Results for "Cachi+et+hébergement+|+4+>+124"

Bonjour debut novembre nous allons à Ho chi minh.Comme nous y avons déjà été l.an passé nous voudrons aller à la plage.J'ai lu que la plage KEP au Cambodge est magnifique.Est-elle plus belle que celle de Quoc nam? Quel est le moyen de transport de HCM à KEP?Peut-on voyager en bateau sur Mekong en arretant en route pour visiter les temples du CAmbodge? Connaissez-vous les hôtels à KEP? Merci pour votre réponse et votre aide. Kasia 49

Coucou!

Je fais appel aux pro d road trip pour me dire ce que je dois enmener ou pas dans mon sac à dos! Je pars fin mars pour un mois voir plus...D'après les sites que j'ai visité j'ai bien retenu qu'il fallait prendre peu de choses mais plusieurs conseils valent mieux qu'un... Je précise que je suis une fille! Merci beaucoup d'avance!

Bonjour à tous,

Je suis nouvelle sur ce site. J'ai déjà pas mal parcouru diverses discutions. J'aime beaucoup ce forum qui est une mine d'or! Mon chéri et moi préparons notre voyage de noces pour l'été prochain pour une durée de 3 semaines (entre juillet et septembre). Pour le moment, notre choix s'est porté sur l'indonésie. Nous voulons bien entendu visiter le pays et découvrir sa nature/traditions/... mais aussi nous reposer dans un endroit idyllique. Nous ne faisons pas de plongée. On aimerait trouver un endroit avec magnifique plages et eaux turquoises (je sais l'indonésie n'est pas LA destination idéale pour cela mais le pays nous attire beaucoup pour plein d'autres raisons). Et on n'aime pas vraiment les endroits super touristique, bondés... J'ai vu pas mal de post parlant des Gilis et de Kuta Lombok. Il y a t-il d'autres îles/endroits même si pas en indo (malaisie;bornéo, ...) mais évidement pas trop trop loin. On a pas encore défini les endroits ou nous irions (certainement une partie à Bali mais le reste j'attends que le père noël m'apporte de beaux livres pour me décider 😉!!)

De plus savez-vous si il est possible d'avoir des réductions/promo étant donné que cela sera notre voyage de noces (avion/hotel..) 😎 (oui hotel je me doute bien mais faut-il "marchander" un peu?)

Un tout grand merci amis voyageurs

Bonjour à tous,

Nous projetons d'aller visiter les Carlsbad Caverns l'été prochain (c'est loin!🙁), en regardant le site officiel, j'ai vu qu'il y avait plusieurs visites possibles, avec ou sans guide. Est-ce que quelqu'un peut me recommander une visite plutôt qu'une autre? (à vrai dire, j'ai un peu peur de choisir la mauvaise visite!). Merci à tous.

salut à tous, alors voila je vous présente la situation: avec 3 amis on à trouver un aller retour paris oslo du 19 au 22 decembre mais voila, la vie est assez chère là bas, on aimerais bien en profiter sans se ruiner non plus l'aeroport est celui de torp a environ 1h20 au sud d'oslo et notre vol arrive à 20h et on a peur de ne pas pouvoir arriver à l'auberge de jeunesse d'oslo qui ferme a 23h30 l'hiver !mais cet hotel d'oslo est le seul qui coute pas trop cher(25 euros) on aimerais faire au moins un fjord et peutètre visiter aussi la ville d'oslo ;mais si vous avez des idées sympas, pas trop loin et pas trop cher, ça peut être cool !j'ai entendu dire que le fjord le moins loin est celui de sandefjord, non? merci de me renseigner ne serait_ce qu'un ptit peu ! merci et à bientôt 🙂

Amis voyageurs, bonjour à tous !

J'arrive au Nepal le 23 octobre et je désire faire le Tour des Annapurnas sur 2 semaines environs. Et j'ai quelques questions :-)

1) Sachant que je n'ai que 14/15 jours, est-ce faisable de faire le tour "complet" des Annapurnas (j'entends par là : Besisahar + col du Thorung La + Jomosom + Pokhara ). Ou bien dois-je plutôt me concentrer sur une partie du parcours ? Par exemple : - Besisahar + col du Thorung La et retour vers Pokhara avec un vol de Jomosom, - ou bien Pokhara + Jomosom + col du Thorung La et retour a Katmandu avec un vol de Manang ... Lequel de ces 2 itinéraires serait le plus beau ? Autre suggestion ?

2) Je lis beaucoup qu'il est possible de faire ce trek sans guide. J'aimerais quand même en avoir un pour le passage du col de Thorung La (quoique...). Est-il possible de prendre un guide seulement pour cette partie là (à Manang, ou Jomosom, ou autre village plus proche...)?

3) Est-il possible de se procurer le permis de trek tout les jours de la semaine à Katmandu ? à Besisahr ?

Merci d'avance ! Martin

La route pour aller à san antonio de los cobres peut elle se faire avec une voiture normal idem pour la laguna de Pozuelos ?

Si un 4x4 est nécessaire y-a t-il un jeune couple intéressé pour faire le périple Salta cafayate en boucle salta purmamarca maimara tilcara humahuaca jusqu'à la quiaca et Yavi avce escapade sur la laguna de Pozuelos et/ou sur san antonio de los cobres durée une semaine date entre 5 et 12 fèvrier

Bonjour

Voilà, je prépare un voyage au Bouthan, mais en individuel ( je suis Femme, mais plus de première jeunesse... ne riez pas .... c'est un avantage quand on voyage en solo ! eh ! oui !) Je souhaite entrer en contact avec toute personne ayant visité le Bouthan en individuel . Merci à l'avance de vos réponses . Bonne fêtes de fin d'année à tous ceux qui me liront .

Bonjour,

Nous comptons, avec un ami, aller marcher en Corse, fin juin ou début septembre 2009.

Etant limité par le temps, nous avons le choix entre 2 sentiers de 6 jours : le Mare a Mare Nord en démarrant de Corte le Mare a Mare Sud

Quelles différences entre les 2 ? Plus de montagne au nord ? Pour quelqu’un de sportif qui ne connaît pas la Corse, lequel choisir ? Pourquoi le Mare a Mare Nord est peu cité dans ce forum ?

Vous serait-il possible de nous faire part de vos différentes expériences ? Merci d’avance et bon weekend end .

Bruno

Bonjour, Nous enviseagons de partir au Costa Rica au mois de Janvier (Corcovado et Cote Caraibe). J`ai longtemps hesite avec le Panama. Qu`en pensez vous? Niveau securite, jungle, possibilite de voir des animaux, beaute des paysage...

Merci

Laetitia

Bonjour à tous,

Dans 1 mois je pars en couple faire un tour de monde d'environ 7 mois. L'idée est de faire un voyage routard (logement chez l'habitant ou en auberge de jeunesse - déplacement en bus) mais de se permettre parfois des extras.

Pourriez-vous me dire quel budget vous prévoyez pour les destinations suivantes (j'indique aussi le budget que je prévois) :

inde (14€/personne/jour) Népal(14) Vietnam (14) Cambodge (14) Thailande (14) Malaisie (14) Australie (30 € - pas bcp mais on y sera en basse saison) N-Z (30 € - pas bcp mais on y sera en basse saison) Chili (18) Perou (18) Argentine (18) Brésil (18)

N'hésitez pas à me donner une idée de cout (meme pour une seule destination !!)

