Today was to have been the BIG day of our trip, with plans to negotiate four or five high mountain passes, a chunk of the Route des Grande Alpes, starting with the Cols de l'Iseran and Galibier, both well over 2500 metres. The doubt, sown when we opened our curtains that morning, was grudgingly realized as fact when we reached the top of the Lautaret, the bottom of the Galibier. Only 48 hours before we had ridden over here in the warm and dry, if not under sunshine and blue skies. Now we were in the clouds, with visibility poor and rain bouncing off the slick, shiny Tarmac car park. It was grim, no sign of the jaw-dropping Alpine views I love so much.
We had turned right onto the Galibier, but stopped and decided a chat and a coffee was in order, before I led the way between some of the drab grey stone buildings which litter the Lautaret, the purpose of most I have no clue. Mike followed, but failed to appear on the other side so, having parked outside the hotel, I waited in the deluge wondering if he had been swallowed up by the Alpine equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. Eventually he emerged, having stopped to urinate against a wall like a dog, in the rain, as opposed to using the toilets in the dry and warm café. There’s no pleasing some people, you know.
We trudged into the deserted, darkened cafe, leaving puddles behind every footprint, stripped off our waterproofs and Mike ordered two coffees in his best French from a waitress who, it turned out, was from Dublin. Mike, whose wife’s family is from there, chatted about places they both knew, while I ruminated the feasibility of tackling the Galibier. After a hot chocolate, bought only to aid the process of procrastination, we decided not to bother; Alpine roads are fun but taxing riding and become hard work in bad weather, every mistake is slower and consequently more annoying and memorable; it would become a chore in that weather and that was not what we were there for.
|Outside the café on the Lautaret looking towards Galibier|
It was with a heavy heart that we left into the torrent and resigned ourselves to the most direct route back to Annecy. The rain accompanied our descent towards Grenoble, the only moments of note being Mike getting splashed by and nearly taken out by a homicidal (or suicidal) white van driver, then me stopping for the world’s longest pee in the same lay-by I had two years before. It was raining then too.
I hate leaving the Alps, I love the desolate passes, the peaks, both majestic and foreboding at once. On the Autoroute past Grenoble on a previous trip, I remember glancing across, seeing into a valley high in the mountains, slung from the peaks like a green hammock. I’d imagined a quiet secret place with stunning, life affirming views, wooden Alpine chalets, perhaps a brilliant road and a bar or café to view it all from. This time there was nothing to see, the clouds so low they obscured all but the nearest low, tree clad slopes. Even my imagination was thwarted by the grimness of the day.
Now on the motorway, I turned on the MP3 player in my sat nav and began singing along to the Killers. I noted how warm it now was when we stopped for petrol, accentuating the difference in temperature between 2000 and 200 metres above sea level. I was tapping away on my tank bag and singing when we arrived at the next péage. “Help me out. Yeah, you know you got to help me out. Don’t you put me on the back burner. Yeah, yo...” The music stopped mid flow, and so did I. Looking down the Garmin told me that I needed to connect it to a mounting, though it already was. Puzzled and slightly angry, I carried on regardless, what had just happened was to influence the rest of our journey.
I rode on silence now, though the Garmin continued silently indicating which turns I should take. It was telling me the right way, though, because I am stupid and belligerant, I thought I knew better. The Garmin instructed me to head towards Chambery. I, shunning its advice in an act of idiot petulance based upon the fact it had just failed on me, decided other wise. It was only when our slow-ish progress was reduced to virtually nothing by two cement mixers dripping their load onto us and the road into Aix-les-Bains, that I truly realized how stupid I was. The sat-nav carried on stoically giving me instructions until, as if exasperated by my stupidity, it gave up completely, leaving me with a blank screen and the task of navigating to the hotel in Annecy. It was a shame I ignored it as the roads were dry and we were sweating into waterproofs which were totally surplus to requirements and probably drawing puzzled glances from those who had not ventured into the mountains that day; “Zoze stoopeed Ingleesh, zjust coz it alvays rains in zaire countree...” The sat nav, I now realize had been trying desperately to send us along the D912, a good road I have ridden before, which would have taken us straight to the heart of Annecy.
By some miracle, however, we eventually found ourselves climbing off the bikes outside the Hotel des Alpes once again. Baggage in the hotel, we rode off to the underground car park where we secured the bikes and wandered back through the leafy square. Birds tweeted. Women walked. Men stared. The sun shone.
When wandering around any town with little to actually do, blokes tend to gravitate to one activity. Beer. We found ourselves sat outside a bar on the quayside in Annecy-le-Vieux. We sat with our beer, chatted and watched, astounded as, on the other side of the canal, some bloke set himself up as a sort of hideous life size yapping, snapping reindeer puppet thing. It was quite alarming. If he was hoping to attract passing tourists' cash, he failed dismally. Parents scurried away, carrying their terrified children, screaming with fear in their arms. Others just gave him a wide berth. He stood there under his black cloak, with this head thing on, performing to no-one for about 30 minutes before finally giving up the ghost and moving on.
|Quayside in Annecy|
I love Annecy, the old town is attractive and full of life, with bars and restaurants. It is built on the shores of the lake which provides stunning views of the mountains. I would recommend a visit to anyone. We wandered back up to the main street, found a table outside a restaurant, had more beer and I ate a very large and ridiculously expensive pizza. We decided not to stay for pudding but, as we were tired, headed back to the hotel, though couldn’t resist stopping at Antonio Caffé again for more beer and one of their sumptuous puddings. For a bad day, it had been quite good really.
I’ve ridden through the Jura Mountains a few times before but that Friday was probably the best route I’ve taken. We kept largely off the main roads which made for a bit of nadgery riding, but the roads were quiet, entertaining and rarely straight, despite what the map shows. In fact, I would go as far to say that this was probably the best day of the week, the mood was good and a feeling of well being accompanied us all day. And it didn’t rain. Indeed it was fine all the way to Beaune.
