Sunday lunch in a french village restaurant

I’m slowly driving back to Paris and it’s lunchtime, so I pull off the motorway, pay the exorbitant toll and trundle into a village somewhere in Burgundy. It has three restaurants. I choose the one without vintage cars parked outside. Vintage cars, modern prices. 
I’m quickly offered a table by the woman working the floor with the help of one young waitress. There are twelve tables, most are occupied by families, young couples or a few elderly people enjoying an aperitif. No frenchperson has lunch without first having a drink.

Each table is covered with a green cotton tablecloth and has a pot plant in the centre, plus two wine glasses and a napkin at each sitting. The waitress immediately brings a basket of bread and a carafe of water. The degustation menu is E19.50 (A$25) for three courses, each course offers me five choices. As I’m in Burgundy, I choose the local dishes - six escargot for entree, beef in pinot noir jus for main course, and for dessert, pear soaked in wine. 

I notice each table has also ordered a bottle of wine. I make do with a pichet de rose for a paltry $6. I’m offered a free appetiser of a thin slice of saucisse on a crust; a puff pastry filled with foie gras; and a thimble full of something that tastes like thick honey wine. It’s so delicious, I ask the woman what it is. Her explanation probably gets lost in translation, but I think she says it’s merlot wine, honey and cassis. Whatever it is, I’d like to order a barrel of it.

The escargot arrive in a dish with six pods, one for each snail soaked in garlic, butter and parsley. It’s like eating essence of garlic! After scoffing the snails, I dip my bread into the remaining liquid. I’d be quite happy to toss the snail and just dip endlessly into this pungent concoction. 

The main course is the chef’s version of Beef Bourguignon - three hefty chunks of beef in a rich thick red wine sauce with tagliatelle and beans. I’m always a little thrown to see pasta on a french plate, but it helps me soak up the juices of the sauce, along with the extra bread I’ve just requested.

I’ve had the pear dish before in Beaune. On that occasion, one fan of sliced pear had been soaked in white wine, the other fan in red. This time, the slices are drowning in a red wine sauce with an island of cassis ice cream in the middle, topped with a dried apple slice. 

Perhaps the essence of French cooking is what they can do with a humble pear. It is the convoi exceptionnel of food. In French a big truck becomes two words of beauty. In cooking, a pear transforms into an unctuous, delectable tarte; a perfect partner for goats cheese in puff pastry; and when soaked in wine, it becomes... fruit exceptionnel!

The waitress clears my table and suggests a cafe to finish. Ha! I know better than to ruin a lovely Sunday lunch with French coffee.

Two hours later, I am alongside the Loire River again, staying at one of my favourite B&B farms, Le Petit Plessis in Saint-Firmin-sur-Loire. A salad will suffice for dinner.

Col du Galibier - cycling between the snow drifts

‘I will not fail in my work in proclaiming that beside Galibier you are but pale and vulgar beers. There is nothing more to do but tip your hat and salute from well below.’ 

So said the legendary Tour de France director, Henri Desgranges in 1911, about Col du Galibier. Allowing for the poor translation, I can but only agree with Monsieur Henri, who has a monument in his honour one kilometre from the summit. 

The Galibier is an icon of cycling, used by the Tour more times than any other mountain in the Alps. Climbed twice in 2011 to celebrate its one hundredth anniversary of Tour involvement, I’m pleased I’ve left the ‘Giant of the Alps’ until last. The summit is a whopping 2,642 metres elevation, and today I’m climbing it from Valloire, an alpine ski village eighteen kilometres down the valley. I should mention, many riders first climb Col de Telegraphe before dropping down to Valloire and taking on Galibier. One Hors Category mountain is enough for me today.

The 1911 Tour winner, Gustave Garrigou, on finishing the climb, declared to the organisers, ‘You are bandits!’, which no doubt pleased the headline-seeking Monsieur Desgranges. 

Today, in glorious sunshine, I cycle out of Valloire and immediately hit a kilometre of 9% climbing. It’s a torrid beginning. I pity the riders who’ve already climbed the Telegraphe. I stop briefly at a boulangerie and grab a pain aux raisins. Not the correct way to cycle up a mountain, but I’m low on energy. Oh, what the hell, any excuse to eat cake! 

Surprisingly, I find the monster rather benign today. The weather is calm and clear, with a slight cooling breeze. The streams are gurgling with snowmelt and in front of me always lurks le Grande Galibier, the mountain peak from which the Col takes its name. At 3,228 metres, I’m pleased there’s not a road to the top of le Grande!

Yesterday, on Col du Glandon, I was stopped by cows blocking the way. Today, it’s sheep, being shepherded across the road and up an impossibly steep incline. They bleat and hop and defecate on the tarmac. 

The next few kilometres are some of the most relaxing climbing I’ve done in France. The gradient hovers between 5% and 7% as the road hugs the hillside and I content myself with leaning back in the saddle and admiring the view. My heart rate barely whispers 100 bpm. I lose myself in the reverie of the past few months, cycling across the breadth of this lovely country and, these last weeks, climbing its most iconic mountains. I’d be more than happy to spend every summer in these mountains, taking every backroad to a glorious summit. Forget languid days spent on the pristine white sand beaches of my Australia. Give me a lung-busting climb up a lonely road, with the promise of an unparalleled vista at the summit, where there’ll be a cafe offering a jambon and fromage baguette for a few Euros. Heaven.

