#75 Occitanie and the Haute-Garonne

Touring in the hills and alongside the canals in Southern France on my eBike – can’t be beat.  Circling Toulouse: north-west from Albi to Montauban, south and further west to Auch, south again to the Pyrenees at Cierp-Gaud, and finally back north-east into Toulouse.

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This was the end of my long eBike cycling season in Europe for 2019.  Scroll to the end of the post to see the complete 2019 route map.

Sunday 27 October 2019.  Albi · Montauban |98 km|

This was a really fun ride.

[Sunny with patchy cloud; ideal temperature for cycling (18 – 23°C); no wind.  All on minor paved country roads, including parts of the marked circuit Le Tarn à Vélo routes C1 and C8.  The route took in: Cordes-sur-Ciel, Campagnac, Bruniquel, Montricoux, Nègrepelisse and Montauban]

The maps I got from the regional tourist office in Albi were pretty much useless.  And forget about the city tourist office – they only deal with ‘city’ questions and the wider region is not their ‘thing’.   At the regional office I did buy a folder of 22 cartoon-style tourist maps for €2, but these were all short circuits out of various towns in the region; it seems no one has heard about ‘through-route’ cycle touring here.  So once again I had to rely on Ziggy’s GPS and this time he didn’t let me down.  Sorry for doubting you, Zig.

First, it was a long steady climb out of Albi up onto a ridge that went through the ‘Forest of Saint Quintin’.  This was fantastic and it felt like being on top of the world.  I could still see the Saint Cécile cathedral in downtown Albi from 10 kilometres away, as well as far-off mountain ranges all around behind the charming rolling countryside I was cycling through.

Still on the right track

I was even on the designated bike path for a while: Le Tarn à Vélo C1.  Crappy logo though

Cordes-sur-Ciel, where I was aiming for, is a prime example of the so-called bastide fortified medieval towns of southern France, situated on an isolated prominence at the end of that long ridge 30 km from Albi.  It was very touristy on this Sunday – I was warned about that – but the tourists all tend to congregate in the modern plaza below the old town, and it seems hardly anyone bothers to investigate the actual heritage village itself.  I would have been guilty of that too, except that Ziggy routed me right through the middle of it on the way out to Montauban, in what at times was a harrowing and very steep climb.

The last 20 km from Montricoux into Montauban were through small-acre blocks of flat open farmland and were not particularly interesting.

In Mountauban I stayed at the Hotel du Commerce, which is situated on a plaza in front of the cathedral.  The plaza itself was being excavated to build an underground carpark, so my room overlooked a construction wasteland.  The hotel itself was very comfortable but it looked like it could do with a few more guests.  Getting fed was problematic on a Sunday evening, and I had to settle for a take-away pizza – and a 2-litre bottle of ‘Coffee Cola’ from the Bulgarian shop across the plaza from the hotel.

Monday 28 October 2019. Montauban · Auch |148 km|

Really great canals and bike paths, and a horror stretch of freeway.

[Overcast; 13 – 20°C.  Slight head wind.  40 km on a compacted gravel canal towpath; another 50 km on asphalt cycle paths, mainly alongside a major road; 30 km on the busy main road N124 with not much shoulder, and 27 km on the very busy N124 freeway with wide shoulder (but scary); basically flat or slightly undulating.  The route took in: Montech, Grissoles, Blagnac, L’Isle Jourdain, Gimont and Auch]

Well, it only took Ziggy 5 km to figure out there exists a canal I could have been following, after routing me through all the poorer suburbs of Montauban in rather drab surroundings. The canal path actually started practically at the doorstep of the hotel where I was staying, so I found out later by using google-maps.  But, anyway, when I did eventually get on to the canal system it was great.  It wasn’t just one canal either: there was the Canal de Montech, then the Canal Lateral de la Garonne and finally the Canal de Deux Mers.

I followed those canals for 40 km to Grissoles, and then hived off west to go to Auch (which is pronounced – now get this – Osh.  Got it? Osh!).  The canals go all the way to…well, after Toulouse, either to the Mediterranean or to the Atlantic Ocean – take your pick.

I was hungry, very hungry, by 1 o’clock, and, knowing the vagaries of French opening-hours, I thought I’d better find a place to eat pronto.  But there was nothing.  Absolutely nada on the canal path, nor even in the small towns the canals went through, for the full 40 kilometers I stayed on that canal path, getting weaker from hunger by the minute.  That shows a distinct lack of entrepreneurship for sure – and the French invented the word!

