Results for "massif+Maures+|+127"

Bonjour à tous ! J’ai le projet de faire une petite randonnée en vélo de route sur un week-end avec mon fils ! Nous connaissons mal le coin du Massif des Maures ou autour d’Aubagne nous ne savons vraiment pas où aller !! Nous cherchons de beaux paysages mais aussi quelques défis sportifs ! Alors si vous avez des idées de parcours ce serait super ! Merci:)

Hi there, I'm looking for some nice hikes to do on foot around Fréjus. Thanks

😉bonjour, j'aimerai debuter mon parcours du parc du mercantour et suivre la cote de menton a marseille le probleme c'est que je ne vois qu'une grosse nationale qui longe la cote est ce que cette nationale est fort frequentee? je prefere de loin les petites routes sans trop de circulation je voudrai aussi faire un petit detour par le massif de l'esterel et le massif des maures quel parcours me conseillez vous? tout a l'air magnifique et je ne sais pas vraiment ou passer merci d'avance pour les infos tony

Bonjour, Nous avons un séjour de 10 jours de Marseille à Nice fin septembre-début octobre. Est-ce que vous avez des suggestions d’endroit à ne pas manquer? Hôtel, resto intéressant... Merci!

Bonjour,

Nous aimerions partir fin juin avec un bébé de 17 mois. Nous hésitons entre le sud est et sud ouest. Que nous conseillez vous et pourquoi ? Merci ;)

Bonjour,

Je recherche des circuits de randonnées pédestres que je pourrai faire cet été sur un secteur assez large (d'arles à marseille). Je sais que beaucoup de massifs sont fermés du fait des restrictions incendie, c'est pourquoi je suis limité. Si certains connaissent des circuits ouverts avec de beaux paysages et si possible un peu d'altitude.. Sachant que je suis prêt à me déplacer, faire un peu de route si besoin.

Merci d'avance !!

Cycling Through Provence's Big Climbs

In the autumn of 2011, Provence was hit by apocalyptic weather—torrential rain and a particularly violent east wind, reaching 130 kilometers per hour, whipping up waves as high as seven meters. It wasn’t the best time to venture outside. Yet, I told myself that after the storm, calm would return. I kept an eye on the weather forecast and noticed that starting November 10th, a favorable window should open for a little 600-kilometer cycling trip across Provence. The weather reports promised a high-pressure system that would keep the bad weather at bay over these highlands. That was all I needed to decide to set off. The planned route would take me through Provence’s biggest climbs: Mont Ventoux, Montagne de Lure, the Verdon Gorge, the Massif des Maures, and Sainte-Baume.

And so, despite my doubts, the call of adventure was stronger. The train pulled away, and once again, a journey began at Part-Dieu station. This time, I headed toward Haute-Provence for a cycling adventure. It would be my first solo bike trip. I was a little nervous—cycling with panniers makes you feel vulnerable to theft. I’d already been robbed while traveling in a group in Peru, and that experience left me deeply shaken. Alone, I hesitated. But no need to panic—I’d read accounts from long-distance cyclists who hadn’t been robbed, even if it does happen sometimes. I was particularly thinking of a young schoolteacher who had taken a sabbatical to cycle around the world. Her students had remarked, "Teacher, you’re not sporty—how will you manage to cycle around the world?" This young woman was full of resourcefulness. In South America, before flying to China, she locked her bike to a post to take care of a natural need. When she returned, the post had been torn out, and her bike—along with all her gear—was gone. It was a shock for many, but not for her. She boarded her flight to the Middle Kingdom, bought the essentials (including a new bike) once there, and continued her journey! Remembering this story, I almost felt ashamed of my cowardice. These were the thoughts running through my mind as the Rhône Valley rolled by toward Orange, the starting point of my Provençal adventure through the big climbs.

Day One: Orange to Sault via Mont Ventoux – 90 km

9:30 AM, I stepped off the train. With all my gear, I had to navigate the underground passage—no easy feat, given that my bike and luggage weighed 35 kilos. At this time of year, I expected some areas to be deserted, so I’d packed enough to bivouac comfortably. Once outside the station, the southern light flooded over me. I understood why people dream of retiring in these sun-drenched regions. As always, after disembarking from public transport, I had to get my bearings and decide which way to go. The sun, still low on the horizon, pointed east. The roar of fighter jet engines helped me locate the Air Base 115. That was all I needed to "reset the gyros."

As soon as I started pedaling, all my apprehensions vanished. The joy of discovery and physical effort took over, and euphoria washed over me. It’s amazing how emotions can shift from one moment to the next based on seemingly minor circumstances.

The weather was splendid—the forecast had predicted continuous showers, but it was completely wrong. I quickly left the city behind. Mont Ventoux loomed mysteriously, its dimensions hard to gauge. It was even more enigmatic with its summit hidden beneath swirling, mottled clouds clinging to the ridges. It reminded me of a great South American volcano. I struggled to imagine that in a few hours, I’d be up there under that blanket of mist.

The countryside was shaking off its autumnal nighttime dampness. The vineyards, interspersed with tall cypress hedges, confirmed I was in the magnificent Côtes du Rhône wine region. The distinctive Dentelles de Montmirail were very much in evidence. The air force base wasn’t far. I passed the runway’s end markers. A Mirage 2000 flew overhead in a tight turn, followed by another roaring into takeoff. It came straight at me before climbing sharply with a thunderous roar. Thirty years spent in that captivating world came rushing back. I recalled countless extraordinary human and technical experiences from my time in the service. But the purpose of this post isn’t to promote the air force—though I might post some articles one day about travels among men at war.

I continued on my way, leaving my past loves behind. As I pedaled, delightful names rolled by: Violès, Vacqueyras, Gigondas, Beaumes-de-Venise—the crème de la crème of the Côtes du Rhône Villages appellation. I let myself be enchanted by the vineyards and the little paths crisscrossing them. I started to doubt my route, though the imposing mass of Mont Ventoux in the distance acted like a giant beacon. At a crossroads, a car appeared. I approached to ask the driver for directions, but she didn’t even look at me and sped off, clearly frightened. I’d almost forgotten what a fearful world we live in, no doubt traumatized by all the horrors we see in the news and on TV.

The kilometers started adding up, but was my day’s goal too ambitious? It had been two months since I’d last ridden my bike. True, my last trip had been good training—the Route des Grandes Alpes—but that was two months ago. I can’t just take my bike out for a day trip; I need that sense of adventure to find the courage to exercise.

Two cyclists overtook me. Intrigued by my load, they struck up a conversation. They were skeptical when I told them I planned to cross Mont Ventoux that day. One of them pointed out a small chapel near the summit where I could bivouac sheltered. That motivated me even more to reach the top on this first stage. The chapel also had a mythical name for me—Sainte-Anne, the name of my parents’ villa. It was already noon, and I’d covered 50 kilometers. Malaucène appeared—the sacred village of Ventoux’s mad cyclists. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any other cyclists today. I remembered this place in June, teeming with aspirants for the king of summits. Before tackling the climb ahead, I needed to refuel. I enjoyed a pleasant gastronomic break at Max’s. At 1 PM, I started the most famous climb in cycling—21 kilometers, which would actually be 23. I knew it would be tough, especially with two handicaps: 50 kilometers already in my legs and 20 kilos of luggage. But I was counting on my tiny chainring, which let me climb trees to tackle the steep ramps.

