With a skip in my step, and a coquettish swish in Eddy’s tyres, we continue our journey due east along a line flanked by turquoise lakes to Annecy in the Haute-Savoie (my second favourite département of France), where I have a tight connection with the Saint-Gervais train – except it’s not listed on the board. Panicking, I find a man in a peaked cap (one of the great things about the heavily unionised and conservative French railway is that you’re never far from an immaculately turned-out member of staff), who tells me it’s been cancelled and replaced by a bus – and thus, it seems, disappeared from the official timetable. My mind races back, reluctantly, to rail replacement buses I have known and hated – ‘But I have a bike!’ I whimper. ‘Will they take a bike?’ He shrugs with the optimistic air of someone who knows this isn’t his problem. ‘Maybe, you’ll have to ask the driver.’
First, I have to find him. In the end, it’s a process of elimination: the only bus at the rank not displaying a destination or a train number that bears any relation to the cancelled service turns out to be the Saint-Gervais-bound service, and its chauffeur is a classic of the genre, complete with sharply pressed short-sleeved shirt and a sparse, nicotine-stained moustache. I humbly ask Drives if he might consider taking a bike. Unlike his British brothers-in-arms, he seems open to such a possibility, slinging Eddy carelessly into the luggage compartment as if he’s no more than an oddly shaped suitcase – and frankly, after 12 hours, I’d sacrifice my loyal companion to the mountain sprites if it brought me closer to a glass of wine and a comfy bed.
My dad is waiting for me at Cluses, staring gloomily into the compact boot of his rented hatchback as the bus driver, half-smoked rollie tucked behind his ear, attempts to reverse into me on his way back to civilisation. It’s now almost 14.5 hours since I set off from Nice, from sun-baked pastels to wooden chalets, and the moment for rational thought finished around teatime, had there been any tea available. Wordlessly, I pick up poor Eddy and, before anyone can object, shove him bodily into the car, chuck the panniers in on top of his poor delicate wheels and fall into the front seat.
I’d like to say that my parents have come over especially to check up on their youngest child, to feed me and kiss my many pedal-shaped bruises better, but in fact they seized the opportunity for a cheap holiday at my sister’s new flat in the Alps months before I even admitted to myself that I was going to embark on this mad adventure, so the timing is merely coincidental on their part. Me, I’ve based my entire itinerary on the hope of some free meals and a serviced launderette.
En route to Samoëns, after the briefest of solicitous enquiries about my trip thus far, Dad recounts every walk they’ve done in minute detail; it’s quite soothing to be talked at for a change, and even more soothing to be met at the door with a large glass of cold wine and a demand for ‘your darks’. As everything I own is filthy, I eat a hearty dinner dressed in my mum’s walking tights (several sizes too small) and my brother-in-law’s ski jacket (several sizes too large), enjoy a heated argument about British politics (not hard in the summer of 2018) and retire to bed in a comfortingly familiar rage.
I wake the next morning to find the rage replaced by a crushing sense of fear and a neat pile of sweet-smelling Lycra. I have my first cup of tea for three weeks (my mum travels with teabags), devour half a baguette piled with butter and Marmite and, after posing for a photo, bow to maternal pressure by stuffing my warm jacket into the pocket at the back of my jersey and take off, free of panniers, but weighed down with worry – chiefly that I’m about to make a massive tit of myself.
This is definitely the most terrified I have felt since … well, since nearly being blown to my death on those cliffs above Cassis. I’m taking on the Col du Joux Plane, described by Cycling Weekly (my regular read, obviously) as ‘perhaps the most picturesque and tranquil mountain pass in the French Alps’ and by Lance Armstrong as ‘the hardest day of my life – on a bike’ … and he wasn’t running on just tea and Marmite.
I’ve chosen it for two reasons. Firstly, and most importantly, it starts metres from my sister’s flat. Secondly, it finishes in Morzine, a place I happen to know can make a good tartiflette. Unfortunately for me, while a local bike tour company bills the Joux Plane as ‘a tough climb from either side’, it’s apparently ‘significantly harder from Samoëns’, a fact that clearly did not play a part in my decision-making process.
My friend Ned, a man who has successfully completed an Alpine leg of the Étape du Tour, the amateur Tour de France stage laid on for fans each year, sends me a helpful guide to the route, which I study fretfully, unsure whether it’s better to know what I’m in for or to set off in happy ignorance. Is it true that anything, including tartiflette, is achievable if you want it enough, or am I having a laugh making an attempt on what ‘Dutch climbing legend’ Peter Winnen apparently remembers as ‘the nastiest climb in the Alps’ – the point at which I stopped reading Ned’s guide. I’m about to find out.
I turn off the main road and on to a side street that until now has been known to me as a place to buy cheap ski gear, but which, it appears from the bottom, could also double as a toboggan run in high season. ‘It begins with a laverie, a laundrette. You don’t see many of those these days but it’s a good invitation to get into your lowest gear and start a spin cycle otherwise you’ll be rinsed in no time,’ the guide on my handlebars helpfully informs me. These words, along with the subsequent phrase ‘the hardest part of the climb is about to begin’ ring in my ears as I start to pedal in earnest – my cheeks burn with the effort and the paranoid conviction that everyone around me (three old grannies on their way to Mass) knows where I’m heading and is sucking their false teeth at my foolish hubris.
