Results for "Baule+|+127"

Bonjour Je suis inquiète car je pars dans 10 jours au mexique dans la région des chipas et j'ai lu pas mal de choses au mexique. Je compte prendre des bus de nuit avec deux copines. est ce risqué? je voudrais aller à palenque de SCDLC. auriez vous des adresses d'agence ou des contacts à me conseiller?? Merci par avance

salut à tous, Qui a une expérience en matière de transport de vélo Je dois effectuer un vol Lyon-Londres-San Francisco fin Mai, il y a une correspodance à Londres entre Heathrow 5 et 3 avec un changement de compagnie aérienne, British airways dans un premier temps puis Virgin Atlantic. Vais-je devoir payer 2 fois les frais de transport pour mon vélo ? Merci de m'éclairer Marco

Bonjour les VF. Je compte partir un mois en Roumanie en mai. Je ne connais rien sur ce pays si ce n'est que j'ai envie de faire une cure. Je ne sais où aller? Quelle ville de cure? Quelle hôtel? Le climat est-il bon? Quelle compagnie aérienne fait ce trajet depuis Bruxelles ou Liège? Voilà tant de questions et j'attends de nombreuses réponses. C'est une découverte totale donc toutes vos suggestions sont bienvenues. MARIE

je n'ai pas trouvé sur le forum..... la formule est elle vraiment interressante?

bonjour,

je prépare notre voyage en NORVEGE juin 2012, je voudrais connaitre les prix des entrées sur les sites:le funiculaire du MT FLOIEN, la cité hansiatique etc une aprem de libre :que visiter, a part ces deux , qui sont inclues dans notre circuit merci de me renseigner.

entre un bath tres solide ( et un euro qui baisse) des hoteliers et restaurateurs qui chargent de plus en plus les additions sans parler des taxis et tuk tuk.... le budget devient important, je parles ici pour les villes touristiques en priorite, phuket , samui , hua hin , et bangkok les vacances à prix abordable sont devenues un mythe à mediter😕

Bonjour à tous, En raison de l'incendie nous avons dù modifier notre trek dans le Torres del Paine. Nous nous retrouverons à la Laguna Amarga vers 20h ou 21h. Savez-vous si nous trouverons facilement un véhicule pour nous conduire au refuge de las Torres pour prendre le repas du soir qui est servi de 20h à 21h30? Nous pouvons marcher vite mais là, il nous faudrait des ailes! (le parcours est donné en 2h30) Merci à vous de nous tuyauter Mifarafa

Bonjour,

Nous comptons nous rendre en Suisse en louant un campingcar de mi-avril à début mai à partir de Bruxelles. A ce sujet nous aimerions recevoir diverses informations pour pouvoir effectuer un beau voyage. Voici nos questions.

- Trajets éventuels - Endroit à ne pas rater - Endroit de stationnement CC - Balade que nous pouvons effectuer à pied - Camping relaxe ou la ferme pouvant accueillir un CC - Tout autre renseignement que vous jugeriez utiles

Merci d'avance pour vos réponses

Clavier

Bonjour a tous, je pars MONTREAL au mois de février avec les compagnies suivantes : - aller LYON - FRANCFORT ==> Lufthansa FRANCFORT - MONTREAL Air CANADA

Retour : MONTREAL- BXL : Air CANADA BXL- LYON : Brussel Airlines.

Merci de me donner vos avis sur ces différentes compagnies !

est il possible de faire en 2 jours en février

jour 1 flagstaff -monument valley puis monument valley lake powell nuit a lake powell jour lake powell - grand canyon - flagstaff nuit a flagstaff ?

merci de vos conseils

Hello à tous,

Un topic récurent j'en suis certain mais devant les réponses multiples, et parfois contradictoires, je me permets de le remettre en haut de la pile.

Je pars en TDM de plus d'un an en mars prochain. Je prend un congé sabbatique, agrémenté d'un congé sans solde, donc je retrouverai mon travail en rentrant. Néanmoins, je perds de facto la mutuelle complémentaire dont ma boite me payait une part.

