Results for "Banda+Aceh+|+8+>+188"

Allo les voyageurs je suis nouveau sur ce site merci de me conseiller .

pour varadero quel hotel me conseiller vous entre iberostar laguna azul ou le melia las antillas ou barcello solymar

merci

taylor made

Bonsoir, nous avons reservé pour notre voyage de noces la croisière tutti frutti c'est notre première croisière et nous avons bcp d'interrogations par exemple est-ce que l'on peut avoir le mal de mer ? Est-ce que l'on entend bcp le bruit des moteurs ? Concernant les escales, est-ce qu'il faut prendre celles de la compagnie ou pouvons nous nous débrouiller tout seul ? Y'a t'il beaucoup d'activités gratuite pour le jour en mer ? merci beaucoup par avance pour vos réponses

Je prépare un séjour de plusieurs mois au Nunavik (ou au Nunavut) pour la période de novembre à mars 2012-13. Je souhaiterai savoir si un séjour chez l'habitant est possible dans ces régions. Merci d'avance! kevin

🙂bonjour a tous et toutes et meilleurs vœux pour cette nouvelle année

Nous allons séjourner en couple du 20 au 27 janvier a l'hotel LAGUNA BEACh a mbodiene au Sénégal. Quelqu'un connait -il cet hotel et pourrait nous conseiller sur les restos alentours et l'excursion a ne pas rater ? Nous y allons surtout pour nous reposer, mais voudrions tout de même découvrir cette région. Par ailleurs, l’agence nous a annoncé autour de 28 ° , est ce la réalité a cette période? Merci pour vos précieux conseils.

Bonjour,

Tout d'abord, meilleurs voeux 2012.

Possédant à présent une caméra embarquée (Gopro HD 2, cf. discussion, d'ailleurs très bien et très simple d'utilisation d'après les premiers essais réalisés), je suis en train de regarder pour un logiciel de montage vidéo.

Mon but serait classiquement de couper et d'assembler des séquences, et de rajouter des bandes-sons nature ou musicales.

Suite à un premier repérage chez les grands distributeurs, les premiers pris commencent à 30 €, puis ça monte à 60-70 €, voire 160 €.

Auriez-vous des conseils à ce sujet ?

Merci d'avance

Nous sommes revenu du grand riviera princess le 21 décembre mon copain et moi et nous avons passé de très belle vacances. Quoi que énorme, l'établissement est tout a fait majestueux. Notre chambre était vraiment luxueuse même si nous avions pris la moins chère (suite junior). Les jardins sont très présent et très bien entretenu... les arbustes sont taillés à la machette. Pour ce qui est de la plage si on ne veut pas être tassé on a juste a marché un petit moment vers la gauche ou la droite et il ya beaucoup plus de place de disponible. à gauche c'est la section réservé aux adultes et il ya un autre petit bar et moins de vendeurs. Pitié ne louer pas leur chaises à 15$ méchante crosse. Explorez le site et vous trouverez une place a votre gout sa vaut la peine. Au pire allé au chill out ou vous aurez des chaises confortables et un service impeccable pour 10$ la journée. Pour les baigneurs: effectivement, il ya des roches lorsqu'on entre dans l'eau il faut être vigilant, mais on n'a qu'a nager sans touché au fond pendant à peine 5 mètres et il ny a plus de roches. De toutes facon l'eau est assez claire que si ont va tranquilement et qu'on regarde bien, on voit les roches. Il ya beaucoup de vendeur sur le bord de la plage les pires c'est ceux qui vendent les massages beaucoup trop cher (65$ us pour une heure)ils sont vraiment énervant. Le spa: n'allé pas à cette hotel pour le spa on a des spa beaucoup mieu au Québec. L'animation: le jour, l'animation n'est pas extra le site est tellement grand que les animateurs sont dur a trouvé. Mais le soir, c'est tout a fait genial, au bar principal il ya un band, ensuite, un petit spectacle à l'extérieur souvent de la danse ou des acrobates, pas extraordinaire mais divertissant, et ensuite au théatre les employés font des comédies musicals et il sont vraiments bons... à voir absolument. La nourriture: Jai trouvé que la nourritures n'était pas tout à fait à la hauteur de l'établissement mais nous avons quand même bien mangé. Les restos à la cartes sont très ordinaires voir décevant. Le meilleur le miso. Nos 3 derniers soupers se sont pris au buffet car on trouvait sa meilleur. Pour conclure nous avons eu de très belles vacances et j'en ai eu plus que pour mon argent à cette hotel. Si vous avez des questions écrivez moi sa va me faire vraiment plaisirs

