Results for "Autriche+souvenir+artisanat"

Cédant au conseil d'une amie, je me décide, pour une fois de me rendre à Bordeaux avec une Cie Low Coast. La différence de prix avec Air France est évidente et finit par me convaincre. Bien sûr, il faut aller jusqu'à Charleroi, pas de problème, il y a désormais une navette Lille-Charleroi. Billet acheté, bus payé, je suis encore gagnante.YES ! Mais, vous vous en doutez, il y a un mais, et même plusieurs. Concernant le bagage surtout : pour un voyage à ce prix, pas de valise en soute, bagage à main 10 kg max, ou alors il faut payer en MEME TEMPS QUE LE BILLET sur le net 50 €. Qu'à cela ne tienne, pour une fois, je voyagerai "léger" c'est l'été ! Arrivée à l'aéroport de Charleroi, bondé, mal organisé, pagaille monstre, ça court, ça crie, et ça se bouscule ... comme d'habitu..de .... Enregistrement : c'est déjà fait par Internet, donc direction salle d'attente avant embarquement. Un grand mec basané sans signe distinctif m'empêche de passer, motif, ma valise est trop grande ! retour à l'enregistrement explications avec la femme tronc exténuée, pas de chance, il faut mettre le bagage en soute, et là, elle m'annonce le prix : 100 € !!!!! je crois que je vais faire un malaise je suis mala..de.... - Le grand mec me surveille du coin de l'oeil, moi aussi. Impossible de feinter. Je tente quand même. Rien à faire. Il me conseille de mettre le contenu de ma valise dans un sac (à acheter au magasin de l'aéroport... sous-entendu, il touche sa com) et ma valise alors ? il faut la laisser là. Où ça là ? là. Bref, la tension monte encore d'un cran. Le temps est à l'orage. Pas d'autre solution que de payer pour ma valise plus cher que le vol aller-retour entre nous soit dit. Pas le choix. . Je fouille mes poches, je sais qu'c'est moche... je paie, j'abrège.... Débarrassée de ma valise et soulagée de 100 €, je me fraye un chemin tant bien que mal dans la foule, qui s'élance et qui danse.... une folle farandole ... jusqu'à ......la porte 10 : deux destinations pour la même porte résultat : Budapest et Bordeaux se mélangent dans la chaleur épaisse...