My day had started badly with another argument with an inanimate object. The paper napkin I had at breakfast had refused to stay on my lap and, as a means of punishing it, ignoring its mitigating plea that is was impossible to stay put on a lap consisting of leather trousers, I ripped it into very small pieces. It won’t do that again, I can tell you.
We set off from Annecy after a quick fiddle with the sat nav mounting on the tank of my bike. I couldn’t find any loose connections, so just carried on without the voice prompts, blissfully unaware that the unit was not being charged, so would fail soon.
Heading north-west out of town, we took the unexciting N508 up to Bellegarde-sur-Valserine, where we suffered a short-lived bout of geographical embarrassment, though we were soon back on track. Sadly, all these months on and, having deleted the files from my Garmin Connect account, I don’t know exactly which route we took, though I’m virtually certain we headed to Champfromier on the D991, before diverting onto a tiny road through a forest of the same name. Through Giron, we headed north on the D33 to St Claude. It was a great morning of reasonably gentle riding on narrow, completely traffic free roads. I’m pretty sure we didn’t see a car coming in the opposite direction for the whole ride. This is mountain country though and the journey to the Col de la Croix de la Sierra was all up hill before we descended steeply from a lofty 1049 metres. Distracted by the Garmin flashing ‘BATTERY LOW’ at me, I turned right at the junction with the D436, somewhat fortuitously, as the road was closed and a stop to check the map, revealed my folly.
|Checking the map|
We turned around and headed through St Claude where we stopped for petrol. Here something had to be done to ensure we stayed on track for the rest of the day. I am long sighted and have found over the years that I am unable to read a map stowed in a motorcycle tank bag, it’s just too close. Especially when trying to ride the motorcycle in question. Hence the need for the sat nav which has clear graphics and voice prompts. Most of the time anyway. Whilst eating a Snickers and gulping a bottle of water, I sat at a table about six feet from the petrol pumps and, reading glasses on, studied the map. Mike acquired some paper from the cashier and I wrote out a series of route cards, in big black letters, which would cover the rest of the day. The old ways are often the best and we didn’t take a wrong turn until we were back in the UK.
This stretch of the trip was brilliant. We headed west then south on the D436, a big wide road, with few cars and some bends to entertain, as long as you’re not riding too conservatively. At Dortan we turned right onto the D936 to be engulfed by the wonderful place that is rural France. It felt almost perfect and part of me wanted to start to stop and soak up the tranquility. But we has places to be and this, after all, was a motorcycling holiday, not an ornithology getaway. The road ran along eastern the shore of Lac de Coiselet, passing the dam until Thoirtette, where we turned right and right again onto the D109. This started off as a right pain, as it was scattered with loose gravel, making progress hazardous, at least at any speed. To make things worse, we suffered the ultimate ignominy, being overtaken by a Mum carrying her children in a drab coloured Renault Scenic. At the top of the hill though, the surface recovered and we opened the throttle. The bends flowed and turned, tight ones, open ones, blind ones, mostly perfect ones. Leaning one way, then the other, up and up, through forests on pale grey Tarmac, Madame Scenic was soon despatched and, for a while I felt like I could consistently ride a motorcycle at speed. It is glorious when you finally stop and cannot remember one little mistake, your heart pumps and feel like bursting with exhilaration.
|Waiting at the bridge. Small man - big helmet|
This continued to Arinthod, where we turned left on the D3. Road works scuppered the rhythm where a bridge was being rebuilt, so we dismounted and sat in the shade for about 15 minutes, watching a steel girder being lowered and the only driver getting frustrated. Had we not been held up for that time the idiot woman who pulled out on me at a junction would have been well behind us, luckily I had anticipated her being confused about the road layout, which was, to be fair, a little ambiguous, though I’m sure she didn’t even see me.
After a few more miles of twisty, turning, undulating roads we started the descent from St Julien to St Amour, dropping from 590 metres, down to about 200 metres over a distance of 8 miles. Knowing the route, it was obvious to me that these were to be the last few bends on mountain roads for this trip and, as if knowing this, the final escarpment provided a view fitting for such an occasion. Visibility was perfect and, in the far distance, I could just see the grey lumps of what must have been the Massif Centrale off to the south and west: to the north-west there was nothing but flatness. I managed to take all this in without stopping, but really wish I had found somewhere to appreciate it and maybe have taken some very poor photos, which would never have done it justice . The road didn’t disappoint either. Steep, it snaked its way down to the valley on good quality tarmac.
I always think there’s a difference when you return to normal elevations. You can feel the openness, perhaps the lowness. There is also a different atmosphere in the towns and on the roads, borne not only from the lack of hills, but it all seems that tiny bit more congested, more frantic, urban and modern, even in sleepy, rural France. Mountains have drama, but a tranquility and a maturity. I love the mountains. Which is why, as I sit locked in my house, with gales blowing outside, plans are already under way for another visit. Despite the rain, and my stated intention to not go back to the Alps because of the it, we’ll be back there this June.
As for the rest of this trip? Well, we meandered across to Maçon, where we joined the Autoroute and headed north to Beaune. For the second year running we stayed in the same room at Hostellerie de Bretonniere and drunk beer in our garden, we visited the same restaurant and ate the same things; for they are the rules. The next day we blasted up the Autoroute, 528 miles home, though we stopped at some services for a chat with Nigel, who was heading the other way to cycle the roads we’d ridden. Back in Cambridgeshire I was surprised when Mike rode straight past his junction, taking the long way home. Had he forgotten where he lived? More worrying, was he expecting to spend another night with me? Or was he was dreaming of the next adventure?