Bonjour à tous,

je suis Belge résidant sur Bruxelles, je souhaiterai m'installer dans le sud de la France et y acheter un bien..Avant de passer le pas je partirai si le temps le permet début Janvier 012 qqs jours en prospection ds le sud ' Bouche du rhone, Var jusqu'à la frontière Italienne..afin d'avoir un aperçu des endroits sympas et qui ne sont pas trop mortels en saison d'hiver ...en effet résider dans un endroit où la population a déserté la région pendant les saisons creuses ne m'intéressent pas par contre vivre dans une grande ville ne m'intéresse pas non plus..Bref je suis sans doute compliqué mais je pense pouvoir trouver et si de votre part je peux avoir un coup de pouce cela serait sympa.. la mer me dit beaucoup mais sans doute impayable... trop à l'intérieur des terres serait peut être trop calme dans l'arrière saison , un compris serait l'idéal...mais où..j'ai lu ci et là des forums divers me disant que les gens du sud ne sont pas trés réceptifs aux personnes étrangères venant s'installer sur les terres de leurs ancêtres... j'ai vraiment lu de tout..alors à vos plumes et ouvrez moi les yeux... A tous de supers fêtes de fin d'année.. JLouis

Bonjour à tou(te)s,

Je suis en train de remplir un dossier pour partir travailler un an au Mexique à la rentrée prochaine. Je parle à peu près couramment espagnol (je l'apprend depuis la quatrième) et j'ai déjà passé du temps en Amérique Latine (stage de trois mois au Chili, séjour en Bolivie et au Pérou, et séjour de quatre mois et demi au Brésil cette année).

Maintenant je ne connais pas du tout le Mexique et j'aimerais être conseillé pour choisir l'état dans lequel je vais demander à aller travailler. Je peux faire trois vœux, dans l'ordre de préférence, en ne choisissant qu'un état par groupe comme suit:

Groupe A: Hidalgo Mexico D.F Baja California Sur Aguascalientes Chiapas Queretaro Yucatan Tlaxcala Chihuahua

Groupe B: Guanajuato Nuevo leon Sonora Zacatecas Veracruz Estado de Mexico Tabasco Nayarit Tamaulipas

Groupe C: Quintana Roo Sinaloa Coahuila San Luis Potosi Puebla Jalisco Morelos Durango Michocan

J'ai pensé demander l'état de Mexico pour profiter de toute la vie culturelle de l'ancienne Technotitlan, ou bien celui de Jalisco pour pouvoir profiter à la fois des avantages de la ville et de la plage, ou bien de Nayarit dans la même optique, ou encore au Chiapas pour être en contact avec les populations amérindiennes, ou encore en Baja California Sur (pour ne rien vous cacher je fais aussi du surf depuis petit, et mon coeur balance entre enrichissement culturel intense dans les villes ou proximité de la plage, ...).

Je dois me décider ce week-end, sachant que l'état que je mettrais en 1er vœux sera prioritaire et que je suis contraint par cette liste. Merci d'avance pour votre aide!!! Toute autre info ou partage d'expérience m'intéresse bien sûr.

Bonne journée!!! :)

Bonjour à tous,

Je suis présentement au Népal, et je compte bientôt retourner en Inde.

Il y a trois ans, lors de mon dernier voyage en Inde, je n'avais eu aucun problème pour la réservation des trajets de train, je réservais toujours 3-4 jours à l'avance et avais toujours une place dans la classe désirée. Ce qui a fait que j'ai pris un peu trop à la légère mes réservations de train pour les prochaines semaines, sans prendre en compte que l'achalandage était plus important durant la période des fêtes 🤪 Ce qui fait aussi que je vis présentement mes premières expériences en WL!

Donc, je me retrouve sur 4 listes d'attente, pour quatre trains différents. Je veux quitter Varanasi pour aller à Mumbai autour du 27 décembre, et me rendre à Goa autour du 30 décembre à partir de Mumbai (quand je vous disais que j'avais été naïve...😕)

J'ai cru comprendre que nous avions le privilège d'avoir de vrais "experts des trains indiens" ici. Je voudrais donc connaître votre avis... Après la lecture de plusieurs posts, je comprends qu'être sur une WL en AC2 est moins "bon" qu'en sleeper, car il y a moins de réservations qui sont annulées... Ma question donc : selon votre expérience, si je suis 12e sur la liste d'attente pour un train le 27 déc, croyez-vous que ce soit jouable? Ou devrais-je tout de suite passer à un plan B? Je tenterais peut-être le coup en ne passant pas par Mumbai, et en faisant directement Varanasi-Madgaon via Itarsi...

