Tour en Velo
It was hot and overcrowded in the Gare du Nord as I searched for the freight office. I got the bike
back and lugged it out in its cardboard box, but the police were sticky with two uniformed women
standing close-by behind, watching my every move: you don’t need a translator to tell some
people’s thoughts and I could hear their silent dare, just try to dump that box, just try to walk away.
So with the bike set up I carted the box back inside and asked if I could leave it. Bien sure they said.
Outside, I collared the coppers and asked them ‘Ou est la Rue Magenta?’ They seemed not to resent
being asked to be useful, and pointed out the way.
It was a late change of plans, to ride out of town. I had planned to lunk that box onto the metro and
continue to the Gare de Lyon, then on to Fontainebleau by train. But the box was just too awkward
to carry. And surely, because of its size, the turnstyles would be barred against me by unhappy
officials, and my French was not up to the arguing. No, it would be character building to ride out of
Paris. It was just a shame I had no map.
With a breeze in my face I rolled down the side road, then crossed the heated tarmac of the station
forecourt. It was my wont to beat the afternoon traffic and with a few street names memorised, the
first order was to reach the Rue Magenta. Boulevard de Denain got me there quickly and I followed
Magenta to its end in Place de la Republique, found a bus-stop map, side-stepped a noisy
manifestation des hommes Francais-Africain, crossed to Boulevarde du Temple and moved on to
Bastille, boldy circulating that giant roundabout in search of the Rue de Lyon. It was too easy.
The streets around Gare de Lyon had me confused for a while and I asked a young woman who was
studying a map if she could point me in the right direction. She was both polite and helpful, or
meant to be, though it took me some time to work my way back from her help and actually find
Avenue Daumesnil which I knew would lead me to the Bois de Vincennes. All was well under the
trees of the Avenue, the gears of the old bike clunking reassuringly through their range, there was
often a bike lane, and I stuck to the tail of an older rider, following his leads through the traffic.
Bois de Vincennes marked the outskirts of my understanding of Paris. I found the Route de la
Pyramide and followed it in good order through the forest, towards the big loop of the River Marne.
But, on the far edge of the park I couldn’t see any river. All that looped were roads and bridges,
channelling each other into ever-greater autoroutes, or lesser anabranches of traffic that stagnated,
leading one nowhere.
I needed advice. I was heading for Troyes. There was a kind of racetrack with a site-office occupied
my men in high-visibility clothing. Sounding incompetent and comical are perennial issues for
anyone who tries to speak a foreign language, so I concentrated and braced myself against using
any pronunciation of Troyes that might sound Australian.
The men were cordial and patient, but remained mystified at any mention of Troyes. Back outside,
with the Parisian working day drawing to a close an homme in a suit walked past on the footpath.
Again, he knitted his brows at the mention of Troyes. I tried varying the pronunciation, turning the
R to a W. He changed to fluent English to help me out, pointing out the D4 (Departmental Route
no. 4), if that was any help, and I knew from memory that yes, it was. But in which direction? He
shrugged and I thanked him, cruised down the hill to the right, straight onto an eight-lane
nightmare, carried the bike through some scrub off a ramp and circulated the suburb below, asking
forlornly in shops after maps. No one sells maps in this age of smart-phones and I wasn’t so smart
as to have one of those either. But an Arab-sounding gent behind a service station counter
recognised ‘D’ and ‘4’ and gave me some detailed directions. I followed them and found myself
back where I’d met the suit.
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Tour en Velo
Another man of French-African background approached, declaring himself lost, hoping that I might
be able to tell him where the local police station was. I shared the fact that I was from Australia but
he didn’t seem to accept that as an answer in itself. So I wished him bon chance, mounted the bike
and took the route to the left.
There is little to be said about the sprawl of suburbs through Joinville-le-Pont and Les Clos de
Notre-Dame, except that they seem endless and neither westering sun nor traffic snarl instil them
with beauty. But I came to a sign that said ‘N4’ (Route Nationale number 4) instead of ‘D4’ and
that had to be good.
It was a trip I was playing by ear. A vague notion of Rome lay at its far end, with a cousin in
Geneva marking the middle. I was hoping for a light soufflé of adventures in a temperate climate to
contrast the Arctic experience I’d just left behind, and making no plans was part of the plan. It was
to be a learning experience.
So I was glad as the conurbation began to break up. Receding behind, the City of Lights prepared
for its night, around me the fields were turning to gold and each wood approached as a darkening
tunnel. But sadly, what I learnt was that National Routes are no place for bicycles. The Doppler
effect of blaring horns compresses sound but adds no speed, making it even harder to teeter within
the white line when there is no shoulder. I tried finding side roads but they always petered out, cut
off from the N4 by thorny hedges that took a hoary thrash to get
back through. I took the off ramp to Fonteney-Tresigny vowing to never again set tread on a Route
Nationale. The auspiciously named Hotel Tresigny Premier Class stood handy in the gloom so I
checked in for the night, dragging out my dictionary in the tiny room, checking its translation of
first class.