A l'ETRANGER

Pour l'assurance santé + rapatriement à l'étranger, je compte prendre celle proposée par AVI (MarcoPolo). Les retours sont excellents.

Un bémol cependant : la resp.civile incluse n'est que personnelle et pas locative. Quésako ? - Si je prends une location de vacances, si je vais à l'hôtel, et que je brûle la dite location ou le dit hôtel, je ne suis pas couvert ??? - Si je loue une voiture et cause des dommages, je ne suis pas couvert ???

Cela veut il dire qu'il faut prendre une assurance resp civile complète pour l'étranger ?

EN FRANCE AVANT 1 AN

En cas de retour en France, avant un an, on conserve la couverture du régime général de la sécu et AVI couvre les dépenses pour un délai de 30j max, plafonnées à 1500 euros. Donc en gros, pour prévenir un gros pépin, une mutuelle complémentaire est conseillée. Des conseils sur le choix ? De même, quid de la resp. civile une fois rentré pour la France ???

EN FRANCE APRES 1 AN

En cas de retour en France, après un an, on n'a plus la couverture du régime général de la sécu. Comment ça se réactive ce truc 😠??? Comment sont couverts les soins dans l'optique où l'on a contracté une mutuelle complémentaire ?

Pas très funky comme sujet mais j'avoue que la combinatoire est un peu large, du coup, vos avis éclairés et expérimentés sont les bienvenus ...

Merci !

Fab

bonjour

je suis contente à mon tour de pouvoir laisser un message pouvant renseigner ceux et celles qui souhaitent partir dans ce pays déboussolant qu'est l'Inde. Voyage-forum m'a bien aidé à préparer mon voyage. Donc je suis partie avec mon compagnon deux semaines dans le nord. Deux semaines c'est court mais ça nous a laissé malgré tout la possibilité de nous plonger dés notre arrivée à l’aéroport de Delhi dans un monde de "folie".

Descente de l'avion: brume épaisse... de nombreux "tuc tuc" et taxis nous attendaient en sortant. Nous avons décidé de nous diriger vers les "taxis prepaid" (le bureau est facile à trouver au milieu des taxis devant). En payant au bureau des taxis prepaid, nous pensions que le chauffeur à qui nous aurions a faire serait honnête (nous avions eu bcp d’écho comme quoi il fallait se méfier de ces chauffeurs qui nous emmènent vers d'autres hôtels que le notre prétextant que ce dernier a brulé, tout cela pour toucher une commission auprés d'un autre hotel vers lequel ils auraient réussi à nous conduire). Ben taxis prepaid ou non, nous avons dés nos premières heures été "piégé" par un chauffeur censé être honnete!! le chauffeur a cherché à nous faire croire que l'adresse de notre hôtel n'existait pas, et finalement que celui-ci avait des problèmes d'égouts!!!. On s'est retrouvé devant un faux "office du tourisme". Bref, l'aventure commençait.

Pour ceux qui souhaitent trouver les numéros de tel des différentes compagnies aériennes (parfois faut les appeler 72 heures avant votre retour sur Paris): en franchissant les portes de sorties de l’aéroport, dirigez vous vers la dernière porte sur votre gauche, entrez, vous les trouverez affichés.

Delhi est une ville incroyable. C'est le dépaysement assuré. Voitures en pagaille, un monde incroyable, ça klaxons de partout. Les véhicules sont les rois ici: faites très attention en traversant. Il faut le vivre!! Je vous conseille d'aller flâner dans le vieux Delhi. Nous y sommes allés surtout le soir. C'est comme irréel tant ça grouille de partout. Les gens n’arrêtent pas!! la mosquée, le fort rouge...A voir! Par contre, c'est un monde dur aussi. Beaucoup de pauvreté. De plus, dés notre première journée à Delhi nous sommes passés à coté de trois cadavres, qui étaient là allongés par terre et tout le monde passait à coté sans préter attention. Un indien nous expliquait que les gens réagissaient par l'indifférence pour se protéger psychiquement de la mort.