Merci de me dire ce que vous en pensez! J'hésite à réserver d'autres trajets, étant donné que j'en ai déjà 4 en WL...🤪

Bonjour,

J'ai eu l'occasion de poser pas mal de questions sur le forum, le départ approche et il m'en reste encore quelques unes.

Je vais passer une quinzaine de jours sur Palawan début janvier 2012. Je vais arriver sur Puerto princessa et ensuite monter sur El Nido pour redescendre vers Port Barton et Cacnipa. Je souhaiterai savoir s'il est possible de faire El Nido -Port Barton en bus ou van privé. J'ai trouver aucune information claire sur les différentes sujets sachant que je préfère la route à la mer, c'est éprouvant mais tant pis!!!

J'ai vu qu'il y avait une possibilité de faire El Nido -Roxas et de Roxas prendre une jeepney pour Port Barton. Sauf que je ne sais pas à quelle heure part la jeepney de Roxas et que j'ai déjà reservé une nuit d'hotel sur Cacnipa???? Il semblerait selon le Lonely Planet (2009) que la jeepney parte le matin aux alentours de 9h. Donc si je calcule:

- départ d'El Nido aux alentours de 7h et arrivée si tout se passe bien vers 10-11h à Roxas. Je peux donc dire adieu à la jeepney pour Port Barton et à ma nuit sur Cacnipa. Obligé de passer la nuit sur Roxas.

Qu'en pensez-vous? Quelqu'un a-t-il déjà fait le trajet?Y -a-t-il plusieurs jeepney à destination de Port Barton à Roxas? Dans le pire des cas, est-il possible de réserver un van ou voiture pour nous conduire jusqu'a Port Barton? Quel côut sachant que nous sommes que 2?

Merci pour vos rpéonses

Bonjour à tous, C'est fin mars 2012 que je passerai une semaine au Nianing et j'aimerais savoir comment je pourrais me procurer des informations me permettant de préparer quelques excursions tel que Dakar, St Louis, l'ile de Gorée ou des sites qu'il ne faut surtout pas manquer si déjà on séjourne au Sénégal. Est-ce que quelqu'un aurait l'adresse e-mail de l'office de tourisme de Dakar? Merci d'avance.

Liesel

Bonjour,

Nous partons pour 23 jours en janvier (2012) en Birmanie. Nous nous demandions s'il était possible de camper en Birmanie?

Ce pour deux raisons: 1. petit budget 2. pour diminuer notre contribution à la junte..

Merci pour vos avis,

Elisabeth

Je crois que je ne vais pas pouvoir repousser plus longtemps l'échéance. Avis à ceux qui connaissent bien la ville ou y ont des connaissances.

Merci Thérèse

Bonjour à tous. Après un voyage au printemps en Turquie nous avons passé l'été et l' automne en France. Très beau pays (la France) où l'accueil des camping-caristes est (comparativement aux autre pays), très bien organisé. Nous avons fait l'acquisition d'un décodeur TNT-SAT , dont nous sommes satisfaits, mais, j'ai des problèmes de réglage de ma parabole manuelle. Malgré l'aide d'une boussole j'ai du mal à "pointer juste" ! J'envisage l'achat d'un "pointeur satellite". Pouvez vous me faire part de vos expériences réussies , pour le pointage manuelle de la parabole . Il existe des petits boitiers entre 10 et 20 euros. Sont-ils efficaces ? Par avance merci. P.S. je suis à la recherche d'un porte-moto, 500 euros maxi ... Si l'un d'entre vous a ça dans sa cave ... merci

bonjour à tous,

petit récapitulatif de ma marche sur une partie du chemin d'arles, via tolosana

pour la petite histoire, et aussi le côté pratique, j'ai laissé ma voiture dans un parking gardé avec surveillance vidéo, à Béziers, vu qu'à notre dernière étape à la Salvetat passe un car dont la seule destination pas trop sauvage soit la gare de Béziers puis le train de Béziers jusqu'à Arles pour un vingtaine d'euros

arrivée a Arles le vendredi soir, hébergement a la maison du pélerin, 25 euros la nuit, petit déjeuner à préparer soi même, quelques confitures entamées dans un frigo, de plus, il y a la terrasse du bar de l'hotel (même établissemnt que le gîte) juste en dessous, et donc le soir très bruyant bref très cher pour ce que j'ai pu avoir après,

et la marche, me direz vous ?