So Ziggy diverted me off the comfortable towpath at Grissoles – not his fault, it was me that wanted to go to Osh Auch, not him.  There were a few kilometers of interesting single-track forest trail in a national park alongside the River Garonne, when I thought I was lost again, but shortly emerged into middle-class suburbia.  A striking difference I’ve noticed in France, compared to what I’m used to, and to the Anglo-Saxon world generally, is the lack of small businesses that cater to the immediate local trade (an absence of ‘corner shops’, for example).  So I was pleasantly surprised when I came across a restaurant in the middle of a residential suburb called Seihl:

I didn’t know what it to make of it when I first saw it.  Anything with ‘Tabac’ in its name I’d generally ignore, since I am so anti-smoking, but sighting the two fellows outside enjoying a beer made me do a ‘U’ turn and come back for a second look.  First impressions were not very encouraging either, as the servers didn’t make any effort to breach the language-barrier and I felt like a fool.  But quite a few people were eating, so it was obviously a functioning restaurant of some kind, so I thought I would persevere.

The bartender (he turned out to be the owner) was very off-hand:  when I asked whether some of the superb dried sausages on the bar counter could be put into a baguette for me he simply said << impossible >>, shrugged, and moved away (it turns out the sausage is free with a purchased drink, I found out later).  After cursing and swearing a bit (to myself) and generally feeling rather sorry for myself, I trudged back out to the bike with the intention of moving on, but then I figured, no, it’s my problem, not theirs, the food looks great and I want some, so I should go back and work it all out.  It was then, after I went back in the second time, that I realized there was a separate dining room behind the bar.

I still couldn’t figure out the system, just standing there, though I did notice they had a tasty-looking salad bar.  Everyone was ignoring me, so I asked the wait-person what the deal was.  She turned on me very angrily and basically said she’ll get to me when she was good and ready.  That made me feel great.  Not.  But I hung about and after a bit she deigned to direct me to a table in Siberia – you know, the one on the way to the kitchen where they put everybody who simply doesn’t belong.  Then she promptly wandered off again to deal with other customers, so I still didn’t know how to get a feed.

But I observed the other customers all munching away contentedly, and thought fuck it, I’ll just help myself to the salad bar in the meantime, and got myself a very generous plateful of…and here I’m lost for words…the nicest darn salads I’ve ever had.  Bean salads, slaw salads, pasta salads, gherkin salads (the best), nut salads; plus pâtés, terrines, pickled fish, 4 different kinds of dried sausage – I had it all (well, not the fish obviously).

She, the lady of the malevolent disposition, brought me some lovely crusty rustic bread to go with it, and said help yourself to our red or white wine or rosé in 1-litre flagons, or water, as you prefer.  I made a proper pig of myself on that salad bar, still not quite sure what the deal was.  Then, when clearing away my plate, the same woman asked me what I wanted for entrée and rattled off a list of main courses.  I didn’t quite catch it all, but settled on the cochon (pig), accompanied by rice please, (didn’t catch the alternative accompaniments either).  It was soooooo good – braised pork cooked in wild mushrooms and onions, with a big bowl of fried rice and vegetables cooked in goose fat. This was followed by a choice of 5 desserts – I had the flan, as per usual – and coffee.  Boy, was I stuffed!

By this stage, the waitress (she turned out to be the owner-bartender’s wife) was quite compassionate and insisted on boxing up my left-overs (a good 60% of what I’d started with) as a take-away ‘for your meal tonight’, and even threw in an extra flan for tonight as well. So much for my bitch-calling her, eh – she was really a very nice person.  And all for the menu du jour price of €15.  This goes down in my books as both the best deal and the best meal I’ve had at lunch-time ever since I started cycle-touring.

So thank you, Les Tricheries, and merci madam! At the till,  I made the mistake of telling her she was très jolie (very pretty) instead of très gentile (very nice) – and with her husband looking on not so amusedly.

Not long after I set off from the restaurant, and still following Ziggy’s route, I realized I was actually at Blagnac, Toulouse’s main airport and the home of Airbus Industrie, and in fact a suburb of Toulouse already.

But I didn’t just go straight into Toulouse; instead I headed the other way, and there by the airport I managed to get on to a dedicated cycle path that seemed to be going in more-or-less the same direction I wanted to, so I just ignored Ziggy’s directions and kept to the defined path for 30 km all the way to L’Isle Jordain, where the path disappeared again.

