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Thursday 9 May 2024: Day 6
The French already knew, of course, but 8 May is a public holiday every year in France. So we knew in advance the roads would be very busy this Wednesday, as lots of people were taking a long weekend. Clémence had had a difficult night and woke up quite late, which gave us time to enjoy the breakfast included in the price of the room. The sun was already shining in the sky; the day promised to be beautiful.
Our stop for the night was only 27 kilometres away, which gave us all the time in the world to dawdle along the Tarn and enjoy special moments with our daughter. We took turns pulling the trailer, and when we arrived in La Malène, a tiny village overrun with cars and camper vans, a group of fairly elderly bikers called out to us:
So the missus is pulling the cart, is she?
It wasn't the first time we'd heard that remark. People of a certain age were firmly convinced that a woman couldn't do anything too physically demanding. Stéphane told them that Cassandre was in much better shape than him and that it seemed normal to us. In truth, we probably had the same abilities, but we wanted to bring our daughter up not to set herself limits. It was important to us that she have role models who don't stick to the roles assigned to women. We set off again on what turned out to be the most beautiful stretch of the trip. The winding roads along the cliffs and the banks of the Tarn made for sublime scenery, worthy of the most beautiful places in the world.
In Lozère, little-known villages seemed straight out of Hollywood films. The former commune of Saint-Chély-du-Tarn looked like something out of a fairy tale. You reached it via an arched bridge that revealed a superb waterfall. Unfortunately, darkening the picture, the place was full of irritated drivers, as the bridge could only take one car at a time. And civility here stopped at who got to cross first and who got the parking spaces. The chorus of horns almost drowned out the roar of the waterfall. We quickly parked the bikes to get away from the cars and took the little access ramp to splash about in the water.
We hopped from one riverside playground to the next all day. Clémence couldn't fall asleep, and it was only around 5 pm that she finally sank into Morpheus's arms, just as we arrived at our village for the night, Gorges-du-Tarn-Causses. The Hôtel Burlatis, where we stayed, had rather cramped but adequate rooms. We put our bikes in the cellar, then went off to dip our feet in the Tarn, which we'd been following for several days. We were starting to know it well, this winding river calmly making its way to the Garonne.
We slept at Hôtel Burlatis. The rooms are small, but breakfast is generous and the owners very kind.
Friday 10 May 2024: Day 7
The owner of the Hôtel Burlatis had the cheeky banter of Marseille, where she came from. At breakfast she told her guests stories of her new life in this remote village with her husband from the Ardennes. They both loved it here, despite the purely seasonal activity.
Nothing in the world would make us go back! they told us
We often heard this from the people we met. Those who'd fled big cities often loved small villages — at least those who stayed long enough to talk about it. At 10 we had to take our leave of this endearing woman to get our wheels back on the tarmac and press on towards the Cévennes. An hour later, stuffed with sumptuous views of the gorges, we rode down a steep slope to the village of Prades.
The village oozed medieval history and the feel of a place long cut off, slightly outside time. The little beach looked onto almost troglodyte houses that seemed carved into the cliff rock. We followed the Tarn upstream towards its source, and surprisingly the water got warmer as we climbed. The opposite would have been more logical, and it surprised and delighted us. In any case, Clémence wasn't afraid of the cold, far too happy to splash about as she pleased.
In Ispagnac we decided on a strategic stop to stock up and enjoy a playground. Right next to a field with two donkeys, it also attracted a couple from Bordeaux with a baby the same age as ours. We let the two of them play and took the opportunity to eat together. We needed to get our strength back, as a thorny part of our bike trip lay ahead.
On the Tarn gorges cycle route, someone had decided that routing it along a 90 km/h road was a good idea. Arriving at the section in question, we weren't feeling so cocky and hoped with all our hearts that local drivers were used enough to cyclists to watch out for them. Despite the care taken by cars and lorries, those 5 kilometres felt very long, as it's never pleasant being overtaken by vehicles going at high speed. We breathed a sigh of relief on reaching Florac, and the detour via Intermarché seemed almost pleasant.
We bought a few supplies before heading to the evening's campsite, Le Chantemerle, on the banks of the Tarn. We'd booked a very quaint little cabin to spend the night in the cool and maybe see some stars. The very large campsite also had a playground and a little beach, two spots we made the most of for most of the rest of the day. Clémence fell asleep quite early, and we seized this rare opportunity to have a dinner for two at the site's restaurant. The meal was simple and basic, but the setting and friendly atmosphere made for a very pleasant evening.
Where we slept: Camping Chantemerle was very pleasant. There's a beach on the Tarn, a nice playground and a really friendly restaurant. We strongly advise against the breakfast, though, which borders on a rip-off.
Saturday 11 May 2024: Day 8
We'd paid extra for breakfast at the campsite, and rarely had we regretted a decision more. The campsite manager was disorganised and the portions bordered on insolence. A few measly slices of bread and barely lukewarm coffee were his idea of the first meal of the day.
Very disappointed, we even had to give Clémence biscuits before setting off. Our disappointment grew at the thought that the biggest day of our trip lay ahead, with 25 kilometres of climbing and almost 1,000 metres of ascent. We had to cross the Cévennes to reach Génolhac, 45 kilometres away, and the end of our holiday.
It was still very hot on 11 May, and we were worried about Clémence's health. Since the morning she'd seemed more listless than usual, and we feared heatstroke. Wearing a cap that we regularly dampened, she didn't seem herself. Even after the first part of the climb, arriving in Le Pont-de-Montvert, she played half-heartedly in the village's big playground. The village had nothing distinctive about it, apart from the picturesque charm that seemed to have spread over all the villages of Lozère.
But we had to get back on the road and tackle the climb to the top of the Col de la Croix de Berthel, which we crossed at 1:30 pm. From there the route eased a little and we could let up and enjoy gravity, freewheeling down to Vialas below. Just before reaching the village, round a bend, we glimpsed Mont Ventoux in the distance. A twinge of emotion seized us, as the "Bald Mountain", as it's nicknamed, stood for the region where we lived, the Vaucluse. And if we could see it so clearly, it meant we'd come from Toulouse almost all the way home.
That thought stayed with us all the way to Vialas, where we took a break to cool down and check on Clémence's health. She clearly had a fever, and we gave her paracetamol, a medicine that never left our panniers. We decided not to hang around and to press on to Génolhac, where our accommodation was only 4 kilometres away. But a problem lay ahead, and not a small one: we hadn't anticipated that the last four kilometres would be uphill.
And to top it all, Komoot decided to send us the wrong way, onto 20% slopes that ended in a hiking trail. After turning back, we found ourselves on the right road with a gradient of "only" 8% and hairpins at 15%. Our legs were shaking with exhaustion when we arrived at the Mas Nouveau, but how proud we were to have completed this crossing!
Where we slept: Mas Nouveau in Génolhac. A splendid place, attentive staff and a very generous breakfast.
On the road