l'étape Piton des neiges- bourg Murat nous sommes arrivée dans le soir tard vers 20 h ! dur, dur !!)
Merci pour votre réponse
Claude
j'aimerais avoir des conseils pour les 200 derniers Km
itinéraire : Gènes - Briançon ?
en Mai 2011 (VTC avec 4 sacoches)
Préoccupations principales : tranquilité et sécurité (circulation minimum)
je suis aussi preneur de conseils pour l'Italie
merci
Bonjour,
question précise et urgente : A Nice, où trouver un parking pour stationner de jour avec un camping car de 7 mètres ?
Merci d'avance
Cordialement
Claudie
Bonjour
Je me lance dans la traversée du Mercantour, pas en totalité mais à partir d'Isola 2000 jusqu'à menton début Juillet Je voyage seule et point de vue sécurité ce n'est pas forcément l'idéal, donc si certain d'entres vous on prévu d'y être sur la même période (9 au 17 Juillet), je propose que l'on échange nos coordonnées (sur messagerie privée) afin de savoir si je ne serais pas seule sur le parcours....en cas de gros prbl
J'ai déjà fait 3 rando seule en Corse, mais concernant les Alpes, je pense que le risque d'accident un peu plus fort¨, même si je reste extrêmement prudente.
Merci Nathalie
Je me lance dans la traversée du Mercantour, pas en totalité mais à partir d'Isola 2000 jusqu'à menton début Juillet Je voyage seule et point de vue sécurité ce n'est pas forcément l'idéal, donc si certain d'entres vous on prévu d'y être sur la même période (9 au 17 Juillet), je propose que l'on échange nos coordonnées (sur messagerie privée) afin de savoir si je ne serais pas seule sur le parcours....en cas de gros prbl
J'ai déjà fait 3 rando seule en Corse, mais concernant les Alpes, je pense que le risque d'accident un peu plus fort¨, même si je reste extrêmement prudente.
Merci Nathalie
Bonjour à toutes à tous.
Je viens de m'inscrire sur le site car j'ai un projet en tête et beaucoup de questions, plus ou moins importantes, sur la préparation et la marche au quotidien.
J'ai 19 ans et depuis quelques mois j'ai une immense envie de parcourir la France, du nord jusqu'au sud, à pieds. J'aimerais rejoindre, si possible, l'Ile-de-France à la ville de Nice (tombé amoureux de cette ville l'été dernier 😊).
Le problème, c'est que je ne sais absolument pas comment m'y prendre. Quel matériel choisir ? Combien cela coute ? Quels "types" de lieu à éviter ? Comment se passe le quotidien hormis le fait que l'on marche ? Pour la nourriture, comment être assuré de manger un minimum tout le temps du parcours ? Pour les besoins (grosse commission ^^), simplement emporter de quoi être propre ? Ou ... ? Comme vous pouvez le lire, j'ai des questions, certaines sont peut-être bêtes, désolé.
Si quelqu'un d’expérimenté pouvait prendre le temps de me renseigner ce serait génial.
Merci d'avance et bonne journée à vous.
Je viens de m'inscrire sur le site car j'ai un projet en tête et beaucoup de questions, plus ou moins importantes, sur la préparation et la marche au quotidien.
J'ai 19 ans et depuis quelques mois j'ai une immense envie de parcourir la France, du nord jusqu'au sud, à pieds. J'aimerais rejoindre, si possible, l'Ile-de-France à la ville de Nice (tombé amoureux de cette ville l'été dernier 😊).
Le problème, c'est que je ne sais absolument pas comment m'y prendre. Quel matériel choisir ? Combien cela coute ? Quels "types" de lieu à éviter ? Comment se passe le quotidien hormis le fait que l'on marche ? Pour la nourriture, comment être assuré de manger un minimum tout le temps du parcours ? Pour les besoins (grosse commission ^^), simplement emporter de quoi être propre ? Ou ... ? Comme vous pouvez le lire, j'ai des questions, certaines sont peut-être bêtes, désolé.
Si quelqu'un d’expérimenté pouvait prendre le temps de me renseigner ce serait génial.
Merci d'avance et bonne journée à vous.
Bonjour a tous amis vadrouilleurs,
je pars dans deux jours du Lubéron ( a cote de Apt ) afin de rejoindre mon Finistère natal.
Le projet est a peu près ficelé ( décidé sur un coup de tête il y a peu ..) , j'ai l'intention d’emprunter le canal du midi au départ de Sète jusqu’à Bordeaux et de poursuivre ensuite le long de la cote Atlantique .Le seul flou concerne l’itinéraire a suivre d'ici jusqu’à Sète .L’idéal serait d’éviter les grandes agglomérations..
Si l'un de vous connaisseur du coin pouvait me suggérer un parcours sympa ( ou me déconseiller les mauvaises zones aussi ) ce serai très sympathique!!!
Merci d'avance , au plaisir de vous lire!!
Une fois rentré je vous ferai un récit de ce voyage qui pour moi est une grande première ...( mais qui me trottais en tête depuis longtemps cependant...)
Bonjour à tous, je découvre ce passionnant forum en cherchant des solutions à mon problème.
