Another one for the record books, one of the best days of the tour. I can't believe day's like this keep coming along. Unfortunately, I let things get away from me and am only getting back to this page about 10 days later, after we have returned home. The narrative is a bit spotty, matching my memory.
The day began with breakfast on the balcony at our B&B again. Clouds moved in last night and kept the town warmer, so it was more comfortable dining outside today. Afterward, we packed up to leave, collected our bikes, and we're crestfallen to find that I had yet another flat front tire on my bike - the third in six days. We decided to walk over to the market area, so I could repair it while Rachael picked up a lunch for the day. On the way there, we stumbled across our favorite restaurant owners yet again, this time sitting in the alley with their six month old daughter Rose. They told us there was a bike store in town if we needed it, and gave instructions.
We got to the market square and discovered the town was completely transformed - it's market day, and the core of the market is blanketed by a huge, sprawling market. After talking it over, we decide it might be smart to have the tire repaired by the bike store - they might even have a suitable spare tube or tire - and they can adjust Rachael's new, Ill-fitting derailleur, which has started acting up.
So, off to the bike store. They speak very little English, but enough to understand the problems. They took the bikes, told us to return in an hour, and we went back to explore the market.
Leaving Regina and her lovely B&B Fleurus, in the heart of old Pezenas. Stay here.
I can't believe it - my third flat in six days, all on the front wheel. We give up and take it to the bike shop, and then go back to explore the Saturday market for the next hour. It is a huge, sprawling market. There's a lot to take in.
At the Pezenas market: a demonstration for world peace. I'm invited to sit and observe a minute of silence for world peace. Sounds like a worthy goal, so I accept. Sitting there quietly among friends, I relax and let the sounds of the market seep in: shuffling, light conversation, the soft cooing of pigeons, cowboy music. Cowboy music?
At the Pezenas market: Frederieke from Amsterdam, on her first long distance cycle tour. She's moving to Barcelona, so she decided she might just as well bike there. I sit down to chat for a bit. We find plenty to talk about.
When we returned to the bike store they were just wrapping up. It's a good thing we went in, because we both had need of professional help. In my case, I needed a new rim strip. It had worn through in one spot and the rim was scarring the inside of the tube. In Rachael's case, we were surprised to discover that Rachael's new derailleur that we bought back in Bilbao is cracked, and won't guide the chain correctly. They have a better quality (= costlier) one in stock than the cheap one we got in Bilbao, so we accept the offer and bike out of town finally at just about noon, still with the whole day's ride ahead of us.
We've got fortyfive miles ahead of us, and we want to allow at least some time to visit the big attraction today - Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert - so we plan on keeping a good pace. We do well, helped by quiet, smooth, easy riding roads the whole way. We're only held up by two things - well three, actually. First, we pass through a small town and discover that Friday is their market day too. This is a charming, small one featuring a marching band and a woman fluent in English with an interesting story to tell. Second, we make an unplanned stop at a boulangerie - Rachael has concluded that the sandwich she picked up for lunch wasn't quite sufficient and needs a treat of some sort as a chaser.
And third, and most dishearteningly, when I look for my wallet to pay for Rachael's treat, we find that my wallet is missing. Crap times three, at least. Lost credit cards, driver's license, roughly $100 USD I've been carrying around since we left home; and roughly 300 euros, because we went to the ATM last night because we were running low and the B&B is cash only. Oh, and crap once more - for some reason, Rachael paid for our room with her own cash for some reason I don't recall, rather than with mine which would soon be stolen.
I have no good theory. I had it when I purchased roasted chicken on the way back from the market, but not now. Pickpocketed? Packing error of some sort? Nothing really seems likely, but at this point it doesn't matter. What's gone is gone. An expensive day, but we're not going to dwell on it and be harmed further.
In Cazouls d'Herault. Rachael's video of them approaching us from down the lane
I was a bit concerned approaching Usclas-d'Herault by the barricade across the bridge into the village - I was afraid a detour was required. But no, it's just another small Saturday market that has taken over The main drag. Complete with marching band.
In Pezenas: Mélanie, who is operating a small stall and invites us into conversation. Her story: she's a teacher, and was so in Paris for seventeen years until tiring of City life and returning home last year. She speaks fine English, and was an exchange student in Michigan in her youth, has been to New York and Florida. Her dream: to emulate her aunt and uncle, who are touring the world by bicycle (he's seventy, like myself); and to honor her deceased father, who always wanted to tour Route 66. So that's her dream: visit America, and ride Route 66 by bicycle.So is this just how it's going to go now? Am I destined to just keep falling into interesting conversations with complete strangers now? I like it.