Avoiding the Premier Class breakfast I headed into town in search of a patisserie and a way to find
Troyes that did not involve the N4. The former proved easy, but the mystery of Troyes did nothing
but deepen. Passing the same café for the third time I felt a certain doom: again, I must ask for
directions. It was the usual kind of café-bar, with the bar propped up by a smoke-cured array des
gens Francaise, dressed between dapper and dowdy. They sized me up with suspicion, but proved
not disinclined to give help. In fact, the mystery of Troyes became, even to them, a cause celebre as
none of them had ever even heard of it.
I did have a map that would have made sense if I’d started from Fontainebleau. But it would prove
the existence of Troyes, so I dragged it out and jabbed my finger down with a voila! And they all
laughed, saying ‘Twa’ to each other, ‘Twa’, along with other things that clearly related to me. ‘Oh,
bien sure, Twa, that’s obvious!’, I replied with a blush. But it was an embarrassment less bitter than
the coffee I drank as my new friends unleashed their advice: leave town in a southerly direction was
the consensus, and look for the D48B. That would lead me to Rozay-en-Brie and from there, Twa
was said to be easy.
And it may have been true, if I had found the D48B, let alone Rozay-en-Brie, pleasant sounding
town though it was. But the country to the south was genteel and well tended with fields
interspersed by ancient chateaus and sun-dappled forests. Life without the N4 was circuitous but
pleasant, and when I did find a pretty town called Chaumes-en-Brie it felt like a privilege to be
there. There was a police station so I went in and suggested to a young gendarme that he should tell
me how to find Twa. And he did, inviting me into the office, letting me use the computer to take
notes of all the towns and road numbers between Chaumes and Troyes. Walking me outside, he
pointed out an intersection across the valley and invited me to look out for the big roundabout a
kilometre or two beyond. ‘La, tournez a gauche, et bonne chance’, he added in parting.
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Tour en Velo
The day passed through sunshine and fields, a canopy of trees where the flicker of leaves filtered
their shade on the tarmac. Troyes was roughly 140 kilometres away and the hour well progressed, I
would have liked to stop in the pretty village of Beauvoir but kept going to Nangis for lunch. The
deep clay soils of Brie are rich and flat and the kilometres rolled slowly by.
My bum was hurting badly by the time I got to Provins. I was sunburnt by Nogent-sur-Seine. A
nuclear power plant overlooked the landscape with cooling towers and vapour plumes, and I envied
the drift of the steam.
I got to Troyes in the late afternoon, crossing an iron bridge over a canal full of clear, swift water,
heading for the cathedral tower. Tall, half-timber houses crowded the streets, often leaning against
each other as if to share the secrets of several hundred years, all arrayed in primary tints to add a
medley of colour to their medieval jostle. The boulevards of the centre were spacious, interspersed
with squares and water features that once too were canals, with the public buildings younger, carved
from a creamy stone that held sharp and true to enlightenment design. It took me a while to find a
hotel, though it looked more expensive than my budget allowed. But, tired and sore, I went in and
the concierge looked up and blinked at my helmet and sweat. How did she know to address me in
English? I stated my need for a room and, yes, it would cost me too much. I said I’d look elsewhere
and she asked how much I expected to spend, and I didn’t want to look cheap and blurted a price I
still couldn’t afford, and she replied, ‘Yes, very good’.
She led me down to a gloomy stable and said ‘You may leave your bicycle ‘ere!’, then took me up
to a room on-high that was broad and plush with a lofty ceiling and I stripped as the door clicked
shut, treading the cool slate of a spacious en-suite to wash away a hundred miles of care.
Troyes
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Tour en Velo
Busy by night, the town was well lit and peopled by diners, well dressed and polite, as I strolled in
search of a meal. But there was too much choice and I had to recoup some cost and opted in the end
for fruit, cheese and wine in my room.
Sleep was too easy and I woke unrushed, as I had until midday to vacate. There was a grand
patisserie opposite, coffee around the corner, and over breakfast I savoured the one expectation I’d
carried to Troyes: a visit to the Gothic cathedral, which I’d read of before and which dates back to
1200. It didn’t disappoint and I spent an hour wandering through its massive, soaring spaces,
admiring the height of the vaults and a floating expanse of stained glass. Except for a German
family the building was empty, a fact emphasised by the cries of their children and the slap of
running feet on the stone-flagging floor, echoes of the present on the edge of the past.
Another thing I learned about Troyes was that it was originally a Roman town. And if my journey
towards modern Rome had just one theme, it was to re-trace by arduous means, the journeys of
ancients from preindustrial times. So I considered, as I set off into Champagne, that my journey had
truly begun.
There was a long run of suburbs to get out of town. A squeak began in the bike and I stopped to find
the source but couldn’t be sure, it might have been the back wheel. I’d bought the machine second
hand in London. Old and heavy, it had looked reliable. The even cheaper, screenless phone I’d also
bought in London rang and it was my wife Carole, calling from home in the Megalong Valley. It
was good to hear her voice, but somehow this intimate contact made me feel more alone than
before, and less certain of what to do. Wanting to visit a Roman bridge that was marked on my now
usable map, I decided to keep going. It was 50 kilometres to the east, but as I traversed the chalky
undulations of Champagne, the squeak got worse and worse.