At Plan Lachat, the road crosses to the other side of the valley. It’s here the real climbing begins, with the final eight kilometres along a majestic sweep of snow-capped mountains creating an amphitheatre of epic proportions. My imagination hears opera echoing down the mountainside. Perhaps I’m hallucinating from all the effort, as the gradient has ramped up to a consistent 8% and the hairpins are more frequent. I love the lack of a guardrail. It just adds to the wild untamed nature of the beast, even though I’m scared to cycle too close. 

There are more riders than on Glandon yesterday and it allows me to pace myself when I start to flag. On one steep section, I pass a young woman on a steel-framed bike, complete with panniers. I’d like to say I shot past her, but she held my rear tyre for a worryingly long period. Next in the race to the top is a confident cyclist, who as he speeds past me, nonchalantly changes down to a lower gear, just to prove how easy it is. Except, he changes too low and almost stops. I ride past him again before he recovers, with much clanking of gears, and passes me again. I try hard not to laugh out loud. The only real competitor on these climbs is yourself. 

As with all great climbs, I don’t want this one to end. Every switchback allows me magnificent vistas. About five kilometres from the summit, the snowbanks start to crowd the road. They provide a comforting coolness. The mountain ahead looks like a dalmatian, dotted with patches of snow alternating with clumps of rock. 

Near the summit, there’s a tunnel for cars through the Col. We cyclists have to go the extra few kilometres over the top. And what a pleasure that is. Two metre high snowbanks on the mountain side thrill me to laughter. I’ve never cycled this high before. It’s almost as much fun as kissing my wife after not having seen her for two months. Sorry, personal details getting in the way of a cycling story...

Snowmelt trickles across the road and looking down, I can see the switchback bends, gray tarmac a ribbon through the snow, with the lycra dots of fellow cyclists slowly climbing. Too soon, the summit arrives and I have an unsurpassed view of the Haute Alps… and one hundred cyclists at the altitude sign, waiting their turn for a photo. Many cyclists are ascending from the south slope, having first climbed Col du Lautaret. They earn the privilege of cycling past the monument to Henri Desgranges, but they also have to battle more vehicle traffic. The summit is clogged with cars and motorbikes and cyclists, all eager for a photo beside the sign. I wait my turn before putting on a jacket and gloves for the descent.

The snowbanks may have been enchanting on the climb, but as I gather pace on the descent, they offer an icy windchill and a slippery road surface with snowmelt. I clamp on the brakes, grit my teeth and wish I hadn’t written that stuff about no guardrails! Wherever possible, I look up from the next corner to enjoy the hard-earned view, but not for too long. 

I tailgate a car for a while. Amusing, but it defeats the purpose of being alone on a bicycle on a mountain. I notice more waterfalls on the downhill run and the wildflowers colour the narrow verge before the drop over the edge. I’m tempted to stop at the Beaufort Fromage Shop to celebrate with cheese made from mountain cows, but the car park zips past before I can decide. 

Much too soon, Valloire appears. Time for another cake. This time it’s tarte de pommes.

I have tackled a giant and survived. Ridley and I rest at a table with an umbrella shading us from the glare of sunshine off all that snow on the peak of Le Grande Galibier.

This is an edited extract from my eBook, baguettes and bicycles. To purchase this book for $2.99, go to my Amazon page, here.

A short video of the ride is below:

a day in Piedmont, Italy

Today, I drive from the French Alps into the Piedmont region of Italy. Not far, a few hundred kilometres, but, once again, I am impressed by the minute differences noticeable in crossing an imaginery ‘border’ line, how each culture seems to assert itself to the very extremities. 

I stop in the first Italian village after Briancon, called Cesana Torinese, with a snowmelt stream running through the centre and the buildings decorated with flags. I walk into a cafe and order an espresso. Aaahhh. Seven weeks of french coffee disappears in an instant. I walk down the street into another cafe and order a macchiato, with an almond biscuit. The bella young woman smiles at my ‘merci’ instead of ‘grazie’.  

The Italian grandmothers sit on bench seats in the shade, keeping a close watch on the children playing in the alley. A young Italian man walks past, hair flopping elegantly across his forehead, a pale blue sweater flung around his shoulders, immaculate leather shoes, brightly coloured socks. 

The conversation of two men, standing next to an old truck, is loud and animated. A man outside a bar looks on, amused. The pasticcera sells every shape and size of biscuit imaginable, a line of women waiting to buy. I’m so confused by the variety, I decide to wait until this afternoon to stock up.

Back on the Autostrada, I’m shunted out of the fast lane, even though I’m travelling at one hundred and thirty-five kmh. Alfa Romeos and Audis roar past. A heat haze mutes the landscape.

