The next starts early in an attempt to make up some distance, but my suite comes with a coffee machine, the sun’s out on the terrace and even accidentally sitting in a pool of cold rainwater out there can’t dent my spirits. The route winds along old railway lines through the woods, before moving on to the D599, which hugs the coast. I take advantage of yet another badly indicated déviation to stop in the village of Bormes-les-Mimosas for a fat, flaky, buttery croissant (8.5/10, a very unusual beast, crisp and rich with butter so it almost tastes deep-fried, with ends that need biting, rather than tearing off, and a sweet, slightly yeasty flavour). Sitting in the sun, catching crumbs in my helmet, I hear some passing Scousers admiring Eddy as he leans against a wall. He is fit, I think smugly, you’re right.
From Bormes onwards, stunning views lurk around almost every corner: gin-clear water, stripy parasols, spiky succulents and the all-pervasive smell of hot pine and fig trees, which reminds me so powerfully of summers past that I get quite teary. Finally rolling into Le Lavandou around lunchtime, I fail to find the little beachside café opposite the presidential summer residence where we used to go for pizza and barquettes of crispy frites, and stop instead in the fancier resort of Sainte-Maxime for a slab of pissaladière, the classic Niçoise tart of slow-cooked onions and salty anchovies, so deliciously oily that it leaves an incriminating mark on my cycling shorts, and a box of miniature tartes Tropéziennes.
Until I ride past the first of La Tarte Tropézienne’s smart roadside concessions, I must confess I’ve never even heard of the things, but advertising is swift to work its magic on the mildly peckish cyclist, and I rapidly roll over and allow the girl behind the counter to take the better part of €10 off me for three Borrower-sized versions of the dessert made (quite) famous by Brigitte Bardot in the film And God Created Woman. They turn out to be brioche rolls studded with rock sugar and filled with a sturdy, slightly cloying vanilla crème pâtissière – I eat all three at a scrubby little park by the seashore, watching a buxom old lady plough up and down in the seaweedy water, while her Jack Sprat-like companion sits, fully clothed on a deckchair, smoking.
The next 40 minutes in the saddle are spent craning my neck for the perfect spot for my own joyful immersion, which always seems to be just behind me. Once I find somewhere that fits the bill (clear water, no steps to yank poor Eddy down), it probably takes longer to decorously (who am I kidding?) exchange one set of Lycra for another than it does to swim to the other side of the cove and back, but it’s still well worth the mild embarrassment of yanking my reluctant shorts back on over damp, sandy flesh as nice French families goggle in polite horror.
In fact, the whole day feels like a reward for past suffering: instead of the late-afternoon rainstorm I’ve come to gloomily expect, I get one of the most glorious rides of my life: the Corniche de l’Estérel between Saint-Raphaël and Cannes, a route inaugurated, as the many blue-and-white tiled plaques en route inform me, in 1903 by the Touring Club of France, following a coastal path dating back to the Romans and which, thanks to its towering masses of red rock, feels like riding through the Wild West on sea. Much of the road is completely deserted, with only the odd, highly covetable villa on the horizon, and 38km fairly flies by, despite the number of times I screech to a halt to try to capture some of it on camera.
Though traffic is light, I notice a steadily increasing number of fellow cyclists, including a few training in pelotons, too focused on the whir of their wheels to exchange the customary nod across the carriageway. I stop to let a phalanx of campervans past and consider my options for the evening. Cannes would be an easy run of it, but is unlikely to offer much in the way of reasonably priced accommodation after last-night’s hilariously underwhelming blow-out, and the nearest campsite is some way from my route, as well as any possible eating options, yet still wants to charge me €20 for the privilege. It also appears likely, from its online presence, to be full of children. I decide to toss €20 more at the problem and book a room at O’Sullivan’s pub in Mandelieu-la-Napoule just this side of Cannes instead, as much out of curiosity as anything else.