Merci bcp

Notre circuit du 15 au 26 septembre Merci de me dire ce que vous pensez du programme proposé🙂 si vous avez des conseils😉

suite aux diverses recherches que j'ai effectué pour préparer notre séjour au Mexique, j'ai pu lire beaucoups de récits de gens qui ont été très déçus de Cancun ou Playa del Carmen du fait que c'est trop américanisé.

Ma question est de savoir s'il vaut la peine que nous nous arrêtions dans ces deux stations ou que nous aillons directement sur Tulum qui me paraît aussi plus authentique.

Et vous quelles ont été vos impressions ???

La "Ville-Etat" suivant le poncif des journalistes: Singapour affiche une réussite éclatante: Celle du bon goût dans ses réalisations architecturales, urbaines et ses jardins. Une réussite économique, sécuritaire, écologique, technologique, sanitaire, maîtrise de l'immigration, réussite du " vivre ensemble" de 3 communautés principales, même si ce n'est pas le grand amour entre elles..... Et pourtant si vous évoquez Singapour et sa réussite on vous approuve du bout des lèvres, on évoque même la "face cachée" de Singapour.

Alors je suis un touriste de passage, je m'ébahis à chaque visite devant les réalisations de cet Etat. Qui peut me révéler la face cachée de Singapour? Qui peut me retirer mes illusions et mon admiration?

Je sais que par le passé le Gouvernement a utilisé à l'excès les pendaisons pour réprimer le traffic de drogue; la criminalité liée à ce traffic semble maintenant réduite et la jeunesse préservée. Je sais que Singapour pille ses voisins en important massivement du sable pour étendre son territoire.....Y a t'il plus grave? Le Gouvernement est très paternaliste, par exemple en taxant les Singapouriens jouant au casino, en interdisant le Chewing gum, ou forçant les travailleurs à garder intacts leur économies de retraite....Mais quoi d'autre? (Anecdote sur la propreté: J'étais allé au Bar du Raffles prendre un Singapore Sling, le sol était jonché d'écorces de cacahouète, j'ai demandé à un barman la raison de ce relâchement . Il me déclara: "C'est notre réaction silencieuse par rapport au "Trop de propreté")

Pourquoi cette condescendance ? La raison en est elle que cette réussite n'a pas éclos dans un pays d'Occident? Singapour est il le portait inversé de nos pays d'Occident où la crise sévit dans tous les domaines: Santé, économie, écologie, sécurité....

Comment ne pas admirer ses réalisations architecturales si l'on compare avec certaines capitales asiatiques assez laides? Quant à la pollution, la profusion de taxis à bas prix et au comportement très encadré, l'a éliminée. A Pékin on ne voit pas à 200 mètres. En technologie Singapour est un leader mondial pour le recyclage de l'eau......Quant à la Santé, l'Education...

Ce qui est remarquable à Singapour, c'est la détermination et la persistance de la Politique. Le pays embellit et s'enrichit à chaque visite. En France nous avions le Plan, beaucoup de réalisations ont été faites sous la IVè. Maintenant tout est au démantèlement depuis 20 ans, aux friches industrielles, à l'exode de nos Jeunes, à la Dette, aux brancards dans les Urgences; l'Etat ne réalise plus rien et taxe à l'infini pour nourrir l'ogre jamais rassassié qu'il est devenu, avec l'aide de ses Serviteurs, persuadés de la magie de leur Verbe. Affamé l'Etat va même faire la poche de ses sujets les plus pauvres.

Bonjour à tous, 🙂

Depuis que j’ai vu des photos de Bagan j’ai eu envie d’y aller ... et peut-être pourrons-nous réaliser ce rêve dans la seconde quinzaine du mois d’octobre. 😛 J’ai donc commencé à chercher et me renseigner sur les façons de visiter ce beau pays. De tempérament nous ne sommes pas routards mais nous n’aimons pas non plus les voyages organisés. La formule qui nous plait c’est la location d’un véhicule, pour l’indépendance et en avant. Cette formule nous permet d’être relativement « hors des sentiers battus ». Seulement en Asie on ne peut pas conduire.

Du coup j’ai contacté des agences locales (Ananda, White Lotus et Adorable Myanmar) pour qu’ils nous proposent un circuit privé, centré sur Bagan et Mrauk U. Toutes les agences m’ont rajouté le lac Inle notamment à cause de la fête de la Pagode Phaung Daw Oo qui semble un must … d’après eux.

1ère question : que pensez-vous de cette fête ?, très belle ?, pas trop « envahie » par les touristes ?

Seulement voilà, quand on a eu leurs propositions cela ressemblait trop à un voyage organisé pour nous (genre visite des ateliers artisanaux !).🤪

En parallèle des agences, voyant que ça ne semblait pas être la solution, j’ai commencé à contacter des guides indépendant recommande sur ce forum ou d’autres.

Seconde question : est-ce possible de visiter le pays en y incluant les incontournables mais en pouvant tout de même sortir du « flux principal » ?

A partir de là je suis intéressé par tous les avis et expériences qui me permettraient d’avancer et entrevoir une solution pour visiter le pays, parce que pour le moment je ne sais pas du tout comment faire …😛 🙂

merci d'avance

Max

Bonjour,

J'ai participé cet été à une randonnée de 3 semaines qui était ma première rando et qui a confirmé ce que je "craignais" depuis mon adolescence je suis accro :)

J'ai donc tout naturellement après ma rentrée après m'être dit bon je vais où maintenant, abordé les choses un peu différemment. Cet été j'ai suivi, là je souhaiterais me faire un parcours. J'ai tracé les grandes lignes d'un parcours qui ne sera peut être pas du tout celui la vu que nous sommes en septembre et que c'est pour l'été prochain...

En tout cas comme celui-ci en l'état actuel fait dans les 800kms je sais des étapes "obligées" pour des raisons diverses, mais entre 2 la présence ou non de camping sur une option de 2-300kms par exemple peut représenter une difficulté, j'ai aussi un peu de mal pour le moment à estimer la longueur de mes étapes mais c'est surement un autre problème

J'ai redécouvert cet été que les cartes Michelin avaient des indications sur les campings, pas de bol en regardant les cartes nouvelles que j'ai (et mal foutu à mon sens) ces indications ont disparues. A priori les cartes IGN n'ont pas ce type d'éléments. Ma question de randonneurs vélo mais qui concerne tout type de voyageurs est de savoir s'il existe que ce soit en mode papier ou en mode électronique une cartographie avec cette info? J'ai lu quelque part que des Néerlandais avait fait un calque avec les campings mais je n'ai pas trouvé. Merci de votre aide

Bonjour tout le monde,

Je pars 1 mois très prochainement en Inde, j'aterrie à Cochin. Je viens vers vous pour savoir si quelqu'un a déjà fait de belles virées en moto dans le Kerala, en effet je compte louer une Royal Enfield pendant 3 semaines un mois.