Without a doubt, it came from the wheel that was starting to bind, despite lubrication. Small towns I
passed had no sign of a bike shop. I saw the turnoff to Spoy, where the Roman bridge waits, but
pushed on for Bar-sur-Aube in the hope of finding help. A freewheeling descent into the valley of
the River Aube was marred by the yelp of wheel bearings, and the ten kilometres up-valley to Bar
became a race against their seizure and the closing hour of the shops: it was Saturday afternoon, if
there were no parts or repair I’d have to stay till Monday, or return to Troyes by train.
It proved to be the day of the town fair which was still going strong. I pushed the bike through a
milling throng of people as if indifferent to the squeak and grind of my wheel. People informed me
that yes, there was a bicycle shop. A restauranteur said, bien sure, just around the corner. A
policeman, oui, juste la. It proved to be both a bicycle and a motor scooter shop. The proprietor was
on the street, talking to his mates, but detached himself and trailed me in. He was grave and formal
in a certain Gallic way and spoke no English. It was nearly closing time but he looked closely at my
bike and spent the next half-hour in a measured flow of activity, and I followed him around as he
searched for parts and, shaking his head, dismantled a new bike to swap bits with mine. After
tweaking a few other features into better working order he seemed satisfied in his polite but
detached way. At last he wrote down a figure that he felt I should pay him, which was also so
modest that I wanted to hug him, but insisted instead on paying him more.
Bar-sur-Aube is an unassuming town and I felt quite fond of the place. The land to the south is
prouder, standing high and forested. The map showed a route back to Spoy, winding up into those
hills, descending through le Val Perdu: the lost valley. I decided to return to the Roman bridge via
this scenic and romantic sounding route. Riding up the long hill was a pleasure in the afternoon
light and the quiet country of Val Perdu, with its pine-clad hills and valley of vines, felt like a
destination, not a place to feel lost.
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Tour en Velo
The bridge itself is a double span of arches, still in use after nearly two thousand years. The
approach road from the west is straight and long, as a Roman surveyor would have it, with the same
line, sans road, dissipating from sight into the hills and forest to the east. The arches are built of
slate-like flags, shaped and mortared like the Roman bricks of the Colosseum. The Romans not only
invented mortar and cement, they loved it.
I followed some very minor roads to the south-east, looking for somewhere to camp as darkness
approached. A ridge of dark pines and birch promised seclusion and I picked a handful of grapes to
add to the goat cheese and wine I’d bought leaving Bar. My sleeping bag was a well of comfort in
the velvet night, the sky a suffusion of light far removed through the boughs.
The next morning sped under my wheels as I crossed a forested highland, descending through
glades and vineyards, past the ancient monastery at Clairvaux and pretty villages like Longchampsur-Aujon and Maranville. By lunchtime I was in the small town of Arc-en-Barrois, bum raw,
stomach rumbling. Riding around to select a patisserie I saw a small fair in the grounds of the
chateau next to the square. The locals were friendly and asked where I was from as I purchased a
sausage sandwich and chips. It was nice to just chat.
My plan for the afternoon was to cross the Plateau de Langres. I had expectations of a tall and
rugged landscape, but they were soon stepped down to fit in with a pleasant reality of undulating
farmland and plains with high views of distant valleys and towns. The land became more cropped
and pastoral, with a patina of fields and fewer vines as I approached the borders of Burgundy and
Franche-Comte. At Longeau-Percey I reached a larger road, the D67 that carried me through to
Champlitte.
It was the end of the day and I took an extra turn of the roundabout near the 17th century chateau,
trying to make up my mind: there was a sign indicating a camping area and, yes, I concluded, I’d
give it a go.
For ten euros I got a van. The manager thought the supermarket wouldn’t be open at such a late
hour on a Sunday, but the entrecote steak I ate in his restaurant was the best meal I’d had in two
months. There weren’t a lot of people staying, but the restaurant was packed with people from
town, and I wasn’t surprised. Some senior travellers were very friendly and asked about my trip so
far. ‘Formidable monsieur’ they replied without irony, and I still hadn’t mentioned my plans for the
Alps. So I went back to my van feeling chuffed and all that was missing was the evening wine to
which I was becoming so accustomed.
But there was a message on my phone from Carole, concerning the address of cousin Alan in
Switzerland: she was reminding me of the difference between Geneva, the city, and Lake Leman,
incorrectly known to the English speaking world as Lake Geneva. Alan lives near the far end of that
lake from Geneva. Given the sheer size of the lake and its mountainous setting, it was a significant
issue for a cyclist, an issue which I had underappreciated while purchasing maps in London. The
upshot was that tomorrow, after the city of Besancon, I would once again be off the map. I had an
inkling that there was an intervening landscape between Besancon and Switzerland called the High
Jura, which I would have to deal with. So I went to sleep contemplating the issue, hankering after a
glass or two of wine.
Though I found several bottles of well-aged red in a cupboard in the morning: forgotten bottles
presumably, that the manager leaves for others to use. Formidable indeed. Back in town, the
patisserie was excellent and there was a lovely lady next door, selling coffee. And then it was all
down hill.