Nous sommes descendus à Varanasi en avion (je vous le conseille: c'est rapide, un peu cher par contre). Pareil, ville qui grouille de partout, encens, croyance, vous hallucinerez!!!

Épuisés par ces deux grosses villes (à ne pas louper!) nous avons décidé de prendre le train, pour admirer le Taj Mahal à Agra. Pour toutes questions de réservation de train, je vous conseille de le faire en Inde, nous avons tout réservé de Delhi au "bureau pour touristes" (c'est écrit en gros en anglais dans le hall de gare a coté des panneaux d'affichage).

Et bien on s'en souviendra du trajet en train Varanasi/ Agra: 14 heures de retard à cause du brouillard (le train est arrivé à 1h au lieu de 16 heures et après il roulait super lentement). Je n'ai jamais eu aussi froid de ma vie. En effet, sachez qu'en décembre il y a des endroits comme Varanasi notamment où il y a du brouillard (et où le matin et le soir il peut faire froid comme un hiver français!! oui oui!!!). Au moins cette experience d'attente dans les "waiting room" de la gare de Varanasi ainsi que dans le compartiment couchette nous a permis de rencontrer d'autres routards du monde entier ainsi que les indiens.

Manque de temps et retardé dans notre "programme" à cause du train (ça fait partie de l'aventure!) nous n'avons pas pu visiter Agra mais nous le regrettons car en la traversant en tuc tuc, cette ville avait un coté plus calme que Delhi et Varanasi et semblait bien intéressante (malgré tout ce qu'on a pu nous dire de négatif dessus).

Nous avons passé une journée et une nuit à Barathpur, ville prés d'Agra trés peu touristique. Et bien je vous conseille cette charmante petite ville, où les gens vous saluent non pas pour vous vendre des choses mais tout simplement parce qu'ils sont content que vous soyez là. C'est chaleureux. Et surtout ce qui nous a beaucoup plu (et je pense qu'il faut plus d'une journée pour le faire) c'est le parc la-bas où il y a des oiseaux et animaux de toutes sortes. C'est génial. Je vous conseille de prendre un vélo et un guide qui vous aidera a observer les animaux et surtout vous expliquera ce que c'est!! Par contre l'entrée c'est 400 Rps (par forcément indiqué dans un guide pourtant bien connu des routards :-)))) mais c'est un prix normal car ça vaut le détour. Nous vous conseillons la "royal Guest house" pas loin de l'office du tourisme (très familiale, diner super en compagnie de toute la famille qui discutera volontiers avec vous pour vous parler du pays).

Ensuite, train (cette fois pas en retard et pile à l'heure) pour Ajmer. Il ne faut pas non plus bouder cette ville comme là aussi pourrait le dire un certain bouquin pour "routard" car peu touristique elle est authentique. Les gens sont sympas. Un parc (à faire!!!) où vous verrez des énormes chauves-souris (si! si!) et un lac bien tenu.

Puis bus pour Pushkar. Ben là franchement, ce fut la déception. Là aussi, ce fameux guide pour les routards ne nous a pas aidé. Nous nous attendions à une petite ville charmante, sans klaxons. Ben détrompez vous, les motos circulent dans les rues de la ville où grouillent cette fois ci des tas de touristes!!!!! Il y avait un coté "place du tertre" ou "quartier Saint Michel" à Paris.Perso, c'est pas mon truc. Par contre, ce que j'ai adoré (et pour tous ceux qui adorent fringues baba cool et qui aiment la déco indienne) c'est de me faire plaisir à dépenser quelques roupies. Je vous conseille aussi l’hôtel "shannu's", le proprio c'est "Marc", un québecois en inde depuis une trentaine d'année, adorable, un baba cool. Les chambres, des anciennes écuries retapées, c'est super sympa. Vous pourrez faire des ballades à cheval si vous voulez.