Désireux prochainement d'ouvrir une association à but culturel et sportive, j'aimerais dans le cadre de cette association permettre à un groupe de jeune de revisiter, s'approprier l'histoire de France et de sa géographie dans le cadre d'un voyage sportif à vélo, le groupe serait restreint (cinq personnes), pour donner une consistance à ce projet, j'ai besoin de plus de détail sur ce qui est possible de faire à vélo en me servant au mieux de votre incroyable expérience du voyage et du vélo!
Idéalement, le but c'est de faire toute la France en vélo et de retourner une fois arrivée à Marseille dans le nord en train, Marseille n'est pas forcement un choix définitif, il peut changer selon vos avis sur ce qui est le mieux, ce qu'il me faudrait, c'est un itinéraire simple et agréable qui prend aussi et c'est le plus important en compte la sécurité, une estimation des différents couts (logement, nourriture etc), et du matériel nécessaire. Un budget à prévoir par personne me permettrait aussi de savoir ce dont j'ai besoin (financement etc) et de défendre au mieux ce beau projet auprès des structures qui pourraient contribuer à sa réalisation.
Tous ces importants détails me permettrons de donner consistance à mon projet et de réaliser mon rêve et je l'espere celle d'autres jeunes. Merci d'avance pour le soutien que vous pourrez m'apporter 😉
Désireux prochainement d'ouvrir une association à but culturel et sportive, j'aimerais dans le cadre de cette association permettre à un groupe de jeune de revisiter, s'approprier l'histoire de France et de sa géographie dans le cadre d'un voyage sportif à vélo, le groupe serait restreint (cinq personnes), pour donner une consistance à ce projet, j'ai besoin de plus de détail sur ce qui est possible de faire à vélo en me servant au mieux de votre incroyable expérience du voyage et du vélo!
Idéalement, le but c'est de faire toute la France en vélo et de retourner une fois arrivée à Marseille dans le nord en train, Marseille n'est pas forcement un choix définitif, il peut changer selon vos avis sur ce qui est le mieux, ce qu'il me faudrait, c'est un itinéraire simple et agréable qui prend aussi et c'est le plus important en compte la sécurité, une estimation des différents couts (logement, nourriture etc), et du matériel nécessaire. Un budget à prévoir par personne me permettrait aussi de savoir ce dont j'ai besoin (financement etc) et de défendre au mieux ce beau projet auprès des structures qui pourraient contribuer à sa réalisation.
Tous ces importants détails me permettrons de donner consistance à mon projet et de réaliser mon rêve et je l'espere celle d'autres jeunes. Merci d'avance pour le soutien que vous pourrez m'apporter 😉
Bonjour à tout le monde et merci à ceux qui viendront ici m'éclairer de leur expérience bienfaitrice.
Je suis en train de monter un projet en solitaire qui commencera en Ecosse par glasgow pour relier ma ville de toulon ici dans le sud.Je partirai de west kilbride en Ecosse vers la fin juin pour un rythme de route inconnu. 2000 kms de route ne s'improvisent pas complètement donc je suis en train de tout préparer * je viens ici demander aux bonnes volontés de m'éclairer sur les terres parcourues de leurs bonnes ou mauvaises fortunes dans les mêmes lieux Sont déjà prévus le lake ditrict, la picardie, la tourraine, l'orléanais, le dauphiné, la camargue et bien sur toutes les grandes villes du parcours. * En outre je prévois de dormir en camping sauvage, d'où le besoin d'information sur les questions pratiques, toilette, ravitaillement... Quelles ont été vos solutions? Je possède un giant, pour un usage normal sur route goudronné uniquement je ne pense pas que le vélo souffre de trop mais quelles sont les précautions à prendre à ne pas manquer? Je sais que le sujet est très discuté, mais au niveau du choix de l'attleage pour le moment j'opte plus pour la deux de chez radical design, donc si je pouvais avoir de nouveaux retours d'expérience. voilà, si les questions reviennent je poursuivrai mon questionnaire
Merci à tous. françois.
PS : Je suis prêt à rencontrer toute bonne volonté sur ma route, et même parcourir un peude chemin à plusieurs, je ne suis pas vraiment un solitaire
Je suis en train de monter un projet en solitaire qui commencera en Ecosse par glasgow pour relier ma ville de toulon ici dans le sud.Je partirai de west kilbride en Ecosse vers la fin juin pour un rythme de route inconnu. 2000 kms de route ne s'improvisent pas complètement donc je suis en train de tout préparer * je viens ici demander aux bonnes volontés de m'éclairer sur les terres parcourues de leurs bonnes ou mauvaises fortunes dans les mêmes lieux Sont déjà prévus le lake ditrict, la picardie, la tourraine, l'orléanais, le dauphiné, la camargue et bien sur toutes les grandes villes du parcours. * En outre je prévois de dormir en camping sauvage, d'où le besoin d'information sur les questions pratiques, toilette, ravitaillement... Quelles ont été vos solutions? Je possède un giant, pour un usage normal sur route goudronné uniquement je ne pense pas que le vélo souffre de trop mais quelles sont les précautions à prendre à ne pas manquer? Je sais que le sujet est très discuté, mais au niveau du choix de l'attleage pour le moment j'opte plus pour la deux de chez radical design, donc si je pouvais avoir de nouveaux retours d'expérience. voilà, si les questions reviennent je poursuivrai mon questionnaire
Merci à tous. françois.