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Tour en Velo
The origin of the name Champlitte is derived from campus litensus, perhaps a field by the edge of a
stream on the Roman road from ancient Besancon to Langres. Whatever, its still on the edge of a
downhill route which, straight and true, also presents like an old Roman road. So I had great
expectations about how swiftly I would cover the 65 kilometres to the city, and in this I found
myself disappointed. Kilometres passed at half the hourly rate I would have liked and, try as I
might, I couldn’t claw back the time. I cranked so hard one knee started to hurt and at the age of 57,
that’s not a good thing. The sun climbed high above the wide-open road which, being a
comparatively major route, was busy with traffic. Exasperated, with arms and face scorched by the
sun, I stopped in the city of Gray to buy sun-screen. Each and every pharmacy was closed until after
lunchtime, a fact which left me exasperated. Likewise, I had to ask in four supermarkets before
finding some crème solair. Gray is on a river so large that it proved to be the Saone, a major
continental landmark for my journey. But with my twinging knee reminding me of worn-out
bearings, adding to the thermal insult of my burns, I didn’t even notice.
The road flattened out after Gray, so progress was even slower. Signs started to appear indicating
the presence of a Route Nationale ahead and I took a short cut through a town called Marnay,
rueing a lack of shade at the uncertain intersection where I unfolded my sprawling map. A cyclist
came past, svelte and smart in his lycra. I had recently shrunk after a month in the Arctic, no longer
filling out my daggy shirt and shorts. With my rucksack and rack packed up unwieldy, I was
surprised when the smart cyclist approached, offering to help with the directions I so obviously
required. He was Marc.
He looked at my map and said it wouldn’t be much use to get through Besancon. He said that he
was on his way home from his ride and that I could follow him to his place to check out the route: it
was only a little out of my way, along quiet roads. He had an expensive road bike and knew the
roads. I was clumsy on my clunker and had a minor crash off a polished granite gutter. But after ten
kilometres we got to Marc’s place in Lavernay and he made me a cup of tea while I studied his road
atlas, making notes on the route through the Jura. Then he wrote down a series of directions on how
to skirt Besancon, which I could see was good advice, although I was a little sad as I’d heard from a
friend that the city contains a genuine Roman arch. Marc said it was lunchtime, and that he’d make
me some as well. He let me use his computer in the meanwhile, so I could get in touch with Carole
and Alan.
Over lunch Marc considered my plans, such as they were, for the Jura and the Alps. Looking at my
bike he maintained a cautious reserve, suggesting alternative routes that would be less mountainous.
‘Nah, she’ll be right!’ I replied, and he nodded politely, looking slightly off to one side.
Nonetheless, he warned me, the terrain would steepen dramatically on the far side of the river from
Besancon, but if I wanted to go that way, I could head for Ornans, which would be a pleasant town
to stay the night. I left wishing that the world held more people like Marc.
Circuiting Besancon to the south through a medley of fields and villages, it took an hour or more to
reach the River Doubs, which I followed upstream to a bridge and, crossing, upstream again until I
found the D4, which I could follow towards Ornans, 40 kilometres away. The river was wide and
swift, but not particularly deep and I was surprised to see barrages and locks, facilitating river
traffic. The eastern terrain was indeed steep and far more mountainous than anything I had seen so
far, the hills forested and rearing up out of sight.
But I enjoyed the uphill, seemingly without end as it was: no place to begrudge time or race selfexpectation, a place to fit into and just keep plugging away. It was a minor road, and narrow, but the
afternoon traffic was mindful of cyclists. And with this change of pace my knee became less
awkward, and although my bottom was extremely sore, I could stand on the pegs as I pedalled. The
twenty kilometres to Epeugny were almost all uphill. I took a wrong turn, racing back downhill for
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Tour en Velo
five kilometres before being sure I had gone wrong. Having recouped the height through Epeugny, I
reached a hanging valley filled with sward, nestled between limestone scarps and hills ranked deep
in pine. I could see the towers of a cement factory across the valley and thought it an unfortunate
spectacle in such a pretty place. But as I approached, the factory escaped my antipodean
expectations, morphing into an ancient chateau, the Castel St-Denis. The road split and I followed a
valley upstream to Ornans and Marc was right, it was beautiful.
Ornans
Beautiful enough I concluded, finding a basic hotel beside the road, but mostly because of the
limestone valley in which it was set. It had been a long and demanding day and I admired a view
across the valley from my bed, watching the light change as it died. Then cleaned up and went
outside to look around, and the little town was as quiet as the grave. I slept well in the silence.
But what I discovered in the morning light was that I had only reached an arm of town. Certainly,
the limestone crags of the valley are beautiful, even charming with the addition of suspended
monasteries and abandoned railway viaducts, but the main part of the town was further up the
valley. There, old stone buildings, often recently renovated, are suspended above a beautiful,
rushing river like some semi-alpine version of Venice.
Crossing the river, I came to more hills, bracing myself for a hard day of ascent into the Jura. But
after an hour I arrived at a green plateau of well-tended dairy farms, where the villages had clock
towers with tiled domes, and houses, gabled alpine roofs. Switzerland seemed suddenly close!