My wife and I were in Piedmont two years ago, staying near Vignale Monferrato in a vineyard-encircled B&B. At night, the owner cooked us a five-course dinner and served wine from grapes grown in the vineyard. After dinner we watched the sunset over the Alps. The Piedmont region is much quieter than the tourist-infested, expensive Tuscany, but offers many of the same qualities - ancient hillside villages, fantastic restaurants, vineyards, and great places to stay. But no Tuscan pines. If you want to see those, go to a nursery. 

Today, I have lunch at Vignale, a simple risotto with funghi and oil, sprinkled with cheese. It’s delicious, yet there are only two other diners on a Saturday. I mention this to the owner. He waves his hands, in despair. Two years ago, this restaurant was packed and my wife and I revelled, eating  fantastic pizzas ($4 each) and drinking cheap fizzy Asti wine. We were the only tourists here. I remember cycling the region, amazed at how every few kilometres there was another hillside village to explore, each with a three- hundred-year old church and expansive views. I barely managed any kilometres, too busy drinking coffee and eating to worry about the bike. 

On a Sunday, the owner of the B&B took me on a ride to Casale Monferrato, the major town. We cycled twenty-five kilometres in the hot sun, had a thirty-second stop for an espresso and rode back home, through, incongruously, rice fields. In honour of him, today I go to the same cafe and have a long, slow espresso, marvelling at the ancient town square, where a market is finishing and a stage is being erected for music later on this evening. I will return for dinner.  

A few hours later, the square is crowded with Italian families, as are the cafes and restaurants. I pass one outdoor eatery and marvel at the dress sense of the families. Everyone is wearing white or pastel colours, matching the white tablecloths. The men all wear close-fitting shirts, tucked in, with well-cut trousers. The last time I tucked my shirt in was when the referee told me to at the start of a football match five years ago.

Late in the evening, after dinner, I drive back to the B&B. The light seems washed out of the day, everything is bleached in a pastel hue. Perhaps that’s where they get their colour sense from? I stop at a rail crossing with boomgate and flashing lights, a train is due. And then I remember... maybe a train is due. I switch off the car engine, wind down the window and relax. Every car in the line has done the same. In Italy, it’s either wildly frantic... or frustratingly relaxed. A train trundles past, five minutes later.

The next morning, the friendliest hotel worker I’ve ever met offers me a bag of local rice, ‘for perfect risotto’ and wants to make me yet another excellent coffee before I make the scorching hot drive to Tuscany, to look at some pencil pines... 

the chambre d'hote experience - eating like a frenchperson

When I was cycling to the top of Col de la Croix de l'Homme Mort, I spotted a sign three kilometres from the summit that indicated a Chambre d'Hote was two hundred metres up the backroad. On descending, I went to investigate. It was in a stone building, with a restaurant of long wooden tables and a few outdoor tables which were blessed with commanding views of the Rhone Valley. Quite a few diners were lingering after an extended lunch. Madame showed me a chambre, pokey and a little small. I asked if there was anything with a view. She took me up one flight of stairs to a chambre with a balcony, a bellavista and two single beds. The cost? Twenty-seven Euros. That's about thirty-five Australian dollars. I said yes, immediately, explaining in poor French that I had to descend the mountain by velo before returning with the car. She shrugged, the room would wait. I returned an hour later and marvelled at the view all over again. 

   At night, the same woman was the cook for dinner. I ordered the most expensive formula menu - four courses at eighteen Euro, about twenty-five dollars. And a half-bottle of local rose for eight dollars. I could barely contain my smile during the lengthy meal.

   First course was a salad of asparagus, tomato, lettuce, an egg and dressing. Simple, but uninspiring. Second course was a potato gratin served in a dish big enough for four people, mushrooms and beans and two pieces of chicken cooked in a lobster sauce. The baby lobster was still in the sauce, sitting there red-faced,  displeased to be sharing a dish with a lowly chicken. It was delicious and would have fed two people, easily. I asked for extra bread to mop up the sauce.

    Third course was a fromage plate of nine cheeses, including brie and goats cheese and a wonderful semi-hard creamy one that I scoffed. I was welcome to eat as much as I could manage. The waitress brought extra bread to encourage me. 

    I needed a rest before dessert, so asked for an interlude. I surveyed the room and the other customers. Four men who looked like farmers were sitting at one table and two younger men at another table. All were eating intently, heads down, looking up only to order more bread or wine. It was a simple restaurant, catering for locals. I noticed a table was set near the fireplace, with food waiting in bowls. Soon after, the man I'd seen earlier tending the garden came in and sat down. He was dressed in overalls and flannelette shirt. 

   After an hour and an empty bottle of wine, I ordered dessert, a lovely cherry clatfoutis. I wondered if there was anywhere in the world where you could eat so much quality home-cooked food for the price. Perhaps Italy? The equivalent meal in Australia or the UK would cost three times as much. Actually, you couldn't get this sort of meal in those countries. No restaurant would offer nine cheeses for diners to eat as much as they want. Or huge bowls of potato gratin and chicken cooked in lobster sauce as part of a basic 'workers menu.' And local wine for a few dollars? Sadly, not in my country. In fact, I splurged on the wine. I could have ordered a carafe (500ml) of rose for three dollars fifty. 

