clairedavieswriter

After yesterday’s fun and games, I extracted a promise from Guillaume that we would ride only on tarmac. He was good to his word, but failed to warn me about the 6k of climbing straight out of the gate. Fortunately, it was a steady incline, and Bernard, fresh from a comfortable night in the hotel lobby, spun his pedals quite easily, though we could have done without the stiff south easterly wind. As always, the reward for our effort was waiting for us at the top.

That was followed by an exhilarating descent – and so it went on for the rest of the day.

High up on a ridge outside a tiny hamlet, I came across this touching memorial to two of their own, whom I’d assumed to be isolated victims of the war…

Until I noticed the name of this nondescript street in the next village, which brings a horrifying new meaning to the word ‘raffle’:

We pedalled first into Cantal (where signs instructed drivers to have snow chains in their vehicles in winter) and then the Auvergne, two of the least populated regions of France: my veterinarian hosts told me this evening that cows outnumber people three times over. There were few villages, fewer shops, and a lot of derelict buildings.

The same was true of Lacapelle Marival, and this being Sunday, it had nowhere open to buy lunch. In these circumstances it seemed unwise to ride past a boulangerie in Latronquière that was doing a lively trade. Extreme foresight would have been required to buy pastries: they were only available on pre-order, 48 hours in advance, so I bought what was available – possibly the world’s most well-stuffed eclair.

With crème patissière coursing through my blood stream, we attacked the hills with renewed vigour, and found more views to admire at the top.

But be warned: mushroom rustlers will not be tolerated:

Around midday I had my first daunting glimpse of mountains to the north east, but they will be tomorrow’s challenge.

Bang on lunchtime, just as the effects of the sticky bun were wearing off, this shady picnic table appeared, as if summoned by force of will: the perfect spot to enjoy the diminutive cheese sandwich I’d saved from my hotel breakfast.

I’d not heard of the Green Meridian before, but Google tells me it was part of a millennium project to plant trees in a vertical line down the country, passing through Paris. They might have got away with not planting extra ones round here:

I enjoyed this goat-led approach to recycling Christmas trees:

While elsewhere they were putting in place a more industrial approach to creating bioenergy: an agricultural mechanisation unit:

I later learned from my hosts that the unit is designed to burn food waste, but that it is extremely controversial due to fears that financial incentives will instead generate a pull factor, and lead to usable food, like sausages and sugar, being diverted to feed the incinerator. That would explain angry signs like this that I saw along the way:

After a glorious morning on quiet rural roads, we couldn’t avoid the last 20k on the N122. Traffic was light and there were no lorries, but I confess that skirting Aurillac on a new bypass, into the wind, on tired legs was probably the low point of the day. Nonetheless, we reached our second Warmshowers hosts mid-afternoon, and Bernard was soon nestled companionably among their varied cycle collection:

From 22kg ex-post bikes…

To bullet-shaped carbon fibre recumbent trikes.

Yesterday I discovered that Bernard’s pannier rack had lost a screw – presumably during one of Guillaume’s off-road excursions. Within seconds of mentioning this, my host Laurent had found the perfect replacement and checked all the other fastenings. So you’ll be relieved to know I don’t have a screw loose.

We may all have cause to review that tomorrow, when I am due to pedal up to a ski station on a main road.