Pour les animaux, vous trouvez des singes en pagaille notamment à Varanasi et à Pushkar (il y a deux sortes de singes), des perroquets verts, des petits écureuils en pagaille aussi. Pour les fruits nous avons degusté de la papaye et des bananes. Pour la cuisine, je vous recommande de boire un "lassi". Pour le reste tout est pimenté, moi j'adore les tica, les paneer.

Voilà pour cette première expérience en Inde. J'ai déjà voyagé seule notamment au Maroc mais là...j'étais bien contente que mon homme soit là. C'est éprouvant tant par tout ce que vous allez voir de dur mais aussi de magnifique. C'est dangereux (les gens conduisent comme des fous) mais aussi chaleureux (les indiens n'essaient pas toujours de vous entuber, ils sont aussi très sympas, suffit aussi de intéresser à eux et de tenter de comprendre leurs vies).

Anne

bonjour je part en vacance 15 jours en suisse en juillet et je suis entrain de programme mon sejour je suis tres interresse par le train bernina express je voudrait savoir si nous pouvons faire l aller retour dans la journee et s il faut reserve les places a l avance et si reduction pour enfant de 6 ans j ai quelque idee en tete pour le reste de mon sejour visite berne fribourg lausanne bale lucerne montreux interlaken neuchatel schaffhouse et si vous avez des endroit sympa genre petit village medieval chateau petit lac etc etc des coins pas tres touristique pour changer des villes et connaitre la suisse profonde

merci

Bonjour ! Mon ami et moi envisageons de faire un séjour au Mali de 2 semaines au printemps.Nous aimerions avant tout découvrir le pays Dogon. L'ambassade française conseille de ne pas y aller suite aux enlèvements de touristes. Nous ne savons pas quoi faire, si nous devons y aller ou pas. Qu'en pensez-vous ? Est ce que quelqu'un y était récemment ? Comment y est l'ambiance pour les touristes ? Merci d'avance, et bon réveillon à tous !

Salut à tous!

Nous pensons peut-être aller à Strasbourg au mois de mai. Nous habitons Montréal (au Québec) et je me demandais quel vol prendre pour la France (ou autre pays de la région) pour économiser. Je sais qu'un vol Montréal-Strasbourg est assez dispendieux (plus de 1000$). C'est pourquoi nous sommes prêts à prendre un vol pour Paris (ou autre grande ville) et faire le reste jusqu'à Strasbourg en train, bus... peu importe! Qu'est-ce que vous recommandez?

Geneviève

bonsoir,

je viens de réserver 2 billets de train mumbai CST /goa Madgaon via le site cleartrip.com et nous sommes en liste d'attente (n° 69 et 70) Est ce que quelqu'un sait si nous avons une chance d'avoir une place dans le train ? Quelles sont les formalités à suivre une fois arrivés à la gare ? Comment saurons nous si nos billets seront validés ? Ou trouverons nous la liste des voyageurs dont les billets seront validés ?

En vous remerciant par avance de votre aide,

Bonne soirée

Depuis le 22 septembre, je fais un Tour du Monde. J'ai deja visité L'est du Canada, Les USA, Mexique du Nord et maintenant Cuba. Chaque jour un article avec photos et videos sur mon periple et des idées pour ceux qui vont voyager dans ces pays et villes.

Cuba et son architecture à moins que vous vouliez voir du coté des fonts marins. Le Mexique du Nord avec son train et ces villes coloniales. Les USA avec ces Parc de l'Ouest Américains, San Francisco avec son charme legendaire! Ou New York, la ville qui ne dors jamais! Le Canada avec son éternel Québec, Montréal. A moins que vous vouliez voir du coté des Grands Lacs et de Toronto et des Chutes du Niagara...

Je vous y attend, avec vos commentaires! Bien Cordialement, Ami voyageur

Yohann

Bonjour à tous! Je désire partir entre le 24 et le 26 février prochain pour Holguin, au playa pesquero pour 2 semaines.Est-ce prudent et possible que les prix baisses d'ici là.Car je constate qu'ils ont beaucoup montés depuis quelque temps.Ce serait ma 3 iemes visites à cet hôtel. Merci!