The road climbs, not very gradually, I’ll be honest, through chalets and hotels, until it turns into the Col proper: a sign announces it’s currently OUVERT. Bummer. The possibility that it might still be closed due to late snow hadn’t thus far occurred to me, but now I’m in mourning for what could have been – there’s a long way round to Morzine, after all.
Onwards and upwards the road goes, and hotels become farms and gardens become meadows, the gradient steep enough to make the idea of stopping attractive, but rarely steep enough to be actually painful – later, I read that an 18th-century regional engineer, Pierre Trésaguet, is largely responsible for the generally sensible gradients of French roads: 8 per cent, decreed to be the most a fully laden mule could cope with, is the usual limit. The Joux Plane boasts an average of 8.5 per cent, and a maximum of 11 or 12 per cent, depending on who you believe. Afterwards, I tend to favour the latter, or even American pro cyclist Chris Horner’s claim that it’s ‘like 20 per cent all the way up’, but, though that’s nothing compared to some of the other stuff I’ve done, it seems to just go on and on.
As it does, I begin to notice small oddities: a woman in a Mécanique T-shirt leaning on a car by the side of the road, a small boy waving a French flag on a corner, a little knot of people sitting on the grass, one of whom shouts, ‘Vive la France!’ as I labour past. I pump the air with what I hope looks like nonchalance, as if this kind of thing happens to me all the time, but as I pull level with a man in a baseball cap on the verge, who urges ‘Allez! Allez!’, I stop abruptly.
He looks a bit scared, as well he might given that I can hardly muster enough breath to get the words out. Eventually I wheeze, ‘Monsieur, is there a race up here today?’ His face creases delightedly. ‘Bien sûr!’ In fact, Mademoiselle, they’re just behind you. Once again, I rue the fact that ‘Putain!’ is no substitute for your average English swear word in the satisfaction stakes. Don’t worry, he says kindly, it is not important! And, as I pull away, ‘Courage!’
Gradually, the serious cyclists begin to pass me, more in a trickle than a steady stream: an impossibly young-looking boy followed by a team car, or perhaps just his over-enthusiastic parents, proffering gels through the window; older, thicker men, heads down, thighs pumping like pistons. So
me of them make it look easy, some appear to be finding it almost as tough as me, sweat pouring down their faces. Most are nice enough to offer some encouragement as they go past, the ones who aren’t in a world of private pain, and I make it a point of pride to cheerily respond – and never to stop in view of any of them.
The world shrinks to what’s immediately in front of me: the scent of warm hay, the tinkling of cowbells, the dark of the forest, the cheering gleam of Mont Blanc in the distance, and, more relevantly, the distance markers of the climb, which, as they also reveal the average gradient of the next kilometre, exert a powerful influence on my spirits.
Suddenly, as the road carves a slow curve in the mountain, which, rationally, I know isn’t steep but still causes the last ounce of baguette energy to drain from my legs, I spy a little gazebo in the distance and a sign which surely must mark the top. Like Armstrong, I find there’s nothing left in the tank and, unlike him, stop for a fizzy Haribo Orangina, which sits flaccid between my teeth as I push on upwards, finally dribbling to a stop by the tent, which is serving blackcurrant squash to the competitors. I take one before anyone can object and down it quickly, before wheeling Eddy back to the Col de Joux Plane sign, hoping to get a picture for posterity – or at least to remind the familial WhatsApp group that I’m still alive.
I ask a couple of men already posing by it to take my photo, as their female companion vomits into the grass. They turn out to be Brits – ‘That went on a bit, innit?’ one of them says conversationally as I grimace for the camera. ‘Are you doing the race?’ I laugh delightedly. They tell me they’ve come for the trail running competition in Samoëns; having run 83km the day before, they had a fancy to hire some bikes today. Having reduced me to stupefied silence, they scoop up their poor spluttering friend and shoot off at surprising speed for people whose legs ‘hurt a bit’, but I take some comfort from the fact that, unless they’ve rented all the gear as well, this is definitely not their first rodeo.
From here the road curls round a dark, glassy lake, which might be assumed, by those less well read than me, to mark the summit. Thanks to Ned, I know better. There’s yet more climbing to do to the Col du Ranfolly (yet another entry ticked off on dangerousroads.org), before the D354 starts its sinuous return to the valley floor. Having sweated in the strong mountain sunshine all the way up, I find it’s cold up here, and damp, too; the cloud almost touches the black water, and I’m grateful for my mum’s fussing about the jacket.