Une fois le tri fait, enfin je pense ...tant pis pour ceux qui sont partis à Budapest au lieu de Bordeaux et vice versa ! me voilà dans la file des prioritaires, non pas que je sois en chaise roulante, mais pour 10 € j'avais réservé ma place. Ouf ! les prioritaires attendent au pied de l'avion qu'on veuille bien les laisser entrer... pendant ce temps un marathon s'organise avec les non prioritaires, qui finalement entrent avant nous par la porte arrière du véhicule volant arborant fièrement "RYAN AIR" en bleu...bleu... bleu... sur son flanc, blanc.. blanc... blanc... Enfin assise à ma place. Je regarde l'heure, nous allons être en retard ! je demande à l'hôtesse si nous partons à l'heure elle me regarde comme si elle avait vu une souris venimeuse à ses pieds, en me répondant dans un anglais très très approximatif que le vol dure une heure dix ! c'est un peu comme si je posais une question au prof Tournesol ! ouaf ! elle comprend que dalle ! une étudiante assise à côté de moi lui fait comprendre, dans un bon anglais elle, que c'était pas la question, et lui redemande si nous partons à l'heure, la bécasse venue de l'est ne comprend toujours rien ! allez basta ! en deux temps trois mouvements, le 737 est rempli, et là, miracle ... on part. A l'heure. J'en crois pas mes yeux. Pendant le vol, elle et ses comparses essaient tant bien que mal de fourguer leur sandwiches et boissons diverses et (a)variées... payantes bien sûr ! pour cela elles ont revêtu un élégant tablier jaune et bleu et là ça fait tilt ! on est chez LIDL ! c'est donc ça ! Pour couronner le tout, elles repassent dans "central allée" pour vendre .... des billets de tombola !!! Je rêve. Vite qu'on me réveille que ce cauchemar s'arrête enfin ! Hé non, c'est la réalité. Heureusement le vol ne dure pas longtemps, le 737 a mis la gomme ! Arrivée à Bordeaux, côté pestiférés de l'aéroport, on doit monter, descendre des escaliers métalliques, hic, le tout entouré de hauts grillages faisant penser aux cages du zoo de Lille. Mais en moins bien. Je sors enfin de l'enfer. Une voix crie "maman" ! si maman si.. si maman si ... je suis sauvée par ma descendance ! j'ai bien fait d'en faire. Heureusement le séjour fut très agréable. Je n'aurai pas fait tout ça pour rien. C'est peu dire : 91 € de billet d'avion (aller retour, oui quand même) 100 € pour le bagage en soute, 32 € pour le bus (aller-retour) et en finale : 39,90€ pour l'achat d'une toute petite valise "Lulu Castagnette" modèle enfant voyageant seul ... voilà ! Petite précision le même voyage avec Air France - départ de Lesquin - m'aurait coûté 161 €, boisson et service, en Français SVP, compris ! Quand on ajoute le temps passé : 7 heures à l'aller et autant au retour, vu que les amis qui devaient venir me prendre à l'arrêt de bus étaient au match Lille-qq chose et que ces messieurs les footballeurs bien payés mais faut pas les faire courir trop vite, ont joué les prolongations et qu'il ne fallait surtout pas râter ça, j'ai du attendre qu'ils en finissent avec leurs copains de Coppenhague, de Hambourg ou d'ailleurs ....enfin.. des footeux quoi ... on peut pas leur demander la lune, ils la prendraient pour une ba balle à son mé maitre .... et moi, sous la pluie jusqu'à une heure vingt du matin...... tout ça pour 1h10 de vol ! Conclusion : on m'a demandé que ce voulait dire Ryan Air, ne cherchez plus c'est ROYAL ARNAQUE ! j'ai tout compris ! plus jamais ça ! même si on me paye, même très très cher comme pour.... jouer un match de foot par exemple ! Allez, attachez vos ceintures, éteignez moi ce téléphone, ce baladeur, ce pacemacker, et BON VOYAGE ! hé oui, hé oui madame ....

Bonsoir,

qui sait expliquer à un Germanique l'expression suivante ...

Manger le pain blanc !

J'ai lu deux explications sans avoir compris une seule ! Des informations background sont bienvenues ...

Herbert

La 67 ème édition ayant subi un mystérieux coup de balai cette après-midi, j'ouvre cette nouvelle édition...

Je vous invite à un barbecue 😛



A vous de trouver l'adresse...

Bonsoir, Je suis en train de préparer un futur voyage au QUEBEC avec ma femme et mes deux enfants (4ans et 2ans). J'aurai certainement pleins de questions à vous poser pour bien le préparer dont voici une première :

A votre avis, mieux vaut-il atterrir à MONTREAL et effectuer un trajet-voyage jusque QUEBEC ou alors atterrir à QUEBEC et faire le chemin inverse ? y a t il un intérêt ? économique ? touristique ?

Merci pour vos réponses

Patrice

Circuit en auto au départ de Rome vers l'Italie du Sud: Vasto, Trani, Matera, Alberobello, Lecce, Brindisi. Traversier de nuit en Albanie avec l'auto: de Brindisi à Vlora. Puis, séjour en Albanie, Macédoine, Serbie (Belgrade), Croatie : Zagreb et l'Istrie croate (Hum, Rovinj, Pula). Retour par l'Istrie slovène: Piran, Porec, Koper, puis par l'Italie du nord et du centre: Trieste, Grado, Palmanova, Padoue, Vérone, Arezzo, Fiumicino, Ostia Antica, Rome.



Itinéraire détaillé Les nuitées et les arrêts sont indiqués ci-dessous. (Les lettres entre parenthèses correspondent à celles de la carte ci-dessus).