I have no idea what to expect from an Irish pub on the Côte d’Azur, but it is at least on the seafront, opposite some pricey-looking yachts. I lock Eddy to the railings, ears flapping furiously at two men negotiating the sourcing of diamonds in Antwerp in heavily accented English on the terrace, and check in, amused to find that the small, spotlessly clean room comes with a free set of earplugs. No time to unpack: if the pub can offer me anything, it’s surely a cold beer. I catch the eye of the girl behind the bar and ask for ‘une grande pression’. ‘Sure!’ she replies in a northern accent. ‘A pint, yeah?’ I think I actually love her. It does not touch the sides.
Showered, and disdaining the nachos on offer downstairs, I go for a wander. It strikes me it would be nice to finally have some Mediterranean fish (soup aside, I’m struggling to remember when I last had anything bigger than an anchovy), and as luck would have it, Michelin recommends the restaurant almost next door, La Palméa. As soon as I step in, I regret it – with its plump purple velvet chairs and tables of murmuring couples (and one disappointingly well-behaved bichon frise), it’s a bit funereal, even when sat, as I am, within earshot of furious shouting in the kitchen. When I discover they don’t do wine by the glass, I decide to go full Riviera and have 50cl of local rosé, which livens things up a bit, and happily means I’ll have no need of the earplugs.
The fish soup I have on the side is very good, more savoury and less aniseedy than Sunday’s version, and the staff are too busy squabbling to tell me off for eating it how I like; the sea bass with fennel and beurre blanc is spanking fresh, if not particularly exciting, and a single scoop of lemon sorbet gloriously zesty. For €33, it’s the kind of solid provincial French meal I’ve come to expect: pleasing, without knocking my oil-stained socks off. (Which is fine, I only have two pairs.)
Tiptoeing downstairs the next morning, before the rest of the pub – last heard in an uproarious midnight chorus of ‘Sweet Caroline’ – opens its eyes, I’m in Cannes in time to fulfil an hour-long ambition to eat a croissant on the Croisette (7.5/10, crisp at the ends but a bit doughy in the middle, and uninteresting flavourwise, though I do get a glass of delicious fresh orange juice with it, and the people-watching is first rate). I then promptly get stuck behind a lorry emptying fresh sand onto the beach. This does at least give me ample time to admire the lion-faced little dog in front of me, perched imperiously in a wine crate strapped onto the back of an ancient bike ridden by an equally ancient man, who assures me the sand is local (‘Mais bien sûr, Madame!’). I’d prefer to think of it being specially shipped over from the Sahara to cushion all those wealthy bronzed bottoms, I say. He looks almost offended by the suggestion.
The traffic is London rush-hour worthy as the city sets up for its annual ‘international festival of creativity’ (or, more prosaically, advertising, marketing and PR), and I’m glad to turn off the main road and take a little meander up the Cap d’Antibes, through Juan-les-Pins and into the territory of the super-rich, where hotels are flanked by security guards in tailored suits and shades, and everyone looks very pleased with themselves. Since I last spent any time on this coast, I notice estate-agent signs have gone Cyrillic, and at one point I’m overtaken noisily by a Russian-registered white Porsche.
One thing hasn’t changed though: the view as you round the tip of the Cap – faint but unmistakable on the horizon, the snow-capped Alps. My heart thrills with a mixture of love and terror for what lies ahead; it’s astonishing to be able to see both Mediterranean and mountain at the same time, and the sight keeps me going through an epic traffic jam in Antibes, a near miss with a traffic policeman on a Segway in Cagnes-sur-Mer, which strictly enforces the 20km speed limit on the cycle lane, and all the way into Nice, where the route is suddenly clogged with aimlessly wandering pedestrians and pootling hire bikes. I ride to the end of the Promenade des Anglais, just because I ca
n, celebrate with a cold drink, and then head to my hostel near the railway station to dump my stuff.
It’s been about 15 years since I last stayed in a dormitory, but Nice is an expensive place, so I’m relieved to find things have moved on: instead of a crowd of matted-haired boys rolling joints and playing the guitar to a crowd of adoring teenage girls, today’s youth seems more interested in artisan coffee and free Wi-Fi, which suits middle-aged me down to the ground. The room is clean (no biro peace signs in the loo or tattered Birkenstocks in the middle of the floor), the shower hot, and I’m in, out and sitting down for lunch by 12.15. La Merenda, the place I’ve been highly recommended by both Rowley Leigh and recent Nice resident Max, is closed for its annual holidays (these things no longer surprise me), so I take a chance on Le Voyageur Nissart, which has been serving up local cuisine since 1908. Age is no guarantee of quality, of course, but it is just around the corner from the hostel, and in a trip that has thus far largely been characterised by inconvenience, that has to count for something.