For the last 50 km, from L’Isle Jordain to Auch, I cycled on the N124 main road.  At first it was just a normal two-lane road – albeit a very busy road with lots of huge trucks bearing down on me constantly, and with only a very narrow shoulder or no hard shoulder at all.  I had to pull over several times to let queues of trucks pass me, and I was very thankful I had a mirror! That was the just about scariest bit of riding I’ve ever had to do.

The N124 then suddenly morphed into a dual-carriage freeway for the final 20 km stretch to Auch.  It too was busy of course, but at least I could cycle in the wide break-down lane well out of the traffic zone.  A couple of cars whizzed by at 120+ kilometres per hour blaring their horns; whether in salute or annoyance, or just letting me know I  shouldn’t be on there, I couldn’t tell, though I suspect it may have been the latter.  Anyway, that whole 50 km was very uncomfortable.  I tried very hard to get out of it and looked for accommodation in the town of Gimont with 27 km still to go to Auch.  The batteries were almost empty by then and it was already starting to get dark (at 5.30 pm).  The three hotels I tried in town were out of business (derelict) and the one just outside town, the 3-star Villa Cahuzac, wanted €98, so in a fit of pique I declined that too, and rode on towards Auch having wasted ½ an hour of daylight checking out Gimont (interesting little town, though).

Later, I also declined to pay €93 at Campanile, which is a “campground” on the outskirts of Auch, when the batteries really were flat, and also refused to pay €78 at a scrofolitic 2-star dive in the dingy suburbs.  So I just let Ziggy GPS-me to his choice – the Budget Ibis – and I had to trudge on a further 5 km on no battery-assist to a strip-mall on the far side of town.  Still, it was ok, and a relative bargain at ‘only’ €55.   Ziggy’s accommodation, in a small meeting room in the up-market section of the hotel, was superior to mine – no wonder he chose the Ibis then, eh?

Tuesday 29 October 2019.  Auch · Cierp-Gaud |112 km|

A great ride through rolling countryside, and then on the dedicated cycleway called the ‘Parcours de la Garonne’ into the Pyrenees.

[5 – 21°C, light breeze, ideal for cycling.  All on quiet country back-roads or bicycle path. Apart from the last 20 km in the mountains, which were flat strangely enough, it was hilly (1,263 m climbed). The route took in: Clermont-Pouyguillès, Saint Arroman, Aujan Mournède, Castelbau-Magnoac, Monleon-Magnoac, Boudrac, Franquevielle, Montréjeau, Labroquière, Lairdé, Chaum, and Cierp Gaud]

I took a quick look at downtown Osh Auch when the Tourist Office opened at 10.  They weren’t helpful at all.  No surprises there.  So I got Ziggy to GPS me all the way to Cierp Gaud and followed his navigation pretty much all the way.  On the way out of town I stopped at a Boulangerie in the suburbs for a flan to eat straightaway and a buttered baguette with dried sausage (saucisson)  for later.

The route, initially on the busy N21 for 5 km as far as Cabouzet, and then on the very quiet D150, D13 and D9 rural roads (chemin rural), climbed steadily for 25 km all the way to Clermont Pouyguillès.  Then it was all rolling hills for another 25 km before another steep climb into the village of Castelnou Magnoac.  The countryside was mostly open farmland, either freshly-ploughed and lying fallow or with ripening maize, and was quite pretty and relaxing.

It became noticeably hillier then, all the way to Montréjeau at the 90 km mark, but before that I started casting around for somewhere to recharge the batteries.  Castelnou Magnoac would have been ideal, as it had a busy outdoor café on the plaza – there had been absolutely nothing at all in the previous villages – but since I’d only gone 49 km by then it was still to early to recharge.  I did stop and enjoy my rustic baguette though, with a nice view back down over the reservoir to the village of Larroque in the distance.  The reservoir was almost empty, by the way.

However, the batteries ran down very quickly after Castelnou and by only 30 km further on I started making a serious effort to find a charging point.  Franquevielle looked as deserted and devoid of any businesses as all the other small villages I’d passed through; however, in reconnoitering the main street I happened to spot two workmen sitting at a bench just inside the gates to a large manor house, and so I asked them in my halting French if they could assist:

“Pardon me sirs, but is there a connection point for electricity around here, because I really need electricity to charge the batteries of my electric bike.  Sorry my French is so bad – do you speak English?” (note the emphasis on the word ‘electricity’).  At least that’s what I thought I said [“Pardonnez moi, messieurs, mais y-a-t-il ici un point de connexión d’electricité, pourque j’ai besoin d’electricité pour recharger las batteries de mon vélo electrique?  Désolé que ma français est si mauvais – parlez-vous anglais?”].  