Jour 1 Départ de l’aéroport de Fiumicino-Roma (P)

Italie du sud: Jour 2 Première nuitée à Vasto (Q) Jour 3 Trani (R); arrêt au Castel del Monte Jours 4-5 Matera; arrêt à Alberobello (T) Jour 6 Lecce

Albanie: Jour 7 Traversier de nuit Italie-Albanie : Brindisi (V)-Vlora (A) Jours 8-9 Saranda (B); excursion au site archéologique de Butrint (C) Jour 10 Gjirokastra (D); arrêt à Blue Eye Jours 11-12 Berat(e) Jours 13-14 Tirana (F); excursion à Kruja et à Durrësi

Macédoine (FYROM): Jours 15-18 Lac d’Ohrid (H); excursion dans les environs Jour 19 Skopje (I)

Serbie: Jours 20-21 Belgrade (J)

Croatie: Jours 22-24 Zagreb (K); arrêt à la minuscule ville de Hum Jours 25-26 Rovinj; excursion en bus local à Pula

Slovénie: Jours 27-28 Piran (L); arrêt à Porec; excursion à Koper; excursion à Trieste, Italie

Italie du nord: Jour 29 Palmanova (M); arrêt à Grado Jours 30-33 Padoue; excursion sur le Canal de la Brenta (Padoue – Stra - Venise) Jours 34-35 Vérone (N) Jours 36-37 Arezzo (O) Jours 38-39 Fiumicino; excursion au site archéologique d’Ostia Antica (P) Jour 40 Départ Rome-Montréal

Pays des Balkans

Transports Avion : Vol direct Montréal (YUL)-ROME (FCO) avec Air Transat – excellent service (AR 896$C ou 690 EUROS). Location d’auto : Chez Eurocar TT Citroën 2011 plan achat-rachat: C3 Picasso diesel manuelle, km illimités, GPS, assurance multirisque incluse couvrant tous les pays que l’on voulait visiter (peu de compagnies de location couvrent l’Albanie, la Macédoine ou la Serbie actuellement); aucune franchise en cas d’accident (2117$C pour 39 jours). Traversier : Agoudimos sur le «Ionian Spirit» entre Brindisi (Italie) et Vlora (Albanie) (réservé à l'avance) 1 nuit: 155 Euros pour 2 passagers avec voiture compacte. Très bien!

Hébergement Nos critères étaients les suivants: hôtels ou B&B dans le centre historique ou à proximité; chambre avec vue si possible; salle de bains en suite, AC au besoin, Wifi gratuit apprécié. Moins de 100$CAD/nuit (<80€) pour 2 personnes – tout en se permettant quelques exceptions. Les avantages de voyager au mois de mai: hébergement moins cher, journées plus longues et plus de liberté car on a moins besoin de faire de réservations à l’avance. On avait réservé les hôtels pour la première et la dernière nuit seulement, ainsi que l’hôtel de Matera (sassi obligent…) et celui de Vérone (car c’était l’ouverture du 89e Festival d’opéra à l’antique Arena).

DESCRIPTION

JOUR 1 Départ de MONTRÉAL Départ en soirée de Montréal vers ROME – vol de nuit (durée 8 h)

JOUR 2 Dimanche Arrivée à l’aéroport de ROME (FCO) à 11h30 am; 1h15 d’attente pour la récupération des bagages! Navette vers le Blue Parking pour prendre possession de l'auto, une Citroën. Départ à 14h20 vers la Côte adriatique par l’autoroute - direction Pescara, pour une nuitée à VASTO à 300 km de Rome (env. 3h), région des Abruzzes.

Hébergement : 1 nuit au Locanda dei Baroni dans le centre historique de Vasto (80€ réservé directement à l’hôtel par Internet avant le départ). Chambre décorée avec raffinement (photo 3 au bas du message), Petit éjeuner (PD), stationnement gratuit à la porte de l’hôtel dans l’étroite rue San Francisco d’Assisi… Voir ici mes commentaires concernant l’hôtel



On fait une promenade nocturne à pied dans les petites rues – sous la pluie… Pas assez de temps cependant pour visiter Vasto Marina et sa «Sirenetta». Repas du soir à la «Pizzeria Rosticceria Il Panzotto» qui offre une vue plongeante sur l’Adriatique

JOUR 3 Départ de Vasto – Arrêt au CASTLE DEL MONTE** - Nuit à TRANI (240 km env. 3h) - Région des Pouilles

Castel del Monte (UNESCO) Au stationnement du Castel del Monte, on doit emprunter l’autobus-navette. Visite du château à l'architecture militaire (de 13h15 à 14h45). Perché sur un piton rocheux, ce château a été édifié près de Bari par l’empereur Frédéric II. Il est inscrit au patrimoine mondial de l’UNESCO à titre de château du 13e s. reconnu pour la rigueur mathématique et astronomique de son plan et la perfection de sa forme octogonale (tout est en 8) – Vaut le détour!





