Mont Ventoux, the 'easy' way ...
You may well recall my dear and valued reader that I was conned into signing up for an arduous charity event spending three days cycling in lovely Provence.
" do you fancy a ride in Provence?"
Well why not,
" it's for charity"
even better!
"and finishes climbing Mont Ventoux"
hold on, what was that last bit?
For those sensible folk, those who avoid cycling, Mont Ventoux is a legend, the monster, the destroyer, the toughest climb on the Tour de France, an iconic breaker of souls and legs.
In the end four members of #TeamBreakfastBike signed up, and in early July we rocked up at Heathrow, in various stages of trepidation to flit to Nice and from there to the first of our host hotels. Although the event organisers delivered amazingly good selection and signage of the routes over the three days they failed to meet my unreasonably high standards on some of the logistical and accommodation factors.
As an example, on arriving at the first fairly rustic auberge a number of us were informed that actually we were to be housed in a different hotel, within walking distance but would still be joining the core group for supper and breakfast. OK, but our suite for the night turned out to be a room just about big enough for three beds, containing, I guess inevitably, three beds.
This lovely building, rejected by 'Le Probation Service de France' as too spartan for young offenders did have a lovely communal shower area dispensing 5 second bursts of bracing chill and each of the cells had the ability to simultaneously manage the level of both heating and mosquito activity through the simple opening and closing of a window. And that's pretty much it. Oh, to be fair, we were each issued a threadbare towel and a piece of soap when we arrived, It's a long time since I was so forcefully reminded of my time in prison.
Dinner in the more upmarket (relatively) hotel was a classic holiday hotel buffet, can't really fault it and the highlight of the evening for me was spending twenty minutes practicing my execrable French with one of the waitresses before we mutually discovered that we shared Cardiff as a birthplace.
So back to our barracks for lights-out and the less said about that night the better, three middle-aged to elderly, mildly intoxicated blokes each of whom swore blind as the sun came up that they'd all been awake all night listening to the snoring of their roommates. Which begs the question, if none of us slept, who the heck was doing the snoring?
Day 1 - Verdon to Apt
Forget the insomniac trombonists, a nice breakfast, setting up the bikes, Provençal sunshine and the prospect of a fine day in the saddle and the world looked immeasurably better. We set off in raggle-taggle groups on our first day full of joie-de-vivre and boundless optimism. Which, for me at least, lasted for nearly 20km until the first horrible hill, I'm not a natural uphill cyclist, my bulk makes me pretty effective going down but makes any incline a challenge, and this thing got to 20% in places. I arrived at the top, giddy and breathless, spreading concern, sweat, part-digested insects, phlegm, swearing, wheezing and gasping amongst my assembled colleagues and then sat on the ground until the world stopped moving.
Recovered, we set off once more, I was now getting warmed up and the countryside was stupendous, field after field of beautiful lavender in full bloom, a perfect purple patchwork interspersed with occasional vineyards, sunflowers and fruit trees. Having got my breath I started to enjoy the ride, to enjoy my fellows in the peloton, old chums and new, and a delightful sense of fellow-feeling and well-being descended which, for me at least, never really went away over the next three days.
We rode some 500km over the three days, long days in the saddle but thankfully, with an adequacy of water stops, really important in 40-42 degree heat. Lunch on the first day was in a large hotel, on the second and third in much more attractive and atmospheric smaller inns.
Our arrival at the new accommodation at the end of day one revealed that we were still three to a room but in a much better class of barrack, spoilt rotten by the discovery of an ensuite toilet (not as much fun as you'd think with three men sharing) and a large rotating-still-air-movement-device attached to the roof.
We took refuge in beer.
Day 2 and Mont Ventoux.
We set off for this most momentous of days in mundane fashion, boarding a bus to take us to a lavender field some 30km from the mountain where our bikes had been laid amongst the crops. We had a choice of two routes, one (my choice) longer but with a slightly gentler gradient for the first 20km or so. The second route went through the town of Bedoin, the classic Tour de France approach but after my giddy spell on day one I opted for (relative) caution over machismo.
Absolutely loved the ride to the town of Sault where the climb begins, starting among the houses, wending, continually rising through farmland and pasture, still, at this point with the energy to raise a smile at the occasional roadside spectator.