Well that did the trick alright, especially the last bit because they were Welsh and could hardly speak French either!  So we promptly switched to English and I got sorted with electricity.  They both moved to the area years ago and earn a living doing odd-job renovation work on other expats’ houses.  This particular house, on 1 hectare of land in the Centre de Ville right opposite the Mairee (mayor’s office), belonged to an Englishman.  It only cost around €150,000 (A$250,000) apparently.  My Welsh friends had basically already knocked off for the day and were just about to leave, but said I could stay to use the power and lock up after myself, so I charged-up for an hour and was on my way again.

Just out of Franquevielle, Ziggy perversely routed me onto another one of his little off-piste excursions.  This one involved a sharp decline on a dirt track into a pebbly creek with an even steeper climb back up again.  I bounced off a rock the size of a cannonball in the creek bed and had to jump ship to stop the bike tipping over and quickly push it up the bank before the electrics flooded.  The water was only shin-deep, but very cold.  It was very concerning at the time, but looking back at the mapped route later I realized I was only off the beaten track for a kilometer or so.

I soon came across a sign that informed me I was on the ‘Parcours Cyclable de la Garonne’, which sounded like fun, especially the ‘cyclable’ bit, so I followed it all the way to Cierp Gaud.  At least, I tried to – but there was a bridge in the way that crosses the Garonne River to get into town, and that bridge was closed for roadworks.

I cycled on, assuming there must be another bridge to get to Cierp Gaud, but the valley forks at this point and the main road that I was following goes up the wrong valley and heads off into Spain.  That didn’t seem right, so got off at the first intersection and soon found myself in the village of Chaum heading back towards that bridge again.  But in Chaum I came across an old geezer working on his front fence so I stopped and asked him – waving my hand in the direction I’d just come from – whether that would indeed get me to Cierp Gaud.

He said “Sure, it would, but you’ll have to go all the way into Spain first, and then come back down the other valley.  Why not just use the bridge?’

“Well, because the bridge is closed” I said.

“Nah, not for a bicycle, bikes can go through”

“But the workers already stopped me going through”.

“Well, they won’t mind now because it’s knock-off time soon – they won’t care, and they’ll let you across”.

And so they did!

(If you zoom-in on the responsive map above, you’ll see the going-round-in-circles this involved, but also that I wouldn’t have had to go quite all the way to Spain to get back into Cierp Gaud  – I could have back-tracked from Saint-Beát, only a few kilometers further on.  Probably).

Cierp Gaud was a huge disappointment at first.  I expected…I don’t know,  a bustling tourist resort, I guess…but it’s only a one-street village and the two hotels were out of business, as well as most of the other businesses (being out of business).  I did ask, and then plead, for a room at the one hotel that was still functioning – as a betting shop/ bar – she said sorry they couldn’t do a room, but at least she did kindly point me in the direction of a gîte up the street that I could try.  A gîte is a private residence licensed to take in guests (like a B&B).

So I ended up at Domaine des Trois Marmottes, a large and beautifully, though simply, furnished 1850-vintage home owned by Valerie.  She wouldn’t discuss price – now, there’s a marketing ploy – but made me put my bike away in the garage and ushered me and all my luggage up to my large corner room with en-suite, then commenced a long and involved discussion about what I wanted for dinner (that’s called ‘closing the sale with a minor point’ – I hadn’t even agreed to take the room yet!).  She was pushing the trout, but I went for confit de canard (preserved duck, which is somewhat of a regional specialty).

Valerie had other paying guests staying – a French couple and their two teenage daughters (who’d all gone for the fish; hence Valerie’s hard-sell on that).  It was all very pukka – aperitifs in the drawing-room at 7, followed by, well not exactly silver-service dining, but close to it, in the dining room.  I’d ordered a salad and a main; the French family, main and desert; so, as is the custom in France, they had to wait until I’d finished my huge salad of avocado, egg, lettuce, tomato and olives before they got fed.  The mains were accompanied by braised poireau, which was delicious.  Valerie asked me if I knew poireau and I said, yes of course, he’s a detective (as in Hercule Poirot).  Everyone got the joke, but nobody else knew that in English a poireau is a leek.

Valerie was nice, but quite the businesswoman.  She was pointedly keeping a ledger on all of us (breakfast was great too, with more delicious bread and homemade cheeses and jams), and my total came to €97.50 (which is written 97€50 in French, by the way).  Not cheap! I had to go to the supermarket to get some more cash out – and it was only then I realized the town was much bigger than I’d thought, with a whole new section the other side of the river.