Trani

Hébergement : 1 nuit à la petite Albergo Lucy située dans le centre historique de Trani – (75€/nuit) - chambre confortable, balcon avec vue sur la remarquable façade d’un ancien monastère à dôme byzantin et clocher roman, l’église San Dominico, sur la Piazza Plebiscito et au loin sur l’Adriatique.



Parking gratuit dans la rue, Wifi gratuit dans la chambre; pas de PD, peu de services - on doit sonner à l’entrée à l’arrivée. Restaurants, bars et épiceries tout près. Voir ici mes commentaires sur l’hôtel

Visite Agréable promenade à pied dans les Jardins* de Trani, dans les petites rues… Le lendemain matin avant le départ, visite de la cathédrale normande** (12e s.) au bord de l’Adriatique.

JOURS 4-5 Départ de Trani – Nuit à MATERA*** (UNESCO) (100 km env. 1h30) - Région de Basilicate

Matera (UNESCO) Ville célèbre pour ses habitats troglodytiques: les Sassi di Matera et son parc d'églises rupestres. Depuis la préhistoire, l’homme y a habité… Intéressante histoire que ces sassi, rénovés depuis 1986. Actuellement, 2000 personnes y habitent : terrasses, passages, escaliers, toits, grottes, tout s’entremêle – dépaysant à souhait!



Hébergement : COUP DE CŒUR! 2 nuits au Basiliani Hotel*** Rione Casalnuovo (Sasso Caveoso) dans un hôtel installé dans un ancien sassi (85€/nuit; chambre #111). On a réservé directement auprès de l’hôtel sur Internet avant le départ (on a regardé les photos et la description des chambres sur leur site et on a choisi celle que l’on voulais) Parking gratuit à 200 m. sur la Piazza San Pedro Caveoso. Wifi gratuit dans la chambre, PD inclus – chambre avec déco minimaliste tout en noir-blanc-rouge, ameublement simple ultramoderne; très humide cependant et pour cause… puisqu’on loge dans un hôtel taillé dans la roche, dans une grotte agrandie et modernisée. Une expérience que je vous souhaite!



Visite Le lendemain de notre arrivée, visite organisée (réservée auprès de l'hôtel) du Sasso Barisano et du Sasso Caveoso (à 10h45; 15€ pp) Départ au centre-ville de Matera, Piazza Vittorio Veneto. On a apprécié cette excursion (1½ h), car Matera, c’est superbe et… très vaste!

JOUR 6 Départ de Matera – Arrêt à ALBEROBELLO*** - Nuit à LECCE*** (184 km env. 3h) - Région des Pouilles

Alberobello (UNESCO) À 68 km de Matera (env. 1h30), on visite la célèbre Alberobello, ville aux habitations en pierre sèche connues sous le nom de trulli : COUP DE CŒUR! Le quartier de Monti contient plus de 1000 trulli; le quartier d’Aja Piccola, près de 600. Les murs des habitations sont blanchis à la chaux; les toits de pierre sont en forme de cônes et portent souvent des symboles religieux ou mythologiques en cendre blanche. La plupart des trulli datent du 18e siècle. Selon l’UNESCO, ils étaient construits de façon à être rapidement démantelés pour éviter les taxes résidentielles et rapidement reconstruits une fois le collecteur de taxes disparu… On a eu la chance de visiter par temps ensoleillé, au grand calme car il y avait peu de touristes, ce qui n’est pas toujours le cas, parait-il…





Lecce

Hébergement : 1 nuit au «Il Vicolo Apartments» (70€/nuit) via Leonardo Prato dans le secteur piétonnier du centre historique. Obtenu par l’intermédiaire de l’Office du Tourisme de Lecce (les hôtels que l'on voulait étaient tous complets, les autres trop chers). On n’a pas apprécié cet appartement, situé loin du parking payant et non gardé. On ne pouvait accéder à l’appartement avec l’auto et les bagages; on devait rencontrer une personne pour nous remettre la clé… et tout ça pour 1 seule nuit. Mais, pour 70€ à Lecce… on ne peut trop se plaindre. L’appartement était sombre, nombreuses petites pièces réparties sur 2 étages. Aussitôt arrivés, on a dû aller acheter du papier de toilette, non fourni a-t-on appris dans ce type d’hébergement. L’appartement était toutefois fort bien situé pour visiter Lecce.