Surprised by the sudden cultural shift and genteel landscape, I cruised through cool air below a
wide, soft sky and it was hard to resist stopping at all the roadside fromageries. However, the
plateau was interspersed by high, forested ridges running parallel across the landscape, creating
wide, separate valleys. I crossed the first ridge to Levier and stopped for coffee and cake, found a
copy of the New York Times and devoured some news as well, then on to Frasne, where I decided
to treat myself to lunch in a restaurant.
From Frasne to Bonneveaux the landscape changed again to tougher scrubs and limestone scarps
interspersed by lakes and fens. Bonneveaux was close to another range of hills and, expecting
another climb, I was surprised when the road dived into a hidden valley that cut downhill,
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Tour en Velo
completely transecting the range. The geology of the Jura is complex and folded, and often laid out
like a map, little wonder the region lends its name to one of the geological ages, the Jurassic.
There was a long, pleasant ride downhill to Labergement-Sainte-Marie, a tourist town thronged by
walkers and birdwatchers bent on exploring a basin of two wide lakes trapped in the folds of the
valley. I too was captivated by this landscape and considered ending my day early. But even the
caravan park was expensive, so I rode out of town to the south, crossing another forested ridge and
riding slowly, ever upwards, through the next wide valley to another town called Mouthe. Pretty in
its narrowing valley, it bustled with people despite being mid-week.
An auberge stood beside the road so I went in to ask after a room, finding no-one. Back outside an
old man approached, returning from the shops. Pausing, he regarded me and spoke in English,
explaining politely that his rooms were all taken. I replied in French, asking him if he could
recommend anywhere else. Tolerating my poor grammar and mispronunciations, he switched back
to French and asked me inside, inviting me to wait while he made some inquiries by phone. After a
while he put down the receiver and informed me that he’d made a booking for me at the next
auberge, a few kilometres towards Switzerland. It would be uphill to get there, he said, but a
pleasant location, and they were expecting me. I thanked him and we chatted for a while about
Australia and the roads between Mouthe and Lausanne, then I went shopping for dinner, finding an
excellent regional wine, more goat’s cheese, and cherries.
It seemed more than just a few kilometres to the promised auberge, although the old gent was
certainly right about the uphill part: Mouthe sits below the spine of the Jura, where the higher
country approaches 1400 metres. Heavily forested, with frost-hollow valleys, the area is a popular
destination for cross-country skiers in winter and ramblers in summer. The auberge consisted of the
family home of a friendly couple with young children, the guest accommodation in pretty, wooden
cabins, overlooking a little valley.
Dairy farms filled the nearby valley floors and, as in Switzerland, all the cows are belled. I could
hear them clanging clear through the night. I thought of the cows my wife and I breed at home, they
would not approve.
I had breakfast with the young family and a group of ramblers from the Loire who were also patient
with my French. The couple warned me to watch out for morning traffic as a lot of people commute
to Switzerland for work.
But the road was wide open, climbing again for a few more kilometres before crossing the broad
crest of the range through meadows and pine. And the new day was cool and misty with the cows
jangling in occasional farms and the promise of more fromageries. I sped downhill for a while and
came to the international border: a low stone wall separating two small, deserted sheds.
The descent steepened through a shroud of valley fog filling the basin of Lake Joux, and all was
hushed as I sped, trees passing like swift ghosts in the mist, the flash of dew on spider webs where
the sun shone through. I came to a town called Les Charbonnieres as the road levelled out, then
another on the edge of the lake, Le Pont. All stood poised and still in the fog, with a muffled knock
and metal knell from unseen boats in place of cattle, I continued around the head of the lake and
followed a road up le Mont du Lac, the Mountain of the Lake. I had expected this hill to be large
but the climb was maybe a thousand feet. By the time I got to the top the fog was breaking up and
Lausanne was just a couple of hours away.
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Tour en Velo
Leaving the forest and mountain pasture behind, I sped downhill again towards a patchwork of
harvest and pasture in the hinterland Lake Leman: screaming brakes through Mont-la-Ville, the lake
a distant band of blue, layered in green and beige below a rising veil of fog.
The descent eased at the town of L’isle and I saw a sign, ‘Salon de The.’ Tea rooms! I had to stop:
one could well describe the café/bars of France as a bitter disappointment on the basis of coffee
alone. Add to that bizarre and outdated seating practices, the banishment of cakes and pastries,
substitution of beer spigots and tipplers, and in the end one just gives up. And don’t even think of
asking for a cup of tea. So I went into this Salon du The and sighed at the ample seating, peered at
an enormous display of cake, and looked up startled when asked in English if I would like a pot of
tea. It dawned on me, I was in a brand new country, one I would like very much. I fished out my
phone while enjoying refreshments and got in touch with Alan, going over the final directions of
how to find his house, above Vevey, on the far side of Lausanne.
It took me a couple more hours to get to Lausanne as I still had no map, only the directions I’d
written down at Marc’s, which were completely useless from the moment I wandered astray. With a
population of 140,000 the city is surprisingly large and prosperous, highly built-up in the centre and
with extensive suburbs. It was difficult to get used to city traffic again, until I noticed people in
suits or other chic attire were wheeling blithely between the cars, so I overcame my fears and joined
them. In the city centre I parked the bike and wandered around some shops, bought some lunch and
felt out of place, got back on the bike and made my way down to the lake, following bike paths and
roads along the foreshore, eastwards towards Vevey.