Est il facile de trouver un loueur de becane du coté de Fort Kochi, il y en a ? Pas trop d'infos dans le Lonely Planet :( et sur internet non plus. Quels sont les destinations à ne pas louper ? Sachant que je ne compte pas faire une course, je préfère prendre mon temps pour profiter. Déjà une petite idée en tête mais je demande quand même :). Le mieux pour faire une grosse boucle depuis Cochin, est de partir vers le sud puis revenir par le Nord ? ou inversement ?

Enfin voilà, peu d'information sur le Kerala à moto donc si vous avez des expériences à faire passer je suis preneur.

Jeremy

Je poste aussi ce topic dans la section moto Inde

Bonjour,

Je suis en train de boucler mon parcours d'un mois en Inde du Nord et je compte finir par Delhi.

-Combien faut il compter de jours pour visiter l'essentiel de Delhi ?

-Connaissez-vous un coin sympa à faire pendant 2 jours dans la région de Delhi ?

Merci pour vos réponses.

Kooka35 😉

Bonjour à tous, Je suis à la recherche de témoignages concernant le service des PNC sur les vols moyens et longs courriers en cabine affaire Air France. Est-on bien traité, y-a-t'il des petits attentions particulières, est ce que le service à évolué depuis un an.. Merci à tous pour votre aide.

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.

Bonsoir (je n'arrive pas poster le sujet dans la rubrique compagnies maroc, ça me envois a chaque fois dans rechercher...je suie les étapes indiqués je me trouve encore dans rechercher)

Sinon j'aimerai avoir les avis des personnes qui ont déja voyager avec Transavia..c'est la toute premiere fois que je prends un avion low cost (d'habitude c'est la RAM ou air France ou voiture) je serai avec mon fils de 3 ans , alors je me pose des questions...j'aimerai partir l'esperit seraint . je souhaite aussi savoir , si on trouve facillement les grands taxi qui font Marrakech/ouarzazate , ou marrakech/Errachidia direct...comment s'y rendre a la gare des taxi appartir de l'aeroport, le cout et aussi quelques adresses pour dormir avec mon fils si on est trop fatigués pour faire le voyage jusqu'a errachidia le jour meme, y'a t'il moyen de trouver une chambre dans riad a 30€ ?

je vous remercie d'avance de votre aide

Air France va ouvrir la ligne à compter du 19 janvier prochain, 2 vols/jour en semaine 1 le we.

Quelle carte Routière ou géographique utilisez-vous pour la préparation de votre voyage en Birmanie.

Bonjour,

Suite à un voyage en Algérie j’ai rédigé quelques textes relatant des épisodes de ce voyage qui m’ont particulièrement marqués.

Tout ça histoire de faire partager à d’autres voyageurs ce que j’ai vécu. Mais aussi pour donner une idée de voyage : l’Algérie est un pays magnifique et singulier. Les algériens que j’ai rencontrés sont généreux, intelligents. Différents de l’image que l’on peut en avoir ici. A ceux qui hésitent à s’y rendre, je dirais : allez-y ! C’est un pays où le voyageur est vraiment considéré comme tel.

Je voudrais remercier deux membres du forum qui m’ont aidé pour la préparation de ce voyage. Il s’agit de Sourires75 et de Camelito. Grand merci à eux.

Bonne route à tous,

guillaume

L’université populaire de Damous

Damous est une petite ville située à 130 km à l’Est d’Alger, coincée entre mer et montagnes.

A trois heures de l’après midi, nous mangeons des spaghettis avec une sauce tomate maison. Normal, notre hôte, David, est italien. « Ail et huile d’olive que j’ai ramenés d’Italie » précise t-il. Le tout accompagné de vin italien lui aussi. La porte de la petite maison est ouverte. Dehors, le soleil brille généreusement. On entend le ressac des vagues. La mer est à quelques mètres, en contrebas. Les voisins sont à une centaine de mètres, plus haut. Après le café (italien) de rigueur, nous prenons la route de Ténès afin de trouver un port ou un marché. Car nous voulons manger du poisson. Le soleil se couche, la route est sinueuse, les collines qui se jettent dans la mer sont couvertes de pins. L’eau de la mer Méditerranée est d’une belle couleur bleue. La cote des Dahras est vraiment magnifique. Après une vingtaine de km, nous trouvons un petit port, niché dans une crique. Quelques pécheurs sont assis par terre et raccommodent des filets. Leurs yeux sont braqués sur le gros 4X4 brillant et sur les trois occupants au look européen qui en sortent. Peu de paroles échangées. Les pêcheurs semblent être sur la défensive. « On croyait que c’était l’ONU » lâche l’un d’entre eux. Le commerce va mal, la région s’est dépeuplée avec les années de terrorisme. Au moment de reprendre la route de Damous, nous croisons un garde communal qui, fusil à l’épaule, marche sur un sentier, en direction des montagnes. Derrières celles-ci se trouvent la ville de Chlef, qui souffre encore d’une réputation d’insécurité.

Quelques instants plus tard, les rougets grillent. Après le rituel du café, la discussion se poursuit devant des bouteilles de vin et de bière. Thème de la soirée : pourquoi les humains ont-ils besoin de la religion ? Bouzid, kabyle ne croyant pas en Dieu expose sa thèse : « c’est parce qu’il faut aux hommes une béquille, quelque chose à quoi se raccrocher. » Kamel, le chauffeur du jour, a parcouru plus de 200 Km : il s’endort. Mohamed, le gardien de la maison, musulman mais buveur de vin, reste silencieux. David, fort de son expérience de biologiste, expose son idée : « c’est une réaction normale face à l’immensité et la complexité du monde. » La discussion s’achève avec l’explication d’un verset du coran… Notre cerveau agité par les idées et l’alcool sera bercé par le bruit des vagues qui se brisent contre les rochers. Assis devant la maison, face à la mer, on voit les lumières des gros cargos et des petites embarcations de pêche qui mouillent au large. Derrière nous, c’est la montagne et les forets de pins : leur noirceur nous donne l’impression d’être sur une île.

Le matin, odeurs d’iode et de café cohabitent dans la cuisine.

Vers Béjaia

Voilà presque trois heures que nous roulons. Nous avançons plutôt bien car la circulation est faible. Nous sommes pourtant mardi. Mais aujourd’hui c’est le 20 avril, jour du printemps berbère. Dans toute la Kabylie on commémore le 20 avril 1981. Ca tombe bien, nous sommes en Kabylie ! Il y a 23 ans, Mouloud Mammeri se voyait refuser la tenue d’une conférence à Tizi Ouzou. Des émeutes suivirent.

Aujourd’hui, quelques marches pacifiques sont prévues. Et la grève générale décrétée pour l’occasion remporte un franc succès. Depuis Bordj Ménaïel, nous ne voyons plus de commerces ouverts. Les rues de Tizi Ouzou sont désertes, tous les rideaux de fer ont été baissés. Aux endroits où les embouteillages sont (presque) perpétuels, les véhicules circulant se comptent sur les doigts d’une main. Dans les petits villages, le café ou l’épicerie restent ouverts. Mais une atmosphère de week-end flotte dans les ruelles.