départ d'arles le samedi matin 22 octobre en solitaire, fin du parcours accompagné le jeudi 3 novembre à la Salvetat sur Agout on m'avait dit que les premières étapes jusqu'à Montpellier étaient peu attrayantes, la camargue, certains doivent la trouver belle puisqu'ils y vivent, mais effectivement, pour moi pas grand intérêt, mais bon, j'ai décidé de partir d'Arles alors pas le choix.

a noter pas mal de goudron

seul intérêt de ces premières étapes, l'abbatiale de St Gilles, superbes, à visiter surtout la crypte,

pour le reste, j'avais le topoguide version 2010, beaucoup de modifications du circuit n'y figurent pas, modifications de tracé, quelques distances erronées, un peu déçu surtout qu'avant de partir j'avais recherché des mises à jour sur internet et qu'ils n'en figuraient aucune,

prendre en considération qu'à cette saison, ce n'est pas le chemin du Puy, et les hébergements ouverts ne couraient pas les rues, certains sont ouverts mais n'assurent pas le repas du soir hors saison, donc quelques nuits en chambres d'hôtes, ou hôtels, et ça fait mal au porte-monnaie,

arrivée à Montpellier, et là, je fait un petit coucou à mon accompagnatrice Marguerite qui m'y a rejoint, superbe ville, animée, etc.....

et puis après, le parcours est sans commune mesure avec les premières étapes, du relief, même par moments très dur pour le marcheur de plaine que je suis, des paysages à couper le souffle, et puis le temps, qui va rapidement se dégrader, alertes oranges sur l'Hérault par deux fois, à st Guilherm le Désert, on s'est ramassé des seaux d'eau sur la tronche, si bien qu'on a pas eu trop le courage d'aller visiter, dommage...

et plus on progresse, plus les paysages sont sublimes, quelques brouillards si intenses qu'on voyait pas à 15 m devant soi, faut être très attentif à repérer les marquages du GR, mais ça le fait sans problèmes

à cette saison, faut dire aussi qu'on a pas vu grand monde,

je dirai aussi que cette voie est plus sportive que celle du Puy, j'ai pas souvenir y avoir autant peiné,

autres constatations, si vous voulez téléphoner, les portables passent difficilement, quelques problèmes pour joindre les gîtes le matin pour réserver pour le soir, mais bon, faut surveiller son téléphone et dès que ça passe appeler, autrement, vous n'aurez que l'accueil, si c'est ouvert, mais pas le repas.

bien que totalement athé, j'ai été déçu de ne pouvoir visiter les églises ou autres, tout est fermé contrairement au chemin du Puy

et puis comme en Fance, on râle tout le temps quand ça va pas, alors j'ai décidé de dire ce qui a bien été, à savoir les gîtes et hébergements dignes de ce nom, ou l'on vous accueille à bras ouverts, comme en famille et à des prix défiants toute concurrence. Plus les petits à côté, tel que papier journal pour absorber la flotte dans les godasses, et oui, qu'est ce qu'on a dû éponger ;-)) , repas très copieux, etc......

dommage que d'autres pour le même prix n'offrent pas les mêmes prestations, mais bon, c'est un chemin de "souffrance" si on peut dire, pas pour ripailler .

et les nominés, les bons, ceux qu'on a aimés, en espérant que la modération n'y verra aucune tentative de publicité mais juste de bons renseignements, sont:

à Gt Gilles, chez Patrick, "La Pause du Pélerin", superbe gîte, juste a côté du bureau d'assurance, ne pas confondre avec l'autre gîte sur la même place, accueil on ne peut plus chaleureux, excellent repas à Montarnaud, chez Cathy et Jean Paul, "le temps d'une pause", excellente soirée en famille à Lodève, "gîte la Megisserie", excellente soirée avec une bande de dames en sortie sans leurs maris, et le responsable Bernard, super sympa nous a mitonné des bons petits plats à Joncels, "Villa Issiates", dont la réputation n'est plus à faire, décor avec plein de sculptures en bois faites par la patronne, amabilité, somptueux, et repas de roi à Fagairolles, gîte communal, et on a mangé une excellente cuisine faite que de produits locaux, exécutée de main de maître par Odile la responsable à Murat sur Sèvres, "l'étape du menhir" chez Jean Luc et Isa à la Salvetat sur Agout, café hotel "La Pergola"

et puis le côté négatif mais rien à voir avec la rando, à mon retour à Béziers, ma voiture bien que dans un parking sous surveillance a été fracturée, environ 300 euros de vol, m'ont même piqué mes lunettes de vue soleil, vois pas ce qu'ils pourront trop en faire, réponse du gardien, seules les allées sont sous surveillance, pas les emplacements, on paye un service pourquoi ?

en espérant que celà puisse en aider quelques uns

Bonjour à tous, Voilà, je voudrais vendre des crêpes en thailande (breton), pourriez-vus me dire d' après vous quelles sont les meilleures solutions? acheter/louer le local ou bien vendre sur les marchés et dans la rue? Et bien sur si vous avez une idée précise par votre expérience ou celle d' un autre du budget.. Merci d'avance pour vos réponses.

