Beynac-et-Cazenac, France: Old and Ancient Along the Dordogne

Leaving the city of Bordeaux we made one bridge crossing over the Garonne River and a left turn, and soon we were following the trace of another former railway converted to a bike trail.  This one followed the Dordogne River, the waterway that would guide our travels for the next week.

Following the rail trail that crosses the vineyards of the Bordeaux region.

Bordeaux is a city, but it also is a famous wine-producing region.  On our first day we cycled past vineyard after vineyard and a few industrial wineries with huge upside-down cone-shaped vats.  Only certain grapes are grown in certain areas, and slight variations in aspect and elevation create microclimates that define the local character of the wine.  Be assured we are doing our research, making a point to buy wines as local as possible.  The campground we stayed at in Ste. Foy sold bottles in the reception office from a vineyard up the hill for 5€ apiece.  Our host at the campground says you can buy wine at a winery, but often it will cost 5 or 10€ a bottle more than at the local grocery store.  So now my wine-buying technique is to walk up and down the wine aisle at the supermarket, find the region I wish to explore and look for the shelf with gaps where a particular label is selling well.  Usually these are priced at 5€ or less.  Sure, there are more expensive bottles, but we have yet to drink a wine we haven’t liked.  

Almost a month of good weather ended with a midday rainstorm.  We found shelter beneath a limestone overhang, which also serves as half the roof and a wall for this storage shed.

A gray day along the Dardogne River.

A few geese, unaware of their fate.

This is also foie gras country.  Signs were everywhere for local producers, and entire shelves are dedicated to duck and geese products in the local stores.  We did buy a small tin of foie gras mousse, which is basically whipped duck fat flavored with foie gras.  I admit it was mighty tasty and just a schmear on a piece of bread was sufficient.  Washed down with some of that wine and those tired muscles are almost forgotten.

Wisteria vines were blooming everywhere along our route.

We made a detour to the town of Montignac along the Vézère, a tributary of the Dordogne.  We took the tour of Grotte de Lascaux II, a reproduction of a cave where Cro-Mognon art dating to 17,000 years ago were found.  The original cave was discovered in 1940 by a couple of teenagers.  The young son of our host in Ste. Foy told us a classmate of his was the great-grandson of one of those discoverers.  The original cave was open to the public until 1963 but closed to preserve the paintings from the affects of humidity and its associated fungi. Twenty years later this exhibit was opened, an exact replica of two of the most significant rooms.  The tour was in English and the cave was fascinating...bulls and horses drawn using the shape of the caves to define a third dimension to the figures, in multiple hues, one of only three caves in France with polychromatic art.  We arrived thinking this was the cave featured in Werner Herzog’s documentary “Cave of Forgotton Dreams”, and during the tour we were scratching our head -- it looked different than what we remembered from the film.  Only later we read that the film featured the Chauvet-Pont-d'Arc discovered in 1994 with paintings over 30,000 years old.  So this tour was a bonus, a view of another cave equally as fascinating.

We rented a mobile home in Montignac for two nights to escape a rain event.  Every campground we have visited so far has these units available to rent, quaintly efficient and equipped with a bathroom and kitchen two bedrooms.  A nice haven for weary cyclists escaping weather.

A misty morning leaving Montignac.

The Dordogne produces more walnuts than any other region in France.  The trees are just barely beginning to bud.

Crossing back to the valley of the Dordogne required a couple of days and a few good climbs.  On the way was the town of Sarlat-la-Canéda and its medieval center.  The town is a tourist destination with the typical cafés and souvenir shops, so I pointed the camera up above the shop canopies.  We pushed the bikes through narrow corridors to find hidden courtyards.  Our campground that night was located on a impossibly steep hill that required both of us to dismount and push our bikes up.  But it was a lovely place with expansive views to the north where we watched the clouds of the weather system that had been hovering over us depart.

Our bikes are small compared to the walls of Sarlat.

Old and weathered building in Sarlat, kind of like us.

A gracious madame offered to take our picture in a narrow street in Sarlat.

The Dordogne Valley is rich with chateaus and fortresses dating back to the 13th century, many of which are open to visit for a fee.  We looked through the list and picked Château de Beynac, only a short distance from our camp outside Sarlat.  It was a misty morning as we dropped down to the level of the Dordogne.  We turned around the bend just as the fog was lifting, and there was the castle, perched on a limestone cliff like out of a fairy tale.  And way up on a hill, so we followed an access road that had, thankfully, a forgiving grade to the top.  The attendant let us park our bikes within the fortress walls (which should be safe, don’t you think?).  We were early and it felt like we had the place to ourselves.  The fortress was beautifully restored and sparsely furnished with a few tables, benches and tapestries.  Restoration work was being done in a few places, and according to the sign, would be completed in 2030 -- job security for a few stone masons.

Magical misty morning view of Château de Beynac.