I set off at a brisk pace along a deserted road. My speed held up for the first few kilometers. I quickly rose above the valley, the horizon widening. I was surprised to see no one on this world-renowned route among cycling enthusiasts. During the climb and descent, I’d only see five cyclists—but I’ll come back to that. I passed a sign explaining that the effort would be roughly equivalent to climbing the Col de la Bonnette. Having done the latter in September, I figured I’d be fine. I crossed paths with my first cyclist—a woman speeding downhill. After 12 kilometers, I hit slopes averaging 12%. I don’t know if the number 12 is cursed, but I got such a "bamboo" hit that I’d never experienced before. I thought I wouldn’t make it to the summit today. I stopped. My thighs burned so much I could barely walk—lactic acid overload. I looked for a relatively flat spot to pitch my tent. It was 3:30 PM, with two hours of daylight left. But I found nothing.

I got back on my bike, intending to stop as soon as I found a good bivouac spot. But nothing came up. However, my strength slowly returned, perhaps because the slope eased, though it remained around 10%. I entered the summit mists. A cyclist overtook me. I was in the zone where I had to pass the summit. Dusk caught me in the final difficulties. The atmosphere was downright austere. In the twilight, a kilometer from the summit, a cyclist was fixing his bike. I asked if he needed help. He made it clear he didn’t understand. So I asked, "Do you need some help?" His answer was clear: "No, thank you." He showed me his new inner tube. Inside, I thought, "Phew!" If I’d had to stop, sweating in the falling night with the cold intensifying, I’d have struggled to get going again. But he managed, and I continued into the twilight fog. I could barely make out the summit’s large antennas in the clouds, like immense ghosts trying to evade sight. The bike delivered sensations worthy of mountain racing. My goal was to quickly find the famous chapel in the descent to take shelter. As I glided down the southern slope, two cyclists without lights crossed my path in the night—probably heading to the station above, its lights visible in the fog.

I scanned the roadside in the dark for the chapel but saw nothing. After a kilometer or two, I lost all hope. I stopped to put on more clothes as the cold became intense. I had no idea where I could stop on these steep slopes to set up camp. Between the swirls of mist, I could intermittently see the Rhône Valley below, dotted with illuminated towns and villages. The sight was striking. What was I doing on this mountain at night? Then the miracle happened—the clouds parted, and from the ridge above me to the east, a beautiful full moon emerged, casting enough light to consider a nighttime descent to Sault, 26 kilometers away.

In this eerie atmosphere between the moon’s pale rays and patches of fog, I began my descent through a hazy, almost unreal world. The Ventoux’s characteristic white scree reflected the moonlight faintly, dimmed by the mist. In places, entire mountainsides were plunged into complete darkness, and I lost all sense of the road’s path. Then, around a tight bend caused by a land shift, the light returned. It seemed extreme compared to the darkness I’d left behind. I could once again clearly see the road’s contours, though not its potholes or gravel patches. Still, I let the slope carry me, and the speed felt significant, though the low light prevented me from reading my speedometer. In these moments, concentration was at its peak—all senses alert, reflexes ready to react to the slightest incident that could lead to a fall.

I was relieved to see Sault’s lights growing closer. In less than an hour, I reached it, considering the final little climb that required one last push. This village, bustling in summer, was deserted at this time of year—almost dead. The first hotel I came across was closed. A quick shadow passed in a small sloping street. Before it disappeared into the darkness at a house corner, I chased after it and asked about accommodation options. Very kindly, I was directed to what was probably the only hotel open in November. I quickly found it, and the reception was open. I entered wearing my black balaclava, bought in the Ayacucho region—the birthplace of Peru’s Shining Path. At this late hour, I saw questioning glances directed at me. I prefaced, "This isn’t a hold-up." Clearly, the owners had a sense of humor—they started smiling. I took off my balaclava and asked for a room. No problem, and from that moment, the pressure eased. I really didn’t feel like going back out to find a spot to pitch my tent in the biting cold.

The stage had been nearly 100 kilometers, and it was the first. It had been two months since I’d touched my bike, and I probably lacked even minimal training, even though my last bike trip had been crossing the French Alps. I really had to dig deep to overcome my weakness on Ventoux’s steep section. I don’t remember ever having to search so deeply for the energy to keep going. I knew the stage I’d set for tomorrow was significant, with the climb up Montagne de Lure’s northern slope—Ventoux’s little sister, whose ascent is reputed to be endless, over 25 kilometers. I hoped this first day wouldn’t leave me too sore to avoid suffering excessively tomorrow.

For now, relaxation—a hot shower did me a world of good, followed by a good meal. I ate a delicious andouillette from Troyes, very fine, with a particularly successful herb seasoning. I loved it, and yet I’m from Lyon and pride myself on knowing a thing or two about andouillette—not just a sausage but a whole category! A bit chauvinistic, I had to admit, though reluctantly, that I found it better than the ones I usually eat in the Lyon region!

Day Two: Sault to Forcalquier via Montagne de Lure – 116 km

This morning, the weather was magnificent—the air clear, still, very fresh, and invigorating, as only the late season can offer on these Provençal highlands. In summer, they’re known for their scorching heat and drought, but often overlooked is how harsh they can be with cold and storms. Authors like Giono or Bosco described them and their inhabitants wonderfully in books like "Les Âmes Fortes."

The miracle of the night had worked. I wasn’t sore anywhere and felt in great shape. I set off well-equipped, but the effort and sun soon made me sweat. It was time to shed some layers—hat and gloves. A gentle warmth replaced the cold, making for excellent cycling conditions. On the road to Trinit, there was no traffic—only the occasional hunters’ cars parked in the distance. These vehicles were recognizable by their large cages, used to transport hunting dogs. Sometimes, the silence was broken by a distant gunshot. The deciduous forests were losing their foliage, taking on that dull brown hue of late autumn, though here and there, a tree or shrub still resisted, displaying vivid yellow or red. The meadows, their grass already scorched by the cold, were damp from the night’s heavy humidity. The low sun highlighted thousands of spider webs that had trapped insects during the warm season.

Behind me, Mont Ventoux dominated these vast spaces. As often, its imposing, stony summit was crowned with a blanket of clouds. What an impressive mountain—it’s always so hard to gauge its dimensions. I struggled to realize that last night I’d been at the summit and descended its immense southern ridge in the dark. I hoped to return one day in favorable conditions—daylight and no clouds—to enjoy the vast panorama from this unique summit.

Leaving the very Provençal village of Trinit, I tackled my first climb of the day—the Col de l’Homme Mort. The road rose moderately for five kilometers in gentle warmth. The view over the region widened, and I felt the sheer joy of pedaling. At a good pace, I overcame this first little challenge. Once at the pass, I couldn’t resist the ritual of photographing my bike in front of the sign, giving the name and altitude—1,213 meters.