Visite Lecce est une grande ville, universitaire et historique située dans la presqu’île du Salento - dans le «talon de la botte italienne» - excellente base pour rayonner dans la région. On la surnomme la «Florence baroque»: véritable COUP DE CŒUR! Églises et palais baroques, ville animée pleine de surprises, détails architecturaux incroyables - un pur bonheur à contempler! On a marché, marché… aux sons des rondinis… une ville agréable à découvrir!

Le surlendemain de notre arrivée, on a pris le petit train touristique au son de la musique de Vivaldi cette fois (1h; 10€ pp) - très apprécié pour admirer cette orgie d’architecture baroque et… question de se reposer un peu. Merci Capucine pour tes conseils! Voir son compte rendu sur Lecce ici.



JOUR 7 Départ de Lecce – Visite de BRINDISI (40 km env. 35 min) --> Nuit sur le FERRY BRINDISI-VLORA Traversée vers l’Albanie sur l’Ionian Spirit d’Agoudimos Lines (durée 7 à 8h).

Après une visite à pied du centre de Brindisi, on est allé repérer le port et échanger notre «voucher» pour le billet du traversier (billet réservé sur Internet quelques semaines auparavant). Le départ prévu pour 23h a été retardé d’environ 2 heures. Organisation médiocre dans le port; bon service toutefois dans le traversier et agréable restaurant. On avait choisi une cabine de catégorie AB2 : intérieure (on voyage de nuit…) avec salle de toilette (155€ pour 2 passagers avec voiture compacte). Durée du trajet : moins de 8h.

Brindisi:



../

Kalimera a tous les aspirants voyageurs,

je suis en Grece depuis un mois, Athenes et la Crete, et je vois que tout va bien, la vie y est bien douce, pas de revolution dans l'air... il y fait tres beau, on se baigne... je me demande juste ou sont les touristes ??? aucun a l'horizon.....

les francais et tous les autres europeens bouderaient ils ce beau pays, qui fait, jusqu'a preuve du contraire, partie de l'Europe ?

Je m'interroge... pourquoi ne pas venir ici ?? moins loin que la Thailande... tout le monde parle anglais ou francais, la vie n'est pas tres chere, voire carrement moins chere qu'en France, partout des hotels entre 25 et 35 euros pour 2 (20 euros pour une personne seule)...

Qu'en pensez vous chers amis voyageurs ?

Anne

Bonjour à tous,

Le 22ème concours international de photo VF est lancé, sur le thème : "Vive la pub" Tout ce qui a un rapport avec la publicité, de préférence en voyage. Le thème est à prendre au sens large, le but n'est pas de censurer des photos.

Règlement : On garde le même que pour les concours précédents, à savoir : - On peut poster jusqu'à 3 photos par personne, jusqu'au 22 avril, de préférence chacune dans un message différent, en indiquant leur numéro. - On vote du 23 au 29 avril, pour 3 photos, en indiquant le nom de l'auteur(e) et le numéro de la photo. La première photo se verra attribuer 3 points, la seconde 2 et la troisième 1 seul. - Le vainqueur gagne l'immense privilège d'organiser le concours suivant. (En cas d'ex aequo, les vainqueurs s'arrangent entre eux).

Pour ne pas encombrer ce post, les commentaires c'est ici : http://voyageforum.com/v.f?post=5035611;live=1;

Nouvelle année, nouveaux jeux... Quand c'est trop, c'est lassant. Mais nous n'avons rien fait depuis fin janvier. Ce serait bien de recommencer, chacun son rythme, chacun sa technique, demander des indices plutôt que de googeliser 🙂

Où suis-je ?

Bonjour à tous!

Nous sommes un couple avec un bébé de 8 mois maintenant. Nous sommes tout comme vous fous de voyage itinérant. Pour vous donner une petite idée de notre expérience, nous avons fait plusieurs voyages sac au dos de quelques semaines : Mexique, Guatemala, Guyane, Canaries, Maroc, Jordanie, Afrique du Sud/Swaziland, Birmanie, ... Et un de 15 mois : Australie et NZ et Asie du Sud-Est (Thaïlande, Laos, Cambodge, Singapoure, Indonésie (Sumatra, Bali et Lombok).

