As a schoolboy of a certain generation, ‘Sur le Pont D’Avignon’ are literally some of the first words you learn in a foreign language (look up the song). No doubt, the song celebrates the medieval glory and uniqueness of the town. And it should, even if the bridge isn’t quite finished yet…😃
For a while, it was the centre of the Holy Roman world, his holiness having escaped here in the 14th century. To ease the move sonewhat, Pope Clement and his successors ordered the worlds largest gothic palace and a ring of 30×3ft solid wall around the town to protect their investment. All done within 40 years (and still largely intact). Such awe-inspiring monuments across the continent suggest that a Catholic paradise-damnation paradigm that was l very convincing for builders of the time (and there was always excommunication or the Inquistion for the faithless). The only breaching of the wall since appears to be intentional to celebrate some contemporary French President ie. Le Portier Pompidou. What better way to symbolise a polician than a hole!
I should scoff…Late, last Friday, I was more than little desperate to find ‘accommodation’ of any kind and up it popped. O, yee of little faith. As attractive as the Rhone Valley most certainly is, the surrounding hills are not suited to wild camping. The terrain here is not quite as lush, and the hard granite is becoming increasely visible. Moreover, neither the ubiquitous fruit fields nor the narrow river banks are suitable. So whilst Montelimar (sur Rhone) doesnt quite live up to its sexy name and has probably been the least impressive French city so far (thats a very high bar btw), it still offered a cheap bed for the night and Im grateful. Given the nature of the journey, an occasional night in a hotel is an essential and not-guilty pleasure if your mind and body are to remain fresh and alert to the experience.
Indeed, the ride to Orange was one of those ambivalent stages that could’ve gone either way in terms of mental state. The morning had been another glorious shirt-sleeves journey down the river path. Few deviations and a strong northerly wind at your back. And yet, a lone traveller is always suspectable to feelings of ‘mild’ anxiety. The nature of the trip is constant change. The people and places that normally fix our daily routines and understanding of the world, simply slip by. In a month, I’ve pass through more villages than I can possibly recall. The only constant is Helmut.
Moreover, it was a Sunday, and in France, the streets are empty, and the shops-cafes are closed. There’s a sense that you’re the only person for miles and miles and certainly the only long-distance rider. This material ‘transcience’ will inevitably produce its own distinct, internal response. I would call it ‘alienation’. It is mildly uncomfortable and talks to you in various monotonous terms of; ‘wtf are you doing?’ Its also totally normal and expected. Fortunately, there’s no better means for bringing you back into the present than the bike itself. ‘All there is to do’ is to acknowledge the psychological discomfort, breathe through it, and keep pedalling. It to will pass!!
Whilst the town of Orange (the colour of the moment, it seems) was an unexpected treasure with a Roman Arch and giant Forum (who knew?), the subsequent stretch from to ChateauNuef de Pape (famous for its peppery red wine) was all ‘A’ roads. This is where the mind starts wandering into its own dangerous terrain. Fortunately, I ‘can’ breathe and ride on, right up the outskirts of Avignon, taking me back to the river and smooth paths dedicated entirely to the cyclist. Its 5.30pm and I find a campsite immediately, albeit a monster and still 3/4 filled with campervans (60+)…and by chance, one other cyclist; Santiago from Guadalajara, Mexico.
He’d brought his bike from Mexico and is taking a 5-wk trip across the south of France. Its his first trip to Europe and describes in amazement the town of Avignon as akin to a ‘film set’. Again, the ‘Truman Show’ stereotype where the locals/actors dont in fact live there but play out their ‘Frenchness’ for the benefit of the tourists before going home, somewhere in the New Town across the river. Indeed, Avignon has a distinctly transient atmosphere where the wall doesnt so much act as protection but as a tourist trap for a day of indulgent selfies and eating. A skinflint on a bike isnt any use..
In a paradigm of transient experiences, the highlight was certainly the meeting with Santiago. Despite English nor being his first language, we struck you an excellent conversation about life and travel and he understood my sarcasm; which is a bonus. Unfortunately, he and his Irish friend Niall were heading in a different direction, but even this short exchange makes you realise just how important people are, even for a ‘cynic” like me. Dont take it for granted!!! Lots of love….
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