Unfortunately, I get off to a bad start by cheerily hailing the proprietor before he’s ready to acknowledge me, which leads to some rather frosty service, and a distinct unwillingness to engage in any discussion about the Niçoise salad, which in turn leads to the surprise discovery that their version contains two of my least favourite things, celery and raw onion, as well as tinned tuna in addition to my preferred anchovies. It does redeem itself slightly with some of the best olives I’ve ever eaten, and serves up a very good ratatouille with my red mullet, before coming up trumps with tourte de blettes, a true local speciality in the sense that, much like Marmite, you’d have to grow up with it to love it. Personally I’m not sold on the idea, or indeed the reality, of a sweet Swiss chard pie, two squares of floppy pastry filled with greens, dried fruit and waxy little pine nuts, and served dusted with icing sugar, but then the locals probably wouldn’t fancy spotted dick made with beef suet, so horses for courses – I’m at least pleased I’ve tried it, just so I never have to again.
Ratatouille
Best made in the height of summer, when all the vegetables below are at their peak – though, unless you have really great tomatoes, I’d still use tinned for preference – ratatouille demands a generous hand with the olive oil, and a degree of patience; this is not a dish that can be rushed. Sautéing all the vegetables separately might sound like a pain (because it is – as the aforementioned Médecin notes, ‘ratatouille, contrary to popular belief, is a particularly long dish to prepare’), but as they cook at different rates, it’s the only way to ensure melt-in-the-mouth aubergines and silky peppers, and it keeps well in the fridge for several days. Trust me, it’s worth a bit of work to come home to a Tupperware of this.
Serves 6–8
2 red peppers
2 green peppers
4 onions
3 aubergines
2 courgettes
Olive oil
6 garlic cloves
4 sprigs of basil, plus extra to serve
2 sprigs of parsley
2 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked
1 bay leaf
2 x 400g tins of tomatoes
Deseed and cut the peppers into slivers, peel and slice the onions, and cut the aubergines and courgettes into chunky dice about 2cm across.
Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a frying pan over a medium-low heat and cook the onions until very soft but not brown. Scoop out into a large saucepan and season, leaving as much oil in the pan as possible.
Depending on how much is left in there, add another tablespoon of oil to the onion pan and fry the peppers until soft, then add to the pan and season. Repeat this process with the courgettes, then the aubergines in batches, making sure everything is very tender before tipping it into the saucepan with the rest.
While the vegetables are cooking, thinly slice the garlic and heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a smaller saucepan. Add the garlic and sauté for a minute, then stir in the herbs and the tomatoes. Season and bubble until it’s thickened to a chunky sauce consistency.
Pour this over the top of the vegetables, cover and cook on a medium-low heat for about 45 minutes.
Remove the herbs and allow to cool slightly before serving.
Half of me feels I should spend the afternoon back in the saddle, exploring the hills that have drawn so many pro cyclists to the area, but the other half sensibly observes that while hills will be two a penny in the next couple of days, this will be my last sight of the sea for the rest of the trip – and I find that half’s argument considerably more persuasive. Eschewing the wide sandy beaches of the Promenade des Anglais, I thread through the old town instead, and find a little rocky inlet just east of the port, where I can sit on the rocks and watch the Corsican ferries steam past. Beautiful, honey-coloured teenagers splash and flirt while I dunk my own rather less comely tan lines in the water. On the way back, I stop for ice cream – outrageous figgy fig, and fleur de lait et amandes – at the famous Fennochio’s with every other tourist in town, which is so good that I can’t even be angry when my swimming things fall off my bike in heavy traffic afterwards and I have to dodge a thousand angry mopeds to scoop up my bikini bottoms from the tarmac.