Après la ville d’Azazga, la route monte et s’enfonce dans une belle forêt de chênes. Des singes sont groupés autour des véhicules garés au bord du bitume. En ce jour ‘’férié’’, beaucoup d’habitants des villes ont décidé de quitter leur appartement pour aller faire un tour dans la nature. Autant profiter de cet environnement magnifique et du beau soleil qui brille dans un ciel bleu exempt de tout nuage… La route sinueuse découvre de beaux points de vue sur de petites montagnes recouvertes de verdure. Le paysage ainsi que cette atmosphère particulière rendent le trajet très agréable.

Nous trouvons quand même un restaurant ouvert. Caché au bout d’un petit sentier poussiéreux, c’est une cabane faite de morceaux de bois plus ou moins pourris. D’ailleurs, rien n’indique qu’il s’agit d’un restaurant. Nous entrons dans ce lieu sombre dépourvu de fenêtres. Une petite dizaine d’hommes sont assis sur des chaises en plastique, en train de boire ou de manger. D’autres sont accoudés au comptoir : c’est une grande planche de bois brut sentant encore la résine. Nous saluons tout le monde et commandons de la viande et des frites. Nous sirotons une bière pendant que le patron s’affaire devant ces casseroles. Il est trois heures de l’après-midi et il n’a pas été surpris lorsque nous lui avons annoncé que nous voulions manger. C’est prêt et nous nous asseyons devant deux appétissantes assiettes. Perdu en pleine foret, à l’écart de la route, on ne soupçonne pas qu’il existe ici, un lieu convivial ou l’on mange plutôt bien. Inutile de vérifier s’il figure dans un guide touristique. Je regarde ces hommes discuter entre eux. Ils boivent de la bière ou du vin. Un vieux, aveugle, est assis juste en face de moi. Il parle fort même si tous se taisent dès qu’il ouvre la bouche. Apparemment, il raconte une histoire. L’attention se fait de plus en plus vive et le silence de plus en plus profond. Jusqu’à ce que l’assistance (sauf moi car je ne comprend pas le kabyle) éclate de rire. Un peu frustré, je demande la traduction à l’ami qui m’accompagne : « on a resservit à ce vieux un verre de vin. Quelqu’un a payé à sa place. Il est aveugle alors les gens sont sympas avec lui. Il a donc dit que cela lui faisait plaisir, mais que celui qui lui offre du vin devrait aussi le ramener chez lui, car bientôt il ne tiendrait plus debout. »

Finissant mes frites et ma bière, je regarde encore une fois ces hommes. Ils ont le regard franc et semblent heureux d’être ici, ensembles. Ce restaurant est un lieu paisible. Il y a quelques heures encore, j’étais à Alger, dans le bruit, les encombrements, la foule. On se rassemblait devant les vitrines pour admirer les nouveaux téléphones portables. On se tassait dans des bus poussifs. On s’avachissait dans les profonds fauteuils du Hilton. Alors, comment ne pas être content de respirer l’air pur et de côtoyer une autre facette de ce pays ?

Nous avons repris la route à travers la foret. Au fil des kilomètres, les villages se font de plus en plus rares. Les collines de plus en plus abruptes. Puis la route commence sa descente en lacets vers Béjaia. Au bout, on tombe sur la Méditerranée.

Quelques minutes encore et nous allons retrouver les monts des Babors, recouverts d’une végétation luxuriante, l’oued asséché. Les habitants y prennent allègrement du gravier sans se soucier des conséquences en cas de crue.

Arrivée à destination. Je prends mes quartiers dans la chambre du fils cadet. Coup d’œil par la fenêtre : toujours là les bananiers, les poules et les chèvres. Des gosses jouent sur le chemin de terre défoncé.

Désormais, je serais membre de la famille et non invité, m’a t-on prévenu. Tant mieux, je me sens un peu chez moi dans cette belle campagne.

Soirée d’adieux

Ce soir, je dois passer chez Hicham pour récupérer mon sac. Je dormirais chez Amine, qui habite tout près de la gare routière. Demain matin, une fois sorti du lit, je serais dans le bus pour Constantine.

Je monte rapidement à l’étage de la grande maison pour prendre mes affaires. Je me rappelle la soirée d’hier, passée dans cette chambre. Après avoir parlé littérature française avec Mouloud (le père), Yassine (un des fils) a joué de la mandole accompagné de Karim (un cousin de Yassine) à la derbouka. Au programme, des chansons kabyles et du chaabi.

Fini les songes, il faut y aller. Mon barda est jeté dans le coffre de la 206. Je salut Mouloud, Yassine et Souad (une des filles), les remercie pour l’hébergement, les repas etc... Mais Hicham, qui doit me « taxier » jusque chez mon nouvel hôte, ne se décide pas à partir. Qu’est-ce qu’il attend ? La mère vient me dire au revoir, puis c’est la petite Nawel (la cadette) qui est là avec un grand sourire. Quelques minutes encore à rester planté devant la maison et je m’aperçois que toute la famille est réunie sur le seuil de porte pour me faire ses adieux. Tous ont l’air triste de me voir partir. Je ne peux pas longtemps résister : j’ai le cœur gros et les larmes qui montent, inexorablement. Pourtant, je ne peux pas rester éternellement à Béjaia ! Je suis là pour voyager, pas pour m’encroûter ! Mais devant tous ces yeux tournés vers moi, je me demande pourquoi je vais à Constantine. Encore des poignées de mains. Prenant un air solennel, Mouloud m’assure que j’ai une deuxième famille ici et que je peux revenir quand je veux. Qu’est-ce que j’ai fait pour mériter ça ?

Dix minutes après, je suis dans une autre famille. La maîtresse de maison a préparé un succulent couscous et veut que je mange, que je mange encore et encore.

Son fils Amine m’amènera à la gare routière le lendemain, à six heures du matin. Le souvenir de tous les visages aperçus la veille m’accompagnera pendant tout le long voyage en bus. Ils m’accompagnent encore aujourd’hui …

Où suis-je ?

Dans le hall du théâtre, l’ambiance est celle de ‘’l’avant spectacle’’. Toutes les personnes qui patientent sont bien habillées. Plusieurs d’entre elles s’apostrophent. On parle un français châtié : « comment allez-vous cher ami ? » « Avez vous fait bon voyage ? » A travers les baies vitrées sales, on voit la rue. A cette heure là, l’activité se meurt. Des hommes sont négligemment assis sur les marches du théâtre. La plupart portent des vêtements sales. Les changeurs d’argent et les vendeurs de téléphones portables ont déserté la grande place toute proche.

Vingt heures, le concert va commencer. Une petite foule se dirige vers les places de l’orchestre. Un lourd lustre éclaire péniblement la salle. La décoration est pâle, les couleurs des peintures sont un peu fanées. Les dorures sont légèrement moisies. Il s’agit d’un vrai petit opéra en miniature. Sans doute construit au temps de la colonisation française. Des personnes se placent au 1er balcon, d’autres, dans la baignoire. Dans une ambiance très cordiale et légèrement guindée. Pas d’agitation, politesse presque exagérée.

Sur la scène, de lourd tapis ont été installés. Sur ces derniers s’installent trois femmes parées de voiles fins, bleus et brillants. Le spectacle va débuter et les applaudissements accompagnent l’entrée d’Athmane Baly. Sa profession est médecin, mais il est plus connu en tant que joueur de luth et chanteur. Il habite Djanet (sud est de l’Algérie) depuis toujours. L’artiste propose au public un voyage dans le grand sud algérien.