Bonjour,

Je pars en mars prochain en Ethiopie, je souhaite faire de la randonnée a pieds en autonomie complète. Je dormirais le soir sous ma tente... en plein campagne biensur et si possible loin de tout village.

Je cherche une région ou je peut marcher sans être obliger de prendre un guide ou un scout? Des conseils?

Merci

PS: J'ai lu que pour le simiens le scout armé était obligatoire pour la sécurité... pour protéger de la faune? des locaux?

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.

Les vols XL Airways pour SFO et Las Vegas sont ouverts pour cet été. Vols Juillets et Aout: autour de 1000 Euros. Cela me parait assez cher. Beaucoup de gens préconise d'attendre Janvier pour réserver ces billets. 1000 Euros - C'est encore loin des 850 Euros que l'on voit sur certains posts. A quoi peut-on s'attendre pour cet été - 15 juillet/15 aout: 750, 850, 950, ou bien 1000 Euros.

Bonjour à tous!

J'ai 26 ans et je viens de terminer mes longues études. Je pars voyager avec mon compagnon pendant 10 mois. On parcourt une dizaine de pays. Je suis investie dans ce voyage à 100%, j'ai passé des mois à le préparer, c'est ce qui donne un sens à ma vie en ce moment! La préparation touche à sa fin, on décolle juste après noel. Mais ces derniers temps, je me sens angoissée. C'est une sensation bizarre. Je suis impatiente de partir, les semaines qui restent me paraissent interminables. Depuis quelques temps, j'ai une boule au ventre à l'idée du grand départ. Après y avoir tant pensé, on y est, et j'angoisse! de quoi? je ne sais pas... De ne pas tenir, d'avoir l'envie d'abandonner? de disputes car on passera 24h/24 ensemble ( on s'entend très bien hein!), de perdre mes bagages, de ne pas respecter le budget + ou - fixé, des aurevoirs à la famille et aux amis... Je suis mentalement plutôt sereine, mais physiquement ça suit pas, mon corps est en stress! J'ai lu que c'était courant: eczema, troubles du sommeil... Et que ça disparaissait dès le départ... Qu'en pensez-vous? Quoi faire pour souffler? Merci d'avance Laura

ps: ce n'est pas grave évidemment, je ne me plains en aucun cas, c'est uniquement pour avoir des retours d'expérience!

L'embarquement pour ma croisière en Alaska se fait à SEATTLE. Quelqu'un pourrait-il me dire où est le port de départ du bateau et si vous pouviez me dire le nom d'un hôtel proche de ce port cela me permettrait de réserver une chambre pour la nuit précédant le départ du bateau. Merci.

Bonjour

Je souhaite partir seul en Ethiopie en Mars prochain pour faire de la randonné, j'ai l'habitude de voyager dans ces conditions Est il possible au niveau sécurité (je parle biensur de la sécurité dans le pays) de marcher seul, de dormir sous la tente et cela sans prendre de guide? Est ce qu'il y a des régions à éviter?

Merci

bonjour, je pars en croisiere le 4 decembre, sur l'Adventure of the seas. je n'ai pas encore reserver mon billet d'avion car je ne sais pas si je dois reserver un hotel ou non car on voudrais faire du shopping. Je voulais savoir ou etait situé le port ( imposssible de trouver une reponse), les hotel a proximité. Ou sont les centre commerciaux, j'ai entendu dire qu'il y en avait un qui s'apele Las Americas

Le bateau arrive a 6h et l'avion part a 14h est ce que j'aurais le temps de faire les magasin ou il vaut mieux faire une nuit sur place.

Autre question qui n'a rien a voir: comme nous voyageons avec notre fils d'un an est ce que je peux ramener ses repas ( dessert, son lait en poudre) car il me semble qu'on ne peut pas passer la douane US avec de la nourrriture.

Bonjour à tous,

Alors voilà, je viens ici pour pouvoir échanger sur le sujet, car je recherche un stage sur New York de deux mois (juin/juillet 2012).

Je me suis déjà renseigné sur les documents à demander, etc...

