Results for "Ras+Al-Khor+|+5+>+158"

Bonjour je suis une femme et je voyage seule avec mon fils de 12 ans, je serai a l'hotel ras el rain à tozeur, que pensez-vous de cet hotel? Pourriez vous me conseiller sur les sorties à faire qui pourrait interesser un ado? Je pars 4 jours, quelles sont les températures à cette période? Merci pour vos réponses

Bonjour,

Je voudrai des avis sur le camping RAS L' BOL SE TROUVANT A OLMETO PLAGE. Si vous y êtes allés, j'aurais besoin de vos avis. Je veux louer un chalet pour 5 personnes (j'ai des ados de 17 ans et un enfant de 9 ans). Me le conseillez vous 🙂 🏴‍☠️

Merci de vos réponses

Bonjour,

Je commence à en avoir ras-le-bol, à chaque je reviens de Thaïlande, et souvent par Sri Lankan Airlines, je me fais fouiller les valises, et maintes questions et du pourquoi du comment pourquoi je vais en Thaïlande et pourquoi j'y reste 3 mois, et où est-ce que je vais là-bas, un vrai interrogatoire, la dernière fois, la douanière m'as carrément pris le passeport, et elle est dans son bureau spécial et je ne sais pas ce qu'elle allait faire avec mon passeport ?

1. Apparremment, ils contrôlent la moindre contreaçon ?

Je commence en a voir ras-le-bol sérieux, ça me fait perdre 20 - 25 minutes à chaque fois.

Honte d'être français !

Bonjour à tous, J'envisage de retourner au Maroc en septembre, je recherche un hôtel sur Azrou. Quelqu'un peut-il me renseigner, je sais que c'est une petite ville, j'ignore s'il y a un hôtel, je peux éventuellement aller sur Ifrane ou Midelt, mais j'ai tout de même une préférence pour Azrou que je ne connais pas. Merci d'avance.

Bonjour a tous, nous planifions de passer 4 jours a Beijing juste avant Noel, en famille avec les enfants qui ont 9 et 6 ans. J'ai deja fait pas mal de recherches sur la ville et pense avoir une bonne idees des principaux sites touristiques a visiter (Cite Interdite, Tianmen Square, Temple of Heaven, Pearl Market), sans oublier bien sur la Grande Muraille.

Par contre, je suis plutot perdue en ce qui concerne les hotels et les differents quartiers de la ville. Nous avons une preference pour un hotel de style Chinois, pas occidental, si possible dans un Hutong. Le choix est large et difficile de choisir sans connaitre la ville. Notre budget est flexible. J'aimerais pouvoir sortir de l'hotel et aller facilement a pieds au resto, dans un bar sympa etc...pas forcement besoin d'etre dans le centre non plus. Avez vous des idees a me suggerer?

Aussi, j'ai entendu dire qu'il fait froid a Beijing a cette epoque de l'annee. Des conseils sur quoi emmener dans les valises? On prevoit pas mal de visites donc va falloir etre pares contre le froid.

Nous avons passe 4 mois en Asie du Sud Est avec les enfants de Octobre a Janvier dernier - nous sommes rentres il y a 8 mois. Mon plus jeune (6 ans) a developpe une vraie passion pour les temples, le buddhisme, et depuis notre retour est fascine par la Chine. Donc nous attendons ce voyage avec hate!

Merci d'avance pour vos conseils.

Nous sommes une petite famille avec 2 enfants. Nous arrivons le 10 août au matin à Dehli et repartons le 17 de Chennai pour les Iles Andaman. Je ne sais pas comment organiser. Je pensais 3 jours à Dehli puis l avion jusqu à Chennai et 4 jours à faire une boucle autour de Chennai mais je ne suis pas convaincu. Peut être faire plus à Dehli... Je ne sais pas Qui en pensez-vous ?? Merci à vous voyageurs

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, Je dois partir dimanche à Tana chez des amis. Je ne sais pas si je dois y aller ou annuler mon voyage. Quelle est la situation actuelle ? Merci à vous pour votre aide !!!!

Bonjour à tous,

Malgré de nombreux appels sur plein de forums, je vais y aller mais ni l'agence ni le TO ne peuvent préciser où je serai logé. Les recherches sur google me donnent des hôtels différents sur la carte et même le TO STI ne peut rien (ou ne veut se mouiller), je fais le circuit merveilles d'égypte option Sharm el Sheikh 5* sup et je sent qu'on me prend ( peut être à raison ) pour un C.. et j'ai envie de hurler.

