clairedavieswriter

Seldom have the words “I’m taking the bus replacement service” sounded so good.

Overnight, I had reflected further on my seasoned cyclist hosts’ undisguised horror that I was planning to pedal through Le Lioran on the main road. To put it mildly, they didn’t think it would be much fun – and that was without taking into account the climbing: it was the traffic, and basic safety, that most concerned them.

Unlike LEJOG, this isn’t a ‘pedal every inch or you’re a sissy’ kind of trip, and as my mother used to say, ‘discretion is the better part of valour’, so by this morning I’d decided to listen to the locals. A train line existed – I would use it to get over the pass, and pick up my journey from there.

To complicate matters somewhat, trains weren’t running, and my host was so doubtful that Bernard would be allowed in the bus luggage compartment that I almost reverted to my original plan. I’m so glad I didn’t. As Fiona’s Louisiana friend used to say, “if you don’t ask, the answer is automatically no”. Fortunately, when I eventually reached the front of a slow moving queue at the SNCF counter at Aurillac station, exactly three minutes before the bus was due to leave, the answer was ‘oui’.

I bolted for the bus stop. After some nervous rearranging of his luggage, Bernard fitted in the space precisely, without an inch to spare. He took the indignity with good grace.

Travelling the same route we would have taken, I had no regrets: the way up was fast, busy with commercial traffic, and had no hard shoulder. The way down included a terrifying-looking section of steep three-lane highway. Let’s just say that I would have had little chance to enjoy the views:

The driver was on a tight schedule, and hustled Bernard out of the hold at Neussargues, leaving me to eat dust as I reloaded the bags. A lone hiker, down from Angers to tour ‘the Puys’ (I didn’t catch all of the names) came over for a chat, and share tales of his favourite cycling adventure, to the Black Sea on Eurovélo 6. Nearer to home, he recommended La Vélo Francette, from Caen to La Rochelle – some of which I travelled on a couple of weeks ago.

It was only 7k to my destination – all of them uphill, but the slope was gentle, and soon we were enjoying more stunning views. I could have cycled further, but my accommodation was booked and to be honest my legs could do with a rest after yesterday.

We arrived at our auberge in time for lunch, which was just as well, as it’s closed for dinner.

In the convivial dining room I joined an all-male clientele – sixteen burly farmers, hair stiff with sweat, in well-scuffed boots and sun-faded T shirts, chatting with their co-workers, not a mobile phone in sight. Incongruously, their dessert was Isle Flottante, with lashings of chantilly. The main course was steak haché with petit pois, so you can guess what I had. Maybe I was just hungry, but it tasted delicious.

Tonight I am the only guest in the auberge, there are no other restaurants in town, and the only épicerie is shut on Mondays. Fortunately, thanks to a tip-off from the owner, I won’t go hungry, though sadly I won’t be having an apéro, as the bar closed for the day at 5pm. It will be a quiet night.