Voilà, maintenant que notre poulette est arrivée, certes, l'envie de voyager est bel et bien là, mais beaucoup de questions se posent : logistiques, sécurité, ... et mon gros problème à moi, c'est que je suis infirmière pédiatrique, que je vois dans mon boulot des situations qui me font psychoter et j'ai donc un peu peur qu'il n'arrive quoi que ce soit à notre chérie...

Alors voilà, vous qui avez voyagé avec votre marmaille, pouvez-vous me faire une petite liste des destinations que vous me conseillez, par ordre de préférence... J'essayerai de faire un récapitulatif et le publierai sur le forum, ça pourrait servir à d'autres!

Merci!!!!

Bonsoir,

Voilà Capucine qui "démarre" son récit de sa croisière sur le Costa Atlantica vers "les Civilisations Antiques".

Nous étions "un mini groupe de 6 pax". Je vais vous les présenter pour ceux qui n'auraient pas lu la préparation de cette croisière dans une autre discussion.

Christelle (Choco 67) notre fille et son mari Bernard qui arrivent d'Alsace Denise, une amie de longue date qui elle vient de Lamballe en Bretagne Janine et ses 85 printemps qui "débute" dans le ...monde de la croisière et qui habite dans mon petit village au doux nom de Chanteloup Bernard ( Mr ...Capucine !!!!) que beaucoup d'entre vous connaissent Capucine 18 ..... et bien c'est moi !!!!! dingue de voyages, pas spécialement de croisières mais de tous les "moyens" qui me permettent de faire des découvertes.

Allez c'est partie 😎😎😎😎 en espérant le soleil et des compagnons de voyage agréable .

DIMANCHE 20 NOVEMBRE 2011

Aujourd'hui 20 novembre, le Picasso est chargé depuis hier soir. Nous sommes "prêts à partir"!

Nous avons une passagère, non pas clandestine, notre cousine Janine pour qui ce seras sa première croisière à 85 ans ! Un petit bout de femme d'une vivacité extraordinaire.

Nous avons décidé de passer par l'A71 suite aux conseils donnés par l'ami Michel de VF. Bernard prends les commandes et en route ! Il est 7 h et le temps est correct .

Direction St Amand Montrond et l'autoroute pour Clermont Ferrand. Peu de circulation, l'autoroute est à nous. Bientôt le Puy de Dôme se dessine dans le lointain. Clermont est là, le péage puis direction l'autoroute A75 avec Issoire et plein d'autres noms d'endroits qui nous rappellent des souvenirs de voyages avec nos clients.

Fugitivement nous appercevons le Viaduc de Garabit et son tablier rouge qui enjambe la Truyère, puis c'est la Margeride qui défile sous nos yeux. Le paysage est agréable. Nous faisons un arrêt "pipi" de courte durée car le temps est frais et les WC autoroutiers très peu ...clos, juste ce qu'il faut .............

Et nous revoilà repartis. Tout vas bien et le Picasso assure !

Ah ! voilà la direction "Millau" Aire du Larzac ! Il est là tout à côté, mon pont préféré "Le Pont de Millau" ! STOP , péage, 6,40 euros pour avoir le droit d'empreinter ce superbe ouvrage . A préciser que l'autoroute est gratuite jusqu'à Montpellier.

Notre ami "Jacquot", pour tout dire le GPS, nous signale souvent les petites boites disposées le long de notre parcours ... et il y en a un bon nombre. Nous voilà au plus célébre , celui du Tunnel de l'Escalette, panneau de signalisation bien avant le Tunnel, 850 m de tunnel puis il est là avec le panneau indiquant "Rappel 70 kms /h" en pleine descente et aujourd'hui et bien ...il pleut depuis notre entrée dans le Larzac. Sacré radar, il a du en faire gagner des sous à l'Etat !!!!!!

Lodève, St Guilhem du Désert, tous les grands sites régionaux sont signalés sur l'autoroute. Midi est proche mais nous décidons de passer Montpellier et de déjeuner après avoir pris la direction Nimes, Arles, etc....

Montpellier est en vue et la pluie est terminée. La circulation est nettement plus importante. Nous apercevons le Stade de la Mosson et oui tout m'intéresse même les stades de foot !!