C'est pourquoi je fais encore une fois appel aux amis, je promets retour avec commentaires détaillés.

Merci à tous de votre aide.

Bernard.

Bonjour à tous ! Je voudrais savoir combien cela coûte la traversée de Alméria à Nador, pour un couple de plus de soixante ans avec un camping car de 6 mètres, aller retour ?...en deuxième, y a t'il des campings spécifiques aux cars, dans la région de Saïdia ou Cap de l'eau?...à quel endroit exact, et si possible des coordonnées pour contacter les responsables ? car je suppose que une réservation serait préférable? Merci à tous pour votre aide!...Amicalement

bonjour a tous je fais pas mal de vtt et je suis confronte à un petit souci dans ma campagne qui commence à m'exaspérer : j'en ai marre de me faire courser par des chiens !!! bon d'accord ca me fait faire quelques sprints mais il va bien arriver un jour ou je vais perdre... je n'ai pas tres envie de perdre une partie de mes mollets (d'acier...) j'ai entendu parler d'un boitier anti-chien qui envoit des ultras sons. est ce vraiment efficace et sans danger pour le chien ? ou puis je acheter cet appareil ? bonne route a tous

Dans cette petite ville du centre de Madagascar, le promeneur curieux est attiré par un panneau en béton aux lettres peintes situé à la croisée de deux routes descendantes dans les rizières environnantes sur lequel on peut lire : " tuerie" financée par la communauté européenne, est-il précisé.... Ainsi, tous les jours de la semaine excepté le dimanche au petit matin levant, des aboiements répétés de chiens réveillent le dormeur matinal de passage, intrigué par ces bruits.... En réalité, ces chiens aboyeurs servent de rabatteurs aux bouviers pour conduire, manu militari, les zébus à l'abattoir... Les bêtes stressées, aux yeux exorbités par la peur, sentent qu'elles n'ont plus qu'une ultime course à mener, celle qui les conduira du parc à zébu à l'abattoir.... Devant l'établissement déjà défraîchi et dont l'entretien est mal assuré, une quinzaine d'hommes attendent autour de voitures rafistolées que le travail des hommes, débute... Les portes de l'équarrissoir demeurent en permanence grandes ouvertes pour permettre aux bêtes d'être poussées par les chiens vers des box où les attendent les hommes pour entamer leur travail ingrat.... On peut ainsi apercevoir une vingtaine de personnes aux fonctions bien apprises souvent en doublon voir plus, les unes regardant, les autres discutant tandis que dans les box, les bouchers commencent leur travail sous le geignement rauque du dernier beuglement des bêtes sacrifiées... Les chiens, visiblement habitués, font un va et vient incessant, allant et sortant du bâtiment, le museau rougi par le sang ainsi que les pattes formant ainsi des sortes de bottines écarlates, à force de suivre la rigole connectant chaque box au rejet d'abattoir en y plongeant la gueule à la recherche de nourriture en guise de toute récompense.... A l'extérieur, à l'abri d'un appentis, d'autres préparent le sakafo en cuisant le riz et des boissons chaudes.... Au fur et à mesure du découpage des bêtes, les morceaux de carcasse sont partagés en fonction d'un code que seuls, les habitués connaissent sous le regard complice du responsable de l'abattoir.... Sitôt, le partage effectué de chaque bête, chacun repart en remplissant le coffre de sa voiture pleine à ras bord, impossible à fermer laissant ainsi dépasser des morceaux de viandes sanguinolentes en partance pour les boucheries de la ville proche... Certains resquilleurs malins repartent à pied avec quelques pattes de zébu dont ils mangeront la viande et travailleront la corne des sabots à des fins artisanales ou quelques bas morceaux resquillés, remisés dans un vieux sac à riz.... Tout se joue en l'espace d'une bonne heure où l'on passe de l'agitation collective pour laquelle chacun joue son rôle avant que tout ne redevienne étonnamment silencieux et tranquille. Le bâtiment, que les hommes et les bêtes auront progressivement déserté, retrouve en fin son calme . Le seul souvenir laissé par cette activité matinale ne sera plus, dés lors, que la simple vision des empreintes des bêtes dans la boue du parc à zébus de l'établissement.. A huit heures, le promeneur ne remarquera plus rien de l'endroit où quelques temps auparavant, tout un petit monde s'affairait et vaquait à son travail quotidien pour approvisionner toute une ville, qui, à cette heure, désormais, s'active fébrilement ....