Formidable fortress built on a foundation of solid limestone.

The Dordogne and the fortress.

Stairs shaped by centuries of use.

Classic architectural features from the highest point of the fortress.

Wouldn't you say this is straight down?

The Dordogne River and the chapel.

Stone roof of the fortress chapel.

We wandered for a couple of hours and taking lots of pictures and imagining the past. Getting down we took the direct route on a cobblestone path that turned to steps that were so steep John had to grab the back of my bike to control my descent.  Like going down a rabbit hole, traveling from ancient to old and back to the modern world.

Happy campers!

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Bordeaux, France: The Great City on the Garonne

Tram, cyclist and column in La place des Quinconces in Bordeaux

It was one unremarkable day to get from the Dune du Pilat to the city of Bordeaux.  There was one campground located north of the city with easy access to public transport, so we headed there.  The crowds must get crazy during tourist season, because this was a big and full-service facility -- restaurant, pool, gazebo.  But we had a shady green space to ourselves next to a lake with otters and frogs that croaked so loud at night we had to sleep with earplugs.  Most of the rest of the early-season camp occupants were retired folks in camper vans and construction workers that rented the cabins and went to bed and got up early, just like us.

Massive buildings dominate downtown Bordeaux.

Think of the biggest grocery store you have ever been in, maybe a Super Walmart or a Fred-Meyer.  Now add a department store or two onto it.  Now double, maybe triple it.  That was what the Auchan store near the campground was like -- it was the biggest food and goods emporium I have ever entered.  It was a shrine to consumerism, something I thought only could be achieved in America.  But here in France you can go to a store that has a whole aisle dedicated to canard products.  We just needed some food for the night, and I felt so small and out of place wandering around in my bike shorts and fluorescent vest looking for yogurt, which, by the way, was located in at least three different places in this store.   I do have a desire to return, maybe when I have a bit more time to explore what is a great French spectacle.

St Andre Cathedral

Gargoyles on parade

Sharp, austere angles of this Gothic cathedral

Sweeping lines of the cathedral interior.,

Lovely painted columns in the cathedral interior.

City days are fun.  No loaded bike to muscle around. We get to ride public transport, like Bordeaux’s sleek, clean, sexy tram, and people-watch ordinary French citizens living their lives.  And city days mean looking at big and ornate buildings, and seeking out really good food.  And going to museums to look at lots of really old stuff.  But one day of that is enough, then we are ready to pedal again.

More massive buildings.

This one is for you, Monica -- quilt patterns on a Roman mosaic floor from the 4th century at the Musée d'Aquitaine.

On the Bordeaux waterfront.

 The day of our departure we cycled down the waterfront of Bordeaux along the Garonne with good views of those stately buildings. We turned east on another rail trail bike path and headed into the rural country studded with the vineyards that make this region famous.  We will cross France again seeking out caves and chateaus and gorges.

Copper tops!

Pont de pierre crossing the Gardonne

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Dune de Pilat, France: Forest, Ocean, Sand

Sign of the region with some rare graffiti.

Leaving the uncomplicated life on the canal, it took only 12 kilometers to reach the security of another off-road cycle path.  This one was the former alignment of a railway, the rails removed and the path paved and now dedicated for bikes and pedestrians.  Railway grades don’t pull any surprises when it comes to ups and downs, and we were crossing the northern Parc naturel régional des Landes de Gascogne, the largest continuous pine forest in Europe.  The trees are tall and spindly and dense because they are not all that old.  This area was largely unpopulated and mostly marsh until the area was drained and pine forests planted for lumber and resin production in the nineteenth century.

Multiple generations of pine plantations on the rail trail we followed through the Landes.

A train depot that is now a residence on the rail trail.

The Dne du Pilat looming over our campground.

This rail trail took us 100 km to the Atlantic Ocean.  We were in search of sand, a single dune in particular, one named the Dune du Pilat.  It was a warm and sunny Sunday, and the citizens of all of Europe and some of the rest of the world, it seemed, were out for a drive.  But we were buffered from them on our little umbilical cord of a bike trail.

Stairway to heaven

Cycling muscles are the same as stair climbing muscles, we have found.

Now I know something about dunes.  Sand from some of the best have squeezed between my toes -- Kelso, Eureka, Algodones, Pismo Beach, Death Valley.  We approached the parking lot to access the dune and looked up to the horizon.  There was the bright exposure of sand peeking above the trees, and on the crest were sticks, lots of them.  Looking closer we could see they were silhouettes of people, a couple hundred of them, and more climbing up what looked to be a staircase on the dune.  What have we gotten ourselves into?  Did we make this diversion just to be lured into a tourist trap?
John had previously researched camping options, and found a campground in the vicinity.  Their website showed the campground right next to a mountain of sand.  So we decided to head there directly...we could climb the on the dune, maybe not at the highest point, but at least there would be less humanity.