The northern slope was austere and still in shadow. The cold bit again. The road was wet and covered with leaves in places. It wasn’t impossible that some treacherous patches of black ice lurked around a bend. I descended toward the Jabron Valley with caution. Suddenly, around a bend in a forest clearing, the freshly snow-covered Alps, gleaming in the sun, leapt into view, blocking the horizon. I thought I recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Écrins’ south face above a multitude of jagged peaks.

This snow and these mountains awakened a flood of memories of great joys, but I also thought of the guide and his client who had just lost their lives on the Grandes Jorasses’ north face, at the top of a route called the Linceul. The name comes from the face’s appearance—a great ice slope bordering the Grandes Jorasses’ north wall. It was first climbed by René Desmaison in 1968. He passed away a few years ago and, in his final wishes, asked that his ashes be scattered in the Dévoluy Massif at the foot of Pic de Bure, not far from here in these immense pre-Alpine folds.

At my feet, the Jabron Valley stretched almost endlessly east toward Sisteron. In the distance, the dark mass of Montagne de Lure’s north face loomed. This mountain shares similarities with Mont Ventoux. It has the same summit scree of bright limestone, the same forests climbing up to the final rocky stretch, and that blanket of clouds adding a secretive, austere touch to the scene.

I turned left past the town of Séderon and headed toward the little Col de la Pigière, which in a few kilometers allowed me to truly plunge into the beautiful Jabron Valley. I passed through several villages with charming local names—Saint-Vincent, Noyer-sur-Jabron. The river offered lovely views of its narrow gorges with clear, cold water. Autumn seemed less advanced here than on the plateau I’d just left. Many trees still wore brilliant colors, some revealing extraordinary hues—mixes of crimson, pink, and bright red.

Arriving in Noyer-sur-Jabron, I took a tiny road on the river’s right bank, leading in a few kilometers to the foot of Montagne de Lure. In the village of Valbelle, I picnicked on leftovers I’d brought from home—an old cheese and a somewhat stale loaf of bread. It was 1:30 PM. I began the long climb of about 25 kilometers. According to a friend who’s a cycling expert in the region, this section is tough. No wonder it’s called Ventoux’s little sister—the Mont Blanc of cyclists. The elevation gain on this side is still 1,200 meters, while Ventoux via Malaucène is nearly 1,600 meters.

I hoped to reach the summit before nightfall and avoid reliving a nighttime descent. The route wound through a vast forest, following the terrain’s folds. There was activity—mushroom hunters were busy searching for the coveted chanterelle. The climb, though never very steep (only one kilometer at 9%), was interminable. Though traffic was practically nonexistent, I was overtaken by a group of Harley bikers—I counted about forty. Perched high on their machines, hands in the air on wildly shaped handlebars, some with their feet nearly in the sky due to the high footpegs, they didn’t even glance my way. What’s this idiot doing, unable to ride a motorcycle and forced to climb these mountains on a bike with big bags! I wasn’t offended—real Harley purists often see other motorcyclists as renegades, so bikes are even lower on the totem pole! But I didn’t want to start a debate about motorcycles. In my youth, when I was a wild motorcyclist (22 accidents on two wheels), clans were divided into Japanese, German, Italian, and British bike owners. The latter, on their vibrating, oil-leaking machines, considered themselves the purest. But let’s not fight—there’s a statute of limitations, and it’s been nearly forty years.

As yesterday, a few kilometers below the summit, I entered the fog, and the light dropped suddenly. What a hostile mountain in these conditions! It heightened the sense of living an incredible experience. The conditions we encounter play a major role in how the adventure imprints on our memory. I realized once again that in France, you can feel like you’re very far away. Finally, after this very long climb, the Pas de Graille sign suddenly appeared out of the grayness. Strange! Below the sign, a kilometer marker indicated this same pass was over three kilometers away. Clearly, the climb continued. In these final kilometers through the scree, I gained another 130 meters of elevation. Finally, the road’s high point was reached—1,720 meters. It was cold and damp. I quickly covered up, added my balaclava under my helmet, and put on warm gloves. As I was about to start the descent, a car stopped at the summit, and one of the passengers was surprised to find a bike there in these chilly, twilight conditions.

A 20-kilometer descent led me to the village of Saint-Étienne-les-Orgues. I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. No such luck! Everything was clearly closed—no chance of finding shelter. Tonight was getting complicated. I already had exactly 100 kilometers in my legs and didn’t feel like pedaling anymore, especially at night. But I had even less desire to sleep outside. What to do to avoid it? The town of Forcalquier was 16 kilometers away—I hoped the road would descend. I set off in that direction. The first third was along a beautiful, lightly trafficked departmental road with a slight downhill—I pedaled hard. But it got tougher. I joined a busier road, and night had fallen. A several-kilometer climb finished the journey. I knew my magnetic lights weren’t very powerful—hence the danger. They were even less so on the climb because the slower I went, the less they illuminated. Cars coming the opposite way often saw me late and blinded me with their high beams. After passing, I was plunged into total darkness for a few seconds while my pupils readjusted to the night. I imagined those coming up behind me saw me with little warning, despite my slightly fluorescent jacket. When the roadside was clear, I always positioned myself to quickly jump off the road. But unfortunately, in this long final climb, a guardrail prevented any escape to the right in case of sudden braking behind me. That was even more anxiety-inducing since I was stuck at a snail’s pace. Time seemed long. I pedaled as hard as I could, on the verge of asphyxiation, trying to escape this dangerous situation as quickly as possible. My only reference point was the vehicles in front of me, letting me know the climb wasn’t over. Then suddenly, the ordeal ended—the road’s high point was reached. The town and its lights emerged from the void, and clarity returned. Phew! I glided down toward this little town bathed in light. On November 11th, I hoped to find an open hotel since I’d clearly exceeded 100 kilometers, and the idea of having to leave town to find a bivouac spot somewhat frightened me.

I arrived in the town center. Activity was low. The first hotel was closed, but I spotted a lit sign for another establishment further on. I headed there, got off my bike, and entered. The welcome was immediately friendly—a big cat came to rub against me. For me, that was a very good sign, and the first impression was confirmed. I still had to go out to eat. I covered the minimum distance. A restaurant advertised "Mom’s Cooking." I expected Provençal specialties, but they were Moroccan. I chose a delicious tagine with lime and olives, followed by almond and honey ice cream. Exhausted after this 116-kilometer stage, I returned to my room. As often after intense efforts, it was hard to fall asleep.

Day Three: Forcalquier to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie – 58 km

On this third day, due to the progress made yesterday, the stage would be short. I’d call it a transition between two mountain ranges. Indeed, the next big climb is the Verdon Gorge. I planned to position myself at its foot this evening in preparation for a tough stage tomorrow. I made a few purchases—bread, bananas, and medicine for stomach burns (the midday sausage wasn’t always kind to me). The weather was still perfect. The route began with a long descent toward the Durance. It’s always nice to start a cycling day with a downhill—it boosts morale and allows for a gentle warm-up.

I quickly reached the town of Oraison. Just at its entrance, I crossed the Durance, which still bore traces of last week’s heavy rains along its sandbanks. Indeed, numerous stumps and trunks were scattered along its vast gravel bed, along with less ecological debris like old tires.