Xavier

Bonjour, je compte passer mes vacances au Sénégal en septembre 2012 à Saly. Si vous c onnaissez ou y êtes déjà allée, merci de me faire part de votre impression. Merci pour vos réponses

Bonjour ! Pourriez-vous me citer les endroits à ne pas manquer (en excluant les sites archéologiques) au Mexique pour pour un court séjour (une quinzaine de jours). Merci d'avance. Lydie

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.

Salut salam à tous 😉😎

Je vais me faire un trip vélo début avril. J'ai pris un vol Montpellier Casablanca (pratique pour moi habitant à côté j'ai un low cost qui propose des bons prix et j'ai choisi Casa que je connais pas.) Question 1. J'hesite entre prendre mon vélo de route ou mon VTT. Je veux rester dans le coin pour rouler cool. Y a-il des routes sans trop de circulation qui traversent des lieux à voir? Ou sinon je prendrai mon VTT et dans le même esprit je cherche des tracés de rando hors goudron. Mais je préfère mon vélo de route... Question2. Je cherche une piaule style gîte ou petit hôtel pas trop dans le centre. Question3. J'aimerais avoir quelques noms de cantines (poissons 😉 par exemple) Merci Laurent

Bonjours actuellement au canada en alberta pour un an je compte voyager a velo a partir de l'ete prochain avec mon equipement. Je souhaite partir d'edmonton ou de Jasper pour traverser les rockies montains, le bc, traverser les etats unis sur la cote ouest et pour finir par l'amerique centrale. Bon c'est sur sa prend de la preparation quelques reglage mais aussi et surtout un velo. En ce qui concerne le velo je peut mettre entre 750 et 1000 dollards canadien. Je souhaite un velo solide et correct en fonction de mes besoins. Si quelques aurait un type de marque de velo pour ce prix et pour mes besoins avec mes projets de voyage ici au canada sa serait tres sympa de votre part. J'essaie d'etre bon marche faute de moyen mais j'espere trouver le velo qui me convient vraiment. Merci pour votre lecture.

Bonsoir !

Le prix des billets sur Jnb m'a fait changer d'avis... (Moins de 600€ actuellement même au départ de ma lointaine province😛)

Bye bye Namibie (ce n'est que partie remise ) et Zimbabwe me voilà !

De nouvelles questions se posent donc que je soumets à votre sagacité😉

Location de voiture : les loueurs classiques refusent les cross border vers le Zimbabwe sauf First rental (uniquement les premières catégories soit au mieux une Nissan Tiida) et les spécialistes ne louent que des gros 4x4 qui ne me serviront pas vu que je ne ferai pas ni camping ni "vrai" off road. Je n'ai donc trouvé pour l'instant qu'un Nissan Grand Livina par Kea. Une opinion ? Un nom de loueur de SUV genre Condor ou Terios ?

Les routes : Une idée de la durée des parcours suivants ? - de beitbridge à Great Zimbabwe - de Great Zimbabwe à Bulawayo - de Bulawayo à Hwange main camp Les routes semblent bonnes : exact ?

Le passage de la frontière : combien de temps prévoir et qui a-t-il à payer ?

La police : correcte ? Il paraitrait que le véhicule doit être équipée de bandes réfléchissantes sinon amendes.....

Le parc Hwange : comment réserver les logements (logement public) ? Uniquement via le très sommaire site officiel ? Le prix d'entrée par personne semble être uniquement de 20usd pour la semaine et non par jour si on dort dans le parc : ai-je bien compris ?

Tout autre renseignement sur les logements (confort), idées de visite (parcours: frontière great zim bulawayo hwange vf), tuyaux divers sera vivement apprécié🙂

Merci

BARO DUURU BAMANANKAN NA CINQ CONVERSATIONS EN BAMBARA

1 : Sugu la (Sur le marché)

Abu bè sanni kè sugu la. A bè baro kè feerelikèlamuso min fè yen, o tògò ko Fanta. Abu fait des achats au marché. Là, il entre en conversation avec la vendeuse Fanta.