Lorsque la musique commence à raisonner dans le vieux théâtre, la magie opère et tout le monde est transporté vers la région du Tassilli. Au bout de quelques minutes, de nombreuses personnes frappent dans leurs mains et sont debout. Fini la bienséance de tout à l’heure ! Entre chaque morceau, Athmane Baly raconte une histoire. Le plus souvent vraies, ces anecdotes sont à la base de sa poésie. Il raconte en tamashek puis traduit en français. Silence. Ses doigts caressent les cordes du luth et nous nous retrouvons instantanément à 1500 kilomètres plus au sud. Je me pose la question : ou suis-je ? Dans un théâtre français ? A Constantine ? A Djanet ? Sensation étrange qu me poursuit jusqu’à la fin du récital.

A 22h30, les rues sont désertes et tristes. Je suis à Constantine, c’est sûr. Ce petit voyage musical était très agréable. Mais l’imagination ne me suffit pas : six heures de bus sont au programme de demain, cinq heures le surlendemain et ensuite, ce sera le grand départ pour le désert. Un vrai voyage dans l’espace. Sans musique. Le ‘’chef’’ de cette petite ‘’expédition’’ l’a certifié : il n’y a pas d’autoradio dans le 4X4. « Nous écouterons le bruit des quarts métalliques qui s’entrechoquent à chaque irrégularité du bitume » s’amuse t-il. Avec le sable, un lecteur de CD risque d’être rapidement hors d’usage.

Une journée sur la RN1

A 6h05, un soleil rouge est juste au-dessus de l’horizon. Je regarde par la baie vitrée cette ville dite « blanche » qui devient de plus en plus lumineuse. Ce lever de soleil, vu depuis le 10ème et dernier étage d’un immeuble situé sur les hauteurs d’Alger, à une saveur très particulière. Aujourd’hui, c’est cap au sud, par la transsaharienne. En 12 heures nous passerons de la mer au désert, des plages aux dunes, des champs de blé au reg…. Le soleil est mon compagnon de la matinée, il me caresse doucement le bras. Il disparaît lorsque nous passons dans les gorges de Chiffa, longues de 9 km et couvertes d’une végétation dense. La route suit le tracé de l’oued qui a creusé cette fabuleuse entaille. Le tableau serait idyllique s’il n’y avait pas tous les 200 mètres un blindé de l’armée posté là, seulement pour gâcher le paysage ! Mais la nuit, mieux vaut éviter de circuler à cet endroit.

A Médéa, nous contemplons les montagnes, les cultures parsemées de coquelicots, des forets de résineux. J’emmagasine la splendide couleur verte de ce paysage en prévision des jours à venir. Ici ou là un mirador, des maisons abandonnées : vestiges bien récents, qui ne se visitent pas.

Le soleil, toujours lui, est déjà très haut lorsque nous nous arrêtons sur le bord de la route pour manger. A l’ombre d’un arbre, tout près d’un café abandonné. Autour de nous s’étend la steppe. Des touffes d’herbe émergent du sable. Plus que quelques kilomètres et nous arriverons à Laghouat.

Cette lande morne et uniforme s’achève au village de Berriane, situé un peu avant Ghardaia. Les murs en pisé rouge, les enfants avec la peau presque noire qui jouent sur le bord de la route, les palmiers par centaines, l’eau qui ruisselle dans de petites rigoles, le sable, de plus en plus présent. Le Sud arrive, doucement mais sûrement.

Je n’aurais jamais imaginé boire du vin, assis sur une dune, derrière une église. Et pourtant, c’est ce que je suis en train de faire ! L’église est celle d’El Golea, ville situé à 900 Km au sud d’Alger. Nous fêtons notre entrée dans le désert. Les dunes sont juste derrière l’édifice religieux. Un avant goût du grand erg occidental, qui commence quelques kilomètres plus loin. Le lendemain matin, une lumière douce enveloppe l’étendue de sable, les palmiers et le clocher rougeâtre… Réveil dans un autre monde, très différent de la région d’Alger ou de la kabylie. Sommes-nous encore en Algérie ?

M’Guiden plage

Quelques minutes à s’amuser dans les premières dunes du grand erg occidental, à une trentaine de km au sud d’El Golea : voilà la seule distraction de la matinée. Maintenant, un sol jaune uniformément plat s’étend sur des kilomètres. Rien qui puisse accrocher le regard. Pas une touffe d’herbe, ni une grosse pierre. Ca n’en finit pas, les 200 kilomètres sont interminables. En outre, la route est peu fréquentée. Le silence s’est imposé dans l’habitacle de la ‘’Toy’’. Plongé dans un demi-sommeil, nous nous arrêtons en face d’un café aux portes clauses. Aujourd’hui c’est la fête de Mouloud et ce jour est férié. La présence du café nous indique que nous sommes arrivé au village de M’Guiden, situé à 215 kilomètres d’El Golea et à 130 kilomètres de Timimoun. Les habitations sont un peu éloignées de la route. Autour de deux cafés et de l’habituelle caserne, rien. Seulement le ruban de bitume qui s’étire à perte de vue. Le 2ème café est ouvert. Nous buvons un thé en regardant la décoration originale : photos de New York et de Long Island, de Dauphins, de bord de mer. Ici, la première vague est à 1000 kilomètres et il est vain de chercher l’ombre d’un arbre. Le silence règne aussi dans le café. On mange quelques gâteaux on se rafraîchit le visage avec l’eau brûlante qui coule d’un robinet placé dehors. Une fois sur la route, le policier posté au barrage, nous fait signe d’y aller après avoir vérifié de visu que nous sommes tous algériens… Timimoun n’est pas très loin. 130 kilomètres seulement, mais 130 km de vide, de plat. On peut toujours s’assoupir en rêvant à une île de Polynésie ou à une sirène...

Adrar la kabyle

Adrar est située à 1500 km au sud ouest d’Alger au milieu d’une région du Sahara dénommée le Touat.

Après avoir fait 50 km de route, nous apercevons cette ville. Un barrage de police est dressé à l’entrée de la ville. Nous passons puis longeons l’université Patrice Lumumba. Des bus garés devant la fac déversent les étudiants sur des trottoirs poussiéreux. Adrar a été construite par les français. Avant l’installation d’une caserne au début du siècle, seuls existaient des villages. Celui de Timmi, qui se trouve dorénavant dans la banlieue du chef lieu de wilaya est un village caractéristique de la région du Touat. Dans les rues tortueuses et étroites passent des rigoles destinées à l’alimentation en eau des maisons et des palmeraies. La couleur rouge des murs contraste avec le vert des palmiers ou le jaune des haïks couvrant les femmes. Dans Adrar, les rues sont larges et se coupent à angle droit. La place centrale, immense et déserte, est bétonnée. L’entrée d’un des deux marchés est l’imitation d’un mur de bordj. Quelques maisons ne sont plus que des gravats. Les pluies torrentielles tombées peu avant notre arrivée ont fait beaucoup de dégâts. Aux sorties de la ville se dressent des camps de toiles de tente ou logent des sinistrés qui ont perdu leur habitation.

