clairedavieswriter

Well that was pretty epic.

I knew I was in for some climbing, but without doubt the Auvergne saved its full experience till last – it’s the most I’ve ever climbed in a day, Lejog included, despite the distance being well within my normal range. Honestly, with the hills and the heat, it felt twice that.

It all started gently enough.

In my continuing quest to seek out the least known rivers in France, today was the turn of La Sénouire, which wriggled down a narrow valley lined with oak, hazel, beech, birch and pine.

At every bend in the road, hills loomed ominously ahead, and we continued relentlessly upstream for 15k, but it was surprisingly easy – dare I say enjoyable. I’m not bragging about my fitness – my legs were screaming this morning after climbing two flights of stairs. But gentle gradients and good gears, not to mention the morning cool, make all the difference. It felt like one of those old Spanish roads, built no steeper than a laden donkey could climb. It was incredibly peaceful – a handful of cars, few signs of human habitation, just dappled shade, birdsong, and the sound of the river below.

Eventually, we emerged from the sheltering trees onto a kind of alpine plateau.

Obviously, it was too good to last.

After an hour and a half of bliss, Guillaume, with an entirely straight face, said ‘turn left’. I didn’t even dignify his ‘road’ with a photo: it was a track, overgrown with thigh-high grass, climbing at 45 degrees up the left hand hill in the distance above. We were in the middle of nowhere, and there was no signal. I didn’t have a paper map (if I had, I might have rumbled his dastardly plan), and didn’t know whether to go forward or back. At exactly the right moment, my guardian angel du jour appeared, in a battered maroon Citroen. Together, we worked out how to get me back on my route, via a longish detour.

While it pains me to say it, Guillaume’s latest stunt actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise because I realised that the original route (beyond the ridiculous short cut) was all on a busy road. Fortunately, Hugo was able to suggest a quieter cross country option which was no longer, and only 100m hillier. Or so he said. It was undeniably quiet:

Some of it was even flat:

But most of it really wasn’t:

However the main drawback of Hugo’s route was that it didn’t go through Craponne sur Arzon, which – aside from having a charming name – was also where I had been planning on buying lunch. The new route looked worryingly short on townships large enough to sustain a shop, and my water supply was dwindling fast.

So I was relieved to come upon a store in Chomelix, with minutes to spare before it closed for the day. I ate my lunch in a shady spot by the church, beside four young French cycle campers who were drying their pants and towels on the fountain, but who otherwise kept themselves to themselves.

Just across from the church I came across this forthright dedication:

The rest of the ride was pretty gruelling, if I’m honest. Scenic, yes, and very rural, but very hot.

The main crop seemed to be grass: everywhere you looked, men in tractors were literally making hay while the sun shone.

And those Auvergne hills kept on coming, with more punishing gradients than this morning. So I was glad to reach my destination just before 5pm:

My pitch has a fantastic view of said castle.

Just before I got here, I bid farewell to the Auvergne and said hello to an old friend:

It’s hard to believe, but tomorrow, assuming my legs are still working, I’ll be in Geneva, where I’m looking forward to catching up with Claire, Harry, Sue and Simon, and to giving Bernard a bit of a rest.