Bonjour

Nous projetons (à 2) un périple aux US en juillet-août prochain : colorado, wyoming, dakota du sud

Nous pourrions organiser le circuit en étant à sturgis ou à deadwood... durant la bike week mais nous ne sommes pas bikers

Je me dis que cela pourrait être sympa de participer à l'ambiance et à un concert notamment

Est-ce que je pourrais avoir l'avis de personnes qui y sont allées ? est-ce que c'est effectivement sympa ou est-ce l'enfer pour les non bikers ?😉

Bonjour a tous!!!

Je souhaiterai avoir des renseignements, sur les elevages de chevaux et les ecurie de courses en Nouvelle Caledonie. Sur internet j'ai trouver un peu d'elevage, en autre le haras des lacs, si quelqu'un peut m'en dire plus????? Et puis les courses!!!! J'ai travailler 8 ans en tant que lad-jockey et j'aurai aimer savoir comment c develloper cette discipline!! La manière de travailler avec les chevaux!!!! Merci par avance de vos infos!!!!!

Bonjour, dans Gavroche d'Avril, je viens de lire qu'une école francaise est en construction à Phuket entre Phuket Town et Katu. Elle ouvrirait ses portes pour Septembre 2008. Les travaux doivent etre finis pour fin juin. Est-ce quelqu'un pourrait m'en dire un peu plus? Merci de vos réponses

bonjour, les discussions sur les tarifs à l'aéroport pour les taxis sont assez anciennes(2009).je viens donc aux renseignements. qui a les tarifs actualisés car il parait que les prix sont (fixes) maintenant?? pourtant il me semble que c'état négociable il y a quelques années!! qui peut me renseigner car un hôtel m'envoie un taxi pour 250drh à mon arrivée à 22 hrs. merci pour vos infos

Bonjour, La version 2009 de la F49 ou F50 a t'elle était fiabilisée notamment sur l'axe de fixation qui semble t il avait quelques faiblesses? Merci aux utilisateurs(et aux autres aussi!!) de cette remorque pour leur avis.Bonne route à tous.

"il semble que la perfection soit atteinte non pas quand il n'y a rien à rajouter, mais quand il n'y a rien à retrancher.." St Ex

Bonjour,

Je pards pour la tunisie le 15 juin prochain... Quelqu'un pourrait-il me référer le nom de quelques hôtels, gîte, auberge de jeunesse etc.

Bref, un endroit pour dormir qui est beau, bon et pas cher...et propre s.v.p. C'est pour une personne...budget limité...

Je devrai me trouver un hébergement à TOZEUR, ou vraiment pas loin de là.

DOUZ ou ZAAFRANE

MATMATA

TATAOUINE

DJERBA

GABÈS

Comme je ne connait pas les distances entre chaque endroit, il y aura peut-être des villes dans lesquelles je n'aurai pas à dormir car distance très près d'une ville a l'autre.

Merci pour votre aide !

Bonjour,

Je compte aller bientôt en Ethiopie pour un mois.

Durant ce voyage, j’envisage de faire un trek de 4 jours et 3 nuits dans le Danakil, avec Ethio Travel and Tours (Jour 1 Mekele-Hamede Ela, Jour 2 Hamede Ela-Dodom, Jour 3 Volcan et Lac Afdera, Jour 4 Dallol et Lac Assal, puis retour à Mekele). Quelqu’un a t-il fait ce trek ? Le cas échéant, qu’en pensez-vous ? Où vous êtes vous inscrit ? Combien avez-vous payé et pour quelles prestations ?

J’envisage aussi de faire un trek de 4 jours et 3 nuits dans le Simien avec l’agence Simien Eco Tours (Jour 1 Gondar-Debark-Sankaber, Jour 2 Sankaber –Gich, Jour 3 Gich-Chenek, Jour 4 Chenek-Bwahit-Chenek-Gondar). Quelqu’un a t-il fait ce trek ? Le cas échéant, qu’en pensez-vous ? Où vous êtes vous inscrit ? Combien avez-vous payé et pour quelles prestations ?