Nous entrons dans un café afin d’y prendre un petit déjeuné. Ce matin, nous n’avons pu prendre qu’un maigre café, notre maison, isolée en plein désert, est privée d’eau et d’électricité suite au grand vent de sable qui a soufflé la veille. A cette heure matinale, la terrasse du café est déserte. A l’intérieur, surprise ! Dans un coin de la pièce est accrochée une photo de Lounès Matoub. Plusieurs posters à l’effigie du chanteur kabyle trônent près du comptoir ou de la télé. Le patron nous salue en kabyle. Il est venu ici il y a deux ans pour monter un café. « Avant mon arrivée, il n’y avait rien ici explique t-il. J’ai construit la terrasse, mis des fleurs et des plantes. Maintenant, c’est agréable. » Baptisé JSK2, du nom de l’équipe de foot kabyle Jeunesse Sportive de Kabylie (2 parce que la ville compte déjà un café JSK) les tables se remplissent au fur et à mesure que l’heure avance.

Après avoir bu un ‘’crème’’ (un café au lait), passage au Taxiphone d’a coté. Tiens, j’ai déjà vu cette photo quelque part… C’est encore Lounès Matoub ! Au moment de payer la communication, je regarde les cartes postales à vendre. Des cartes de Tizi Ouzou, du Djurdjura, de Bejaia. Le patron du Taxiphone vient de Kabylie lui aussi. Il m’explique les raisons de sa venue : « au Nord, tu ne trouves pas de travail et au Sud, les habitants ne savent pas tenir un commerce. Tu peux y monter ton affaire et en vivre pas trop mal. Ici, la vie est un peu moins chère qu’au Nord. »

Quelques heures plus tard, retour à la terrasse du JSK2 en compagnie de plusieurs autres ‘’expatriés’’ ayant un commerce ou une plantation dans la région. On discute de la chaleur qui, en ce début mai, commence à arriver. « Dans deux mois nous serons chez nous, sûr et certain. C’est impossible de rester ici l’été. Trop chaud, et puis, notre pays nous manque tellement… » dit l’un d’entre eux, songeur. 1500 kilomètres nous séparent des montagnes kabyles.

Comme si un autre temps surgissait

Un petit village. Quelques faibles ampoules orange éclairent ici où là les rues entièrement recouvertes de sable. On avance dans une demi obscurité, croisant des silhouettes de femmes silencieuses, ressentant le souffle d’enfants qui courent. Nous suivons Abderhamane à travers un labyrinthe fait de murs de pisé rouge. La chaleur de la journée s’est estompée. Nous passons une petite porte en fer et entrons dans un jardin. Sur le sol, entre quelques palmiers et tout prêt d’un bassin, des tapis sont installés. Nous nous déchaussons et nous asseyons. Le silence se fait. On entend l’eau couler doucement dans le bassin. Entre les feuilles des palmiers, on aperçoit les étoiles qui commencent à apparaître. La maison se trouve juste à coté, a demi enterrée dans le sol. Plus loin c’est encore le jardin. Plongé dans l’obscurité, il garde ses mystères… Le couscous se prépare, l’eau du thé va bientôt bouillir, nous sommes allongés, goûtant à ce moment de calme. On se laisse aller doucement à la rêverie. Bien être et bonheur de se retrouver dans un endroit qui semble tout droit sorti d’une légende. Un peu les mille et une nuits.

Des dattes en guise d’entrée. Abderhamane nous donne davantage de précisons sur cette maison : « elle appartient à ma belle-famille. C’est une belle maison dotée d’un grand jardin. Malheureusement pas entretenu comme il le faudrait. En revanche, nous prenons soin de cette demeure, qui appartient à la famille depuis plusieurs générations. C’est une maison de notable, elle est grande et il y a quelques dizaines d’année, c’était le grand luxe de posséder une demeure comme celle-ci. Mais tout est fragile. Certaines règles de base sont à respecter : ne pas faire de réparation ou d’agrandissement n’importe comment. Faire attention à l’usage de l’eau à l’intérieur et à l’extérieur de la maison. Ne pas laisser s’abîmer les murs. Il s’agit de simples précautions. Mais elles ne sont plus respectées. Car c’est un peu contraignant. Aujourd’hui, les gens veulent avoir du temps libre. La conservation des habitations traditionnelles demande un peu de temps. Si cet entretient est bâclé, la bâtisse risque de s’effondrer au premières pluies fortes. C’est ce qui s’est passé récemment. »

Les enfants apportent le couscous dans un grand plat en bois appelé ksab. Tout le monde piochera dedans. Puis c’est au tour du thé. La nuit est devenue bien noire, les histoires liées au désert s’enchaînent. Souvenirs d’égarement, de rencontres, de trouvailles… Quelques blagues aussi, sur la religion ou le sexe. Abderhamane évoque une journée passée dans la demeure d’un homme raffiné. Celui-ci prenait le thé plusieurs fois par jour. A chaque fois dans un lieu différent défini à l’avance. C’était il y a 15 ans, et notre ôte ignore si cet homme riche et oisif est encore en vie.

Les montres sont rangées au fond de nos sacs. Ce soir, nous n’avons plus de montres, mais nous avons le temps. Les étoiles ont bougé depuis tout à l’heure : c’est un rythme qui convient bien à cet endroit.

Lorsque nous sortons du jardin, nous retrouvons la rue comme nous l’avions laissée. Une petite fête vient de se terminer et toutes les familles rentrent chez elles sans se presser.

Sur la route du retour à notre lieu de villégiature, le compteur est bloqué sur 100 km/h. Dans la lumière des phares apparaît une bicoque carrée et sans fenêtres. C’est là que nous passons nos nuits. Ceux qui choisissent de dormir à l’intérieur doivent supporter la chaleur. Ceux qui préfèrent la terrasse se préparent à supporter les hurlements des renards. Je regrette de n’être pas rester dans le jardin, quels doux rêves aurais-je pu faire !

Hi everyone,

I hesitated for a long time before publishing this travel journal since it’s been 8 months now since I left Nisyros. But in the end, I found it too beautiful to keep quiet about. So here we go—I finally got around to writing it. Nisyros is a stunning little Greek island, and luckily, it’s well hidden. Located a good twenty hours by boat from Athens, its distance from the Greek mainland deters most tourists from visiting. That’s what makes it an off-the-beaten-path destination. So much for the general info.



Before diving into the details, I should mention that I visited by bike (despite its severe and constant volcanic elevation) as part of a solo trip from France to Turkey. Why this detail? Because out of the ten countries I crossed and the dozens of sites I saw, Nisyros is one of my top three favorites (along with Pag Island, off-season, in Croatia, and Albania for its overall beauty—stunning natural landscapes and the incredible hospitality of its people). Anyway, welcome to this travel journal dedicated to the lovely little volcanic island of Nisyros…



I arrived one beautiful morning in Mandraki, the island’s main port. The twenty-hour boat ride from Athens went by like a breeze. I slept on the deck for three or four hours, sprawled on a bench that was more or less sheltered from the wind. At this time of year (it’s May 2nd), tourists aren’t exactly flocking here, so the boat was far from full. My first glimpse of Nisyros is classic Greek island scenery: blazing sun, an azure sky, and an even deeper blue sea. The trip is off to a great start. I quickly found a small, out-of-the-way hotel (I’m one of those people who avoids crowds as much as possible when traveling, which is getting harder and harder to do). While everyone else from the boat turned right out of the port toward the center of Mandraki, I went left! My nice little hotel was just a hundred meters away, facing a pretty little Orthodox church whose red color contrasted beautifully with the deep blue sea.