PS : Je suis prêt à rencontrer toute bonne volonté sur ma route, et même parcourir un peude chemin à plusieurs, je ne suis pas vraiment un solitaire
Pour certains : c'est voyage autour du monde, pour d'autres voyages au bout du monde, et encore d'autres c'est voyage autour de Ma France, et Ben, sta matin pour le Glaude c'est voyage autour de ma chambre
Ils furent heureux nationale 7 Donc, comme la neige a recouvert la contrée de la favergie et de la Sapaudia , en attendant le montchu , claudio fantasme .. Fantasme sur quoi ? sur la fameuse route des vacances la pelle non pas de la neige, mais de la mer Voyons s'il est possible de relier Paris à la mer Méditerranée, à Bicyclette bien entendu en suivant plus ou moins, mais dans un calme relatif cette fameuse route
cbandiera.free.fr/parcours/N7/ Bien entendu tous les cyclos de ce forum sont invités à venir grossir les rangs de ce groupe et d'étoffer le dossier merci Tchoo claudio, de la faverges
Ils furent heureux nationale 7 Donc, comme la neige a recouvert la contrée de la favergie et de la Sapaudia , en attendant le montchu , claudio fantasme .. Fantasme sur quoi ? sur la fameuse route des vacances la pelle non pas de la neige, mais de la mer Voyons s'il est possible de relier Paris à la mer Méditerranée, à Bicyclette bien entendu en suivant plus ou moins, mais dans un calme relatif cette fameuse route
cbandiera.free.fr/parcours/N7/ Bien entendu tous les cyclos de ce forum sont invités à venir grossir les rangs de ce groupe et d'étoffer le dossier merci Tchoo claudio, de la faverges
Bonjour,
Mon épouse et moi même sommes des retraités de 65 ans et désirons déménager dans le sud pour bénéficier d'un climat plus clément l'hiver. Nous habitons actuellement près de Guéret en Creuse et c'est souvent très humide et froid. Nous souhaitons une région calme, ensoleillée, pas trop humide ni venteuse.
Avez vous des conseils intéressants? Merci
Bonjour,
j'envisage de faire le tour de France à Pied - sur plusieurs périodes - en commençant pas les côtes. Je suis en Bretagne, j'ai donc pas mal marché le long de ces côtes.Je fais en moyenne 10 à 15 kilomètres de marche tous les jours ( à un peu plus de 6kmh : beaucoup de plat tout de même)
Donc je vais découper ce tour selon mes vacances:et je vais commencer en mai,8 à 9 jours de marche : 30 à 35 km par jour Voici le détail: 1 - frontière Italienne - Beaulieu sur Mer 2- Beaulieu - Villeneuve Loubet 3- Villeneuve- Cannes 4- Cannes - Saint Raphael (camping du Agay soleil) 5- Saint Rapahel - Sainte Maxime (camping les cigalons) 6- Saint Maxime - Ramatuelle 7- Ramatuelle - le Lavandou 8- Le Lavandou - La londe des maures 9- la londe - Hyeres
En fait , je ne connais que très peu cette région et j'ai 2 grosses questions: 1/ le denivelé est-il très important dans les zones de calanques 2/ Sur les routes de bords de mer, y a t-il toujours un accès piéton, surtout dans les zones hors agglomérations.
Sinon, je suis ouverts à toutes remarques ou question.
Merci de votre lecture
Bertrand
j'envisage de faire le tour de France à Pied - sur plusieurs périodes - en commençant pas les côtes. Je suis en Bretagne, j'ai donc pas mal marché le long de ces côtes.Je fais en moyenne 10 à 15 kilomètres de marche tous les jours ( à un peu plus de 6kmh : beaucoup de plat tout de même)
Donc je vais découper ce tour selon mes vacances:et je vais commencer en mai,8 à 9 jours de marche : 30 à 35 km par jour Voici le détail: 1 - frontière Italienne - Beaulieu sur Mer 2- Beaulieu - Villeneuve Loubet 3- Villeneuve- Cannes 4- Cannes - Saint Raphael (camping du Agay soleil) 5- Saint Rapahel - Sainte Maxime (camping les cigalons) 6- Saint Maxime - Ramatuelle 7- Ramatuelle - le Lavandou 8- Le Lavandou - La londe des maures 9- la londe - Hyeres
En fait , je ne connais que très peu cette région et j'ai 2 grosses questions: 1/ le denivelé est-il très important dans les zones de calanques 2/ Sur les routes de bords de mer, y a t-il toujours un accès piéton, surtout dans les zones hors agglomérations.
Sinon, je suis ouverts à toutes remarques ou question.
Merci de votre lecture
Bertrand
Bonjour,
J'me présente Mathieu, 21 ans, étudiant à Chambéry (Savoie, France)
Parti d'une idée trop difficile, j'ai fait quelques modifications sur mon parcours en reduisant le nombre de km/jour car il y a pas mal de denivelé à manger.
En résumé, le parcours part de Chambéry, monte vers le lac Léman, le longe par le Sud, court passage en Suisse pour rejoindre Abondance (Haute Savoie), puis Savoie, vers le sud en longeant l'Italie, jsq a Menton, puis remontée par le Ventoux, l'Ardeche et le Vercors (fin par les lacs de Paladru et Aiguebelette)
Au total environ 1850km que je compte faire en 18 jours (20 si je case des jours repos), mais le hic ce sont les 33.000m et des poussières de D+.
