Day 13 - fantastic finale

 The hardest part of yesterday evening was finding a camping pitch which was a) flat and b) in the shade. The temperature was still high in the 20’s even at the lofty height of almost 900m above sea level. 

I took a short walk around the village of Aiguines just to get my bearings and to see a big more of rural France but I was keen to get back to the campsite restaurant and the terrace with the incredible view over the lake and miles of countryside beyond. 

The sunset was incredible. Mt Ventoux clearly visible to the left of the setting sun.

What was equally incredible was my newly invented “view from a toilet window” competition. Which I win.

I woke up excited and hesitant about the final stage in equal measure. My route was to take me the full 25km up (well, along but basically up) the Gorge du Verdon. The Gorge itself is the second in size in the world, surpassed only by the Grand Canyon. Impressive indeed. I would also be descending 800m more overall than I was due to climb overall. 

On the flip side this was to be my last day in the saddle. My adventure would soon be over, and I would miss it. 

But first to matters at hand: breakfast. I’d jumped through hoops to order breakfast the previous evening so was looking forward to a straightforward transaction.

In terms of French breakfast provision I’d rate it a 4. That is to say, pretty good considering. Everything which was supposed to be there was there, even if it was served to a different table..

Setting off, I continued straight into the steady 6% climb, up the Gorge which was an immediate test for my cold legs. 

6 gruelling kilometres later I had reached the top of the pass, at 1,180m above sea level and the highest point of the trip so far. But it would be outdone by the time the day was done.

From the top I enjoyed a 5km descent down the gorge before another short climb and then a section with unlit tunnels which was a test for the nerves.

The pattern of sharp descent followed by sharp climb repeated several times before I was spat out at around 1,000m to a high plateau which eventually descended to Comps sur Artuby. Another fast descent then a 6km Cat 1 single track climb through one of the most remote countryside I’d come across. I met a friendly but stubborn cow in the road which did at least offer me a breather. 

Over the top and the descent down to Castellane was fast and twisty. With one eye open for oncoming cars (there were none thank goodness), it was edge of the seat stuff. 

Dropping into Castellane I knew that this was my only real opportunity to eat before I got to Nice - I wouldn’t pass through a single town in the next 85km! The town was absolutely heaving but I sniffed out a fantastic boulangerie down a side street and stocked up with water (6 x 50cl bottles being the best I could manage), coke, a huge ham and cheese salad baguette and a sausage roll. I found a quiet spot alongside the ever turquoise river Verdon and ate hungrily. 

After lunch I set about tackling the next 25km; 12km at 6% followed by 13km at 3% in the heat of the day. I was getting exhausted and getting through the water at a quick rate. 

Finally I reached the summit of the Col du Castrllaras and marvelled that the highest point of the ride should happen to be located 60km outside of Nice.

That meant only one thing. Over the final 60km of my journey I would drop 1,248m. Buckle up. 

The descent was immense. Interrupted only by a couple of short climbs (both of which nearly broke me) I whistled down hairpin after hairpin.

 I was having so much fun I flew straight through the Gorges du Loup without even stopping for a photo. The scenery was gorgeous, but so was the road. 

As I approached Cannes sur Mer the traffic suddenly got serious. At one point I found myself heading towards the peage to get onto the A8. I beat a hasty retreat. 

Finding my bearings I finally hit the coast and turned left towards Nice. Passing the airport I continued onto the Promenade des Anglais: my destination. I hadn’t given the ending a lot of thought, and perhaps that’s why I was devoid of all emotion as I cruised along the Promenade. I carried my bike onto the beach and dipped the front wheel in the water. I then found a spot to lay my bike down, took off my infamous maroon cycling top and dived into the Mediterranean. Then the feeling of achievement, gratitude and adventure hit me. 

 I’d ridden 1,017 miles since St Malo (without a single puncture). I’d met a great number of lovely people. I’d got an idea of the French way of life and I’d adapted to it. Most things they do right. Just not Mondays.