Abu : N balimamuso, i ni sògòma ! Abu : Ma soeur, bonjour !

Fanta : Nse, i ni sògòma ! Fanta : Bonjour !

Abu : Somògòw ka kènè wa ? Abu : La famille va bien ?!

Fanta : Tòòrò t’u la ! I bè mun de fè ?! Fanta : Ça va bien ! Qu’est-ce que vous désirez ?!

Abu : Ne bè jiridenko fè. Abu : Je voudrais (acheter) des fruits.

Fanta : Jiriden nyuman caman bè n bolo bi : jabibiw, buyakiw, lenburubaw, manjew animangorow. Fanta : J’ai de bons fruits aujourd’hui : ananas, goyaves, oranges, papayes et des mangues.

Abu : I kamangorow sòngò ye joli joli ye ?! Abu : Les mangues coûtent combien ?!

Fanta : Mangorow sòngò ye dòròmèmugan mugan de ye. Fanta : Les mangues coûtent 100 Fcfa pièce.

Abu : Ee ! Mangoro ninnu sòngò ka gèlèn kojugu ! Dòònin b’u sòngò la ! Abu : Oh ! Ces mangues coûtent trop chères ! Diminuez un peu le prix !

Fanta : Baasi tè ! N b’u d’i ma tanniduuru duuru la. Fanta : D’accord ! Je les vous donne pour 75 Fcfa pièce.

Abu : O ka nyi. O tuma n bè mangoro duuru ta. I ka jabibiw dun ?! Abu : C’est bien. Alors, je prends cinq. Et vous ananas ?!

Fanta : Olu sòngò ye binaani-naani ye. Fanta : Celles-là coûtent 200 Fcfa pièce.

Abu : Ayiwa, n bè jabibi saba ta. Abu : D’accord, je prends trois.

Fanta : I bè mun wèrè fè ?! Fanta : Encore qqch ?!

Abu : N tè foyi wèrè fè bilen. I ka wari filè ! Abu : Non, plus rien. Voici la monnaie !

Fanta : I ni ce ! Fanta : Merci !

Abu : Nba ! Abu : Pas de quoi !

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2 : Na dumuni na ! (Viens manger !)

Nin ye baro ye Umu ni Musa cè. Conversation entre Umu et Musa.

Umu : Musa, na dumuni na ! Umu : Musa, viens manger !

Musa : I ye mun de tobi ?! Musa : Qu’est-ce que tu as fait à manger ?!

Umu : N ye nsaamè jègèkènèma de tobi. Umu : J’ai préparé du riz au gras avec du poisson frais.

Musa : Kòngò tè n na dè, nka n tè se k’a fò nsaamè ma ayi ! Musa : A dire vrai, je n’ai pas faim, mais je ne peux pas repousser du riz au gras.

Umu : N bè o dòn wo ! O tuma, i sigi i ka dòònin dun ! Umu : Je le sais bien ! Donc, assieds-toi et mange un peu !

Musa : Baasi tè ! Nka, a kana caya kojugu dè ! Musa : D’accord ! Mais il ne doit pas être trop !

Umu : A ka nyi tan wa ?! Umu : C’est bon comme ça ?!

Musa : Awò, nin bè n bò ! I ni ce ! Musa : Oui, ça suffit ! Merci !

Umu : Nse ! Umu : Pas de quoi !

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3 : Dògòtòròso kònò (A l’hôpital)

Bi sògòma, Ami ma taa kalanso la, bawo a man kènè. A kunkolo b’a dimi ; mura fana b’a la. Ami ba bè taa ni a ye dògòtòrò fè yen : u bèna Ami furakè dògòtòròso la ... Ce matin, Ami n’est pas allée à l’école, car elle était malade : elle a mal à la tête, de surcroît, elle est enrhumée. Sa mère va avec elle chez le docteur. Là, on la soigne immédiatement ...

Ami ba : I ni sògòma, dògòtòrò ! Mère d'Ami : Bonjour, docteur !

Dògòtòrò : Nba, aw sira di ?! Docteur : Bonjour, vous allez bien ?!

Ami ba : Anw sira hèrè la. Nka farigan bè Ami de la. Mère : Nous allons bien, mais Ami a de la fièvre.

Dògòtòrò : Farigan wa ?! Docteur : De la fièvre ?!

Ami ba : Awò ! Mère : Oui !

Dògòtòrò : Kabi tuma jumèn ?! A mènna wa ?! Docteur : Depuis quand ?! Ça fait déjà longtemps ?!