   The Chambre d'hote is a wonderful experience of regional french rural life, with simple cooking and cosy accommodation, all for a reasonable price. There is nothing 'designer' or 'cutting edge' about it. Simply put, you get to feel as though you eat the way rural french people do. And that, as the advertising cliche goes, is priceless.

cycling up Mont Ventoux - the giant of Provence

The owner of the bike hire store had seen it all before. Hundreds of prospective clients come in every day, lift the road bikes, testing their weight, lovingly running fingers over the shiny carbon-fibre frames or checking the price of the lurid yellow Mont Ventoux jerseys, promising themselves a purchase if they make it to the summit and return unscathed. 

In the late afternoon yesterday, I collected my pre-booked Trek Madone with three cogs at the front, ten gears on the rear cassette. That’s thirty gears altogether. Should be enough. I asked the owner if there was a discount for two days hire. He smiled, ‘You want to do Ventoux twice, we’ll make a deal.’ His words were encouraging, even if the tone was ‘dream on, amateur.’ I vowed to keep this shiny lightweight bike away from Craig. No point in making him feel bad.

I’ll never kick a football on the hallowed turf of the Nou Camp. Or don running spikes in front of a heaving crowd at Sydney’s Olympic Stadium. But, this morning, in a Provencal village, I’m about to cycle up one of the most feared climbs of the Tour de France. My preparation has been three weeks of cycling across France from west to east with Craig, and in the last few days I’ve climbed two ‘junior’ mountains of the Tour de France. Oh yeah, and I’ve learnt the french translation for ‘Call an ambulance, quick!’ But, with all this, I’m shaking as I park the car in the grounds of the bike rental shop in Bedoin. 

The French philosopher, Paul Fournel, said of Mont Ventoux, ‘It leads nowhere. It exists only to be climbed.’ Fellow philosopher, Roland Barthes was less complimentary, ‘The Ventoux is a God of Evil, to which sacrifices must be made. It never forgives weakness and extracts an unfair tribute of suffering.’ Lance Armstrong said, simply, ‘It’s more like a moon than a mountain.’

Visible from one hundred kilometres in every direction, Ventoux rears from the Provence plain like a hunch-backed giant. What looks like snow on the top, is in fact a barren wasteland of scree and rock. If it’s a hot day, beware the last few kilometres, where wind speeds of 320 kmh have been recorded. Every day in spring and summer, hundreds of cyclists attempt the ascent from Bedoin, twenty-one torturous kilometres to the summit. In between strained pedal strokes, the riders think of Lance and Cadel and, most of all, Tom Simpson, the British champion who died a kilometre from the summit during the ’67 Tour. 

My aim today, if I can’t make the summit, is to reach Simpson’s Memorial, and like many cyclists before me, leave a momento carried up the mountain for our Tom. But first, there’s a few kilometres in between. My muscles are twitching with anticipation as I start, well in advance of the hordes who’ll be cycling up later in the day.

After an easy kilometre riding out of Bedoin, the climb begins. Almost immediately, a lone cyclist passes me in a blur and I consider tucking into his slipstream. He’s forty metres ahead before I decide to save my energy for the last few kilometres. Let’s see who’s laughing then, Pierre!

The ascent from Bedoin is in three parts. This first section is a lovely easy climb through vineyards and cherry orchards, the trees heavy with fruit. I check my Garmin, my heart is racing above its usual climbing limit but it’s excitement rather than exertion, or so I tell myself. Time for the slow breathing exercises I’ve been practising. Count to ten, forget the pain in the legs, relax the arms, keep the hands loose on the handlebars, breathe normally.   

WHATEVER YOU DO DON’T TIGHTEN UP! 

Easy. 

I take my first drink of water, wondering if I should have brought two bottles. But all that extra weight? I look back towards Bedoin, still sleepy on this sunny Saturday. The cyclist who passed me has disappeared. I check my heart rate. It’s steady. I’ve ridden four kilometres. I reach for the water bottle again, but stop myself.

The second section, let’s call it the ‘forest of torture’ arrives at the next corner. The gradient ramps up to 9% and doesn’t drop for ten kilometres. In fact, it regularly nudges 12%, but the stunted wind-blown pine trees offer redemptive shade and I start to relax. A few very early risers are already descending, whirring past at a scary pace. In truth, I’m more nervous about the descent than the climb. My bike, let’s call her Madeleine (I’ll explain later), is unfamiliar and has slick racing tyres. The only thing slick about me is the sweat on my bald head. Which brings me back to the forest. The difficulty of this section is the long straight stretches. There’s no way to fool yourself into thinking the gradient will drop just around the bend. In high summer, the forest is a furnace of parched air, a stretch feared even by Tour veterans. 

I love the little white and yellow pillboxes, let’s call them ‘tombstones’ shall we, that list the gradient and the distance to the summit. I should take a photo of one, but I really don’t want to stop and break my rhythm. 