Si d’aventure d’autres treks, voire des endroits, en Ethiopie vous ont laissé un souvenir impérissable, je vous saurai infiniment gré de me l'indiquer : n’étant plus tout jeune et ayant encore beaucoup de pays à découvrir, je n’irai qu’une seule fois en Ethiopie.

Mille mercis.

Cordialement,

Dominique

La nouvelle vient de tomber. Pas de parano, mais c'est quand même un quartier pourri !

bonjour

je vais faire un bordeaux - las vegas via paris et new york (newark) avec continental airlines (billet vendu comme cela par la compagnie)

j'ai une interrogation au niveau du temps de transit entre new york et las vegas

j'arrive a newark à 13h55 terminal B

re-decollage pour las vegas à 15h29 terminal C

pensez-vous que cela soit suffisant ? y a t il la douane à passer ? avez-vous des experiences sur ce timing de transit ?

merci d'avance

jc

Salut,

Nous sommes entrain de regarder les remorques 2 places pour enfants. On hésite encore entre 2 modèles qui ont l'air assez réputés : la Burley D'Lite et la Chariot Corsair xl. (Prix quasi-identiques : 650-700 euros)

* * est-ce que certains peuvent nous donner leur retour d'expérience sur ces remorques ? * * surtout après quelques années d'utilisation, savoir si les tissus sont très robustes et restent étanches à la pluie. * * Nous avons eu des retours d'expérience sur la Chariot mais très peu, même pas du tout sur le Burley. Ceux qui ont donc une Burley, qu'ils s'expriment sur le sujet ! 😉

Merci pour vos conseils ! Pascal et Gwenaël

Buenos Aires - Valparaíso. Des chutes d'Iguazu au cœur des Andes, de la côte chilienne à l'Atacama.

Pour ce troisième printemps austral en Argentine et au Chili, ce sont des noms porteurs de rêves anciens qui ont guidé notre itinéraire, tout comme Ushuaia, le Perito Moreno et le Fitz Roy l’avaient fait en 2010 : Iguazú et ses chutes, l’Aconcagua, Valparaíso... 1400 km séparent Buenos Aires de Puerto Iguazú. Nous avons pris un bus pour rejoindre l’extrême Nord-Est du pays, puis un avion d'Iguazú à Salta. De là, comme d’habitude, nous avons loué chez Argentina Excepción une petite berline – cette année une Chevrolet Agil – pour faire une boucle au sud en traversant les Andes au pied de l’immense et magnifique Aconcagua (6962 m), et redescendre sur Valparaíso, sa baie, son port et ses pirates, ses collines et ses fleurs… En remontant vers le nord, la côte chilienne était par endroits brumeuse ou noyée de pluie, le Pacifique glacial, les goélands marins dansaient dans les vagues écumantes, mais elle cachait aussi des criques de sable étincelant et des merveilles géologiques. L’aridité a peu à peu repris le dessus, nous avons rejoint le désert d’Atacama, San Pedro, l’altiplano, la puna… puis Salta, d’où nous nous sommes envolés pour Buenos Aires.

Je tiens cette année encore à remercier Krikri que j'avais mise à contribution pour nous dénicher de bonnes adresses et grâce à qui nous avons passé un excellent séjour à Valparaíso!

La version avec photos est visible ici: carnetsdameriquesetdailleurs.fr/crbst_152...



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Pour plus de clarté, je suis l'exemple de Trois14, et donc fais un Index du carnet. Chaque lien renvoie à la page concernée lorsqu'on est connecté :

Buenos Aires. La Querencia, Puerto Madero, Recoleta Buenos Aires - Puerto Iguazú Chutes d'Iguazú(1), Garganta del Diablo, Paseo Superior Chutes d'Iguazú(2), Paseo Inferior, isla San Martin Chutes d'Iguaçu côté brésilien Iguaçu (Brésil), Parc des oiseaux De Salta à Villa Unión via San Carlos et Belén En route pour la Laguna Brava... Parc national de Talampaya Ischigualasto, « là où se pose la Lune » De San Agustin de Valle fértil à Barréal en passant par San Juan La route des Andes (1). De Barréal à Puente del inca La route des Andes (2). Parc provincial de l'Aconcagua De Puente del Inca à Valparaiso Valparaiso (1) Valparaiso (2) Valparaiso (3). Museo a cielo abierto La côte Pacifique (1). De Valparaiso à La Serena La côte Pacifique (2). De La Serena à Bahia Inglesa La côte Pacifique (3). De Bahia Inglesa à Taltal via le parc Pan de Azucar La côte Pacifique (4). De Taltal à San Pedro de Atacama via Antofagasta De San Pedro de Atacama à San Antonio de los Cobres via le Paso de Sico Tolar Grande De San Antonio de los Cobres à Salta. Museo de Arqueología de Alta Montaña Buenos Aires. Tigre, La Boca