Ami ba : Ayi, hali kunun Ami tun ka kènè. Foyi tun t’a la. A ni a teriw ye tulon kè fo wula fè. Mère : Non, hier Ami était encore en bonne santé. Rien n’était à elle. Elle a joué avec ses amis jusqu’au soir.

Dògòtòrò : Ayiwa, o tuma, bana y’a minè surò kè ?! A bè fòònò wa ?! Docteur : Ah bon, donc, elle est tombée malade pendant la nuit, non ?! Elle vomit ?!

Mère : Ayi, a tè fòònò. Mère : Non, elle ne vomit pas.

Dògòtòrò : A ye daraka dun bi wa ?! Docteur : A-t-elle pris le petit-déjeuner ce matin ?!

Ami ba : Ayi, Ami banna a ka mòni na. Mère : Non, elle a refusé de prendre la bouillie.

Dògòtòrò : Ami, na yan ! … Cèn na, a fari ka kalan … N bè nin fura in d’ima. Ami ka kan ka a kisè kelen ta sisan, a bè kelen ta tile fè, a bè a sabanan ta su fè. Sininkènè, aw bè segin ka na. Docteur : Ami, viens ici ! … Son corps est vraiment chaud ... Je vous donne ce médicament pour elle. Il faut qu’elle prenne tout de suite un comprimé, alors un le midi et le troisième le soir. Après-demain, vous revenez encore.

Ami ba : I ni ce ! Mère : Merci !

Dògòtòrò : Nba, ka nògòya kè ! Docteur : De rien, bon rétablissement !

Ami ba : Amiina ! Mère : Ainsi soit-il !

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4 : Lotoli kònò (Au restaurant)

Nin ye baro ye lotolibaarakèla (L) ni dunankè cèmin tògò ko Alu. Conversation entre le serviteur et un hôte qui s’appelle Alu.

L : N balimakè, i ni su ! L : Mon frère, bonsoir !

Alu : Nba, i ni su ! Alu : Bonsoir !

L : I b’a fè ka dumuni kè wa ?! L : Vous voulez manger ?!

Alu : Awò, nka n kòròtòlen don dòònin ! Alu : Oui, mais je suis un peu pressé !

L : Ayiwa ! An na an jija, i ka i ka dumuni sòrò joona joona. I bè mun min fòlò ?! L : Bon. Nous nous efforçons que vous allez obtenir le plat autant que possible. Qu’est-ce que vous buvez d’abord ?!

Alu : Minfèn jumèn ni jumèn bè aw fè ?! Alu : Vous avez quelles boissons à offrir ?!

L : Limonati, lenburuji, jinjinbere, Koka-Kola ni ntomiji. L : De la limonade, citronnade, boisson de gingembre, Coca-Cola et du jus de tamarin.

Alu : Na ni jinjinbere ye ! Nka jikuru dòònin kè a la ! Alu : S’il vous plaît, amenez une boisson de gingembre. Mais ajoutez un peu de glace !

L : Baasi tè ! I b’a fè ka mun dun ?! L : D’accord ! Qu’est-ce que vous voulez manger ?!

Alu : N bè se ka saalen dun wa ?! Alu : Puis-je manger du capitaine (poisson) ?!

L : Awò, a bè se ka kè. L : Oui, c’est possible.

Alu : Ayiwa ! N bè o ta ! Alu : Bon, je prends ça.

L : I ka dumuni filè ! Ka i ni hèrè bèn ! L : Voici, votre plat ! Bon appétit !

Alu : Amiina ! Alu : Merci !

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5 : Butikinin kònò (Dans une petite boutique)

Sannikèla (S) dò nana butikinin kònò ka na féerefèn dò nyininkali kè butikinintigi (B) la. Un client est entré dans une petite boutique pour y demander une marchandise au boutiquier.

S : I ni sògòma ! S : Bonjour !

B : Nba, i ni sògòma. Somògòw sira di ?! B : Bonjour. Et la famille, tout va bien ?!

S : Tòòrò tè. S : Tout va bien.

B : I muso ni i denw ka kènè wa ?! B : Ta femme et les enfant, ils vont bien ?!

S : U bèè bè Ala tanu. S : Tous vont bien.

B : I bè mun nyini ?! B : Tu cherches quoi ?!

S : N bè safunè de nyini. S : Je voudrais avoir du savon ?!

B : Safunè siya jumèn ?! B : Quelle sorte ?!

S : Safunè siya joli bè e fè yan ?! S : Tu disposes de combien de sortes ?!

B : Siya fila. B : Deux sortes.