Who am I kidding. I’m afraid that if I get off Madeleine, I’ll struggle to get back on. I haven’t had a sip of the water since the first section, but I refuse to drink until I’m out of the forest. I promise myself a gulp at the Chalet, somewhere up ahead. Another cyclist speeds by downhill, his face contorted in a wild grin of ecstasy, or fear. I have tucked a rolled up jacket into my jersey pocket for the expected chill of downhill. In the forest, it’s soaked through with sweat from my jersey. Another corner, another stretch of five-hundred metres, still 9%, before another corner. Like an angry customer at a grocery store, it goes on and on, not pausing for breath.

Sooner than I expect, the third section arrives, the final six kilometres from the Chalet Reynard. This is the famous ‘lunar landscape’ television images of the Tour de France, where the heat seems to radiate from the pale boulders and scree. At first sight, it is truly unearthly. But, I love it, because the gradient drops to a merciful 7% and I actually increase speed, although it’s improving from a very low average. At last, there’s a view to take my mind off my legs. The meteorological tower on top of Ventoux is also visible for the rest of the climb, so I know just how close I am. 

As I pass Chalet Reynard, a bus unloads a bunch of tourists. One quickly takes my photo, the madman on the bike. Secretly, I’m chuffed. And so, begins the madness of the final ascent, where, on three occasions, I have my photo taken by professional photographers, who run alongside me and offer their business card, so I can visit their web-site later and buy the photo. They wish we cyclists a ‘bonne journee.’ 

Suddenly, my attitude changes completely. I’m smiling, my breathing is slow and easy, I even lean back and take a hand off the handlebars, relax into the view. Is that the Mediterranean? Up ahead are a few riders. I appear to be gaining on them. Surely not. I check my Garmin. The gradient remains at a friendly 7%. I’m four kilometres from the summit. Perhaps twenty minutes from climbing one of the most feared mountains in cycling. And then, I start thinking of a puncture. If I got one, what would I do. Cry? Take a deep breath and fix it, knowing I can never pump enough pressure into the tyres for easy cycling. Or would I just push the bike the remaining distance? I try to ignore these thoughts, stare up ahead where the tower looms ever larger. Three kilometres to go. I pass two cyclists, offering a smile and ‘tres difficile’. They nod in agreement, too exhausted to speak. 

In the final two kilometres, the gradient again ramps up to 9%, as if Ventoux is having the final word. Mercifully, the wind is cooling, rather than threatening. I ride past Simpson’s Memorial, attempt a passable impression of bowing my head in deference while pedalling. I decide to visit and pay my respects on the descent. The second last corner is a sweeping left-hander that faces a towering wall of parched rock and scree. In summer the heat would blast from these rocks and baste the cyclist. I look up. Nothing but rock and deep blue sky. At the final hairpin bend, I do what every cyclist before me has surely done. I increase my cadence, just to show I’ve got something left. Yeah, dream on. 

I’ve made it. I dodge the tourists alighting from a bus and head straight for the Mont Ventoux sign, where a few cyclists patiently wait their turn to be photographed with the altitude marker. A French cyclist takes my photo and I reciprocate. A cyclist arrives every minute. Another tourist bus disgorges hundreds of photo-snapping daytrippers and motorcyclists thunder into the car park. 

But, let’s forget all that and enjoy the view. To my left are the Alps, much closer than I imagined, with many still snow-capped. Directly below me is the snaking road, littered with cyclists, slowly climbing. To my right, a long view south towards the Mediterranean, villages appear as brown-stone dots from this altitude. Behind me is the meteorological tower. Oh yeah, and a lolly stall and sausage stand. I eat the chocolate bar I brought with me. I don’t really want to leave, feeling I’ve earned the right to dawdle and admire Ventoux’s majesty.

My time to the top? Two hours and six minutes. Professional riders take one hour, trained amateurs between one hour thirty and two hours thirty, so I’m happy with that. But, frankly, who cares about time when there is that view and a real sense of achievement. I look at the faces of each of the cyclists as they arrive. Do I look like that? A mixture of pride, exhaustion and something... intangible, like someone who’s solved a mystery that’s been stalking them for ages. Is it contentment? Or resolution? Whatever, it’s fun watching their faces. 

Without wanting to, I shrug into my jacket and slowly begin the descent to Simpson’s Memorial. It takes less than two minutes. I lean my bike against a snow post and walk quietly up the stairs to the obelisk. I offer a chocolate bar and a small piece of scree brought up from Bedoin. I wanted to bring a bottle of cognac but couldn’t find one small enough to fit into my jersey pocket. It’s thought Tom had a few sips of alcohol at Bedoin, before the fatal ascent. Like many Tour riders, any drug was welcome. The temperature of Ventoux on that day in 1967 was thought to have reached 50 degrees. Tom Simpson, a World Champion, had fallen off once, just a few metres downhill, before supposedly uttering the now famous words, ‘Put me back on the bike.’ There’s much conjecture about what he actually said, but true or not, his courage drove him forward to just below this memorial where he collapsed again. 

The foot of the memorial is decorated with bidons, a cycling cap and rocks. Beside the inscription to his memory are two plaques from his daughters, one in 1997 at the 30th anniversary of his death and another in 2007. They are both very moving and sombre. I walk gingerly down the stairs and look back up to the summit. So close. 

