Day 3

Up early this morning wanting to get the bike fixed and not a little nervous about crossing the Viaduct Millau. I had promised to cross this insanely high bridge in fit of madness and fundraising and sitting at its feet I was beginning to realise just what this would mean

At the foot of the Millau bridge

After a communal breakfast I headed into the town of Millau to find the promised mechanic friend. My host somewhat bleary eyed this morning enquiries if I’m sure I want to set out so early and seems relieved when I say I’ll be fine finding the bike shop on my own.

Arriving outside the bike shop at 8:30 I was deeply amused but the stereotypical sign in the window proclaiming they opened at 10:30. I took the opportunity to have a look around the town and get some pictures of the famous bridge.

The shop I got the petcock fixed at.

The views of the bridge outside of the town on the old road are stunning and as I watch the morning commute heading in and out of town I remembered one of the things that had inspired this trip, how regardless of where we are and the scenery we travel through, it all becomes everyday unless we stop and, like Ferris Bueler, take a moment to smell the roses.

The stunning, and somewhat intimidating, Millau bridge.

After a couple of very happy hours I puttered back into town and with the help of my shattered, school boy French and a great deal of pantomime a spanner is vigorously applied to the errant petcock (I still do not know the French word for spanner),  and I’m on my way.

After the hype I had built for it in my mind crossing the bridge is quite a sedate affair, but glancing out into space about half way across I am very grateful there was no wind.

I headed south again to find the Camargue (correct pronunciation of the word requires extreme facial acrobatics). As a youngster I saw a picture of the wild horses in the region and the romance of that image has stayed with me ever since.

 Camargue horses.

I didn’t find any wild ones.

I did find the horses but none of them were wild.

The estuary swamps of the Camargue are beautiful, and the whole area has an atmosphere that reminded me of fishing trips to the St Lucia estuary in South Africa with loads of caravanning families, corner shops selling local speciality foods and fishing gear. The whole place has the laid back on holiday feel that allows you to drift through and enjoy the scenery around you.

The Camargue

I stopped to take this photo and got chatting with a retired Dutch gentleman who was caravanning with his wife and wondered over to look at Hettie in the roadside stop. He took a two week holiday every year on his BMW to go riding, we’re everywhere!

The road took me through some beautiful mountain passes then, as the temperatures began to climb, I found myself in wine country.

Provence,wine country.

Rolling, scrub covered hills, giving way to vineyards, it’s straight out of the movies. The roads narrow and wind through the fantastic countryside, however as rush hour begins to near I get my first taste of the notorious European driving I had been dreading but so far had not encountered.    In the south of France they tailgate!  I watched a truck force a man past the pictured turnoff because it was too close to see him indicate. Both drivers yelling and waving at each other as they flew past. The car driver reappeared moments later muttering to himself.

At this point suffering from the biking condition known as “broken arse” I began looking for somewhere to stop for the night. Just outside of St Tropez I found the magnificent Domaine Du Lac. Lifted straight from a novel this picture perfect chateaux is down a windy little dirt road off the motorway, rooms are scattered amongst the wooded hills and the dining was divine.

My room,Domaine du Lac.

The dining room.

Magnificent, un PC, dinner

After a magnificent dinner, which included Fois Graz not PC but man was it good, I retired to my bed. From my notes I see I had now done 914 miles, according to Tom Tom, 980 according to Hettie’s speedo.

Feeling like a character from the film A Good Year I drifted off to sleep.