The incline increased and I found myself entering the trees, after an hour or so of relentless slog through the forest, beset by flies, heat and younger, fitter folk passing me I eventually emerged from the trees and bimbled along to the next water stop. Here both routes merged at Chalet Reynard for the final slog through the moonscape of chalk, flint, gravel and the broken dreams of many, many cyclists. I knew there was a steepness to the final stretch but didn't realise it was actually about a kilometre or so from the Tommy Simpson memorial (where I stopped to pay respects, and breathe and refuel).
After what seemed like a lifetime, but was actually two and a bit hours I turned the last corner and in a gesture of bravado, (and to circumnavigate two big fat tourists who chose that moment to lumber into the road) I triumphantly stood up on the pedals and danced like a cycling God to the summit. 1911 metres high and I'd cycled up it, (with only a stop for water and a tip of the hat to Tommy) and frankly my dears, I felt awesome!
After the obligatory self congratulation, congratulating others and 'grinning like an idiot' classic photos, it was off for the amazing downhill, now this is where my ability to turn food and alcohol into bodily mass starts to show benefit, like a giggling tummy tsunami I barrelled down the mountain touching 77kph at one point, a delightful ride to a lovely restaurant for a well-earned lunch.
Following another round of "didn't we do well" with those of the team who'd made it that far and a light lunch of green salad,(and everything else I could lay my sweaty hands on) it was off for the second stage of day Deux.
A controversial bit of route planning meant that there was a second serious hill to be conquered before the relatively flat section back to our hotel. As the temperature was again in the forties, quite a few folk called it a day at the lunch stop but as Eddy Mercx probably said "you don't get a tan in the van" and I must say I, unusually, quite enjoyed the long and arduous uphill. Probably down to the very evident suffering of others on the hill, there's no motivator like schadenfreude.
Day Three - Apt to Aix
This 'enjoying the last third of a long ride' is a characteristic of your humble correspondent and his cycling style that has long been evident to my co-riders on a number of longer rides, a sluggish first third, starting to enjoy the second third and a positively energetic finish and I'd always put it down to having the sort of musculature that takes an hour or two to get warmed up. I'm now working to a revised theory that suggests that the first couple of hours are simply sweating out the hangover and I'm not actually achieving anything but detox until 40km into the day.
The third day demonstrated this very well with a horrible, horrible, horrible steep climb out of town in the first thirty minutes but once that was accomplished (easier said than done) we moved into a long hot day of attrition, some lovely cycling through some delightful countryside as we meandered toward Aix en Provence accompanied by the cacophonous soundtrack of heat-struck cyclists tumbling off their machines and into the verge and being bundled by the medics into the broom wagon for re-hydration and transport home.
Again, weirdly, I was fine, pacing carefully, not fast but sensible and finishing the day at yet another unremarkable chain hotel with a sense of real achievement, a whole load of new cycling chums, a sharply defined cycling tan, a new appreciation of post-ride recovery drinks (mostly beer) and a couple of grand raised for a very deserving cause.
What a great trip… Thank you St James's Place for inviting me, and if you’ve not made a small gesture in the direction of the very deserving Laureus, 'Sport for good’ foundation, hie thee to my sponsorship page (click on the shirt) and do the right thing.
Labels: Battaglin, charity, kilometres, Laureus, lavender, oakwood stuffy, Provence, road bike, Sault, sport for good, St James's Place, teambreakfastbike, tommy simpson, Ventoux, virgin money giving
Tour de France, no, not that one, another one, this one ...
A number of things suddenly occurred to us, I'd not had a holiday for a long while, although her ladyship had sloped off to Mykonos with the girls for 10 days (which could be seen as a break for both of us). We wanted to meet up with family in the Dordogne, we'd also been promising to visit chums in Languedoc-Rousillon ever since they finished building their house some nine years ago.
So we bought a breathalyser kit, a big bag of sweets jumped in the motor and set off for the Channel Tunnel. The plan was essentially to tour a few expat, or semi-expat, family and chums, stop at each for a day or two, then leave before our presence became objectionable (normally about an hour if I'm on form). I believe the technical term for this type of trip is freeloading so in order to arrive bearing gifts we stocked up on home-made ketchup, chutneys, marmalades, sloe gin, sloe port and garlands of dried chillies. In my view one of the many problems with French cooking and the produce available to support said style of cuisine is the adamant refusal to accept the existence of spicy food, even to the extent of blanding down tagines and other North African dishes to avoid exciting the somnolent French taste buds.
We pootled our way southward, enjoying relatively clear roads, Paris was particularly pleasant with the population crammed, I'm guessing, into Deauville and Le Touqet. We'd invested in one of the telepeage transponders that let you cruise through the tolls at 30kph but my nerves failed every time, causing me to hit the brakes seconds before the beep and the raising of the barrier. I did form a few strong opinions as we progressed specifically with regard to our EU chums from the lovely land of Belgium, where I'm guessing that the driving test is totally verbal with no practical examination.