A little south of Oraison, I took the D907, a small road heading due east between scrubland and meadows. There it was—the Provence we imagine. This stable autumn weather, with still air, neither hot nor cold, just a fresh feeling when emerging from a shaded valley or a slight warmth under the sun, was ideal for a cyclist. After about ten kilometers at the bottom of a small valley I quickly passed through, the village of Le Brunet appeared on the right. It clung to the slopes leading to the Valensole Plateau. A few steep kilometers along a tiny winding road, and suddenly a vast panorama unfolded as the climb ended.

What a magnificent plateau! Though known for its wind, luckily today was completely calm. Far to the east, the Verdon’s great cliffs blocked the horizon. This allowed me to contemplate part of tomorrow’s stage. This place is full of mysteries—many UFO and extraterrestrial encounter stories are associated with it. Moreover, for about thirty years, France hid its ground-to-ground nuclear ballistic missiles here, grouped in the 1st GMS (Ballistic Missile Group), under the air force. Naturally, these rockets fueled fantasies, and pacifist groups settled in the region to protest this type of armament. This gives many reasons to shroud this austere, deserted land in mystery.

I took a dirt path leading to the heart of this zone and stopped at the forest’s edge for lunch. The silence was total, the view stretched very far. But nothing strange or bizarre manifested. No Martian came to share my frankly moldy cheese, very peppery sausage, or bruised banana—sniff! I resumed my route, and as often when crossing places with strong character, I tended to slow down to enjoy them longer. The immense lavender fields stretched endlessly, not very fragrant at this season. I arrived at a group of truffle oaks protected by a fence, with large red signs warning "Firearm." Clearly, the war for the black diamond was raging in this region. I remembered a novel where an old farmer made buyers believe nothing grew on his land. Every year, he secretly stole the mushrooms from the unsuspecting owners. Then one day, they discovered the truth, catching this "polite" neighbor trying to hide a basket full of beautiful, large truffles!

In these vast spaces, I felt good—a sense of plenitude. It’s strange that I only conceive of cycling through wandering. I struggle to plan a day trip. And if I do, it’s highly likely I won’t get up. I need that sense of adventure to fully appreciate my physical effort. Maybe one day I should get psychoanalyzed, but at my age, it’s probably too late! Today, I had all the time in the world—the stage was half as long as yesterday’s, with very little elevation gain. Not a sound, an impressive calm, a beautiful landscape—I pedaled in a wonderful place. That’s probably happiness!

I reached the village of Puimoisson on the plateau’s eastern edge—only 12 kilometers left to Moustiers. I took my time, sat at a café terrace in the sun, and leisurely enjoyed a coffee while listening to the village come to life. I was delighted by these melodious southern voices, bursting into great laughter. There are places where, despite the anxieties caused by our debt-ridden, dysfunctional societies, some have decided to take life on the bright side and show a saving insouciance.

The rest of the journey was a simple formality—I let the slope carry me toward the pretty little town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, clinging to the cliff and famous for its faïence. Arriving early for once, I went to the tourist office to choose a comfortable hotel. Indeed, the Hôtel des Restanques was very comfortable and admirably well-located. But at this time of year, I’d have to return to the village center for dinner. The very kind receptionist reserved a table for me at La Treille Muscate, a restaurant with a magnificently arranged room on the church square. It was only 3:30 PM—I continued to take my time, showering and relaxing in front of the TV. Then I set off to explore—or rather, re-explore—this village I’d visited several times before. But I’d never climbed to its chapel perched in the middle of the great cliff towering over the houses. A stony, aerial path led there. The first mentions of the Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel, known in ancient times as Notre-Dame d’Entre-Roches, date back to the 9th century. It’s one of the rare "respite" chapels found in Provence. These are chapels where stillborn children were brought to be revived for a few moments, just long enough to baptize them. They could then be buried religiously, ensuring the salvation of their souls. I was also very moved by reading some ex-votos, like the one from "A mother for her three children returned from the war."

The place was impressive, especially as night fell. I was alone and watched the shadows fill the great cliffs above me. With an old climber’s reflex, I looked for possible climbing routes among these slabs and cracks. But climbing is probably forbidden here, too close to the houses. Then I descended to stroll through the village, admiring the magnificent, finely crafted faïence patterns found in many shops. Finally, dinnertime arrived, and I joined my restaurant, which had been highly recommended. I was delighted by the foie gras ravioli and the pieds et paquets—the chef’s specialty. I’ll come back with family.

Day Four: Moustiers to Fréjus via the Verdon – 122 km

A hearty breakfast prepared me for the day’s tough efforts. Next to me, four Chinese people chatted animatedly. Of course, I didn’t understand a word—it was a language with strange intonations and sounds. I left the dining room and prepared my bike on the terrace. Seeing the volume of my luggage, my Chinese friends rushed over and asked to take turns having their photo taken in front of this funny setup. All laughing, they took photos in front of what they probably considered a French coolie off on some trading business! When they show these photos to their relatives, they’ll likely be perplexed about what motivates some to travel by bike rather than car. For them, the car is a symbol of success—according to an article I read last year, 14,000 cars are registered in China every day!

This morning, the air was fresh. As yesterday, I started with a long descent, this time leading to the edge of Lac de Sainte-Croix. A strong, biting headwind slowed me down. It wouldn’t last, as it was generated by the gorge’s outlet, which I’d reach in a few kilometers. On this cold morning, the lake’s shores exuded great tranquility. The sun was still hidden behind the Verdon’s mountainous mass. Trees with yellow leaves stood out against the water’s pale blue. The bridge marking the gorge’s beginning at the lake’s edge was an ideal spot to admire this natural splendor. At this early hour, the play of light and shadow on the water and the immense cliffs delivered a grandiose spectacle in beautiful harmony. This first contact with the gorges, which I knew well, amazed me.

Once past the bridge, the wind calmed. A little further on, I began the long climb that would take me to the top of this immense natural gash, which water had taken millions of years to carve. I was in good shape and highly motivated by the splendors to come. First, I reached the village of Aiguines, which offered a magnificent viewpoint over the lake. Then I continued toward the Corniche Sublime, where countless breathtaking panoramas unfolded as I progressed. But the climb was sustained and long, requiring effort—though my small chainring worked miracles. I first passed the Col d’Illoire, already 500 meters above the lake. Seeing all these great cliffs, countless climbing memories came flooding back. The classic routes of the Escalès cliff, over 300 meters high, flashed by. Routes with legendary names—La Demande, Les Écureuils, Luna-Bong, and many others. The one that left me with the best memory was ULA—a crack, vertical or even overhanging, of sheer beauty rising above a 40-meter slab in one go for 280 meters of sustained, beautiful climbing on extraordinary rock. It made me want to return to climb there, to immerse myself in the atmosphere of those past times. But climbing habits have changed—now routes are accessed from above by rappel, and people don’t always bother to do these great climbs in their entirety, focusing instead on shorter but technically much more difficult enterprises.

