As a nod to a great boy, now man: 2:14 AM: I woke up.
Last night I stored my bicycle outside on my patio-in-name-only. In the middle of the night I became dimly aware that it was raining, raining on my bicycle. I felt dumb. I dragged myself out of bed, the door open, and the bicycle inside.
I am feeling a little bit of pressure to have fun now. It is only a slight overstatement that I planned the whole trip around today’s itinerary–I have happy memories of visiting these villages with my parents–and I’m determined not to be rushed in enjoying myself. So I ditch any notion of breakfast at the hotel. I’ll get an early start: I set my alarm for 6:00.
When I wake up, it is dark, cold, and wet. A cloud has settled on Laguiole. I lube my chain (weight savings! I pump my fist), suit up, haul my kit into the hall. Plan A: The bakery down the street that opens at 6:30. I’ll have breakfast there. Maybe the sun will come up while I’m eating. I wake up half the hotel calling the elevator.
The lights are off in the lobby. I can’t see much. My main light source is my dynamo hub, and it is not so helpful when not riding. The desk opens at breakfast time, still an hour away. I approach the automatic doors and brace myself for the damp dark. My jedi powers fail. My presence is insubstantial. The doors do not open.
I’m a little shy to experiment in figuring out the door’s mechanism. In the dark I imagine any attempt I might make on the exit will precipitate flashing lights, sirens, an automatic voice announcing my name into the early morning. The pensioners on vacation, ordinarily kindly, at least those that aren’t killed outright by the panic I’ve caused, will tut and mutter their disappointment, perhaps still wearing floppy sleeping caps. I’ll splutter, at a loss for words in English, let alone French. Not worth it.
A moment’s frustration rests on my mind, but is startled to flight when I remember how miserable the weather was from my balcony door. I wonder, idly, I hope, about what happens if the hotel catches fire. I decide on plan B: shorten my route, wait for breakfast to open, and take the late start. I carry the bicycle back to the elevator.
The weather has improved a little by the time I start moving.
The Aubrac, here, is a weather-beaten plateau, good for raising cows.
Temperature on the bicycle is fine. I’m getting a little wet, but I am confident enough that I’ll dry before lunchtime.
Could be California, volume 18. Reminds me of a wintertime run in Las Trampas with my brother. (The run ended with us calling L for a ride.)
We have fewer roadside crosses.
Descending toward the Lot valley.
And all of a sudden I’m in Espalion.
Even on a damp day like today, it’s an unbelievable transformation of the landscape to descend from the Aubrac, from where the Lot springs, down the valley it has created. The plateau is an exposed rock; the valley is a sheltered paradise. (A safe cove?)
The Lot flows slowly through Espalion. My roommate said these houses looked very French.
At river-level, looking back towards the “donkey’s-back”-style bridge near which I took the previous photo. There is a plaque on it commemorating the passage of uncountable thousands of pilgrims on the Chemin de Saint-Jacques.
I’m not trying to get anywhere, really. So I take a detour east (i.e. the wrong way) up the river to visit another pretty village. Here on the floor of the valley, which presumably used to be some kind of floodplain before the river was dammed, farms make use of the river-enriched soil.
This is the pretty village, Saint-Côme-d’Olt. One notable feature is the twisty spire of the church.
Cosmic
Headed west again. I’m hoping to have lunch a little farther down the river. It’s humid but not cold.
Approaching Estaing, at a crazy bend in the river.
It’s an impressive village. These decorations still stand out.
Estaing seems like the biggest village I’ve seen in a while, at least since Espalion. The same thought has occurred to the dozen or so pilgrims I see in the street, looking for something to eat. Seems like a likely enough place, but it turns out everything is closed today. There is nowhere like a café to get lunch–except for a hotel restaurant–second floor, terrace, probably a real time and budget sink. Outgoing pilgrims question a group smoking cigarettes and eating (!) outside a café. They explain it’s their day off. There is an automatic kiosk around the corner where you can order a pizza and have it delivered.
Or there’s the épicerie. I am, like Plato’s intemperate man, a little bit obsessed with jars of nice things, so these can be dangerous places for my wallet. But I have no capacity to take any of these obviously heavy objects with me.
Behind the counter is working one man, a little younger than me, maybe. There are about eight pilgrims in line in front of me, some with goods gathered from around the store, all hoping to have a sandwich made. The guy does sandwiches one at a time–there’s no assuming that all these people in hiking outfits want something like the same thing. No batch processing. I admire his commitment to this workflow, his determination not to be hurried–he’s doing a good job, after all–but it is a slow stop. The sandwich, once I get it, is top notch. It’s ham, cheese, butter, bread, probably the second-best sandwich “in the whole course of my experience,” not to bloviate.
I enjoy it in the main square. Behind me is the town castle. In front of me is the church, which is built on top of (?) those shops and houses. Cool. The van here (La Malle Postale) is delivering luggage for pilgrims.
Sandwich processed, ready to ride.
I will follow the river for most of the day.
This is a rolling section. I pass a stopped duo, who appear to be father and daughter, on e- and conventional bikes, respectively. They seem to be having a good time. They catch me again while I’m stopped for a Radler.
This is an inn in Golinhac. (This is a region where about 80% of the placenames end in -ac.) Back in 2019, my parents and I stopped here on a very hot afternoon. There is a bar inside and a large dining room with long benches, somewhat like what a beer hall in an old folks’ home, if such a thing exists, would be like. The focal point of that memory is struggling with the menu du jour, tongue with gravy. I remember looking around at the number of guests–mostly pilgrims–and wondering how many cows it had taken to provide these tongues. Presumably the chef got a good deal. My father mentioned that when he was a boy he thought tongue was the perfect meat for a sandwich. It fits neatly between the slices of bread.
Now off the French path.
The road is like this–low stone wall over the river to the left, a steep, treed hill to the right, small vineyards tucked away, smooth but patchy surface, four-house communes pressed against the hillside–for many miles. The occasional crazy château, some pockets of greenhouses.
On average it’s slightly downhill–I’m floating downstream–but the road must often climb the banks.
One of the bigger villages
Some monks steal a saint’s body, and a thousand years later we get this dope road sign.
Shedspiration
I’m away from the Lot for the moment. Partly it’s because I’ve taken a wrong turn. My original route had me go through a farmer’s field, but when I get there, there seems to be no track at all–just a pile of branches by a fence. So I freehand a detour. My computer reroutes me at nearly every intersection. It’s hilly here, so I make a bunch of mistakes, but the riding is great.
Towards late evening
I’ve arrived in Figeac, maybe my favorite place in France. Once a medieval merchant town–on such a nice river–it entered a long period of decline driven by outbreaks of plague. I’m not sure how to fill in the blanks, but in two thousand and twenty three it is full of life, art, culture, conversation, food, and, at least according to my host, decent politics.
(…for more coverage of “france 2023”, click here…)
a cozy place for odd rats i guess 