Pour mieux vous rendre compte, le parcours est là : http://matleo.overblog.com/ ou sur Facebook (La Hot' Route)
Mais mes incertitudes sont surtout sur le transport des bagages : en effet, j'ai un vélo de route tout carbone, et je voulais y mettre un porte bagages de tige de selle, mais beaucoup de personnes le deconseille sur les forums. Je ne sais donc pas comment faire, mon VTT étant lui aussi carbone. Sur le vélo de route, je voudrais mettre une sacoche de guidon mais le guidon est plat et coudé. Et une sacoche avec des velcros ou scratchs ne me semble pas assez solide (qu'en pensez-vous?)
En fait, je veux transporter : tente (1,5kg), sac de couchage, tapis de sol, affaires de rechange et réparation, et la nourriture achetée au jour le jour : je pense donc pouvoir m'en sortir entre 8 et 10kg, mais je pense que je vais me bouziller le dos si je n'ai qu'un sac à dos (en plus tout le poids sera sur la roue arrière) Qu'en pensez-vous ?
J'ai parcourus beaucoup de forums ces derniers jours concernant les porte bagages de tige de selle (deconseillés >> risque de casser sur tige de selle et cadre carbone), remorques (assez couteuses et j'ai peur d'avoir la sensation de trainer un poids mort derriere). Et je ne peux pas adapter de porte bagages sur mon vélo de route (moyeux carbone).
Ah, et dernière question, je viens de monter ma tente Gelert Solo, pas de soucis, mais je me demandais : pendant la nuit, où vous mettez votre vélo, vous l'attachez a coté de la tente ? J'avais pensé à demonter les deux roues, les mettre dans l'abside, mais apres le cadre est encore gros et dormir avec le cadre dessus, ca doit pas etre genial + le sac a dos à caser. Donc je voulais savoir comment vous vous debrouillez (je flippe pas mal de me faire piquer le vélo pendant la nuit)
Je fais donc appel à vous. Des idées ? Merci d'avance Tous les conseils sont les bienvenus : vous pouvez répondre sur le forum ou sur mon blog ou facebook, pas de problème
Mathieu
Mais mes incertitudes sont surtout sur le transport des bagages : en effet, j'ai un vélo de route tout carbone, et je voulais y mettre un porte bagages de tige de selle, mais beaucoup de personnes le deconseille sur les forums. Je ne sais donc pas comment faire, mon VTT étant lui aussi carbone. Sur le vélo de route, je voudrais mettre une sacoche de guidon mais le guidon est plat et coudé. Et une sacoche avec des velcros ou scratchs ne me semble pas assez solide (qu'en pensez-vous?)
En fait, je veux transporter : tente (1,5kg), sac de couchage, tapis de sol, affaires de rechange et réparation, et la nourriture achetée au jour le jour : je pense donc pouvoir m'en sortir entre 8 et 10kg, mais je pense que je vais me bouziller le dos si je n'ai qu'un sac à dos (en plus tout le poids sera sur la roue arrière) Qu'en pensez-vous ?
J'ai parcourus beaucoup de forums ces derniers jours concernant les porte bagages de tige de selle (deconseillés >> risque de casser sur tige de selle et cadre carbone), remorques (assez couteuses et j'ai peur d'avoir la sensation de trainer un poids mort derriere). Et je ne peux pas adapter de porte bagages sur mon vélo de route (moyeux carbone).
Ah, et dernière question, je viens de monter ma tente Gelert Solo, pas de soucis, mais je me demandais : pendant la nuit, où vous mettez votre vélo, vous l'attachez a coté de la tente ? J'avais pensé à demonter les deux roues, les mettre dans l'abside, mais apres le cadre est encore gros et dormir avec le cadre dessus, ca doit pas etre genial + le sac a dos à caser. Donc je voulais savoir comment vous vous debrouillez (je flippe pas mal de me faire piquer le vélo pendant la nuit)
Je fais donc appel à vous. Des idées ? Merci d'avance Tous les conseils sont les bienvenus : vous pouvez répondre sur le forum ou sur mon blog ou facebook, pas de problème
Mathieu
Bonjour à toutes et à tous,
Voilà plusieurs années que je rêve faire un voyage en vélo. J'ai il y a quelque temps déjà visité ce forum pour récolter quelques retours et me renseigner sur cette façon de voyager.
Dans la vie active, j'ai 20 ans et j'entreprends des études d'informatique. Je vais bientôt terminer un stage de 3 mois en entreprise. Avant de continuer en alternance dans cette même entreprise, j'ai envie de prendre l'air : 3 semaines de libre s'offrent à moi en Octobre. Comme je n'ai pas envie de glander devant quelconque écran pendant ces 3 semaines, j'ai décidé d'entreprendre mon premier voyage à vélo.
A la recherche de quelques conseils, je me suis tourné vers ce forum.
Voici en bref mon projet :
- Partir le Lundi 11 Octobre pour faire un tour de vélo de 7 jours
Au départ, je pensais partir depuis chez moi (le Luxembourg) et rejoindre une destination (environ 1000 km) pour ensuite revenir en train. Mais à la vue du temps presque hivernal qui s'est installé dans ma région, je me suis dis que ce ne pourrait peut-être pas être propice pour un premier voyage. Ainsi, je suis à la recherche d'une destination.