S : O ye jumèn ni jumèn ye ?! S : Lesquelles ?!

B : Farafinsafunè bè yan, tubabusafunè bè yan. B : Il y a des (savons) africains et européens.

S : Tubabusafunè ye joli joli ye ?! S : Quel est le prix du savon européen ?!

B : Tubabusafunè ye bisaba saba ye. B : Le savon européen coûte 150 Fcfa.

S : Farafinsafunè dun ?! S : Et le savon africain ?!

B : Farafinsafunè da ka nògòn ka tèmè tubabusafunè kan. Ale ye mugan mugan ye. B : Il coûte moins cher que le savon européen. 100 Fcfa pièce.

S : A bè kanga kosèbè wa ?! S : Il fait bien de la mousse ?!

B : Aa, n ma o dò dè. B : Oh, désolé, je ne sais pas.

S : Baasi tè, ne bè taa o sifilè fòlò. S : Pas de problème, moi, je vais le tester d’abord.

B : Ka kun joli d’i ma ?! B : Tu en veux combien ?!

S : Kelen di yan n ka taa o sifilè fòl��. S : Donne-moi un d’abord pour le tester.

B : Ayiwa, ko an b‘u fo ! B : D’accord ! Faut saluer la famille !

S : U n’a mèn. Ala ka tile hèrè caya ! S : Je vais le transmettre. Bonne journée !

B : Amiina ! B : Amen !

Sannikèla bòra ka taa. Le client est sorti.

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Bonne lecture !

Bonjour a tous la derniere fois que je suis aller a bangkok nous avons pris bcp le taxi et une fois un monsieur dans la rue devant le grd palais nous a fait croire que ce dernier etait fermer et nous a trouver un tuc tuc pour la matiner pour visiter d'autre chose et nous avions pas payer tres chere et l'avons eu toute la matiner. Alors que les autre fois quand nous negocions avec un tuc tuc c'etait beaucoup plus chere que les taxi. Alors tous cela pour savoir comment avoir un bon pris avec un tuc tuc ? Merci a vous

Bonjour à tous lors de notre futur voyage nous passerons par le Havre puis Honfleur mais quel est le meilleur passage !Le pont de Normandie où le pont de Tancarville!Nous viendrons de Belgique en longeant la côte et on prévoit de faire le tour de la Bretagne pour arriver à Nantes et remonter l' eurovélo6 le plus loin possible, notre objectif étant de voir un maximum la côte et de visiter les plages du débarquement et les ports de Bretagne avant de remonter la Loire.Le facteur temps ne serra ne serra pas notre soucis , mais plutôt le côté touristique.Que faut il voir et visiter !Quel endroit faut il éviter , merci de vos suggestions.

Bonjour a tous, je pars demain a Koh Chang. Je n'ai pas de guide et j'entends de tout sur les plages de cette ile dans toutes les langues. Je cherche un bungalow CLEAN, maximum 10 dollars et a l'abri d'une plage d'anglais qui boivent en ecoutant de la techno. Avec plage of course. Est ce possible ? Lonely Beach ? Quelqu'un connait il le POrn bUngalow ? Ou le Baylan cottage ou le siam hut ou le happy garden ?

MERCI MILLE FOIS pour vos conseils Sophie

PS quelqu'un connait-il le prix du transport du port jusqu'a white sand beach ??

Bonjour à tous, Je voudrais organiser une soirée entre voyageurs le samedi 10 décembre sur Paris. Mon prochain départ n'est pas "d'main la veille" donc en attendant je serais ravie de pouvoir partager mes expériences avec vous et réciproquement. J'ai été pour ma part très orientée Amérique latine jusqu'à présent et vise maintenant l'Asie - sachant que toute région m'intéresse. J'aimerais voir ce meeting comme un voyage par procuration, une petite échappée belle, dosée d'ouverture d'esprit et de bonne humeur, entre admirateurs de paysages et cultures diverses. Je n'ai jamais rien organisé de la sorte ; Je devrais certainement être plus précise mais attends justement vos retours pour arrêter un lieu, une heure et un nombre de participants. A bientôt j'espère ! Aurore

Bonjour nous sommes rendue a l'étape de réservé les vols interne pour les philippines. Cebue pacific en promotion pour fevrier ca vaut -il la peine??? 3615 pesos pour 2 personnes? Le vol est manille cebue! Es-ce plus facile pour peu de temps visiter cebue et ses iles ou se diriger vers el nido coron? Le twin lagoon a coron m'interressait beaucoup.... Merci pour votre aide!! stephanie