I dropped off my panniers in my room so I could ride light for once, then headed toward the next village: Pali. It’s a small fishing village that apparently comes to life a bit in the summer with a few tourists.



As I pedaled along the dock, I passed right by a guy sitting in a chair in full sun. Unfazed despite the sweat pouring down his forehead, he untangled his fishing net with a precision that commanded respect. I gave him the obligatory kalimera (good morning), but he reacted like a deaf-mute—no response at all. On the other hand, his employee answered me kindly from the trawler docked right next to him. Standing on deck, he was also untangling a mess of nets and invited me aboard to chat. That’s Mohamed.



Communication wasn’t easy since he only spoke Greek and I didn’t, but he was cheerful, and his joy was contagious. He proudly showed off their catch of the day: two beautiful rays and a few brightly colored fish. We chatted like that for about fifteen minutes.



When it was time to hit the road again, I said goodbye to Mohamed, who smiled back. But this time, his boss—still dripping sweat in his chair under the scorching sun—greeted me too. Turns out he wasn’t deaf or mute after all.



I continued along the coast since that’s where most of Nisyros’ beaches are. They start lining up just outside Pali. These are black sand beaches, which can’t hide their volcanic origins.



Yesterday afternoon in Athens, I met Peter and Michelle, a Dutch-French couple, while we were waiting for the ferry to depart. The Greek sailors were on strike, so we ended up waiting about twelve hours before setting off. Anyway, we had plenty of time to chat, and Peter, who’s lived on Tilos—a small island near Nisyros—for about twenty years, told me that many migrants pass through these two islands. Most come from Afghanistan and Syria, fleeing authoritarian regimes and the massacres that come with them. They’re looking for *anywhere* else where the future can’t possibly be worse. Peter explained that you often find their belongings on the local beaches. And sure enough, I didn’t have to look far to spot some—clothes, life jackets…



I glanced around, hoping to see one of them to maybe exchange a few words, but no—no one. I was completely alone.



I got back on my bike and spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly, just exploring this beautiful part of Nisyros. I also picked up some supplies because tomorrow, I’d be heading inland for two days, deep into its four-kilometer-wide caldera to explore the volcano. I’d be sleeping in a tent, so I needed to stock up on food. After a restful night in a real bed—something rare on this bike trip (and I won’t even mention the shower…)—I finally set off for the volcano (I’ll share details about that charming little hotel with the amazing breakfasts at the end of the journal). To reach Stefanos (the name of the main crater), I had to climb to the top of the caldera. It was hot, and some of the slopes were between 10 and 15%, which is steep, especially with a 54 kg bike. But who cares? I was admiring the scenery, and I have to say, I was surprised by how green it was. The higher I climbed, the more beautiful the vegetation became. It stood out against the blue of the sea, and the landscapes inside the island were truly stunning. So, I stopped every five minutes to take photos. Every now and then, I’d come across cows in the middle of the road—or goats in the trees! They climbed with the agility of monkeys to munch on the leaves. I couldn’t get a photo of them because they’d all scatter before I got close. It was actually the noise they made climbing down that tipped me off to their presence. Two villages sit at the top of the caldera: Emporios and Nikia. I passed the first one without climbing up to it, then continued to the second. And let me tell you, Nikia was love at first sight! I found myself pedaling through tiny streets, some barely wider than my bike with its panniers. The walls were white, and the doors were painted in all sorts of colors—green, blue, red… The streets were empty, and silence reigned. But it wasn’t a dead silence. It was more like the kind you find in small, secret, peaceful places. The village exuded tranquility, calm, and well-being. I leaned my bike—with all its gear—against a wall without locking it. It was the first time on this trip that I’d done that. Sure, its weight made it more like a tank than a bike, so you’d have to be *really* motivated to steal it, but here, for some reason, I felt completely at ease. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, but I go a lot by instinct, and here, it felt right. So I left my bike there and went to eat a little farther away, at a small restaurant on the village’s main square. It’s famous all over Greece for the beautiful mosaic that covers and decorates the floor. Once I’d eaten and drunk my fill, I hopped back on my bike, which had waited patiently without running off. And the best part? After riding uphill all morning to reach the top of the caldera, all I had to do now was coast downhill to the volcano. Pure bliss in such breathtaking scenery.

Hi everyone,

Better late than never—I’m finally getting around to sharing our trip to Romania from last year.

Before I start, I have a personal history with this country: I lived there in 2004 for three and a half months during a student internship. I still have friends there and a decent grasp of Romanian. That helps. But more than anything, I’ve grown attached to the country. It’s well-deserved—Romania gives back just as much. That said, when I talk about it, maybe I see things differently than someone visiting for the first time.

This was my third trip to Romania. This time, I brought my wife and our two daughters. After years of wanting to take a family trip there, this was finally the right moment. My wife wasn’t exactly thrilled at first—she’d been hesitant for years. But she ended up loving it, and we’ll definitely go back together. For our 6- and 8-year-old girls, the trip was fascinating in so many ways: the sights, learning about communism and totalitarian regimes, the Roma community, how different religions coexist, the Saxon minorities...

We landed in Bucharest last July. We spent two and a half weeks in the country. We took off from Toulouse early in the morning and arrived at Bucharest airport around noon. We flew with Lufthansa because it’s a solid airline and the cheapest option we found.

We rented a car. I don’t remember the rental agency’s name, but we got scammed a bit. We’d booked insurance through Booking, but when we arrived, we couldn’t print a credit card receipt. The issue? We only had debit cards, not credit cards (or vice versa), and without one, we couldn’t pick up the car without buying their on-site insurance. It was buried in the fine print—I’d read it but naively assumed a gold card would work. So, we had to take extra insurance. Basically, we threw 120 € in insurance fees out the window. Still, we got a Dacia Logan, and it ran like a dream the whole trip.

Here’s our rough itinerary: - Bucharest Airport => Sinaia => Brasov - Brasov => Viscri => Sighișoara => Sovata - Sovata => Bicaz Gorge => Iași - Iași => Bucharest

**Sinaia** We started in Sinaia, in the Carpathians. It’s an old Romanian vacation spot from the country’s golden age. A really nice place with great hikes. The mountains are stunning, covered in tall fir trees. There are beautiful buildings and old houses—it’s all very charming. We took the cable car up to the summit (no time to hike with the kids). It’s an old 1960s cable car with two sections (there are also detachable chairlifts). The view from the top is amazing. Then, Peles Castle—a must-see.