Something along the lines of:
"Do you have a sense of direction"?
"Non"
"Do you have a Volvo"?
"Oui"
"Do you have any spatial awareness or peripheral vision"?
"Non"
"this switch that makes the flashy orange lights on the corners of the car go on and off, when should you use it"?
"Immediately after any random change of direction, speed or mind"
"Do you have a ridiculous caravan"?
"Oui"
"Do you have many friends with ridiculous caravans and Volvos from whom you just cannot bear to be parted"?
"Oui"
"Congratulations here is your Belgian driving licence, now get out of here, head south, carry the message of Belgian chauffeuring incompetence across the EU".
"Merci, er, which way is south again"?
Anyway, we had a lovely time in the Dordogne, indulging Mrs Stuffy in her seemingly endless pursuit of curious earrings and I heartily recommend, as an exercise in conversational French, trying to stop a gang of French market ladies from flogging her every piece of broccante bijou tat on their stalls without creating an international incident. Mrs S is also the only person I know who will take the side of the vendor when her loving husband is trying to haggle the hawkers down to a less obscene price.
One of the highlights of this trip was the cunning way we managed to arrive everywhere just after the good weather had moved on, or a day or so before it arrived. Luckily this meant more time to enjoy pleasant meals, lovely wines and the company of friends without any of the distraction caused by a game of golf, lazing in the sunshine or playing in the pools.
Moving on South to Limoux and staying with friends in their gorgeous hillside hacienda we were ideally positioned for a train ride followed by an early morning tour of Carcassone, a long postponed destination of choice, a beautiful old walled city which was lovely pre-invasion, early in the morning, enjoying a breakfast in the square, a trundle around the ramparts and in my case a tumble into a muddy clay puddle anointing my beautiful virginal white shorts with a huge brown blot across my taut derrière which might cause amusement, if you were the sort of women (as my two companions seemed to be) who couldn't help giggling incessantly at another's evident discomfort.
Free financial advice- The tourist trap of Carcassone old city is not the ideal place to buy a reasonably priced pair of replacement shorts.
Inevitably the hordes started arriving and we left before my tourist tolerance reached breaking point, heading back on the excellent train service, a quick lunch and then off to enjoy a canoe ride on the Aude with a couple of other house guests.
It's been about thirty years, no, forty, since I was a regular and enthusiastic canoeist but I assumed that old skills would re-awaken and would suffice. The sheer professionalism of the chaps organising the trip was awe inspiring:
"Can we have helmets?"
"Non, we've run out"
"Can we have a briefing?"
Sure, come downstream, stop when you get back here, go right at the first killer waterfall, left at the second killer waterfall, it will take about three hours, try not to die"
Into a builders skip, painted up to look like a minibus and up the gorge for thirty minutes, then down the bank, into the water and into our kayaks and that, it appears, was all the obligations of our guides, dispatched.
The river was delightful, a fine mix of occasional tranquil calm, and much challenging but manageable rapids providing regular episodes of adrenalin fuelled exercise.
We made good time and 66.6%of our three-person team stayed in the traditional canoeing position of, canoe in the water, pilot not in the water. And only one of our team, (the same 1/3) managed to ram an innocent swimmer, the only vulnerable thing in a 30 metre wide expanse of river.
Regaining dry land back at Limoux we thanked the team of totally uninterested organisers and headed for the town square to enjoy, for me, the essence of a French trip, a pleasant bar, a glass or several with friends, old and new, and a wind down before an amicable and agreeable supper.
Our return leg was planned with a stopover in Versailles, a place I've long had on my "why have I never visited?" list. We were less than impressed with the eateries, there's a catering school somewhere teaching the French restaurant workforce to ignore the centuries of fine cuisine and the massive improvements in customer service now de rigeur in many civilised countries. The graduates of this college are not employed anywhere but in tourist towns, I'm sure that by now Mrs Stuffy has delivered through tripadvisor her damning opinions on the Restau 'le Bouef a la mode'.
We were up at a sensible hour for our planned tour of the palace, but alas so were about 90 bus drivers and their passengers and we arrived in front of the palace to find a queue that officially qualified as 'interminable'. We had bought our 'access all area' tickets at the hotel but we both hate queuing so pootled off to the gardens in the hope that this early rush of trippers would abate a little.