When we arrived the setting was just as it was on the web -- lovely green sites, trees, and a mountain of sand.  And stairs.  We quickly set up our tent and headed for the dune.  This was one steep dune, 300 feet tall. The stairs were removable and made of interlocking sections that could be lifted and adjusted as sand accumulated on top.  Boy, were were glad they were there.  It made scaling the dune after cycling 80+ kilometers much easier.

Our view of the masses of people down the dune crest.

Barrier islands with boats passing through the channel.

The view from the top was breathtaking.  The Atlantic was pure blue in contrast to the white of the barrier islands.  In the other direction was the forest we crossed, dense and green and appearing impenetrable.  Boats were streaking white on the water and we could see oyster farms in the tidal bays of the barrier islands.  People were collected on the beach on the Atlantic (and less steep) side of the dune.  We walked a bit on the dune crest and saw that crowd of people, a mile or so away.  We were looking down on them from the highest point, accessible from our chosen campground.  It was such a wonderful surprise, such a beautiful spot, we decided to stay for two nights.

My favorite image from our morning ascent of the windswept dune.

John leaving his mark on the sand.

Looking south from the top of the dune.

This was a family resort campground, with a pool and activities for the kids.  The day we arrived there were lots of families that had made the pilgrimage, just like us, to the dune.  The kids were rolling like logs, unaware of the sand entering every orifice.  They were running up and down, multiple times, just like I used to do when my family visited those other great dunes of California.  The parents were standing or sitting, waiting patiently for the energy to dissipate.  Later that night the campground had special activities for the kids -- face painting and the French version of Simon Says led by a big yellow mouse.  Another way to dissipate energy, I suppose.   But years from now I think they will remember playing on that dune more than the games that night. 

The next morning the weekenders were gone. Since we could not get good cell data reception in camp, we scaled the dune after breakfast the next morning to do a bit of research for our route once we left the dune.  We were alone at the top and the  breeze that picked up overnight had blown clean the remnants of the weekend crowds.  We hunkered down out of the wind and just took it all in.  It was magical, just like the dunes of my youth.

Our sweet tent in a beautiful place..

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Castets en Dorthe, France: Canal Journey, Part 2

One of the many lock stations on the canal.

After two days of hotel bliss and city comforts in Toulouse, we merged back onto the canal route located just across the street from where we were staying.  The trail was busy with bike commuters and pedestrians on their way to work.  We headed north and soon transitioned from urban to industrial.  We passed factories and a few homeless camps, paralleling the train line with the hum of the freeway in the distance.  It was not long until we were again cruising along the canal, virtually alone, with the rural landscape peeking between the trees that endlessly line the canal shore.

Four modes of transport, all in a line -- rail, road, bike trail, canal.

Serene cycling...

This section of trail after Toulouse is known as the Canal latéral à la Garonne portion of the Canal du Deux Mers because it follows the Garonne river, a significant waterway that eventually leads to the city of Bordeaux and then to the Atlantic Ocean.  This portion of the route had more intersections with roads that required us to frequently climb short, steep pitches to get to the level of the overpass and then roll as sharply down the other side.  And most remarkable of all were the places where the canal actually had its own aqueduct that carried the water over the Garonne and its tributaries 7 times along the route. The two most significant are the Agen aqueduct, 600 metres long with 23 arches and the Cacor Aqueduct at Moissac over the River Tarn, 356 metres long with 13 arches. Completed around 1856, they do their job splendidly and don’t appear to leak, a feat of engineering.

Water over water -- the Cacor Aqueduct at Moissac

Nuclear plant near Valence d'Agen

...and more serene cycling...

Mustard plants, as a crop.  They are weeds at home.

We cycled two more days along the canal.  We had to venture off the trail in search of groceries one afternoon, and leaving that safety and serenity was like leaving the womb.  Negotiating traffic circles and sharing the road with cars and all the other realities of a big scary world.  We followed signs back to the canal and the campground we planned to stay at, and once again, we were early and it was not open.  But there was running water and mature hedges and a lone travel trailer that would conceal us from the road.  So we hunkered down and encountered no one after sunset.

Crossing the Garonne in search of provisions.

Our little hideout for a night.

Mossy bridge, one of many.

...you get the idea.

Another typical lock station.  The blue sign shows the names and distances to the next locks to the east and west.

The Canal du Deux Mers officially ends in the town Castets en Dorthe, but it is possible to connect various bike routes to the city of Bordeaux.  We chose to exit at this location, and after 12 kilometers, were back on a bike “rail trail” that proceeded southwest through the forest to the coast where, we were told,  there are shifting sands.  We managed to cross most of southern France, 375 km (225 miles), on dedicated bike trail.  And not even considering the route is flat and scenic and historic, just this fact makes it one of the world’s greatest rides.

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