It’s now peak-hour on the Bedoin ascent, with groups of cyclists huffing and sweating their way to the summit. I’m so pleased I set out early. At the Chalet, gangs of motorcyclists gather in the car park beside Winnebagos and tourist buses. I’m surprised by the crowds. I’ve been told the Chalet refuses to offer water from the tap to cyclists, they must buy a bottle like everyone else. I take a sip from my bottle. It’s nearly empty, but the only exertion I’ll be doing in the next thirty minutes is hurriedly applying the brakes. 

In the forest section, a few riders are already walking and I’m amazed to see some riding up with mountain bikes and old steel-frame bikes. More courage to them. I had it easy on this Trek Madone. At 11am, I arrive back in Bedoin for a celebratory soft drink. No beer, because on the descent, I’ve decided to ride out from Bedoin after lunch to the Col de la Madeleine, a small mountain I drove over to get here. As I’ve dubbed my Trek, Madeleine, she deserves an extra few kilometres. 

I go to a bar and order a large coke, with lots of ice. I call my wife to tell her I’ve climbed Ventoux. I try hard not to blubber across twelve thousand kilometres of phone line. Outside the bar, a posse of cyclists are gearing up for the ride. They laugh and challenge each other to predict the time it’ll take to reach the summit. Their accents are English. Just like Tom.

After lunch, Madeleine and I set out easily for the Col de la Madeleine. It’s a glorious little road, like a scene from the movie, Jean de Florette. And yes, there is a goatherder who sits under a stunted tree, surveying his goats. I stop at the summit and admire the quiet. It’s a beautiful cloudless Provence day. The forecast tomorrow is for more of the same which means I’m going to cycle up Ventoux, from a different side. 

In the evening, I sit outside at La Lyriste and eat another delicious three courses. I’d like to tell you what I ate, but I honestly can’t recall. My mind was half-way up Ventoux. Tom was beside me, reaching across, offering a bottle of cognac. He winked and told me it was just the elixir for climbing. I took a sip and handed it back. He powered away, into the forest.

This is an edited extract from my eBook, baguettes and bicycles. To purchase this book for $2.99, go to my Amazon page, here. 

baguettes and bicycles is a travel adventure, a restaurant safari and a guidebook for those who enjoy slow food, easy cycling... and fast descents.

Video here:

A word on mountain climb Categories:

I use MapMyRide to assign a Category to each climb. Simply put, Category Five is the 'easiest' and Category One the 'hardest', although there can be noticeable differences in difficulty within each category. Col de l'Oeillon was longer and more difficult than Col de la Croix de l'Homme Mort, for example.

And then, of course, there is the 'hors category' above Category One. This is literally a mountain so tough it is 'beyond' categorisation. Think Mont Ventoux or Col du Tourmalet.

a good coffee in Paris?

    Paris... the Louvre; Notre Dame; sidewalk bistros; Sacre Coeur; Pere Lachaise; that chocolate-coloured tower they were supposed to dismantle in 1909; the Seine; the worst coffee in the world... hang on, that last one doesn’t fit the script. I have never had a good coffee in the City of Light. I once saw a barista boil the life out of a jug of milk, put it in the fridge for a few minutes and then scald it all over again. Every cup I’ve consumed, I’ve added copious amounts of sugar to ‘adjust’ the flavour. I’ve tried espresso, noisette, long, American, latte... all a disaster.
    I love Paris. Who doesn’t? I love the French, they are friendly, accommodating and slyly humourous. I love French food, what they can do with simple ingredients like butter or flour or cream defies the imagination. But coffee? I’d rather have a cup at the milk bar in Wagga Wagga than risk a Paris cafe.
    But, that is my task for today. Without my wife here, I cannot be expected to stroll over the Pont Neuf, holding hands with myself. I can’t linger too long at the Jardin Luxembourg without getting a little teary. I can’t eat steak tartare at a sidewalk brasserie. Actually, I can and probably will do that last one. But, what I’m happy to attempt is a search for the perfect cup. 
    First up, it’s managing the Metro, perhaps the best subway system in the world. It’s no problem easily and economically navigating my way to the first contestant of today’s challenge. Situated in the 4th arrondissement, close to the Seine and Hotel de Ville is La Cafeotheque. In the interest of research, I ask the barista what other people are drinking, while pointing at their cups. This scares most of his customers, but he answers diligently, ‘macchiato,’ ‘cappuccino,’ and ‘flat white.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard that expression outside of Australia, so I order one, double-strength. It comes on a tray with a glass of water and a chocolate. It’s so strong, I have to order extra milk, but it isn’t bitter and has obviously been made with Arabica beans, not Robusta, which is what most French cafes persist in using. Quelle horreur! I drink it sitting on a lounge covered in clean hessian coffee sacks admiring the display of coffee beans for sale. The smell of roasting comes from the next room. So, Cafeotheque scores well in taste, friendly service and location, but loses points for the five Euro price tag. That’s over $7 for a coffee. Non!
    A quick metro transit to the 7th Arrondisement for Cafe Coutume... and it’s closed. Merde! Peeking in the window, I see a menu of reasonable priced coffee and an excellent espresso machine and one of those 24-hour slow drip coffee laboratories. So, they’re serious about coffee. Pity I couldn’t taste it. However, Coutume does lose points for location. It’s not somewhere I’d go just for a coffee.
    My next step is to ask a (semi) local, my son Joe’s friend, Jesse, a fluent french-speaking young man of keen intellect and good taste in friends and coffee, studying at the Sorbonne. Jesse walked me through Pigalle in the 9th Arrondissement to KB Cafe, on the way teaching me about conjunctive verbs. Yes, I’m supposed to know that stuff, being a writer and all, but as I suggested, Jesse is smarter than me. I let him do the ordering, at the counter, which in itself is unusual in Paris. When we’re given a table number, it feels like I’m back in Newtown. The coffee is excellent, as are the huge slices of carrot cake and raspberry/pistachio cake we share. The barista doesn’t put the last slice of cake back on display either. He cuts it into bite-size pieces and places it on a plate on the counter as a free sample. I like that. 
    Jesse tells me that, in an earlier life, the cafe was called Kooka Borra Cafe, but recently shortened to KB. The Australian coffee mafia is making inroads, it seems. KB wins in every way - taste, price (E3.50 for flat white), location, being close to Pigalle and Montmatre, and atmosphere - it’s a comfortable casual cafe with free wifi and tables outside. In fact, I’d rank it as one of the best cafes in Europe I’ve been to, alongside a cafe in Rotterdam, opened by... yep, an Australian.
    Three places in Paris to drink good coffee. That’s three more than were here on my last trip in 2010. Go to KB Cafe, if you can. We need to encourage the french to improve the only thing they can’t do well.