The grounds were astonishing and we delighted in the sculptures, the gardens and the fountains, enjoying a leisurely hour or so of ambling before heading back to the courtyard to find that the queue had magically expanded even more, Disney could teach the successors of Louis Quinze a thing or two about managing a line of punters. We looked at each other, voicing the hitherto unspoken question, "can we be arsed to line up, for ever?"
"Nope"
So we donated €40 worth of tickets to a young (and very surprised) french couple queuing for tickets, thus doing our own little bit for the entente cordiale and we headed for Blighty.
All in all a high mileage but most excellent voyage of reunification, rendezvous and discovery and our thanks to family and friends, old and new who made it such fun.
Now just a month till we return to France, specifically Corsica for the Team Tuxedo Tour of Cap Corse ... Watch this space.
Labels: belgian drivers, broccante, canoe, caravan, Carcasonne, dordogne, haggle, kayak, Limoux, Mrs Stuffy, oakwood stuffy, peage, queuing, Stuffy Oakwood cookingfromthebarn, telepeage, tourist, Versailles, volvo, wine
Movie Review - Moonrise kingdom, is a strangely wonderful tale, extraordinarily well told
In 2009 I was blown away by the surreal, stop-motion treatment of the Fantastic
Mr Fox (despite the predations of the real thing on my sad little flock)
delivered by Wes Anderson. Three years on and Mrs Stuffy (who'd
caught a trailer for this movie, Moonrise Kingdom) was keen to see it
As regular readers will know Mrs Stuffy's word is law so hey-ho to the
multiplex. I'd seen no reviews and apart from passing familiarity with
the aforementioned foxy-tale had no preconceptions. I was immediately
struck by the similarity of technique the director employed in the
opening sequences but this time with actors rather than animated
farmyard folk. The opening scenes, the seamless editing and the
intelligent use of music introduced us to the family at the heart of
this tale and set a number of clues for what was to come, it's a gentle
tale, a fine collection of slightly damaged, eccentric, dysfunctional
folk, played by a really strong cast and directed by a writer/director
with a very individual way of seeing, and portraying, his world.
.
It's very hard to describe the story, the beauty of this film is in the very oddness, the quaintness, the gentle (mostly) handling of personalities, relationships and the way characters react to each other and the bizarre situations which curiously seems both very odd but absolutely right at the same time. The young leads, Jared Gilman and Kara Hayward are delightful, the adult characters without exception consistently and coherently weird and the location in Newport, Rhode Island, looks idyllic.
If you'd enjoy an evening of great unusualityness I'd strongly recommend this film, I'm tempted to watch it a second time as I know I missed lots of subtle goodness going on.
Mrs Stuffy, was alert, pillow-less, mostly coherent and mildly amused throughout... which was nice.
An eccentric haiku
Old hands and young love
deliver likeable Lord
of the (butter)Flies*
*did you see what I did there ? No, go see the film then ...Labels: Bill Murray, Brice Willis, Films haiku Stuffy critic, Francois Mcdormand, Harvey Keitel, Moonrise Kingdom, Mrs Stuffy, oakwood stuffy, Tilda Swinton, Wes Anderson
In the end four members of #TeamBreakfastBike signed up, and in early July we rocked up at Heathrow, in various stages of trepidation to flit to Nice and from there to the first of our host hotels. Although the event organisers delivered amazingly good selection and signage of the routes over the three days they failed to meet my unreasonably high standards on some of the logistical and accommodation factors. 
Absolutely loved the ride to the town of Sault where the climb begins, starting among the houses, wending, continually rising through farmland and pasture, still, at this point with the energy to raise a smile at the occasional roadside spectator. 
The incline increased and I found myself entering the trees, after an hour or so of relentless slog through the forest, beset by flies, heat and younger, fitter folk passing me I eventually emerged from the trees and bimbled along to the next water stop. Here both routes merged at Chalet Reynard for the final slog through the moonscape of chalk, flint, gravel and the broken dreams of many, many cyclists. I knew there was a steepness to the final stretch but didn't realise it was actually about a kilometre or so from the Tommy Simpson memorial (where I stopped to pay respects, and breathe and refuel). 
After the obligatory self congratulation, congratulating others and 'grinning like an idiot' classic photos, it was off for the amazing downhill, now this is where my ability to turn food and alcohol into bodily mass starts to show benefit, like a giggling tummy tsunami I barrelled down the mountain touching 77kph at one point, a delightful ride to a lovely restaurant for a well-earned lunch. 