Renseignements divers

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Buenos Aires. La Querencia, Puerto Madero, Recoleta

Mardi 16 octobre

Le voyage a plutôt moyennement commencé… A Roissy, alors que je veux passer un texto à Loïc, impossible de trouver le portable. Je fouille partout, rien… En désespoir de cause, je m’adresse à un homme qui a l’air sympa et lui demande s'il veut bien appeler mon numéro pour que je l'entende sonner. Ça doit être assez comique, car nous avons ouvert les bagages à même le sol et j'ai l'oreille collée sur les vêtements tandis que lui, à côté, égrène régulièrement d’une voix forte le nombre de sonneries avant que le répondeur se déclenche: Une…, deux…, trois…, quatre!!! Mais il faut se résoudre à l’évidence, je l'ai bien oublié à Paris. Le taxi qu'on avait commandé est arrivé avec un quart d'heure d'avance et a envoyé un sms pour prévenir, j'ai sorti le portable de mon sac, lui ai répondu et... dans la précipitation j'ai dû le reposer sur une table!...

Mercredi 17

Le vol a duré dix-sept heures au lieu de treize heures trente-cinq. Une fois au-dessus de Buenos Aires (14 °C et de la pluie!), l'avion a tourné, tourné, tourné... L'atterrissage était prévu à 8 h 5, puis à 8 h 15, mais dix minutes plus tard on est remontés à 3000 mètres et on y est restés jusqu'à l'annonce du commandant de bord disant que les orages au-dessus de Buenos Aires nous obligeaient à aller nous poser à Montevideo, en Uruguay. En fait, le 777 ne pouvait de toute façon ni atterrir à cause des orages ni rester en vol parce que les réservoirs étaient presque vides. Je préférais très nettement ça, je me faisais tout un film avec le train d'atterrissage qui était peut-être bloqué... ;-)

De retour à EZE – l’aéroport international de Buenos Aires – à 11 h 35, le remis n'est évidemment plus là. On attend encore et encore, étant quasi certains que Yann s'est tenu au courant et aura fait le nécessaire. C'est bien le cas. Le chauffeur revient vers 1 h 15 mais réclame ensuite deux fois la course – ce qui en somme est normal puisqu’il a fait un aller-retour pour rien; un remis est un taxi privé que rien ne distingue des autres voitures, il travaille au forfait et ne peut embarquer d’autres personnes que celles convenues au départ. A cela s'ajoutent les quarts d'heure d'attente supplémentaires au-delà de l'heure prévue avant qu'il ne se soit décidé à repartir, et la note monte à 380 pesos – aussi cher que pour faire Paris - Roissy. A La Querencia, Yann discute âprement et arrive à faire baisser le prix à 320 pesos.

Second petit accroc, la souris du Netbook a disparu du sac de voyage entre Paris et Buenos Aires. Le bagage cabine étant plein, je l'ai posée sur le dessus du sac alors qu'il n'avait pas de cadenas, une habitude prise sur les vols à destination des Etats-Unis où l’on doit tout laisser ouvert ou avoir un cadenas TSA.

On est très contents de revoir Yann, on discute longuement avec lui l'après-midi en buvant du thé, de tout, du bébé à venir, de ses travaux très réussis, de notre travail, de la situation en Argentine, de Cristina Kirchner, etc. On retrouve aussi la grande chambre en duplex si agréable de l'an dernier avec Val et Guy, et les patios fleuris. Et le soir, les pizzas chez le traiteur voisin et sa « gata » (sa chatte), qui nous reconnaît et tient avec un enthousiasme aussi débordant que l'an dernier à transformer nos bas de pantalons en bonnets de hussards!