At almost every bend, I stopped and scanned these great cliffs, searching for memories of past experiences and emotions in these secret rock folds. The road climbed well above the pass, exceeding 1,200 meters. It was cool, especially since I was sweating. Finally reaching the high point of the Corniche Sublime, I couldn’t gain speed on the descent—my gaze was always drawn to this astonishing canyon. Around a bend, two cyclists with funny small-wheeled bikes. Wow! It was a couple of Australians doing a year-long tour of France. We chatted passionately about our two-wheeled experiences for a moment. But time was passing, and if I wanted to reach Fréjus before nightfall, I’d have to pedal seriously.

I stopped at the Pont de l’Artuby, where bungee jumping was in full swing. But I quickly set off again toward Comps. The wind was against me, and it was climbing. I started to doubt whether I’d make it to the coast that evening. At 2 PM, I was in Comps-sur-Artuby. I didn’t stop, knowing that before reaching the coast, I’d have no alternative to bivouacking, and I had 70 kilometers left to cover. Sure, it should be downhill, but a few climbs were on the program. After a descent out of the village, I crossed the Artuby River again on the Canjuers military camp. A several-kilometer climb followed, fortunately not too steep. I took the D19 toward Barjols. From there, despite the late hour, I opted for a tiny road passing through Claviers, a small perched village. Time passed quickly, but the kilometers added up. I regained hope. Fifteen kilometers after this last village, I reached Saint-Paul-en-Forêt via a magnificent forested route. I had plenty of time to observe mushroom hunters. I asked one who clearly had some in a plastic bag. He gave me this hilarious answer with a magnificent southern accent: "I only picked the bad ones." No reply was possible. I moved on with a smile. A little further on, another hunter carried a basket. As soon as he saw me, he quickly hid it—just in case I saw what it contained. Arriving at the village involved a steep climb, and I was close to 100 kilometers. I still had a little over 20 kilometers to go before reaching Fréjus. The race against nightfall had begun. Over there to my right, I saw the sun setting behind Roquebrune-sur-Argens’ distinctive rock. The sea appeared. There it was—I was in Fréjus’ industrial zone. On this Sunday evening, traffic was heavy. Indeed, many had taken advantage of the return of good weather after very heavy storms to go for a walk. After quite a few detours, I arrived at the seaside just as night fell. My odometer showed 122 km for the day. I quickly found a simple hotel, ate just as quickly, and went to bed.

Day Five: Fréjus to Solliès-Pont – 92 km

Once again, the night had done its restorative work, and I prepared to cross the Massif des Maures feeling quite fresh. The weather forecast was still favorable for today, but a deterioration was expected tomorrow. I tended to trust it because the east wind was blowing, and in the region, that’s a sign of rain. For now, in the short term, this wind would be very useful—it would push me generously throughout the day.

I started calmly along the harbor quays, looking at the boats. Then I joined the road to Saint-Aygulf and followed the coast for forty kilometers to Port-Grimaud. All these seaside resorts—Saint-Aygulf, Les Issambres, Sainte-Maxime—reminded me of my youth when we spent all our vacations fishing, whether from shore, underwater, or by boat. Looking at the sea roll by, I knew what the seabeds looked like under that surface hiding them. The marine areas we knew best were now under the parking lots and commercial zones of Saint-Raphaël’s new port. In our youth, these infrastructures didn’t exist, and their construction came at the expense of coastal marine areas. Our wonderful fishing spots were permanently buried. I remember seeing the first big trucks that came to dump their loads of earth and rubble, destroying all those wonderful places—sandbanks, seaweed beds, groups of rocky holes teeming with fish that enchanted our youth. Over forty years later, I can still visualize them in my imagination under those parking lots and stores, with the names we gave them—my brothers and I: le casse-croûte, le casse-pipe, les montagnes, la digue, la grille, la mare à mulets, la petite-plage, le trou, etc.

Let’s not be overwhelmed by nostalgia. I left the coast and took the little road through the Maures to Collobrières. The route led from ridge to ridge following the terrain’s movements. At this time of year, the region was admirable. Due to the heavy storms of recent weeks, water was streaming everywhere. Waterfalls and streams murmured all along the way. I didn’t recognize the Maures, which I knew for their dryness causing apocalyptic fires. Indeed, around a bend, I came across a small rest area where a memorial had been erected for three firefighters who lost their lives here while fighting one of those gigantic fires fanned by the mistral.

This forest holds treasures—first, the cork oak, then the arbutus, chestnut trees, and of course, mushrooms that love this granitic soil:

The cork oak can be found all along the road. It’s the forest’s essential element. You can recognize it by its light bark (before exploitation), which forms large bulges along the trunk. But after exploitation, the trunks are much smoother, less voluminous, and dark in color. The arbutus is a large berry with red skin covered in small protuberances, growing on the arbutus tree. This fruit, common in Mediterranean areas, ripens in November. That means today, there were plenty around me. Its flesh is orange, with the consistency of firm purée, and it crushes softly in the mouth. The taste of this berry is sweet and excellent. I didn’t hold back—I gorged myself on them, which served as my midday meal. Sometimes I had to climb embankments to get them.

The chestnut tree, a true industry of the region, brings wealth to the surrounding villages. They make candied chestnuts, ice cream, and other products derived from chestnut flour. Be careful not to stop just anywhere to pick this fruit, as the tree owners might not agree. They even make this clear with signs and surround their chestnut trees with fences. Mushrooms—saffron milk caps and porcini—are highly prized in the area. I saw a few hunters, but it clearly wasn’t miraculous. Supposedly, there had been too much rain?

There’s no time to get bored along this little road, from which you can sometimes see the sea. I passed the Col de Taillude at over 400 meters. I began the descent to Collobrières, the chestnut capital, whose festival attracts many people. Before entering, about a hundred meters from the first houses, a cyclist—probably an agricultural worker—came toward me. As he passed, he cheerfully called out, "Go on, little guy! It’s almost there!" We both smiled. At the end of November, the village was cold and almost deserted. Dead leaves swept the wet streets of the town. You could feel winter on the way. I continued my route to Pierrefeu-du-Var, on the western edge of the Massif des Maures. So I gave my last pedal strokes in this pretty little massif so characteristic of Provence.

I looked for a hotel in Cuers but without success. I descended toward Toulon and finally found one on the outskirts of Solliès-Pont. It catered to people coming to work in the region, so nothing very bucolic. But if the weather were to deteriorate tomorrow and turn to rain, I could quickly reach Hyères or Toulon station, which was a significant advantage. Indeed, November rains aren’t usually very pleasant on a bike.

Day Six: Solliès-Pont to Cassis via Sainte-Baume – 85 km

This morning, contrary to the weather forecast, the weather was beautiful, and the latest bulletin seemed to contradict yesterday’s. So no escape to Toulon—I resumed my route toward Sainte-Baume. I left the hotel via a tiny road that, through ups and downs, led me via shortcuts to the road to Belgentier. My body had gotten used to intense daily efforts, and I felt in Olympic form. At a good pace, I launched into a long climb with a moderate slope. The road was busy, but fortunately, the side lane for cyclists often made the exercise more pleasant. The villages rolled by—Méounes, La Roquebrussanne. Near the latter, I observed a Tiger combat helicopter in training. It hovered motionless for long periods—perhaps the pilots were training to master their increasingly sophisticated weapon systems, requiring even more learning?

