Col de l�Espigoulier : An excerpt from 'Cycling North' - from the French Mediterranean to the fjords of Norway by bicycle
I wake, pull back the curtains and am greeted by clouds, a lone palm tree on the promenade and the morning whine of a motor scooter labouring up the hill. Which is what Cathie and I will be doing in a few minutes, after the obligatory croissant and coffee for breakfast. In the car park, our bicycles have camped under an awning and are loaded with twin panniers at the back. Our preference is for full stomachs and light panniers.
The sun wins its battle with the clouds as we head up the first hill of many leading away from the sea. Today is all mountains. Yellow and purple wildflowers bloom beside the D559. Thankfully most of the cars turn onto the motorway while we wind slowly uphill. Our steel bikes are designed for touring and the 5% gradient doesn�t trouble them as much as it does their riders.
But what goes up, comes down into the ancient village of Aubagne, now popular as a wealthy satellite suburb of Marseille. At caf� Noailles, an immaculately dressed woman in slacks and yellow blouse serves us coffee and biscuits outdoors, in the sun. I sigh, contentedly.
�What�s up?� Cathie asks.
�Only three thousand, nine hundred and eighty kilometres to go,� I say.
Cathie smiles, �All the more reason for another biscuit.�
On the outskirts of Aubagne, we stop on the footpath. Cathie consults the map on her phone.
�I go left,� she says.
Cathie and I will now separate for a few hours. My wise partner will cycle the direct route north to the next village of Auriol. I�ll veer to the east and confront the sun-drenched realities of the Col de l�Espigoulier, a category one Tour de France climb that winds pleasantly through the forest north of Gemenos.
Call me stupid, but there�s nothing I enjoy more than the quiet relaxation of a French mountain climb. Cycling up mountains has nothing to do with excess testosterone on my part but a simple desire to slowly pedal my way through the rolling landscape. The roads in the mountains are always quiet and atmospheric. I�m following in the tyre tracks of the Tour de France cyclists, albeit at a vastly reduced pace. While I prefer to relax and take in the views, the Tour riders dance on the pedals and consider an attack just before the summit. The only attack I consider is one of the heart.
Cathie and I kiss and she tells me to have fun. I watch her pedal away and count my blessings I have a wife who allows me such indulgences. When her pink jersey is a dot in the pale green landscape, I hop on my bike and cycle downhill (ha!) into Gemenos where I buy a trio of chocolate donuts. I stash them in my panniers for later, when I�m desperate.
The climb begins steadily, crossing a stream where I admire a beekeeper tending his hive. A few hundred metres above is a long wire mesh fence designed to stop boulders from rolling downhill and squashing the honey gatherer. The donkey trails begin across the harsh pale scree foothills. I�m reminded of the classic French movie, Jean de Florette. The story of a brave yet naive office worker who believes he can make a living as a farmer in this sun-blasted landscape. Every morning he leads his donkey to gather water from the well down the mountain in a vain attempt to survive here with his wife and daughter. It�s Gerard Depardieu�s finest role.
After a few kilometres, I pass two cyclists. One is rugged up in long trousers and a jacket, even though the temperature is rising much quicker than we are. The other forges ahead. Both of the men are my age, perhaps older. I cycle beside the leader and we discuss our favourite mountain climbs - he enjoys Mont Ventoux, mine is Croix de Fer in the French Alps. The road winds skywards and offers us views all the way to Marseille. Poppies bloom beside the road as we enter the switchbacks. A motorbike roars past us and my friend curses to have his peace interrupted.
The Tour de France has climbed this mountain three times and I�m reminded of a lovely story of the first man to the top in 1957. Jean Stablinski was a Frenchman of Polish descent. His father had been killed in the war, fighting for the Resistance. Fearing for his mother, young Jean advertised for a husband for the widow. A man with a daughter answered the advert. The mother married the man, and Jean later married the daughter. Jean said it was the best franc he�d ever spent for that advertisement.
My cycling buddy stops and tells me he�ll wait for his partner, still puffing along two switchbacks below. I wave and push my bicycle forward. I�m surprised how well it's coping with this mountain. It has three cogs at the front and a long wheelbase, so although it�s not fast, it offers a relaxed riding dynamic. Although up this incline, dynamic is perhaps not the word.
The truth is I�m thrilled beyond words to be climbing, to be in the sunshine with nothing to do but rotate the pedals, admire the view and think about lunch. Finally, among the stunted pine trees I reach the summit. I celebrate with one donut. I�ll save the rest for Cathie. I look up at the pale blue sky, the brittle cliffs towering above and shrug on my jacket. A lone bird soars above the cliff. I imagine the descent will be colder than the ascent. I join the D2 and give up on pedalling for eleven kilometres as I cruise into Auriol. Sitting on a bench seat in a park beside a stream is my beautiful wife. She has already chosen a restaurant for lunch. She asks me if I had a pleasant morning and smiles indulgently at my blathering.
We sit at a table under the plane trees and both order the lunch special - three courses for thirteen euros. The highlight is a main course of moules and frites, the mussels cooked in a wine, cream and parsley sauce. I can�t resist dipping my bread. After all, I�ve climbed a mountain! Dessert is tiramisu and I tip my coffee on top to increase the flavour. Or to mask the flavour of the coffee? The waitress wears black biker boots and sports an impressive array of tattoos. She flirts with the table of workmen sitting near the entrance. I glance to the street where their old Renault van is parked. The best way to choose a restaurant in France - go where the work vans are parked. The nearest restaurant will offer the best meal for the lowest price.
The afternoon unwinds with a long slow ride through vineyards and open fields to our accommodation for the evening just outside of Rousset. The Aux Terres Rouges is a 19th century farmhouse of pale stone and creeping vines with a vineyard at the rear and a swimming pool in the garden. After Henriette, the owner shows us our room, we change into swimmers and run to the pool. Cathie falls asleep in the afternoon sun and I dive into the cold water. It�s late April and too early for such indulgences but I can�t resist. After our first day, we�re pleased to be in such luxurious surrounds. We�re even more pleased the tariff is less than the cost of an overnight stay in a dowdy country motel in Australia.
Henriette tells us to avoid the restaurants in town for two reasons. Firstly, they�re located up a steep hill and secondly, the pizza truck parked opposite the horse-riding school just down the road offers better food. We�re sceptical, but cycle to the truck in the cool of the evening. The owner is a Corsican man who knows how to cook pizza. His speciality is a giant wheel of light and crispy crust topped with merguez sausage, artichokes and olives. It�s superb. We sit on the grass and eat it, washed down with Corsican beer. The locals who stop for take-away are all highly amused at our picnic habit. The pizza is so good I order another. And two more beers. We toast a perfect first day of cycling.
This is an edited extract from my cycling travel ebook - 'Cycling North' available from Amazon
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