Wednesday 30 October 2019.  Cierp Gaud · Toulouse |162 km|

All flat, and quite boring.

[Cool and sunny.  Slight head breeze.  20 km retracing my wheel turns of the day before, then 50 km continuing on the Parcours de la Garonne, then 78 km of largely unenjoyable riding on normal roads into Toulouse.  The route took in: Loures-Barousse, St. Bertrand de Comminges, Montréjeau, Boussens and Carbonne as well as numerous other town-names in the 50 km-long conurbation leading into Toulouse]

The first 30 km, to St. Bertrand de Comminges, were great.  This was mostly the same section I rode the previous day, except that I went on a further 8 km this time to visit the fortified hill town of St. Bertrand that has a long history as a staging-post on the pilgrim route to Santiago de Compostela.   And quite impressive it is too.

Once past Montréjeau, though, it was all pretty ordinary.  The ‘Parcours’ is really just a series of sign-posted turns on quiet roads that goes through some uninspiring scenery, with a lot of small and large industry along the way.  Even when following close to the Garonne River (the whole route is down the valley of the Garonne), the river itself is rarely to be seen and the route certainly does not take pride of place in terms of access to any scenic attractions.

I was actually going to go to Toulouse via a different route that took in a part of the Pyrenees to Foix and then on to Carcassonne.  However, rain had been forecast for the next four days from tomorrow (Thursday), and I knew the canal route back to Toulouse from Carcassonne was already badly cut-up and would only get worse, so I put up with the uninspiring slog through the grimy industrial heartland of Toulouse for about 40 km instead.

In the suburb of Muret with still 30 km to go, I chowed down at a side-walk table on some pastries from a very ordinary but friendly boulangerie for an hour-or-so to charge up, even the gang of local young  hoodlums on their MTB bikes who looked like they might be about to bother me were friendly.

Wednesday 30 Oct to Tuesday 5 Nov, 2019.  Toulouse|no travel|

Toulouse is a lovely city of 1.3 million (about the same size as my home town, Adelaide).

I went to book my bike in for service as soon as I got to Toulouse – yeah, right: no chance of getting it seen to this side of Xmas, or so I was told by the only two Bosch Service Centres in town.

It was late and completely dark by the time I’d dealt with the bike shops after I arrived in the city centre, and so I picked out what I thought was a nice part of town nearby and let Ziggy GPS me to the nearest hotel.  This turned out to be the Hotel des Beaux Arts, a quirky little 3-star boutique hotel next to the Pont Neuf bridge, and right in the centre of things.

It rained incessantly for most of the 5 days I was in Toulouse, so I didn’t venture very far from the hotel.  Still, I did get to explore the central part of the city that lies between the Garonne River in the west and the Canal du Midi in the east, and between the basilica of Saint Sernin in the north and the botanical gardens (Jardin des Plantes) in the south.  Because of the radial-within-radial layout of the main thoroughfares, and the illogicality of the way the same street changes names at weird places along its length, it is an extremely easy city to get hopelessly lost in!

The food was fantastic, of course, and there were dozens of tiny restaurants and bars in the little side streets near my hotel to choose from.  Toulouse is a rugby town, and on Sunday morning I got to watch the world cup final in an Irish-themed bar called the Melting Pot that had an exuberant bunch of expats in it, though the lone South African in the crowd probably enjoyed it more than the rest of us.

On Monday I loaded up the bike and cycled the 5 km over to my friends’ house close to the canal to leave the bike and all the gear there in their shed until I can return next year.  They were away cycling in Taiwan, so we didn’t get to catch up on this occasion, but their daughter was there to let me in and help put the bike away.

Tuesday morning at peak hour I took the over-crowded metro 3 stops to the tram interchange, and then the over-crowded tram out to Blagnac airport to catch an 11 am British Airways flight to Dublin (via London Heathrow, with a bus transfer to London Gatwick, unfortunately), and didn’t arrive at my destination in Yoletown, Wexford County, until 11 pm.

-ends-

#75  France: Albi to Toulouse |515 km|

2019  France |1,099 km|

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Europe 2019.  Complete journey |11.933 km|

Well that’s the end of my tripping around Europe for 2019.  The weather is taking a turn for the worse so probably just as well, but I only left because as an Australian on holiday we’re limited to 90 days in the EU zone in any 180-day period  – there’s always next year!

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Bike odometer (since July 2, 2018, all in Europe |16,900 km|