Mais je ne sais pas vraiment comment m'y prendre pour trouver le stage, logement, ...

J'aimerais également savoir si certaines personnes ont prévu d'y aller pour la même époque afin de s'entraider...

J'attends vos réponses, Merci.

Salut, je suis un ancien coach et prof de snowboard. Mon gaçon de 5 ans ride depuis 3 ans déjà et j'ai du mal à trouver des petits riders et des vieux shreders qui ont le guts de se lancer leurs petits dans le sport.

J'offrirai une première rencontre pour monter une planche avec 20$ pour les tout tout petit. J'en profiterais pour montrer l'outil inventé pour apprendre l'équilibre dans le confort du salon (la planche à boule). Bon il faut être un minimum brocoleur amateur, mais je peux offrir les outils...et supervision...

Ensuite une première sortie dans le bas de piste, avec quoi on apprendra les rudiements des premières journées (3-4 exercices ludiques) à faire avec son enfant de 2-3-4 ans. En les éléments de sécurité à avoir...suivant l'apprentissage. Choix des pistes. Outils conseiller et déconseiller pour apprentissage.

Ensuite...sortie en piste école (mt-ste-anne) et stoneham. Et sortie organisé (covoiturage) vers massif petite rivière en fin de saison.

Sortie pour parents...

Prévoyer des demis journées...de la patience et du plaisir...

Salut Alex

Devinettes bambara

De tous les genres littéraires (contes, légendes, proverbes, etc.), les devinettes sont une exclusivité pour les enfants. Ils en sont friands, qu’on soit dans la cour de l’école, sur la place publique du village le soir au clair de lune, ou réunis autour du feu de la cuisine, les petits bambara aiment jouer aux devinettes. Il existe même de véritables « soirées-devinettes » organisées par des enfants. Les devinettes sont significatives d’un certain rapport au monde et aux choses de la vie ou du quotidien mais c’est avant tout leur fonction divertissante qui semble prédominer …

Quant à leur forme, les devinettes constituent une unité structurale faite par une dialectique « question-réponse ». Et il y a une réciprocité entre la question et la réponse, combinaison basée sur des rapports d’analogie, par le jeu des métaphores et des paradoxes …

Voici les devinettes bambara, au nombre de 25, toutes traduites en français et munies en partie de commentaires. Amusez-vous bien ! …

1 : N ye bin ye a bè jeninen sa bè a kònò a ma jeni. – O ye sira ye.

J’ai vu de l’herbe elle est brûlée un serpent y est il n’est pas brûlé. – C’est la route.

(Jolie métaphore pour la route dans une savane noircie par le feu)

2 : Mògò dò sara a wulila – O ye ntori ye.

Quelqu’un est mort, il s’est levé. – C’est le crapaud.

3 : Ni n taara sira kan n bè jalaba kura sòrò – O ye sa ye.

Quand je pars sur la route je trouve un ruban neuf – C’est le serpent.

4 : A ka baara kè tuma bèè ye a da tuma ye – O ye bilali ye.

Le seul moment où elle travaille, c’est quand elle est couchée. – La natte.

5 : Gaba sumantan. – O ye sankolo ye.

Grand hangar sans ombre: – C’est le firmament.

6: Ne ni mògò bè kèlè la ni n ye a gosi n bè n yèrè gosi – O ye soso ye.

Je me querelle avec quelqu’un : quand je le frappe je me frappe moi-même. – C’est le moustique.

7 : Fen dò bè n bolo ni n bè taama la a bè kuma ni n ye n jò a bè a dadè. – O ye samara ye.

J’ai une chose quand je marche, elle parle quand je m’arrête elle se tait. – La sandale.

(Les sandales, appelées sabara ou samara en bambara, ne retenant le pied que par devant, produisent un léger claquement pendant la marche)

8 : Mògò fila bè taa yaala filanannò tè yen. – O ye musokònòma ye.

Deux personnes se promènent il n’y a pas de trace de la deuxième. – C’est la femme enceinte.