Je pensais donc faire cela :
- Partir à Marseille en train. - Longer la côte en vélo jusqu'à Barcelone, où je reprendrais le train pour rentrer à Paris.
Voici mes interrogations :
- La côte entre Marseille et Barclone n'est-elle pas trop dangereuse niveau trafic (même si je prends de petites routes) ? - Niveau logement, les auberges de jeunesse/fermes auberges accueillent-elles des visiteurs à cette époque ? - Niveau transport, je vais prendre mon vélo de course (je n'ai rien d'autre). Je ne sais pas s'il est fait pour supporter la charge d'un porte-bagage. Dois-je opter pour un porte-bagage de selle ou une remorque ? - Je n'ai aucune crainte pour la difficulté physique d'un tel voyage (j'ai fais de la compétition et je connais bien mon corps). Par contre, mon seul doute réside dans la difficulté psychologique d'un tel voyage en solitaire.
D'avance, je vous remercie pour vos éclaircissements
Voilà plusieurs années que je rêve faire un voyage en vélo. J'ai il y a quelque temps déjà visité ce forum pour récolter quelques retours et me renseigner sur cette façon de voyager.
Dans la vie active, j'ai 20 ans et j'entreprends des études d'informatique. Je vais bientôt terminer un stage de 3 mois en entreprise. Avant de continuer en alternance dans cette même entreprise, j'ai envie de prendre l'air : 3 semaines de libre s'offrent à moi en Octobre. Comme je n'ai pas envie de glander devant quelconque écran pendant ces 3 semaines, j'ai décidé d'entreprendre mon premier voyage à vélo.
A la recherche de quelques conseils, je me suis tourné vers ce forum.
Voici en bref mon projet :
- Partir le Lundi 11 Octobre pour faire un tour de vélo de 7 jours
Au départ, je pensais partir depuis chez moi (le Luxembourg) et rejoindre une destination (environ 1000 km) pour ensuite revenir en train. Mais à la vue du temps presque hivernal qui s'est installé dans ma région, je me suis dis que ce ne pourrait peut-être pas être propice pour un premier voyage. Ainsi, je suis à la recherche d'une destination.
Je pensais donc faire cela :
- Partir à Marseille en train. - Longer la côte en vélo jusqu'à Barcelone, où je reprendrais le train pour rentrer à Paris.
Voici mes interrogations :
- La côte entre Marseille et Barclone n'est-elle pas trop dangereuse niveau trafic (même si je prends de petites routes) ? - Niveau logement, les auberges de jeunesse/fermes auberges accueillent-elles des visiteurs à cette époque ? - Niveau transport, je vais prendre mon vélo de course (je n'ai rien d'autre). Je ne sais pas s'il est fait pour supporter la charge d'un porte-bagage. Dois-je opter pour un porte-bagage de selle ou une remorque ? - Je n'ai aucune crainte pour la difficulté physique d'un tel voyage (j'ai fais de la compétition et je connais bien mon corps). Par contre, mon seul doute réside dans la difficulté psychologique d'un tel voyage en solitaire.
D'avance, je vous remercie pour vos éclaircissements
Bonjour, je souhaiterais entrer en contact avec des expatriés belges installés dans le var. J'ai trop envie de tenter l'experience depuis quelques années, mais le risque est important. Quels sont vos conseils, les pièges à éviter. Regrets ou pas ? merci infiniment poour vos réponses. Bav Sylou
Bonjour,
Je me tourne vers le forum en espérant que cela m'aidera à avancer. Ma situation : 27 ans, en recherche d'emploi (recherche principale en bibliothèque et en attendant de trouver, je cherche n'importe quel travail, un job alimentaire). Je touche le chômage et souhaite quitter mon département que je ne supporte plus car il n'y a rien (je suis dans le grand ouest). Problème : je ne sais pas où m'installer.
Ce que je recherche dans l'idéal : - un lieu où il y a du patrimoine, de jolies villes avec du caractère, des beaux bâtiments, du charme et des choses à visiter dans le département
- un bel environnement naturel aux alentours (vallées/montagnes/forêts/lacs --> pas tout ça à la fois mais au moins quelques éléments)
- Ne pas être trop isolée (ne pas être trop loin de l'activité économique, pourquoi pas avoir un aéroport pas très loin aussi car j'adore voyager)
- Loyers modérés : étant au chômage, je ne peux pas me permettre de mettre plus de 450-500€ grand grand max (je parle du loyer sans les APL). Cela ne me dérange pas de faire un peu de route pour aller travailler si cela permet d'avoir des loyers plus accessibles.
Les endroits qui me tentent : - Zone Avignon/Nîmes/Arles/Aix-en-provence (concentration de grandes villes pour le travail, présence de patrimoine)
- Clermont-Ferrand (pour l'environnement naturel, c'est une grande ville mais on m'a dit que la ville n'était pas très belle, que le climat n'était pas folichon et j'ai lu aussi que la ville se dégrade un peu niveau sécurité ?)
-Toulouse (pour le dynamisme économique, la beauté de la ville, l'aéroport mais les loyers sont très chers, la circulation doit être compliquée et niveau sécurité ?)
- Zone Montpellier/Narbonne/Béziers (j'ai déjà vécu à Montpellier quelques mois donc je préférerais habiter ailleurs mais pour y travailler pourquoi pas)
Mais après il y a aussi d'autres coins qui ont l'air sympa : du côté de Bayonne, Albi, Pau/Tarbes, Saint-Etienne/Valence, le périgord, il y a aussi pas mal de possibilité du côté de Bordeaux mais la ville ne m'attire pas plus que ça.