KB Cafe, 62 Rue des Martyrs, 9th, Metro: Pigalle
La Cafeotheque, 52 rue de l'Hotel de Ville, 4th, Metro: Pont Marie
Coutume Cafe, 47 Rue de Babylone, 7th, Metro: Sevres Babylone.

A day in Strasbourg, France

   When I check into my hotel in Strasbourg, the hotel manager insists I visit  St Thomas’s church because ‘Mozart played the organ there.’ My last blog, from Ulm in Germany also mentioned Mozart playing the organ at the Munster Cathedral in that fine German city. Either this has the makings of an urban myth and every town with a Cathedral organ in Europe lays claim to Mozart’s virtuosity. Or, as I prefer to believe, if you’re Wolfgang Amadeus, you get to choose only the best organs in the biggest Cathedrals. 

   St Thomas is certainly worthy of Mozart. It also houses a sculpture by Jean-Baptiste Pigalle dedicated to Marshall Maurice of Saxony in 1777. I love the way the figure of the Marshall stands above his own coffin as the Grim Reaper opens the lid, while a woman and child weep. Hercules, off to the side, can only throw back his head and wipe his brow in a rather exaggerated gesture of defeat. I must order something like that in my memory. Donations accepted.

   On to the Catherdal of Notre Dame, a short communal procession away. Notre Dame is late Gothic in style, built of sandstone with ornate carvings outside and intricate lead-light windows inside. In three languages, signs throughout the church interior give me a religious education sadly lacking from my childhood. I learn all about the Hill of Olives, the Pillar of Angels and the Baptismal Font, and I only had to wait fifty-three years and come 12,000 kilometres to do it. It makes me like Notre Dame even more. I plan to visit again tomorrow, but not at 11am, when the astronomical clock inside the Cathedral is scheduled to do it’s thing. Not only will it be surrounded with tourists, flash cameras ready, but if it’s anything like the other ‘famous’ astronomical clock in Prague... well, I’ll just check my wristwatch if I need to know the time, thanks. Prague, and Strasbourg, are beautiful, magical cities that don’t need to advertise a clock as one of their drawcards.  

   Strasbourg is probably only second to Brussels in housing important European institutions, including the European Parliament and the Counseil de l’Europe. Which possibly explains why my waiter last night at dinner effortlessly slipped between English, German and French. And he was no older than twenty-five. I hate that. I tried to broaden my Australian accent in the hope of catching him out, but no chance. He was professional, humourous and didn’t once laugh at my fumbling french failings!

   Back to the European Parliament building, pictured at left. The designers would probably say all that glass symbolises ‘the transparency of government.’ I prefer to see it as a metaphor of self-reflection - no matter how hard you look, a mirror of the outside is all you see. Two hundred metres downstream is a tent and a bicycle of someone camping, certainly illegally, on an island. He/she has a wonderful vista of the Parliament across the water. 

   Back in the numerous alleyways of the old town, I chance upon the cake shop, Christian. I stand at the window for a very long time, gazing in awe. It's a gallery of blooming macarons and assorted delights. The Pierre de lune is a mousse of chocolate from Madagascar sprinkled with pistachio nuts and a dusting of icing sugar in the shape of a fingernail moon. The Puits d’armour is a cylindrical confection of almond pastry topped with a mousse of chocolate from Peru, a dollop of raspberry dribbling over the side. My favourite is a passionfruit cylinder cake with a gooseberry on top decorated with tiny pink macaron hearts. Standing outside the shop is more fun than being at the art museum! Eventually I have to move as too many people are wanting to take photos and a man in lycra with all that confection... well.