Jeudi 18

Quand on est à BsAs, nos pas nous mènent invariablement vers San Telmo et son mercado couvert, quel que soit notre planning, aujourd'hui comme hier et comme demain sans doute; en l'occurrence, Yann nous ayant indiqué un magasin sur Carlos Calvo pour racheter une souris, de l'autre côté de l'avenida 9 de Julio, nous ne pouvons faire autrement que de prendre la rue Carlos Calvo en direction de... San Telmo. D'autant que nous voulons aussi rejoindre Puerto Madero, ancien port de BsAs devenu rapidement obsolète après sa construction et laissé des décennies à l'abandon avant sa remise à neuf et sa transformation en quartier branché et hors de prix. Mais il est très sympa, surtout sous le soleil, traversé par le río de la Plata qui charrie une terre ocre généreusement amenée par les ríos Parana et Uruguay.



Pas de chance, au terminal de bus où nous allons chercher nos billets pour Puerto Iguazú, tout est complet en « tutto letto » avec Via Bariloche ou en « suite ejécutivo » (les deux catégories ont des sièges inclinables à 180°) avec Crucero del Norte. Seule cette dernière compagnie a encore des sièges camas (à 160°) pour le 19, côte à côte et au milieu du bus.

Ensuite, toujours à pied, nous voilà repartis pour le cimetière de Recoleta, ou cimetière de toutes les démesures si l'on excepte sa taille, que l'on n'avait jamais visité au cours de nos précédents séjours. Ici sont enterrés généraux, politiques, grands bourgeois, intellectuels et artistes, dans des mausolées dominés par des anges, des archanges et des vierges de tous les âges et de toutes les tailles.



Le marbre noir ou rose côtoie le béton envahi par de délicates guirlandes de plantes grimpantes ou de fleurs sauvages.

Par les portes, la plupart du temps vitrées, on aperçoit à l’intérieur deux cercueils, l'un au-dessus de l'autre, et à droite un escalier qui descend dans la froideur, le silence et la pénombre de la terre. Une grille, souvent ouvragée, permet de distinguer, lorsqu'un rayon de soleil se glisse au travers, l'empilement des morts dans leurs boîtes luxueuses... Le dernier arrivé prend la place du cercueil qui est en haut et fait descendre au sous-sol le cercueil du bas. Dehors, le ciel est bleu, les promeneurs défilent à la recherche de la tombe d'Eva Perón, les chats au poil en bataille roulent des mécaniques, la vie poursuit son cours...

Nous quittons le cimetière et ses quatre mille tombes – dont près d’une centaine classées monuments historiques. Parmi elles on trouve de tout, du kitchissime, avec souvent un brin de mégalomanie, mais aussi de très belles choses. Encore une bonne marche pour rejoindre le métro à Callao; changement à Catedral, linea E, sortie à Independencia, et à 16 heures nous avons rejoint nos pénates.

Bonjour à toutes et à tous, j'espère que tout le monde profite au moins un peu du beau temps !

J'ai entendu dire qu'il était impossible de se procurer un Visa algérien depuis les attentats du 11 Avril si je me souviens bien. Quelqu'un a-t-il essayé depuis ? Qu'en est-il ?

Avec le sourire, Antoine.

A partir du 1 mars , royal fait comme tout le monde c est a dire qu il va prélever 12 USD par jours et par personne sur le compte a bord .. Quid du my Time Dining ? Tout le monde sera alors en free Time pour dinner ?

Bonjour à tous,

nous souhaitons acheter une tente de toit (2 adultes et 1 enfant) mais ne savons quel fabricant choisir entre Colombus, Maggiolina et James Baroud.

Les articles sur le web et certains journaux ne manquent pas mais les résultats des essais sont bien souvent remis en cause par le fabricant classé n°2....

Nous souhaitons une tente de toit pour du camping sauvage pour des températures élevées (Grèce, Albanie, Turquie l'été) et plus clémentes et fraiches l'automne et le printemps en France et dans les pays limitrophes.

Pour l'hiver des options existent sont elles efficaces?

Nous sommes à la recherche d'un modèle solide, simple et efficace (l'inverse de compliqué), fiable et étanche (...), bref le top de la tente de toit sachant qu'au regard de l'investissement on ne cherche pas à faire une économie de 100€.

Si vous connaissez un vendeur sympa avec une réelle expérience (d'utilisateur) dans ce domaine et qui assure un service après vente de qualité on est intéressé sachant que nous sommes dans l'Aude et que nous sommes près à faire des bornes pour voir certains modèles.