I left the busy road and headed via an almost deserted route toward the village of Mazaugues. The climbs became steeper. A long descent, and there I was in this pretty village. A grocery store, which besides selling a few ingredients also served as a café. I sat near the electric heater—it was cold, and I was sweaty. I watched customers come and go and listened to the shopkeeper tell me about village life. The name Mazaugues comes from "water mass," which is why drought doesn’t usually affect this area. Apparently, you can even find mushrooms here in summer! I had a good time, and as I was leaving, a local cyclist started a conversation and told me about her dreams of long bike trips, currently limited by her situation as a mother of terrible children. She settled for day trips with her club, which was already good in this very hilly region. I told her the story of a man who, at 73, cycled solo around Morocco. So no panic—she still had thirty or forty years to realize her wildest dreams!

I was warned that it would be a tough climb to reach Sainte-Baume’s northern slope. Indeed, over eight kilometers, the average slope was sustained, but the landscape was wonderful. Here too, water was streaming everywhere. I passed one of those famous icehouses that used to supply Marseille with ice throughout the year. This northern slope of Sainte-Baume is very cold, and this characteristic was exploited in previous centuries to produce ice. Large cylindrical structures, well-protected to the north and semi-buried, received large quantities of water in late autumn, which froze during winter and was kept cool for months until the following winter. Ice blocks were cut and delivered by cart to the city. That’s how, in ancient times, ice was available in summer to keep fish fresh in Marseille. Did pastis exist at that time? If not, the ice cubes must have been bored!

Once the climb was over, the long ridge of Sainte-Baume appeared, and I could see its characteristic antennas. Nestled at the foot of the cliffs, the magnificent millennial forest revealed itself with its autumn colors. I stopped at the monastery. I’d been there several times before and had even slept there during a long walking trip. The welcome had been first-rate by the Dominicans, especially the sisters in their long immaculate robes. They radiated a serenity that was very contagious. Don’t hesitate to stop there for the night. I struggled to get back on my way—some places have a special spirit.

I was soon at the end of my journey. I continued along this magnificent mountain to the Col de l’Espigoulier. To the north, another immense wave of white limestone rose—Montagne Sainte-Victoire, a high place in Provence that painter Cézanne made world-famous. Once at the pass, the entire city of Marseille spread out at my feet, the Mediterranean coast revealed itself from the Calanques to La Ciotat, passing by the famous Cap Canaille, Europe’s highest sea cliff. Above me, bathed in sunlight, Bartagne’s northwest face, very popular among climbers, showed all its reliefs. With an old climber’s reflex, I spotted the many climbs I’d done there. I let myself be carried into a steep, winding descent toward the village of Gémenos in a beautiful setting full of cliffs.

A few more kilometers of climbing toward the Col de l’Ange, then toward Roquefort-la-Bédoule. In this last climb, I raced with two cyclists, admittedly not very young. Then, in a six-kilometer descent, I reached Cassis station, the endpoint of my six-day journey through this wild Provençal land between sea and mountain. I experienced great pleasure during these 570 kilometers through these renowned yet wild French massifs. As always, when a beautiful project comes to an end, you feel a bit orphaned by a beautiful dream come true. You have to quickly envision the next one to avoid a vague sense of emptiness taking over. My next adventure is already taking shape in my mind, but that’s another story.

Bonjour à tous,

après 2 ans sans voyage, je recherche une belle ballade de une semaine en France avec 100 kms par jour! Si vous avez des idées sympathiques, des trajets déjà réalisés, merci de m'aider!

A bient^t

Bonjour, Je compte me rendre de Cassis à Menton en vélo(VTT transformé en VTC) mi juin, avant la cohue... qui peut me donner des tuyaux? routes de bord de mer, voies vertes, piste cyclables(à l'abri des rollers, gulp!), adresses ou dormir (le camping sera pour plus tard!)? Je vous remercie tous pour vos (précieuses réponses). Liv😉

🤪bonjour , resident du coté de cannes, je cherche a pecher la truite uniquement en etang, connaissez vous des etangs a proximité de cannes dans le 06 ou le 83 suis pret a faire une heure de route maxi, si ca vaut le coup j ai fait le tour du web mais aucune info

alors amis voyageurs si jamais vous avez des plans? merci

Bonjour,

Je souhaite avoir des conseils sur l'itinéraire le plus pittoresque et avec le moins de circulation entre Toulon et Menton. Je pense faire entre 50 et 70 km par jour. Savez vous aussi où peut-on dormir pour pas trop cher (15 - 25 € / nuit)?

Merci par avance pour votre aide,

Cams

Bonjour à tous et à toutes,

Je viens sur le forum en quêtes de discussions et de conseils concernant un nouveau tournant dans ma vie.

Je suis actuellement sur Lyon, et je vais bientôt déménager dans le Var, pour faire une formation de Naturopathe. Synchronicité, le Var est un endroit où j'ai toujours dit que j'irais vivre un jour, qui m'a toujours attiré, pour son cadre et ce qui s'y passe. Il est donc fort possible que je m'y installe définitivement, sauf si la vie me propose des péripéties différentes. Malheureusement je ne le connais que très peu pour l'instant. En fait je connais très peu la côte d'azur.

C'est pour ça que je viens vous demander vos expériences pour ceux ayant déménager dans ce département ou le connaissent bien (j'ai bien cherché sur internet mais tous les sujets datent...). Racontez moi comment ça s'est déroulé pour vous et vos conseils pour que tout se passe bien.

L'école est situé à Hyères, j'aimerais donc avoir un avis particulier sur cette ville si certains y habitent. Et sinon j'envisage d'habiter dans un périmètre de 30min de Hyères max (la garde, la Crau, le Pradet, la Londe les maures... ?). Quelles sont les villes / villages que vous me conseillez ? La vie là bas l'hiver / l'été... ?

Merci beaucoup pour ceux et celles et qui voudront partager leurs expériences et discuter de ce département avec moi 🙂 Tous ce que vous pensez utile de me raconter, me rendra grand service.

L'idée : relier Valence à l'Atlantique en cyclo camping Durée : quelques jours (une semaine environ)

Peu importe le point d'arrivée, pourvu qu'il y ait une belle plage 😎

Entre temps, l'idée c'est de franchir de jolis cols, par des routes pas trop fréquentées (on ne cherche pas à éviter le relief, mais on ne cherche pas non plus les pentes les plus raides) , de s'arrêter dans de beaux coins l'après-midi (villages, rivières, etc ...)

Avez-vous des idées, des trucs à ne pas manquer, des bons plans, des gourmandises à goûter absolument 😏 ?

PS je connais bien les premiers 100 km autour de Valence, mais presque rien après.

Salut a toutes et a tous !

Je m'en remets à vos conseils éclairés pour m'aider à prendre quelques décisions quant à mon prochain voyage, même si j'attends quelques docs des offices de tourisme. J'ai comme période disponible du 2 au 10 Mars prochain, et je vise comme région le sud de la France, plus particulièrement le Vaucluse, les Bouches du Rhône et le Var, avec une boucle à partir d'Avignon ou de Marseille (à définir). Etant originaire de la région Rhône-Alpes, j'aurais je pense l'occasion de revenir dans ces régions dans quelques temps pour du tourisme purement citadin. Le but de mon voyage est de trouver des températures clémentes, des paysages et des villages comme seule la provence sait en réserver. Du champetre au maximum si possible, à raison de 90 / 100 km par jour. Tous les cols sont les bienvenus.