It is a beautiful lake, and one of the largest in Europe. The Romans named it, Laccus Lemannus, the
port’s lake. From Lausanne towards the Alps the slopes grow and crowd the shores, increasing in
height and steepening, becoming densely cultivated under vineyards producing Chasselas grapes for
white wine production. Houses old and modern intersperse these vinyards, along with castles and
keeps. A modern railway and autobahn complete the picture, competing for speed at different
altitudes, spanning forested chasms in single concrete leaps, but dwarfed by the sheer scale of the
mountainside. Below, on the clear waters of the lake, old paddle steamers still ply their trade as
fully working ferries. I stopped for a while and had a beer, taking it all in.
Lake Leman
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Tour en Velo
Alan is my first cousin. I found the Nestle headquarters where he described it, and nearby the
funicular railway that carried me up to Chardonne where he lives. It was great to see him and his
family, and they were very generous to put me up for four days, looking after me very well. Alan
discovered his love of European cheeses when he arrived from Australia and was glad to have an
old companion-in-crime to help indulge his passion. Otherwise we walked, visited Fromageries and
drove around to Chamonix, and it was great to catch up after so many years.
And more prosaically, over those four days the red-raw skin on my bum calmed and scabbed.
Unaware of this development, Alan and his wife Christina were nonetheless uncertain of my bicycle
venture, and gently tried to dissuade me from continuing, suggesting alternative destinations to visit
in Italy by train, encouraging me to linger. But with the aid of their internet I had route-suggestions
and weather-forecasts to hand, calculated travel distances and times: I could see I had a slender
weather window and autumn was approaching. It was time to continue: the Alps were waiting.
From Chardonne, Italy could be reached most quickly via the Great St Bernard Pass, but involves
an approach along a major road. So I chose the scenic route instead. France was across the lake. I
put the bike on a paddlesteamer for Lausanne, changed there to a diesel ferry and crossed to Evianles-Bains on the southern shore. It was late in the day, I started riding to see how far I’d get.
The first issue involved a long uphill climb out of town in order to avoid the Route Nationale which
occupies the shorefront. Finally encountering an alternative, departmental road, I followed it back
down to Thonon-les-Bains, the next town on the water to the west. At its far end I found a few
small roads that led me back up through the little village of Allinges to join the D12, which I could
follow towards the Col de Cou, 20 kilometres away and 750 metres higher. It was dark before I got
there, but there was forest on the hillside and I found a level campsite, below and out of sight of the
road.
There were only a couple of uphill kilometres in the morning and I was hungry for breakfast, but
the scenery in the high farmland beyond the Col was so pleasant, and the road so enjoyably
downhill, that I rolled on through to Bonneville for breakfast, a 30 kilometres headstart for the day.
Bonneville sits at 450 metres in the Haute-Savoie region of France. A large river, l’Arve, brawls
through town, carrying snowmelt off Mt Blanc. A major road, the Autoroute Blanche also blasts
through, carrying a million cars to and from Italy via the same mountain’s tunnel.
Discombobulated by the sight of so many vehicles, I rushed breakfast and headed up into the high
country to the south, following the Route des Aravis.
Aravis Mountains
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Tour en Velo
The route escapes the broad valley of l’Arve via a deeply-carved canyon, climbing steeply above
chasms which reverberate to the gush of channelled, falling water, a rush often glimpsed through
drapes of fir-tree foliage. Eventually the valley broadens into picturesque meadows and pastures,
but continues to climb unrelentingly into the Aravis Mountains, breaking through a grey palisade of
cliffs at Col des Aravis at 1486 metres. The little ski resort town of la Clusaz was sufficiently pretty
to make me stop and buy some lunch, which I carried through to the Col to consume.
The far side of the Col was something of a plummet, hurtling down through ever-narrowing gorges
to the ancient looking, tightly sited town of Flumet at an altitude of 900 metres. I was tempted to
stay put in Flumet, but it was too early in the afternoon and I had a weather forecast to worry about,
courtesy of Alan’s computer.
Flumet
So I exited town via the perilous looking arch of a tall, stone bridge, heading for another high pass,
Col des Saises, 15 kilometres away and 760 metres higher. The afternoon was beautiful, the
countryside sublime, I was contemplating the presence of deciduous birch and larch among the
pinegroves that dwindle into clumps as one climbs, when the whir of a bicycle chain approached
from behind. I was used to passing cyclists, either hurtling by in the opposite direction or too
focused on a personal best to waste breath in talking as they overtook, and I myself overtook noone. But a man in his early fifties greeted me as he drew level. I replied conversationally and he
corrected my grammar: an act of consideration when coming from any native speaker of French.
We struck up a conversation which morphed into English, it being impolite to make too many
corrections. He was keen to talk about Australia, having visited it with his family, and interested in
my trip. He had slowed down on his highly geared racer, I sped up on my tractor, and after a few
minutes he was well rested while I was panting, so we were ready to resume our separate paces. But
he had one more question to ask: why, he wanted to know, was I riding such an old, heavy bicycle
up such a big hill in the Alps. I asked him how one would say ‘to make do’ in French. ‘Il faut faire’
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Tour en Velo
he replied, so, alors, I answered, je faut faire. He reached the top long before me, but waved in
passing as he raced back down.