**On the road to Brasov** We stayed in a homestay in the village of Purcareni (15 minutes from Brasov by car) through an association called "L’Arbre de Joie." We spent a few days there. The association was founded by a French woman in the 90s and runs local projects. The family we stayed with was Hungarian. The price was around 90 € per day, including breakfast and dinner. The host spoke a little French, and her 16-year-old daughter spoke English fluently. We had great conversations. This family lives like a typical French family—they work at a clinic and a factory, own a car, and have a small chalet in the nearby mountains. From Purcareni, we explored: - **Bran Castle**: The iconic castle. There are way more tourist stalls now than when I first visited in 2004, but it’s still charming and worth seeing. - **Zărnești Bear Reserve**: Interesting—you learn a lot about bears. But it’s expensive, and it’s sad to see these beautiful animals in captivity. - **Râșnov Citadel**: Right near Zărnești. We did Bran, the bears, and this citadel all in one day last year. It’s pretty—you hike up a trail to get there. The view is gorgeous, but the site feels a bit neglected (or not fully restored yet). Some people love it, others don’t, but at least it’s authentic and not some Disneyland with fry stands everywhere. - **Brasov**: Of course! We went twice. It’s beautiful and nothing like what you’d imagine Romania to look like. We hiked up the hill overlooking the city—about 45 to 60 minutes with the kids. The view from the top is incredible, especially over the medieval rooftops. I wasn’t expecting much—I thought we’d see rundown buildings, but the "new" part of town is built farther to the right, so you barely notice it. - One day, we took a horse-drawn carriage (a touristy thing to do for the kids) to our hosts’ second home. It was still really fun. The area is super wild—just a few kilometers from the village, so close to Brasov. We ate *amazingly* with them. Traditional Romanian food is best enjoyed in people’s homes, not restaurants. So, I’d recommend eating at small guesthouses or homestays as much as possible.

**On the road to Viscri** No stops—just straight to Viscri. I found Viscri just as I’d left it in 2004. Maybe a few more tourists, maybe one or two new restaurants. The road still isn’t paved in the village. Viscri is my favorite place in Romania—a simple village with colorful houses. We found a reasonably priced Airbnb and had a great evening with our hosts. They were fascinating people, and we talked about Romania, Saxon minorities, Europe... The next morning, I went for a run and found a trail in the nearby forest. I followed it for a while before turning back. We also visited the fortified church.

**Sighișoara** I’d been there in 2004 and wasn’t particularly moved or impressed. I felt the same way in 2019. But that’s just our take.

**Sovata** In Sovata, we traveled the way I love—arriving around 5 PM with nothing booked and finding a place to stay by asking around. We ended up in homestays for two nights, and both were great. It’s a Hungarian-Romanian thermal spa town. The place is nice but nothing extraordinary, except when you get closer (but not too close) to the thermal complexes. There, you’ll find beautiful mansions and hotels from the early 19th century. It’s touristy, but only Romanians go there. We visited a warm-water lake—it was fun for the folklore, though the water wasn’t exactly inviting. Apparently, there’s another lake higher up that’s so salty you float in it, but we didn’t go. In the afternoon, we took the tourist steam train ("mocăniță" in Romanian). It was a blast—we chatted with people in the carriage. The train covers about 20 kilometers, then turns around (the locomotive detaches, spins, and reattaches). Everyone gets off at the halfway point, where people grill corn on the cob. Then the train heads back. The scenery isn’t breathtaking, but the fields were full of flowers, and the ride was lovely.

**Toward Bicaz Gorge** The next day, we headed to Bicaz Gorge and the Ceahlău Massif in Neamț (pronounced "Nyamts"). We passed through Corund, a village known for local crafts. Whether it’s actually made there or not is always up for debate in a society where cutting corners is common. Still, we found some nice plates, dishes, and souvenirs to bring home. Funny story: I was chatting with a young saleswoman in Romanian and was shocked to realize she didn’t understand me—not because my Romanian was bad, but because she *didn’t speak Romanian at all*. She only spoke Hungarian. Mind-blowing: you’re Romanian and don’t speak Romanian? We crossed a mountain (or big hill) before reaching the Gheorgheni plain—a small town nestled in the mountains, feeling like the end of the world. Was it the season? We saw *so many* storks, and they were *so close*. It was adorable.

**Bicaz Gorge** We stopped at "Lacul Roșu" (Red Lake) to take a boat ride with the kids. (Yeah, we did things we don’t usually do—gotta keep everyone engaged! And maybe that’s why they have such great memories of the trip.) Then, the Bicaz Gorge—one of my favorite spots in Romania. We stayed at Pensiunea Paleu in Bicazu Ardelean, a place I already knew. I think the price for four people, half-board (with delicious home-cooked meals), was around 90 € per day. The rooms are clean and simple, and there’s a big garden with a vegetable patch, a cow, and a pig. Most of the food served comes straight from the garden.

In the afternoon, after much hesitation, we headed to Ceahlău National Park. About 30 minutes by car, we entered the park (after waking up the park ranger, who reeked of booze and was napping). We drove to the end of the road, and then—against all odds—the four of us made it to the summit of Toaca Peak. This peak towers over the surrounding mountains. It was a great hike—starting in the Carpathian fir forests, then crossing a plateau covered in flowers (mid-July). We stopped for a drink at Cabana Dochia before heading up. The summit is a bit unusual because they’ve installed a big metal staircase. It’s steep in places—straight up, and I wouldn’t want to fall. There’s a sturdy railing, though. Even if the "normal route" doesn’t seem too hard. The view from the top is stunning—you can see the entire Carpathian region, vast forests, and the Bicaz Lake below.

**Iași** I used to live in Iași. We stayed with my former internship supervisor and his family. It’s not the first time we’ve crashed at people’s places. In Iași, we visited: - **The Opera House**: A beautiful building from the early 20th century, if I’m not mistaken. Our friends arranged a tour with the firefighters, who let us in and showed us around. It was fun. - **The "Hall of Lost Steps"**: You enter a massive room with stunning woodwork. It’s a huge university library, home to around a million books. The whole place is meticulously decorated. Visiting this room makes you wonder how Romania could have such a grand image. This country, in its golden age, had universities and thinkers. When you build something like this for knowledge and science, you’ve come a long way. - **The Palace of Culture**: This building was completely run-down in 2004 but has since been fully renovated. Where it was once gray, dull, and dirty, it now shines in the sunlight. It’s magnificent.

Beyond these three sights, we explored parks, wandered the city, went treetop climbing, and spent time with friends. Sure, Iași is way over in the east on a map of Romania, but it’s worth the detour.

After Iași, we headed back.

**In conclusion**, we spent three weeks in Romania. Here’s a rough breakdown of expenses (in €, all taxes included): - Flight tickets: 660 € - Car rental for 2.5 weeks: 250 € - Everything else (accommodation, food, activities, etc.): around 1,500 €

All in all, the trip wasn’t exactly cheap—around 2,500 to 2,800 € total. But we had a blast, and that’s what matters.

I had tons of great photos and wanted to share some, but I couldn’t upload them. If anyone’s interested, I can send them along.

Je lis plusieurs blogs de voyage en Thaïlande où les voyageurs (dont c’est, pour la plupart des cas, leur premier séjour Thai) se logent grâce à Airbnb, formule que je n’ai jamais essayé. J’aurais voulu connaître votre avis et vos expériences . Quel est l’avantage ? Est ce moins cher que les guesthouses et surtout est-ce que l’on est plus en contact avec les thaïs ?Cette formule est-elle très développée en Thaïlande ?

Merci pour vos retours.