Etant donné ceci, à vous de me dire : Qu'est-ce qui est pertinent de voir ? Qu'est-ce qui est à ne pas louper sous aucun prétexte ? Le passage par les Maures, l'Estérel, les Gorges du Verdon ou le Ventoux est-il déconseillé (trop froid, un peu moins beau en cette saison...) ? les routes à forte circulation les campings sympa ouverts a cette saison ?

Merci pour tout, et si vous avez des itinéraires de vos précédents périples, je suis preneur également. A très bientôt de vous lire.

Wirly

Bonjour ou Bonsoir,

J'ai trouver un bebe tortue au maroc et je ne sais pas quelle est l'espece afin de m'en occuper au mieux.

Je vous envois la photo de celle ci (si vous pouviez m'aidez sur l'age aproximatif de la tortue )

Bonjour à tous,

Voilà, j'ai une douzaine de jours de congés à partir du 31 octobre. J'envisage de partir de Toulon pour rejoindre Marseille à pied, en itinérant (of course!). D'abord, le sentier du littoral, puis les falaises à partir de La Ciotat et les Calanques. J'ai lu plusieurs posts à ce sujet, mais j'ai tout de même quelques questions avant de m'aventurer seule dans ce (petit, mais tout de même!) périple:

- Le trajet est-il chouette entre Toulon et La Ciotat? (Entre La Ciotat et Marseille, je connais déjà...) - Est-il bien praticable ou y a-t-il beaucoup de portions fermées pour travaux? - L’hébergement est-il possible tout le long? Sachant que je ne souhaite pas porter ma tente, donc je recherche un hébérgement en dur, type gite d'étape... - A cette période, est-ce une bonne idée?

Je précise que je suis sportive et habituée à la marche.

Merci à tous ceux que me fourniront leurs précieux conseils...

🙂

Bonsoir

Ma copine et moi avons loué un gite à Grimaud pres de saint tropez.

Nous aimons la bonne bouffe, les beaux paysages, le soleil et la tranquilité.

Nous aimons pas trop aller en boite etc... Mais adorons aller au restaurant et boire un bon verre de vin.

Mes questions sont :

Quelles sont les sorties que vous nous conseillez ? Quel parc aquatique ou d'attraction faut il faire ? Y'a t-il une sortie en bateau et une journée sur ile que vous nous conseillez ?

Si il faut faire 200-300 kilometres c'est pas un soucis.

Nous aimerions bien aller en italie et à monaco, qu'est ce que vous nous conseillez ?

Je vous remercie par avance

:))))

Bonjour

J'aimerais passer quelques jours à Noël pour visiter la région entre Nice et Marseille:

www.openstreetmap.org/#map=9/43.5515/6.0260&layers=Q

Je ne connais pas le coin et ai juste passé une journée à Marseille il y a quelques années.

Si vous connaissez bien la région, quid d'un voyage multi-modal vélo/train? La région vaut-elle le coup, y a-t-il des routes adaptées au vélo ou trouve-t-on surtout des gros axes plein de véhicules?

Merci pour toute info.

Bonjour a tous...

Moi et ma chérie allons partir au moins d’août, deux semaine a la Seyne sur mer, et pour en profiter a 200%, j'ai quelques petites questions:

1 : Quels sont les randos a ne pas louper??? J'ai rechercher sur internet bien sur, et j'ai trouver les plus grosse balade a faire en gros, comme les calanques ou l'ile de Porquerolles, mais c'est vague, peux être pourriez vous me renseigner plus sur ce sujet, si vous connaisais "The" chemin a prendre pour en avoir plein la vue, et aussi si vous connaissais des petites randos pas très connu du grand public, moins touristique donc plus sauvage, n’hésitez pas a m'en faire part.

2 : Est-t'il possible de bivouaqué une petite nuit sans avoir de problème?? genre poser la tente le soir et repartir du grand matin, c’est quelque chose que j'aimerais vraiment essayer et j'aimerais savoir si c'est possible et ou le faire?? le rêve aurais étais le bord de plage, dans une petite crique isolé la ou il doit plus y avoir beaucoup de monde le soir, a votre avis c'est possible?? ou il y a souvent des gardes qui surveilles les cotes??

3 : Dernière question, pas très importante, mais je pose quand même, étant avec ma chérie, j'aurais aimé voir un petit coucher de soleil, savais vous quel balade romantique faire le soir pour avoir la plus belle vue du coucher de soleil??? ou alors quel ville avec une belle vue de coucher de soleil sur la mer?? D’après moi, Sanary sur mer ou Six-four les plages me semble idéal vu que la mer est orienté vers l'ouest, mais on sais jamais, peux être connaissiez vous une ville avec beaucoup plus de charme le soir.

Voila, je pense que c'est tout, désolé pour mes nombreuses questions, mais j'ai trop peur de loupé des trucs, a chaque fois c'est pareil ^^

Merci d'avance pour vos futur bon conseils 🙂

Bonjour,

Cet été, du 13 au 20 aout, je pars avec mon coinjoint à trans en provence, à côté de Draguignan. Perso, je connais très bien la côte, j'ai passé tous mes été à ste maxime mais plutôt plages, visites des villes du bord de mer (fréjus, st trop, antibes, hyeres etc...) pour tout cela pas de soucis même si je suis toujours preneuse de bons plans plages pas trop fréquentées, petits restos ou autre...😛 Mon ami ne connait pas du tout, il n'est jamais allé plus bas que l'ardèche et plutôt montagne normalement, très sportif et cycliste! Du coup je cherche un petit programme varié avec grosses rando à la journée (quitte à faire 1h30/2h de route pour atteindre les alpes maritimes ou de haute provence), des coins canoé (on fera sans doute les gorges du verdon), des ballades sympa enfin si je pouvais avoir pas mal d'infos sur les randos surtout qui sont sportives et offrent un beau panorama ca serait super! Nous avons tous deux 25 ans! Merci d'avance, adeline

Bonjour,

Nous sommes un jeune couple fin vingtaine qui cherchons des destinations à voir absolument lors de notre trajet entre St-Tropez et Bordeaux. Nous avons environ 4 jours pour faire ce trajet et louons un véhicule pour faire le trajet. Avant ceci, nous ferons Lyon, Nyons, Aix-en-Provence et St-Tropez... 😎😎😎

Nous sommes ouverts à des destinations nature, plage, branchées peut-importe!!! Nous voulons juste voir des endroits inoubliables!

Merci d'avance pour votre aide!!! 😉

Bonjour,

Avec un couple d'amis nous avons loué un Mobil home au camping la Presqu'île à SAINT MANDRIER (83). Nous avons l'intention de nous rendre au P.N de Port Cros. Nous avons déjà fait l'île de Porquerolles il y a quelques années. Pourriez-vous me donner des idées de sorties et d'excursions autour de Saint Mandrier sachant que nous avons un véhicule.