Merci par avance pour vos témoignages et conseils

Gilles

I’m stuck in the airport on a layover, so here’s what I wish I’d known before I left! :)

When I arrived, I got scammed right away at the VODAFONE stand in the airport. They sold me a 20 GB SIM card for 10 €—cash only because their terminal wasn’t working—and it stopped working the next day… After that, I got an Orange SIM in town for 10 €, and it worked perfectly.

I’d booked my airport transfer online with B… for 7 €, but it’s even cheaper on the spot with Indrive—I paid 4 € for the return trip. Indrive helps you avoid getting ripped off, because scamming is basically the national sport here…

Naama Bay, along with Old Sharm, is the heart of the nightlife: a few bars with music and shisha, and tons of shops selling knockoffs. The beach is nice, but there aren’t any corals.

Watch out: the beaches are all paid, costing around 2 to 3 € each time, and you’ll be packed in like sardines on sun loungers that are all squished together! Only hotels have private beaches, often with a shuttle running once or twice a day. Good to know if you’re thinking of renting an apartment…

Another issue with apartments is the food—there’s not much variety in the small supermarkets.

There’s apparently a free beach in Hadaba, but I couldn’t find it. I did find Shark Bay, which is amazing… but it’s a bit far.

At first, I rented an apartment, but I ended up switching to all-inclusive stays at different hotels for the same price…

AVOID booking with STAYFORLONG!!! I booked an all-inclusive stay through them, and when I arrived, the hotel told me it was only half-board! I couldn’t get in touch with them at all… That site is a total scam.

In early February, it’s chilly at night but hot in the sun during the day. The pool water is pretty cold, but the sea is fine for swimming.

The corals are incredible! Take advantage of them!!!

That said, once you’re out of the water, there’s not much else to do…

Bonjour à tous,

N'ayant pas réussi à faire aboutir notre projet de retour dans l'Ouest en 2018, nous avons finalement effectué un "city trip" sur la East Coast en Novembre dernier (Boston, New York, Philadelphie, Washington) qui fut également un grand moment (et un peu plus simple à organiser, mais finalement tout aussi coûteux).

Je reviens aujourd'hui pour vous demander conseil sur un nouveau projet (déjà bien avancé): Lousiane et Floride en 3 semaines !

J'ai parcouru certains carnets fort bien écrits qui m'ont déjà donné d'intéressantes informations (notamment celui de Peggy16), ainsi que de nombreux blogs et sites divers.

Nous avons choisi le mois d'Avril, qui nous convient bien et que cela semble une période qui reste encore conseillée pour la région!

Voici donc le planning "détaillé" envisagé:

J1 - TOULOUSE - NEW ORLEANS

J2 - NEW ORLEANS

J3 - NEW ORLEANS

J4 - NEW ORLEANS - HOUMA? > Route des Plantations (Laura et Nottaway)

J5 - HOUMA - LAFAYETTE > Excursion dans les bayous > Thibodaux

J6 - LAFAYETTE > Pays Cajun > Leblanc Swamp Tour > Vermillionville > Breaux Bridge > Arnaudville

J7 - LAFAYETTE - MOBILE > Baton Rouge

J8 - MOBILE - APALICHICOLA > Pensacola > Miramar > Panama City

J9 - APALICHICOLA - ORLANDO (changement d'heure +1h) > Gainesville

J10 - ORLANDO > Walt Disney Magic Kingdom

J11 - ORLANDO > Universal Studios

J12 - ORLANDO > Cap Canaveral? (Vaut le coup?) > Ou journée off - Outlets

J13 - ORLANDO - SARASOTA > Tampa > St Petersburg > Sunshine Sky Bridge

J14 - SARASOTA - FORT MYERS > Sanibel Island

J15 - FORT MYERS - NAPLES

J16 - NAPLES - FLORIDA CITY > Everglades City > Shark Valley

J17 - EVERGLADES NATIONAL PARK > Anhinga Trail > Pa-hay-okee Overlook > Flamingo Visitor Center > Tour en Airboat?

J18 - FLORIDA CITY - KEY WEST

J19 - KEY WEST

J20 - KEY WEST - MIAMI

J21 - MIAMI

J22 - MIAMI

J23 - MIAMI

J24 - MIAMI - TOULOUSE

Merci d'avance pour vos remarques, critiques et avis!