   In Place Gutenberg, the farmers and producers of Alsace have set up a market. Central is the lettuce pyramid, five metres high, surrounded by wood-framed flowerboxes of growing wheat, rhubarb, strawberries, beetroot... in fact, every type of vegetable imaginable. ‘Look kids, this is where food comes from!’  

   I particularly like the escargot caravan, the myriad of apple juice stalls and the tarte flambee tent. It all makes me hungry, so I find a cafe, full of hip young locals. 

   Boy, do I stand out, dressed in lime-green cycling jersey, and being twenty years older than everyone else. I have duck rillette smeared across a slice of grainy bread and a salad. Sounds ordinary, tastes delicious. It takes me an hour to eat it, so rich and satisfying. I only leave because the sound of the music is starting to make my ears bleed. Young people today!

   I cycle back to my hotel and have an afternoon nap in a garden chair, a pot of tea on the table beside me, a blanket over my knees, tartan slippers on my feet, dribbling ever so slightly.

Eurovelo 6 - Sigmaringen to Ulm, along the Danube.

When I started writing this Eurovelo 6 blog, my initial plan was to finish cycling in Basel, and meet my beautiful wife in Paris, followed by a week in Morocco and a visit to her ancestral family village in Sicily. But, we didn’t plan on Cathie getting sick back home in Australia the week before she was supposed to fly out. Doctor’s orders leave her at home in a chilly Katoomba winter, being cared for by our son Joe, and me biding my time in Europe, hoping she’ll be able to make it for at least six weeks of our planned three months. Which is why I’ve been cycling along Lake Constance and into Germany. 
    It’s perhaps appropriate that my last day riding east is also my longest at one hundred and ten kilometres. The Danube meanders sluggishly through a wide valley of farms and a series of small villages with plain houses surrounding a stocky white-painted church. In the square of each town, the traditional maypole has been erected. I’m too late for the fete that takes place, either on May 1st or at the Pentecost, but the decorations give each village a jaunty, ‘we’ve just had a party’ appeal. Near the maypole there’s usually a temporary statue of a stork, often painted in outlandishly bright colours, or in one case, wearing a top hat and tails. If I was a self-respecting stork, I wouldn’t be nesting in that village. 

    But, there is an early migrant nesting in Zell when I ride through. Judging by this rooftop, storks not only bring good luck but also a lovely frosting of bird droppings to colour the tiles. 
   After fifty kilometres, the valley narrows and the path climbs significantly. At the top, I have a lovely view of cropland and  more white churches. 

   As it's my last day heading east, it starts to rain and keeps raining until I reach Ulm, my destination. The Ulm Munster cathedral is a monster, with the tallest steeple in the world. The square in front of the church is empty, all the cafes pushed well back so visitors can take in the enormity of it’s loft. It’s neither elegant or particularly attractive, but I love the Gothic spires, the massive organ inside, reputedly once played by Mozart and underneath the organ, the haunting sculpture of Jeremiah.

   Next to the church is the Rathaus with a series of vivid paintings adorning each outer wall, accompanied by a story, which unfortunately I can’t read. In each painting someone is pointing a finger at someone else. Methinks, there’s a cautionary tale being told. Regardless, it’s a lovely way to accentuate a town hall. 

   Ulm, like many cities with a river flowing through them, has a ‘Venice quarter’. My hotel manager implored me to check it out. It’s not the enchanted city, but it is lovely, particularly the 16th Century small hotel, built over the stream, which looks in danger of sinking. It’s called, appropriately, Schiefes Haus (the crooked house). To stay a night in this hotel only costs twice a much as every other lodging in the area. I wonder if the bed has a lean as well?

   Tomorrow I begin a series of train journeys west, necessary because some idiot didn’t book a reservation for his bicycle on a fast train. So, with a stopover in Strasbourg, I'll be riding the local trains most of the way to Paris. From there, I'll drive south, with my bicycle in the back, to Provence and the French Alps. After following rivers for the past month, I’m now going to tackle one or two mountains, while waiting and hoping my beautiful wife will be given the okay by doctors to fly over and meet me. 

   

    As it's my last night in Germany, let me write a few things about German food. Heavy, winter-friendly, cream-added, salt-enriched, processed meat... 

   Okay, now I've got that out of my system. Germans offer wonderful breakfasts - muesli, yoghurt, a huge choice of bread and rolls, three types of cheese, eggs, salami, ham, tomato, cakes, juice and coffee. Sometimes, I just wanted to stay in the dining room all day, but I knew I had to exercise to compensate for tomorrow's breakfast.

   They also have lovely strudels, of course and the beer is fantastic. Is beer a food? Anyway, as I've mentioned previously, it's cheaper than water and offered in huge jugs. I always feel like a Viking holding one of those mugs.

   But, the two best meals I had were in a Turkish restaurant and a Greek restaurant respectively. I guess you could say the same about Australia; that the influx of migrants has dramatically improved our restaurant options. However, what many Germans eat is just too meaty and is too reliant on cream in the sauce. 

   Next trip, I'll stick to the three B's. Breakfast, bread and beer!