Seaweed washed from my hair, shorts off, dress on, I head out to meet a friend who has kindly brought me an emergency phone from London in case mine goes berserk again (though a couple of days of sun seems to have improved its mood considerably) and who listens patiently as I talk at him over several beers. Jon is here for a weekend riding the hills I rejected this afternoon, and by the time his two buddies have arrived from the airport and had a few welcome drinks of their own, and Billy, who must be six foot four, has raced Eddy round the port just for the hell of it, I, as an old French hand, am getting concerned about dinner. Jon is sure he knows somewhere just around the corner, or perhaps the next – or was it up those steps?
At 10.47 p.m., I push them all into the nearest place, and somehow persuade Madame to serve us. ‘Just one course, though,’ she says firmly. ‘Make sure you tell them that.’ I nod meekly and wonder how to break it to her that one of them is a vegetarian. The night ends with grilled octopus and more rosé, and, giggling to myself, I head back to my dorm – now occupied by invisible sleeping roommates – set my alarm for 5 a.m. and pass out.
Km: 291.3
Croissants: 3 (average score, 7.8/10)
High: Riding the Corniche de l’Estérel
Low: Riding the highest sea cliffs in France and nearly being blown over them
STAGE 13
The Col de Joux Plane
Tartiflette
Tartiflette is an Alpine potato gratin made with copious amounts of molten mountain cheese and local white wine, and often seasoned with cured pork, cream and onions. It’s usually served as a stand-alone dish, with a green salad as health insurance.
If I’m not fully awake as I slip out of the dorm, a pre-dawn argument with the hostel’s Brazilian night porter, who, after taking up precious moments showing me photos of his mountain bike, won’t let me leave without returning the flimsy key card (‘No, you cannot pay for it, Missus, you must find’), soon gets the adrenaline flowing, as does a slipped chain on the 200-metre ride to the station. Once on the train, however, I sleep soundly through the entire Côte d’Azur – been there, done that, got the (faint) tan lines to prove it.
The vagaries of the French rail system mean that in order to travel north to the Alps, I must first spend a couple of groggy hours back in Marseille. I use it wisely, pedalling back up to the Prado to bag a bready croissant (6/10, croissant in shape alone, would have been improved by Marmite) from celebrity baker Pierre Ragot, where the queue stretches out of the door, giving me ample opportunity to admire his huge sourdough loaves and coal-black ciabatta. I eat it at a sweet little vegetarian café at the foot of the station steps, where I’d hoped to find yoghurt and muesli. Instead, I get chia seeds for the s
econd time in a week, which seems odd given how strenuously I avoid the chewy little bastards in London. The coffee’s good, though – positively reviving, in fact, after my late night and early start.
Still prising seeds from my molars, I ascend the train to Lyon, foolishly leaving my Pierre Ragot picnic (a deliciously olive-oil-sodden spinach and chèvre focaccia) in my panniers, where it spends the trip squashed behind 40 mountain bikes belonging to an excitable middle-aged French party. Ravenous with hunger by the time I get to Lyon (whatever anyone says, chia pudding does not fill you up), I eat an outrageously late lunch outside the station to stares of disapproval from everyone but the local population of small and hungry birds (whose advances give me a sudden pang of longing for the cupboard love of the dog) and then, with 40 minutes to kill before my next train, repair to the inevitable Relay newsagent for post-prandial coffee.
As I sit down at the window, I notice a uniformed man staring at Eddy, whom I’ve wedged carelessly against the other side. My first, and very British, thought is that he’s about to report him as a security risk – please do not leave baggage unattended on this station, etc. – so I attempt to reassure him through the glass using the medium of mime. He comes over anyway – here we go, I think, typical jobsworth – and tells me that my bike is beautiful, that he longs for such a bike. This is mine, he says, pulling out his phone to show me photos of something so loaded up with panniers at all available points it’s hard to tell if it’s a bike or a mule: ‘Je prends le tout!’ he tells me triumphantly. You really have only these bags? I’m delighted – after weeks of raised eyebrows from fellow cyclists, at last someone thinks I’m travelling light.
One More Croissant for the Road Page 19