(L’enfant que porte sa mère au ventre est aussi un être humain)

9 : Ka filen fila waa dò ma bò dò ye. – O ye dugukolo ni san kolo ye.

Ecarter deux calebasses: l’une n’est pas sortie de l’autre. – C’est la terre et le ciel.

(La terre et le ciel sont vus ici comme les deux moitiés d’une calebasse correspondant très bien l’une à l’autre. Probablement une allusion à une certaine vision de l’univers)

10 : A bè n flè n b’a flè. – O ye soda ye.

Cela me regarde, je regarde cela. – C’est la porte.

(De quelque côté qu’on se tourne dans une maison, on a toujours une porte devant ou derrière soi. Une cour bambara est souvent entourée de nombreuses cases)

11 : N taara n bènkèso n taara a sòrò u bè bèè yèlèn kogo la – O ye basa ye.

Je suis parti chez mon oncle maternel et j’ai trouvé qu’ils sont tous montés sur le mur. – C’est le margouillat.

(Les margouillats passent leur journée à courir sur les murs ensoleillés)

12 : Ni n ye n ka so boli ka taa dugu dò la n seginna n ma a sennò ye. – O ye kurun ye.

Quand j’ai chevauché pour aller dans un village, au retour je m’ai pas vu de traces. – C’est la pirogue.

(Une pirogue ne laisse pas de traces sur l’eau)

13 : N bè yan n bè Bamakò – Hakili don.

Je suis ici je suis à Bamako. – C’est l’esprit.

(L’esprit peut se rendre n’importe quel lieu, les distances ne le dérangent pas)

14 : I bè taama la i teliyara a man di i ye. – Finyè don.

Tu marches, tu vas vite ça ne te plaît pas. – C’est le vent.

(Il n’est en effet pas agréable d’être poussé par le vent)

15 : U bè yèlè nyògòn fè u bè datugu nyògòn fè. – O ye nyèkiliw ye.

Ils s’ouvrent ensemble, ils se ferment ensemble. – Ce sont les yeux.

16 : A bè fini don tuma bèè, nka a tè fini bò. – O ye nònsi ye.

Il met toujours des habits mais il n’enlève pas les habits. – C’est le caméléon.

17 : A ka dògò dunun tè o fè nka a bè dòn kè hali faama bè taa yen. – O ye dugumènè ye.

Cela est petit cela n’a pas de dunun (tambour) mais on danse même le chef va là-bas. – C’est la fourmi.

(Certes, une fourmi n’a pas de tambour pour faire bouger et gesticuler les gens, comme pour une danse. Mais ses piqûres et ses plaies ont le même effet. Et même le chef ayant le droit à des privilèges particuliers n’est pas épargné par cette foutue bestiole. Elle agit selon la devise "Les mêmes droits pour tous" !)

18 : A bè ba kò bari a bè bakokan mèn. – O ye tulo ye.

Cela est derrière le fleuve mais cela entend le bruit du fleuve. – C’est l’oreille.

(L’oreille entend beaucoup de choses mais sur de longues distances)

19 : N mòkè ye den wolo cè tè muso tè. – O ye tonsofin ye.

Mon grand-père a engendré un enfant ce n’est pas un homme ce n’est pas une femme. – C’est une chauve-souris.

(La chauve-souris est vue comme un être bizarre, à la fois une sorte d'oiseau et une souris. Faut-il aller jusqu’à considérer la souris comme symbole de la féminité , est un peu surélevé par des pierres, endroit un peu frais et ombragé où les serpents aiment se trouver)

25 : N ye fen dò sòrò a tè dun nka, ni a ye fen dò minè o bè dun. – O ye duguròsa ye.

J’ai trouvé une chose, elle ne se mange pas mais si elle prend autre chose celle-ci se mange. – C’est le ver de terre.

(Le ver de terre n’est pas mangeable pour l’homme mais p.ex. les poules le mangent. Et les poules en revanche sont bien consommables pour l’homme. De plus, elles pondent des œufs qui sont mangés)

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Bonne lecture !