30/07 & 31/07 Monaco to Monistrol d’Allier, France
Riding into Nice once more I couldn’t help but wonder whether whoever had been tasked with naming the place had merely described his ride in.It had been a relatively early start and de-camp with the knowledge that we had a fair distance to cover. We left this typical looking port town as quickly as we entered it, stopping only long enough to note the plethora of bike shops within it. As soon as we were back out of the city and into the valleys inland I was in love with the road again. This was the very southern end of the famous Route Napoleon. A beautiful sweeping ribbon of black tarmac followed a meandering river, water so clear we caught glimpses of fish. Tall cliff faces carved into the earths crust towered above us on both sides with Alpine trees clinging to them in places. For the most part we have the road to ourselves, making this twisting road our personal playground.
Winding our way northwest and inland it felt just like that, as if we were carving our own route into the heart of France. We paused at a random Supermarché to refuel ourselves more than the bikes. Sitting in the shade in the carpark eating our bizarre little picnic we were receiving some odd looks and comments of “Bon appetit!” from the locals but we were in such high spirits we simply didn’t care. Who needs drugs when you have unleaded and chorizo? I don’t even know how long the ride took, it didn’t seem to matter, I felt like I could ride forever. Riding over a massive stone bridge Rob pointed up to where, inscribed in the masonry it said ‘Ardeche’ and I knew we were nearing our next destination. The usual sense of accomplishment was somewhat diluted with a disappointment that it was nearly over.
From Montélimar to Le Puy was relatively straightforward but we struggled to find our minor road at Le Puy. Le Puy itself was a large medieval town that gave the impression of holding illusions of grandeur. Entering town traffic was struggling around an inebriated hippy and his dog who’d taken up residence in the middle of the street (the hippy, not the dog as you might presume). I was half tempted to ask him for directions for comical value but who knew which planet he’d be able to direct me too?
Now lost again the novelty was waning, my rear end protested painfully and the agony synonymous with a long day in the saddle was now persistent in the back of both my knees. This might go some way to explaining how I very nearly switched to pillion riding on Robs bike when he darted to the left at the last minute. I only saw him at the very last second and struggled to follow him into the turn in my state of dozing. Et voila! We were on our tiny B-Road to Monstrol D’Allier – La Route de la Bete (the road of the beast!) no less. To be honest, I’d inexplicably expected to find the turn on my right – which is where I was looking at the time.
Roadsigns were dotted along the road warning of werewolves and, as we progressed deeper into the les gorges d’Allier, every little town started to resemble the set of some dark horror film. They all relished the mythology and local artists and sculptors had dressed everywhere with beastly interpretations. Wolf sculptures and paintings being the focal point of every place we passed. Mwoahahahaha!
The campsite, and there is but one, in Monsitrol d’Allier sat aside a gentle curve of the River Allier so, after quickly pitching camp, we went for a refreshing dip in what turned out to be a very pleasant river. Obviously very different to our usual oceanic evening dip; no salt and a flowing current, I very nearly had to apply some effort to not being swept away! Sitting on a rock little fish would nibble at the dead skin on our feet, it was bliss (although, I expect, less so for the fish!)
Adjacent to the campsite was one of the handful of restaurants in the tiny village where we sat and enjoyed a relaxing few beers and one of the best pizzas of the trip.
We’d planned two days in Monistrol d’Allier so we could potentially have a go at some ‘White Water’ stuff, but a brutal thunderstorm had us tent-bound for much of the morning – I guess we weren’t quite so eager to get wet after all?
Rob was keen to revisit a place from his 20’s, further up the Allier stood a tall stone bridge that he’d once recklessly jumped from when working for an outdoor adventure company in France in the 90’s. It was a tricky switchback hillside ride to get there, with Rob remembering much of the route with the exception of the name of the actual destination! After some semi-comical explanation to the manager in his best Franglais, we gleaned some directions from a local rafting shop and upon arriving at the bridge Rob found much change. Plenty of signs forbidding any reckless jumping PLUS the fast, fun part of the river was now closed off to the public. A disappointment to say the least, although the impressive volcanic features of the cliffs bordering the river went someway to making up for that.
In anticipation of some watery fun, we’d been foolishly riding just in swimmers, T-Shirts and trainers and rather typically the heavens opened and we found ourselves in the middle of a howling deluge befitting a lycanthropic horror movie. A cold, swirling storm with pounding, painful hail stones burst over the mountains right above us, battering us with grape sized hailstones that really stung and ripping branches from the trees as the storm seemed to follow us back to the village and the shelter of our tents. Getting warm after that was a tall ask, and after a supermarket dinner we settled for an early night.