There is a ski resort at the top of the Col des Saises which hosted a number of winter events in the
1992 Olympics. As a village however, it lacks communality: I booked into a hotel that was as
dowdy as it was overpriced and ate in a restaurant nearby, which was not convivial. In the morning
I purchased the hotel breakfast, taking full advantage of the brewed coffee, then stepped out the
door and hurtled gladly down the far side of the pass. Although, I had to pause at the sight of Mt
Blanc, towering, massive and white to the east. And as the farmers of the region gather their homes
into hamlets, there were many houses to admire between the switchbacks, traditionally built out of
local stone and timber, stable-like downstairs, people up above, verandahs decked in flowers that
blazed red and yellow, adding the illusion of warmth to a dew-damp morning.
Hamlet near les Saises with Mont Blanc in the distance
The Doron valley lay at the base of the hill, 750 metres lower, and in it the beautiful town of
Beaufort. Picturesque and bustling, it would have been a nicer place to stay than Les Saises,
although there was no time for regrets, another mighty hill was waiting on the far side of town, so I
rode straight through, warming up even as my brake blocks cooled.
The angle was easy for a while, through a tight, wooded gorge. Beyond, the slope opened wide and
steepened, with the road ascending through numerous switchbacks and a continuum of forest. Yet
the climb to the top of Roselend de Cormelet is full of surprise and change: the road suddenly
flattened and a large lake appeared, its deep waters tinted a remarkable, milky blue. Here one also
approaches the tree line, breaking free of the long forest into a vista of sharp peaks raked by tall,
angled crags. And yet, in the peopled manner of the European Alps, there are still hamlets and even
a café, where I stopped to take a photo and heard some Australian voices. So I went over and said
hello.
There were three of them, a married couple from Melbourne and an expat who lives nearby,
running a cycle touring business with her partner. She knew a friend of mine from the Blue
Mountains, who takes her tours. We had coffee and a chat before I resumed the second half of the
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Tour en Velo
1200 metre ascent, feeling that, for all its wide and craggy space, this winding road was rather a
civilised place.
The top of the Cormelet stands at 1968 metres in a grassy saddle surrounded by fens and a wideflung array of ramshackle mountains. There was a stall of local farmer’s produce there, with sheep
cheeses, mould-dusted sausage and fresh bread. I savoured this lunch, along with the immediate
prospect of another, enormous descent to the big town of Bourg, 1100 metres lower, towards the
border of Italy.
Approaching Cormelet de Roselend
I double-checked the brake blocks before setting off, and soon had them screaming. The
switchbacks cornered tight and fast and I let the brakes cool on the tilted straights, cutting slow
bends fast if the coast was clear, with moments of fear where a pot hole appeared or water
encouraged a skid. The road fell in with a rocky burn, les Vallees des Chapieux, and rested its angle
for a while, until all fell free of the mountain shoulder and the downhill race resumed, through
forest now, of firs blurred swift in passing.
Farmland reappeared near the bottom of the hill, with the road zigzagging between hamlets, and a
view of Bourg, sprawled in a wide display of suburban and light-industrial roofing.
It was mid-afternoon, I was not tempted to stay. Italy was 26 kilometres away and 1300 metres
higher, I turned the bike left onto the main road, heading towards the highest mountain pass of the
trip, the Little Pass of Saint Bernard.
A long climb, but not particularly steep. Though before leaving town I was nearly run down by a
bogan Francaise, but with the suburbs behind, car numbers reduced, and it was back to the rhythm
of climbing. And there seemed to be no end to it, which was fine where the road looped lazily
across the valley wall with views to snowy peaks. But above the tree line the road swung around
into the confinement of an alpine valley and climbed with rigour, straight towards the distant col.
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It was a col that, once seen, would not come closer. Not so coy was the buffeting headwind that
came down the valley to meet me. A cold wind which, having dragged Italian clouds up from their
far valley, abandoned them at the border, leaving them to jostle while it slammed down on me.
Eventually I reached those clouds, finding them restrained by a titanic statue of Saint Bernard, his
hand raised in apparent imprecation of such Italian weather. A few snowflakes snuck through
anyway and I dismounted to put my jacket on. There were also some souvenir shops dedicated to
fluffy recreations of St Bernard’s iconic dog, but I felt warned off such idolatry by the presence of
the statue and failed to approach. I did look around for any sign of the Roman temple to Jupiter that
once stood there, but there was none. Nor did I see the iron-age stone circle that had preceded the
temple. Hannibal too is said to have come this way, but has left no trace. No, there is only Saint
Bernard, founder of the monastery I passed at Clairvaux, Champagne, spiritual pastor to the
mediaeval pastoralists of the Alps. What, I wondered, would the Great Pass of Saint Bernard have
been like, if this is just the Little.