Je suis perdue ! Je cherche des conseils, des avis sur tous ces endroits, pour m'aider à faire un choix sur ce qui serait le plus adapté à ma situation et à mes envies. J'y réfléchis depuis des semaines et je m'arrache vraiment les cheveux ! Je compte prendre quelques jours pour aller faire du repérage dans les villes qui me plairaient mais je ne peux pas toutes les faire, il faut que je rétrécisse ma liste...
Un grand grand merci à ceux qui pourront m'aider !
Je me tourne vers le forum en espérant que cela m'aidera à avancer. Ma situation : 27 ans, en recherche d'emploi (recherche principale en bibliothèque et en attendant de trouver, je cherche n'importe quel travail, un job alimentaire). Je touche le chômage et souhaite quitter mon département que je ne supporte plus car il n'y a rien (je suis dans le grand ouest). Problème : je ne sais pas où m'installer.
Ce que je recherche dans l'idéal : - un lieu où il y a du patrimoine, de jolies villes avec du caractère, des beaux bâtiments, du charme et des choses à visiter dans le département
- un bel environnement naturel aux alentours (vallées/montagnes/forêts/lacs --> pas tout ça à la fois mais au moins quelques éléments)
- Ne pas être trop isolée (ne pas être trop loin de l'activité économique, pourquoi pas avoir un aéroport pas très loin aussi car j'adore voyager)
- Loyers modérés : étant au chômage, je ne peux pas me permettre de mettre plus de 450-500€ grand grand max (je parle du loyer sans les APL). Cela ne me dérange pas de faire un peu de route pour aller travailler si cela permet d'avoir des loyers plus accessibles.
Les endroits qui me tentent : - Zone Avignon/Nîmes/Arles/Aix-en-provence (concentration de grandes villes pour le travail, présence de patrimoine)
- Clermont-Ferrand (pour l'environnement naturel, c'est une grande ville mais on m'a dit que la ville n'était pas très belle, que le climat n'était pas folichon et j'ai lu aussi que la ville se dégrade un peu niveau sécurité ?)
-Toulouse (pour le dynamisme économique, la beauté de la ville, l'aéroport mais les loyers sont très chers, la circulation doit être compliquée et niveau sécurité ?)
- Zone Montpellier/Narbonne/Béziers (j'ai déjà vécu à Montpellier quelques mois donc je préférerais habiter ailleurs mais pour y travailler pourquoi pas)
Mais après il y a aussi d'autres coins qui ont l'air sympa : du côté de Bayonne, Albi, Pau/Tarbes, Saint-Etienne/Valence, le périgord, il y a aussi pas mal de possibilité du côté de Bordeaux mais la ville ne m'attire pas plus que ça.
Je suis perdue ! Je cherche des conseils, des avis sur tous ces endroits, pour m'aider à faire un choix sur ce qui serait le plus adapté à ma situation et à mes envies. J'y réfléchis depuis des semaines et je m'arrache vraiment les cheveux ! Je compte prendre quelques jours pour aller faire du repérage dans les villes qui me plairaient mais je ne peux pas toutes les faire, il faut que je rétrécisse ma liste...
Un grand grand merci à ceux qui pourront m'aider !
France - Est-ce possible de presque toujours payer les déjeuners, dîners, les taxis, etc. avec la carte de crédit ou nous faut-il du comptant ?
On part pour 10 jours 2 adultes 2 enfants. On ira à Marseille, Nice puis Paris.
Merci 🙂
On part pour 10 jours 2 adultes 2 enfants. On ira à Marseille, Nice puis Paris.
Merci 🙂
Bonsoir
Nous aurions voulus avoir un avis sur la compagnie CDF et leurs bateaux Horizon et Zenith. la mini croisière devrait se faire le 16 ou 17 avril 2016 au départ de Marseille pour 7 nuits. - que pensez vous de la nourriture à bord ? - le forfait liberté plus est-il valable ? ( en sachant qu'il y a 5 excursions dans la semaine ) - le confort d'une cabine intérieure est-il suffisant ?
Merci pour vos réponses
Nous aurions voulus avoir un avis sur la compagnie CDF et leurs bateaux Horizon et Zenith. la mini croisière devrait se faire le 16 ou 17 avril 2016 au départ de Marseille pour 7 nuits. - que pensez vous de la nourriture à bord ? - le forfait liberté plus est-il valable ? ( en sachant qu'il y a 5 excursions dans la semaine ) - le confort d'une cabine intérieure est-il suffisant ?
Merci pour vos réponses
Bonjour à tous,
Je suit régulièrement les post concernant le voyage à vélo, et cette fois - ci c'est à moi de poser ma petite question..
Fin Juillet, je souhaite faire la "Grande Traversée des Alpes (GTA) qui rellie Thonon les Bains à Menton.
Je suis cycliste assidu et compte donc faire ce voyage avec mon vélo de compétition (Look 586 avec de simple Mavic Aksium).
La durée de vélo est de 7 jours avec environ 6h sur la selle par jour. Le parcours est difficile (2-3 cols alpins par jours..)
Nous comptons dormir à l'hôtel/gîtes/couchsurfing.