When I think back on the Herault, I'm pretty sure this will be the image that comes to mind - the endless columns of plane trees. Or if not this, maybe the smiling countenances of the lovely restaurateurs in Pezenas.
Not the most interesting photo for the day, but it's here for the narrative thread. It's where I discovered I've lost my wallet. Credit cards, cash, driver's license, the works. Somewhere after I purchased the roasted chicken. I can't really believe it, keep looking again. Nothing really makes sense, but most likely I was pickpocketed. Maybe by one of those shifty musicians in the small band. Never trust musicians.
At the midpoint of the ride we come to the first big site of the day: Le Pont du Diablo (the Devils Bridge). It's a famous structure, and the point where the Arles Way crosses the Herault. It's one of the oldest medieval bridges in France. It has been superseded by the new bridge, and both are just downstream from a third very scenic bridge that carries the rail line. They're all at a very scenic spot of the river, a narrow threat just at the point where the gorge narrows and becomes spectacular. It demands attention, so we stop and look around, losing another precious fifteen minutes of our remaining daylight.
Pont du Diable (The Devil's Bridge) across the Herault, just south of Saint Guilhem-Le-Desert. Behind it, its newer, arched successor. Beyond that, just around the bend, a third arched bridge, for the train. The bridge, begun in about 1030 by the abbot of the nearby Abbey at Saint-Guilhem, has survived flooding on the Herault for over a thousand years. Now a world heritage sight as a landmark on the Arles route to Santiago, the Way of Saint James, it is one of the oldest surviving medieval bridges in France.
A few miles further, and we reach Saint-Guilhem. It's another incredible spot with a thousand year old history - an important stop on the Arles Way - and obviously worth a longer visit than we have time for. We have to content ourselves with about twenty minutes, taking turns gong in to make a too-fast pass at the abbey - and then we're back on the road again, biking up-gorge, doing our best to reach Ganges before nightfall.
Gellone Abbey, at Saint-Guilhem-Le-Desert. Benedictine, it was founded in 804 and was (is) also a landmark on the Arles Route to Santiago; and also part of the world heritage site. A fragment of the true cross is supposed to be here.
Gellone Abbey and its cloister. There's a small, ruined castle on the hill behind, scarcely visible. It has an appealing myth associated with it: the castle was the lair of a terrible giant, who had a magpie as it's eyes over the village. Guilhem disguised himself as a maiden as a ruse to gain interance to the castle, slay the dragon, and liberate the oppressed villagers. The magpie warns the giant; but he's prideful, unafraid, and let's the maiden in. A fierce battle ensues. The giant loses, is slain or banished - I forget which. Magpies have not been seen in the village ever since.
The cloister. Very still and austere. Especially so since it's missing all the capitols. They've been pilfered - they're in the Cloisters, in New York City.
The Abbey is a site not to be missed, but I was nearly as taken by this awesome plane tree. It's 182 years old, according to woman staffing the tourism information center.
The ride through this part of the gorge is fantastic too - sheer cliffs up, sheer cliffs down. At one point we stop to look over the edge at the river far below, and startle a rock climber in the brush partway down the cliff. He looks up at us, grins sheepishly, and comments "You're watching me pee!".
We make good time, until we come across another site we have to stop for: another medieval bridge spanning the Herault. The Diablo was great, but this one impresses me even more. Vary narrow, barely wide enough for one small car, situated in a dramatic point above the gorge. Proclaim this one to be unquestionably the best bridge of the tour.
We ride on, and arrive in Ganges just as dusk is beginning to take hold. Perfect. It's been quite the day - one of the best of the tour. Pretty remarkable, given that we a flat tire and incurred the costs of a broken derailleur and a lost wallet.
Just beyond Guilhem we leave the river for a spell, the road and river rise into the foothills, cresting at about a thousand feet, crossing a small causse. The first climb of any consequence since my recovery. It feels fine, I'm ready for more.
The Herault is far below us when we top out at about a thousand feet, crossing the Causse de-la-Selle. We start dropping again immediately, rejoining the river in about five miles.
This adorable spectator is one of three sisters. The oldest is probably six or seven, not more. They terrified us, dashing back and forth from one wall to the next for a different view. At one point one even jumped up to lean into the wall for a better look over.