Possibly less cold, I concluded with a shiver, rolling down to La Thuile, the first Italian town of any
size in the next valley. The descent was over 700 metres and hard on the brakes due to the poorly
repaired state of the road. It was raining by the time I got there and I followed some random signs
that led through circuitous streets to a simple wooden Hotel, the Martinet. The lady inside was
highly distracted by the telephonic act of marshalling an absent building team, yet to complete some
obvious renovations. But with her phone put down she was welcoming and we found we could
converse in French. The room she showed me was not only the least expensive room so far, it was
also the most spacious, best decorated and most comfortable. Oui, Madam I said, merci bien, then
wandered down to the shops to buy some dinner, and the Fontina cheese was creamy, and regional
red, well rounded. La Thuile was a charming town, but with many building projects stalled, half
built.
Washed up and warm, I looked out my window into the dying light and drizzle. The weather
forecast from Alan’s place had been fortuitous and I had made it over the range within the few fine
days predicted, but now, all looked changed. I contemplated the prospects of a rest day, but La
Thuile in the rain seemed pointless, with Rome still far away to the South, and my available days to
get there dwindling.
The cheerful lady provided an enormous breakfast with endless cups of coffee. There was certain to
be less rain further down the valley she cooed as her builders arrived and she plied them too with
coffee. With a pang of uncertainty I retrieved my bike from her garage and set off into the wet.
There was a long, dark tunnel leaving town and I had to stop and fish through my bag for a tail
light. It was the first tunnel of many.
Initially proceeding north, the valley tightened and narrowed, dropping swiftly below cascades
towards the greater bed of the Aosta Valley, far below. There may have been many spectacular
views beyond the cloud. The tunnels were dry but dark and scary.
The main valley held a wider, pastoral floor with many scattered villages coalescing into ever-larger
towns. Black walls of schist frowned below the cloud base and the lady from La Thuile was right,
the rain had eased off as the altitude decreased. This valley also contained the Italian side of the
same motorway I had seen in Bonneville, having emerged from the Mont Blanc tunnel. However
this motorway was rarely visible, being usually contained in subsequent tunnels or suspended on
concrete arches, high above the valley floor. But the local road, below, got busier and busier as the
number of towns increased, and still set within an Alpine valley, offered no alternative route to its
frequent dive into dark-schist tunnels: narrow tunnels with oncoming traffic, no shoulder and the
roaring grill of a truck at one’s back.
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Glad to reach the city of Aosta, I stopped there for lunch. Carole rang and we had a good chat: our
nephew would be visiting Florence in a few days time, and was there any chance that he and I
might catch up? I put down the phone and thought about the great, city-covered plains of the River
Po, and the winding routes of the Appenine Mountains, picked up the phone and said, No!
I had a good look at the Roman city gate, plus an enormous arch that Augustus had built, then left,
contemplating a long afternoon ride down the remainder of the Aosta Valley. The river was
beautiful, frequently coursing through rapids adjacent to the road, and intriguing castles and abbeys
sometimes towered between the cloud and the valley floor. But as the valley widened so too
changed my perception of scale, until I found myself once again racing preconceptions of distance
and speed. Even worse, with the uniformity of the riding, my bum was again turning sore, and I
came to long for an end to the confines of the valley.
Valle d’Aosta
Eventually the Eastern wall of the valley relented into modest, wooded slopes. As these slopes
declined to farmland, the Western mountains swung away to greet another valley. I came to the
charming city of Ivrea with daylight enough to find a modest room near the citadelle, then stroll
down through streets that were sometimes medieval and tight, sometimes wider with Renaissance
architecture and straightened by the river, into Enlightenment designs.
It was raining when I woke. The hotel breakfast was miserly. But I set off into the wet, content to
find as many minor roads as would take me beyond the outskirts of Milan, a hundred kilometres
away. I passed the beautiful Lago di Viverone, descended off a final terrace and within a few
kilometres the valley was just a memory, lost in the mist behind. And the replacement world was
one of corn, stretching wide to either side, dank with the smells of rain and agricultural chemical.
These thirsty crops were well supplied with rushing Alpine water, contained in a far-flung grid of
canals. But as the water slowed upon the plain, so too more factories appeared, and towns with
silos, all washed around by the corn. After fifty kilometres I came to a city, Vercelli. At the
outskirts of town I saw some vagrants pushing through wet corn, encumbered by heavy packs. It
dawned on me then that they were pilgrims, travelling the Via Francigena to Rome. I got out of the
rain in a café for lunch, and thought about my own journey: the days of cycling ahead: six days of
back roads to reach Rome with an aeroplane waiting. And it occurred to me that I am not a pilgrim,
that my journey is upon this earth, but my love is of its face and our shared place upon it. I thought
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about my nephew in Florence and the places that Alan and Christine had suggested I visit by train.
There was a bicycle shop across the road. I paid my bill and pushed the old clunker across through
the rain.
The gentleman inside the bike shop seemed happy to see me, but completely bamboozled by my
attempts to sell him the bike. I had an English-Italian dictionary, but the language barrier remained
insuperable. Nonetheless, we worked out between us that he had a cousin, or colleague, who’d be
back in an hour, one who could speak English. I nodded and did my best to say I’d be back then
too, then rode off through the rain in search of a room.
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