Ma question est donc : peut -on faire ce voyage avec un unique sac à dos et une petite sacoche sur le cintre ?
Petite liste à emmener : vêtements de pluie, un 2ème ensemble de vélo, 1 caleçon& 2 paires de chaussettes, 1 jogging,1 tshirt manche longue, petite trousse de toilettes, nutrition sportif (gatosport, antioxydant) et une petite serviette, 1 cartes, objets de réparations (chambre à air, petite pompe carbone, démonte pneu etc..)
Peut on avec les différents éléments (dénivelé, température) faire ce voyage avec un sac ? Si oui, quel litrage voir quel modèle me conseillez vous ?
Jocelyn, 23ans, d'Alsace
Je suit régulièrement les post concernant le voyage à vélo, et cette fois - ci c'est à moi de poser ma petite question..
Fin Juillet, je souhaite faire la "Grande Traversée des Alpes (GTA) qui rellie Thonon les Bains à Menton.
Je suis cycliste assidu et compte donc faire ce voyage avec mon vélo de compétition (Look 586 avec de simple Mavic Aksium).
La durée de vélo est de 7 jours avec environ 6h sur la selle par jour. Le parcours est difficile (2-3 cols alpins par jours..)
Nous comptons dormir à l'hôtel/gîtes/couchsurfing.
Ma question est donc : peut -on faire ce voyage avec un unique sac à dos et une petite sacoche sur le cintre ?
Petite liste à emmener : vêtements de pluie, un 2ème ensemble de vélo, 1 caleçon& 2 paires de chaussettes, 1 jogging,1 tshirt manche longue, petite trousse de toilettes, nutrition sportif (gatosport, antioxydant) et une petite serviette, 1 cartes, objets de réparations (chambre à air, petite pompe carbone, démonte pneu etc..)
Peut on avec les différents éléments (dénivelé, température) faire ce voyage avec un sac ? Si oui, quel litrage voir quel modèle me conseillez vous ?
Jocelyn, 23ans, d'Alsace
Bonsoir,
Une nouvelle ( pour moi): contrôle radar sur une piste cyclable limitée à 10 km/h à Cagnes sur Mer ! bon qu'en dire !
Une nouvelle ( pour moi): contrôle radar sur une piste cyclable limitée à 10 km/h à Cagnes sur Mer ! bon qu'en dire !
Bonjour
j'envisage de rallier.
Dans le cadre d'un périple d'Annecy à la Mer en passant par les saintes maries obligatoirement.
Saintes Maries de la mer - Fos sur mer - Marseille à vélo la lecture attentive de la carte M.. ne me rassurant pas trop qlq connait-il un moyen de ralier ces deux villes à bicyclette sans encombres
claude merci
j'envisage de rallier.
Dans le cadre d'un périple d'Annecy à la Mer en passant par les saintes maries obligatoirement.
Saintes Maries de la mer - Fos sur mer - Marseille à vélo la lecture attentive de la carte M.. ne me rassurant pas trop qlq connait-il un moyen de ralier ces deux villes à bicyclette sans encombres
claude merci
Salut, on penses réaliser la ViaRhona http://www.viarhona.com/ de Annecy à Avignon.
Quelques questions:
Est-ce vraiment beau comme parcours? pas trop ''industriel"? quand même un peu sauvage et tranquille?
En réalisant Annecy/Albertville/Grenoble/Valence/Avignon, c'est que des voies vertes?
Car les enfants seront avec nous, et donc ils feront des parties en "libre'' sur leurs vélos.
La ViaRhona se suit facilement, c'est clair et indiqué... ou c'est un vrai jeu de piste?
Qualité du parcours?
Ou pour faire ce parcours Annecy/Avignon mieux vaut suivre un autre itinéraire?
Merci de vos retours🙂
La ViaRhona se suit facilement, c'est clair et indiqué... ou c'est un vrai jeu de piste?
Qualité du parcours?
Ou pour faire ce parcours Annecy/Avignon mieux vaut suivre un autre itinéraire?
Merci de vos retours🙂
Salut les VFistes !!! 🙂
La 1ère édition ayant été une réussite, je pense qu’une nouvelle balade dans les rues de la Cité Phocéenne devrait intéresser bon nombre de personnes. Cela pourrait permettre de nouvelles rencontres entre passionnés du voyage et favoriser les échanges. Le tout sous le signe de la bonne humeur et d’un soleil qui souhaitons-le sera de la partie. Alors, que vous ayez participé à la balade de l’an passé ou pas, que vous soyez de Marseille ou d’ailleurs, vous êtes les bienvenus.
Où et quand ?
Le samedi 4 juin 2011, rendez-vous à 10h00 sur le Quai de la Fraternité
Le parcours
Celui de l’an passé s’était avéré bien sympa. J’ai donc décidé d’en conserver une partie. Nous nous dirigerons pour commencer vers le quartier du Panier (tant réclamé l’année dernière). Montée des Accoules, dédale de ruelles, petites places, Vieille Charité, Cathédrale de la Major et Parvis St Laurent seront au menu de la visite du plus ancien quartier de Marseille. On devrait même passer devant la boutique officielle de « Plus belle la vie »… Oui, je sais, je vous gâte trop… 😛
Nous redescendrons ensuite vers le Quai du Port pour prendre le Ferry Boat. Commencera alors l’ascension vers Notre-Dame de la Garde. Les personnes préférant s’économiser pourront accéder à la basilique en bus (si ces messieurs de la régie des transports ne sont pas en grève ce jour-là… 🤪). Un déjeuner bien mérité nous attendra à l’ombre de la Bonne Mère, vue panoramique garantie ! Après une visite digestive des lieux, nous ferons un petit crochet par St Victor et achèverons notre journée dans les Jardins du Pharo.