Merci pour vos "lumières"😉

Bonjour amis VF,

J'ai besoin de votre opinion pour conseiller la «meilleure excursion» 🙂 (pour un premier contact avec la France ...) durant la brève escale suivante: Provence (Toulon), France de 7h00 à 17h00 au début d’octobre 2010.

- Parmi les 6 excursions suivantes, laquelle conseilleriez-vous de faire en priorité à un couple d’amis dans la soixantaine, peu habitués à voyager, qui vont en Europe pour la première fois? Leur autre escale en France sera à Nice.

Si j’ai bien compris (mais corrigez-moi si nécessaire), ils accosteront à Port Provence, qui est un nouveau port ouvert en janvier 2010 à La-Seyne-sur-Mer. Donc, ils ont le choix d’aller visiter cette ville (ou du moins ce port moderne et convivial 😉) et Toulon - préférablement après leur excursion si le temps le permet. J’ai lu que Toulon était à 10 min de ce port. S’agit-il de 10 min en voiture ou à pied? Si en voiture comme je pense 😉, comment se rendre à Toulon le plus économiquement possible? Taxi (?$) ou y a-t-il un transport public, un bus touristique... pour touristes d'un jour 😉?

Royal Caribbean (paquebot Voyager of the Seas) propose les 6 excursions suivantes, mais laquelle conseiller dans ce cas? 🤪

1, BORMES – les – Mimosas (3h30 min) 37 Euros pp

2. Sanary-sur-mer et Bandol (3h 30 min) 37 Euros pp

3. Marseille (5 h) 42 Euros pp

4. Cassis (village et Cap Canaille, Soubeyran cliffs…) 42 Euros pp

5. Saint-Tropez & Port Grimaud (8h) 115 Euros pp

6. Aix-en-Provence (8h) 120 Euros pp.

Choix plutôt difficile, n'est-ce pas? Mais pas trop critique heureusement 😉...

J'ai pensé leur conseiller Cassis, mais j'ai déjà vu Marseille et Aix, donc je ne me sens pas du tout neutre car... je suis toujours attirée vers quelque chose de nouveau...😏

Merci de votre opinion, plus impartiale sans doute... 😇.

Ça y est ! On part le 12 mars YULCDGMRS; 3 semaines en Provence avec sûrement une pointe vers Monaco et son Musée océanographique. Nous serons "basés" à Bandol. Nous avons loué une Citroen Grand Picasso; pour 2 couples ça devrait être OK.

Nos amis seront avec nous pour les 2 premières semaines. Voilà en gros ce que nous prévoyons:

Bandol pour la farniente et la douceur de vivre, les calanques par la mer Bandol Cassis ?, Cassis La Ciotat ? La Ciotat Marseille ? La route des crêtes. Aubagne et le Petit monde de Pagnol, les sentiers du dit Académicien, Toulon (base navale ?), Brignoles, Sainte-Anastasie, les marchés, pointe à Monte-Carlo et Nice, repointe vers l'incontournable St-Tropez (eh oui, même en mars...il est des impératifs féminins qui ne souffrent pas la contradiction), St-Maximin, Marseille, Aix, Avignon (pour nos amis puisque nous y sommes déjà allés...et pour nous aussi puisque nous sommes ravis d'y retourner), encore les marchés... quelques villages du Luberon peut-être, quelques sentiers sûrement...

Même si nous sommes conscients de laisser de côté 99% des possibilités, je vous lance un "qu'en pensez-vous ?"

Nous sommes ouverts aux suggestions. Nous entendons passer la troisième semaine en douce sans trop nous éloigner de notre point d'attache. Merci d'avance, Willie

Je suis à la recherche d'un itineraire pour sillonner aux alentours de Toulon. Je cale car mis à part une piste cyclable de 60 km , je ne trouve pas de veritables indications ? Les idee sont les bienvenues Merci

Bonjour à tous, Je prévois de visiter les calanques (en randonnée) ainsi que l'ile de Porquerolles cet été, pour la semaine du 14 juillet. Depuis quelques temps, toutes les personnes qui y sont allées me le déconseillent. D'après eux, il est impossible de faire les calanques à pied à cette période. Ils m'assurent également que ces coins sont tellement bondés de monde qu'ils en perdent leur charme. J'aimerais vraiment avoir vos points de vue. Est-ce que vous me le déconseillez également ? Merci pour vos réponses A bientôt sur le forum

Bonjour,

nous serons sur la Côte d'azur 2 juillet au 7 juillet (Marseille à Monaco) et nous avons une voiture pour nous déplacer. Nous aimerions éviter de changer d'hôtel à chaque soir car cela nous demande de refaire nos bagages à chaque matin. Nous nous demandons donc s'il est réaliste en terme de coûts d'essence et de distance km de garder la même chambre d'hotel pendant ce 5 jours ou si cela va nous revenir plus cher que de changer d'hôtel à chaque soir. Qu'en pensez-vous?

Par ailleurs, avez-vous des hôtels ou apparetements à nous recommander propres et pas chers.

Merci!

Bonjour,

j'ai déjà vu des postes concernant un voyage de 2 a 3 semaines en france mais ca ne correspond pas beaucoup a ce que on vent faire, j’ai pris des notes aussi des réponses mais j'aimerais bien savoir si ce que je voudrais faire est faisable.

on a pas un but précis du voyage, mais j'aimerais bien connaitre le sud de plus prés ( pas en détails et pas superficiel non plus) donc nous arrivons a paris le soir tard la nuit de 5 juillet, on a prévu une nuit en hôtel a CDG et prendre la route le lendemain, on ne sait pas non plus si ca faut la peine de prendre une voiture des le 1er jour ou faire moitie train moitie location de voiture( c’est difficile de réserver ou même vérifier les prix sur le site sncf !!!) donc voila :

paris :nuit ATP Rouen visiter famille 1 nuit rouen-dijon- lyon: ou faut il s'arrêter dijon ou lyon pour passer la nuit ?

Grenoble- nice-marseille: ca faut la peine de faire le détour a nice ou faut aller directement a marseille?

après marseille retour sur paris, via bordeaux toulouse ou autres?

Paris 2 a 3 jour( aussi déjà visiter) que faut il voir impérativement sur le chemin de retour ( j'ai déjà fait une partie de la Bretagne )

y a-t-il que l’autoroute ou on peut prendre aussi des routes normales ou on peut voir plus de paysage ?

merci beaucoup

Bonjour!

Mon chum Daniel et moi allons en France 3 semaines (fin juin et deux premières de juillet). Nous passons la permière semaine à Paris et avons loué une voiture pour les douze jours suivants pour parcourir la distance Paris-Toulouse. Nous comptons visiter quelques régions sur notre passage, dont les Alpes, la côte d'Azur et Carcasonne. Est-ce réaliste? Quoi devrions-nous privilégier? Avez-vous de bons conseils à nous donner? Quelles routes devrions-nous emprunter?

Nous passerons aussi la dernière fin de semaine à Paris pour la fête nationale. Où est le MEILLEUR party???

Merci chers français et voyageurs!!!

Annie-Claude (et Daniel)