Nous stoppons dans un resto autoroutier flambant neuf mais pas terrible en qualité, juste de quoi se nourrir ... on fera mieux durant la semaine à venir !

Nimes, Arles, Salon de Provence, nous récupérons l'A7, "l'autoroute du Soleil" qui devient ensuite "La Provençale".

AH ! voyant orange ... Mr Picasso a soif !!!! Nous sortons de l'autoroute et à Vidhauban nous trouvons de quoi satisfaire l'appétit de notre véhicule .

Allez hop ! dernière ligne droite pour aujourd'hui, nous longeons la Grande Bleue, avec ses villes prestigieuses telles St Raphael, Cannes, Antibes et voilà le panneau Villeneuve Loubet.

J'ai réservé sur le net une chambre pour nous 3 à l'hôtel B & B, tarif WE. L'hôtel est en hauteur le long du Loup, petit fleuve côtier, qui voilà peu de temps est devenu un torrent furieux !!!!! Nature reprends tes droits !!!

L'accueil est sympathique et notre chambre avec 1 grand lit et un lit d'une personne est fonctionnelle.

Nous devons retrouver Christelle à Nice pour aller dîner. Il fait beau Nice est toujours agréable mais je ne reconnais plus le centre ville. Nous allons faire simple, une pizza dans le Vieux Nice au milieu d'Italiens en goguette nous mets en "jambes" pour la semaine !

La fatigue commence à se faire sentir et nous avons tous qu'une envie aller dormir. Rendez vous est pris pour demain, sur l'autoroute menant à Savone, à l'aire de La Turbie vers 10 h . Christelle aura pris en charge notre dernière passagère.

Bonne nuit à demain pour le grand jour !

Capucine 18

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.

Bonjour à tous amis voyageurs photographes ou simplement voyageurs 🙂

Le concours de photo du mois de novembre est lancé aujourd'hui par le comité d'organisation composé du président directeur général Davek (grand gagnant du concours d'octobre sur le sujet "L'homme et l'animal") et de son adjointe Katelolo sur le thème :

“Nature et paysages aux quatre coins du monde"

Je vous donne ces quelques vers de Baudelaire et vous laisse les illustrer en images avec vos plus beaux souvenirs de voyage.

"Étonnants voyageurs ! quelles nobles histoires Nous lisons dans vos yeux profonds comme les mers ! Montrez-nous les écrins de vos riches mémoires, Ces bijoux merveilleux, faits d'astres et d'éthers.

Nous voulons voyager sans vapeur et sans voile ! Faites, pour égayer l'ennui de nos prisons, Passer sur nos esprits, tendus comme une toile, Vos souvenirs avec leurs cadres d'horizons.

Dites, qu'avez-vous vu ?"

Le concours: - On poste 3 photos maximum par personne, jusqu'au 19 novembre à minuit. - Pour la bonne lisibilité du fil, merci de ne donner qu'une seule image par post. - Veuillez proposer uniquement des photos de paysages. Pas de villes ni de villages. La nature uniquement. - Vous pouvez nous faire voyager dans le monde entier, y compris en France.

Le vote: - On vote du 19 novembre à minuit jusqu'au 26 novembre à minuit. - 3 points pour le premier, 2 points pour le second, 1 point pour le troisième - Tout le monde peut voter, participant ou non, de préférence avec un petit commentaire pour expliquer son choix. - Le 27 novembre, proclamation des résultats. - Le vainqueur gagnera l'immense privilège d'organiser le concours du mois de décembre. - En cas d'égalité les vainqueurs s'arrangeront entre eux pour le concours suivant.

Pour les petits échanges entre amis, rendez-vous sur la discussion parallèle. http://voyageforum.com/v.f?do=post_edit;post=4584676;

Quelqu'un a-t-il recement fait cette route?

tout est dans le titre, je me pose la question si il y a beaucoup de personnes entre 20 et 30 ans qui partent voyager à velo.

HELLO Mon ami honkongais m'a posé une question en voyant le forum: Pourquoi les étrangers aiment aller en chine???pourquoi il aiment la nouvelle chine? alors, pour ne pas répondre à votre place....(lol) je l'écris sa question! on attend vos réponses!!!!! oliwen