Je tiens à préciser que cette Rando Urbaine est une balade, pas une course. Nous prendrons le temps de découvrir ou redécouvrir tout ce qui se présentera sur notre chemin. Pour ceux qui hésiteraient à se joindre au groupe, rien ne vous oblige à effectuer la totalité du parcours. Libre à chacun d’écourter sa balade s’il le souhaite.
Le déjeuner
Comme l’an passé. Même lieu, mêmes consignes. Nourriture, boisson, chacun apporte ce qu’il veut, pour lui ou pour partager. Aucune obligation. Pas de prise de tête.
A prévoir
De quoi poser ses fesses sur le sol pour le pique-nique. De la monnaie pour le bus et… si vous voulez allumer un cierge à la Bonne Mère. 😇 Par ailleurs, j'ignore si l’entrée de la Vieille Charité est payante. Si par hasard quelqu’un avait l’info…
Photos
J’encourage les paparazzis à se munir de leurs appareils, ils pourront s’en donner à cœur-joie. Cela me permettra ensuite de vous bricoler un petit photo-clip sympa compilant les plus jolis clichés de la journée. 😮
Voilà, maintenant vous savez tout ! Si vous avez des questions, vous savez où me trouver ! 😉
A très bientôt !!! 😎
Stef
La 1ère édition ayant été une réussite, je pense qu’une nouvelle balade dans les rues de la Cité Phocéenne devrait intéresser bon nombre de personnes. Cela pourrait permettre de nouvelles rencontres entre passionnés du voyage et favoriser les échanges. Le tout sous le signe de la bonne humeur et d’un soleil qui souhaitons-le sera de la partie. Alors, que vous ayez participé à la balade de l’an passé ou pas, que vous soyez de Marseille ou d’ailleurs, vous êtes les bienvenus.
Où et quand ?
Le samedi 4 juin 2011, rendez-vous à 10h00 sur le Quai de la Fraternité
Le parcours
Celui de l’an passé s’était avéré bien sympa. J’ai donc décidé d’en conserver une partie. Nous nous dirigerons pour commencer vers le quartier du Panier (tant réclamé l’année dernière). Montée des Accoules, dédale de ruelles, petites places, Vieille Charité, Cathédrale de la Major et Parvis St Laurent seront au menu de la visite du plus ancien quartier de Marseille. On devrait même passer devant la boutique officielle de « Plus belle la vie »… Oui, je sais, je vous gâte trop… 😛
Nous redescendrons ensuite vers le Quai du Port pour prendre le Ferry Boat. Commencera alors l’ascension vers Notre-Dame de la Garde. Les personnes préférant s’économiser pourront accéder à la basilique en bus (si ces messieurs de la régie des transports ne sont pas en grève ce jour-là… 🤪). Un déjeuner bien mérité nous attendra à l’ombre de la Bonne Mère, vue panoramique garantie ! Après une visite digestive des lieux, nous ferons un petit crochet par St Victor et achèverons notre journée dans les Jardins du Pharo.
Je tiens à préciser que cette Rando Urbaine est une balade, pas une course. Nous prendrons le temps de découvrir ou redécouvrir tout ce qui se présentera sur notre chemin. Pour ceux qui hésiteraient à se joindre au groupe, rien ne vous oblige à effectuer la totalité du parcours. Libre à chacun d’écourter sa balade s’il le souhaite.
Le déjeuner
Comme l’an passé. Même lieu, mêmes consignes. Nourriture, boisson, chacun apporte ce qu’il veut, pour lui ou pour partager. Aucune obligation. Pas de prise de tête.
A prévoir
De quoi poser ses fesses sur le sol pour le pique-nique. De la monnaie pour le bus et… si vous voulez allumer un cierge à la Bonne Mère. 😇 Par ailleurs, j'ignore si l’entrée de la Vieille Charité est payante. Si par hasard quelqu’un avait l’info…
Photos
J’encourage les paparazzis à se munir de leurs appareils, ils pourront s’en donner à cœur-joie. Cela me permettra ensuite de vous bricoler un petit photo-clip sympa compilant les plus jolis clichés de la journée. 😮
Voilà, maintenant vous savez tout ! Si vous avez des questions, vous savez où me trouver ! 😉
A très bientôt !!! 😎
Stef
La justice française va t-elle faire respecter le droit français à Rynair?
O'leary va t il tenir ça promesse de fermer sa base de MRS?!
Peuvent ils tout simplement pas fonctionner avec leurs de base de marseille et repsecter le droit français! Quel pourri ce O'leary (ça rime en plus!!)😛
La société Ryanair mise en examen pour "travail dissimulé" (AFP) – Il y a 2 heures
Peuvent ils tout simplement pas fonctionner avec leurs de base de marseille et repsecter le droit français! Quel pourri ce O'leary (ça rime en plus!!)😛
La société Ryanair mise en examen pour "travail dissimulé" (AFP) – Il y a 2 heures