Shortly after spotting my first, very gratifying piste map, and passing underneath a chairlift disgorging mountain bikers rather than snowboarders, the road begins to descend in great swooping loops and then straightens out, still at a terrifying gradient, and doesn’t stop falling until I have to slam on the brakes at a roundabout in the middle of Morzine. It’s proper white-knuckle stuff, and I ride it unsure whether it’s better to perch racer-style, with my hands on the drops, which feels a lot more stable but leaves me unable to reach the brakes, or hold on to the brakes instead, which puts me rather too upright for comfort. Neither are entirely satisfactory, to be honest, but as I can’t really stop to consider the situation, I content myself with changing every three minutes instead, mouth open in a rictus of terror, flies throwing themselves down my throat in suicidal abandon.
When I finally screech to a halt outside the Felix Ski Shop, my heart is racing like an amphetamine-addled racer from days of yore. I call my parents and discover, despite my triumphant message from the top, which I note they haven’t read, that they haven’t even left Samoëns yet. In theory, that gives me time to sit down with a cold and very well-deserved beer at one of Morzine’s best tartiflette establishments. In reality, those all being closed (the whole town is, in fact, closed, on a sunny Sunday in mid-June), I’ve hardly found somewhere open and licked the foam from the top of an absurdly tiny helping of 1664 before the troops arrive and shatter the peace.
I greet them like one newly back from the face of death and manage to persuade my dad that this is the time, as the sudden sun beats down mercilessly on his bald head, to try his first tartiflette. My mum, having been put off potatoes for life by an Irish mother, instead engages in a protracted discussion with the waiter about the feasibility of swapping the chips served with her grilled perch for the risotto elsewhere on the menu, a debate that continues to rumble on long after I’ve intervened to offer to pay any surcharge incurred. If there’s one thing that my mum, a former languages teacher, enjoys more than an argument, it’s an argument in French, and the waiter, being a good upstanding Frenchman, is equally ready to roll up his sleeves in defence of the status quo. (Fish is served with chips. Surely we of all people understand that?) Eventually, a compromise is reached, and I can enjoy a glass of wine in peace.
Thankfully, given that it’s the only choice in town, the tartiflette at La Rotonde is both huge and notably good. Honestly, it’s pretty hard to get a potato, cheese and bacon gratin wrong, but as I consider it my moral duty to eat at least two on every trip to the Alps, I can confirm that some are better than others. The worst examples are dry and heavy – nothing but claggy spuds and oily cheese – while superior efforts like this are lubricated with the same refreshingly acidic local plonk we’re glugging with it, with gently cooked cheese that runs over the potatoes like cream.
I finish the lot, then scrape my dad’s dish as well, and call for the dessert menu. Truth be told, I’ve only cycled 25km, but it still feels worthy of a celebratory coupe liégeois sundae, complete with mound of whipped cream and sparkler, as well as the complimentary shot of génépi that, despite risotto-gate, arrives along with the bill. This Alpine herbal liqueur, in defiance of the usual order of such things, tastes disgusting in situ as well as back home, a fact that only makes me love it more, so as my dad is driving home and I’m cycling, I have his as well.
Thankfully, the way back through Les Gets (world capital of music boxes), on the thrillingly named Route des Grandes Alpes, though longer than the outward journey, is considerably gentler, and even the honking of some indignant German bikers fails to dent my triumphant spirits. As my legs spin peaceably round and round, there’s time to appreciate attractions along the way, including a shop selling decommissioned cable-car cabins as garden ornaments and a display of decorated straw bales, and even, cockles warmed by génépi, to reflect on how much I love this country.
I’m having such a good time I’m almost sad to find the road runs out after Samoëns, so I go home, stick the kit in the washing machine and walk round the lake with my parents, steering them home via the cheese shop, where we pick up a huge slab of nutty Beaufort (truly, this is one of the world’s greatest cheeses. If you haven’t tried it, you must put this book down and go and find some), and six plump smoky diot sausages for dinner.
PAUSE-CAFÉ – French Sausages, a Field Guide
The French love their charcuterie – you’ll see fresh pork on the menu far less than in the UK – and their saucisses are things of beauty. The meat content tends to be higher than in a British banger, which makes them a denser proposition, but a good butcher will mix in enough fat to keep them from being dry – just be careful when you cut in, as this can turn into a greasy geyser on contact with heat. Here are a few sausages you might come across on your travels:
Diots de Savoie – garlicky, spicy pork sausages from the mountains, salty with bacon, and often smoked.
Figatellu – a Corsican pork sausage eaten fresh, dried or smoked, it contains blood and offal, and is seasoned with herbs, garlic and wine.
Merguez – made from beef and mutton, these North African sausages are spiced with harissa, cumin and ras el hanout. The name is said to come from the Berber amrguaz, like man – or a certain part of a man. Wink.
Saucisse de Morteau – a large smoked sausage flavoured with caraway, nutmeg and wine from the east of France.
Saucisse de Strasbourg – finely minced pork and beef seasoned with cumin, these look rather like what
we think of as frankfurters in the UK.
Saucisse de Toulouse – sold by weight in a coil, like our own Cumberland sausages, these coarsely chopped sausages are seasoned only with salt and pepper.
Txistorra – a pork and beef sausage from the Basque country, which gets its distinctive red colour from piment d’Espelette.
To follow, there’s a large and rather dry gâteau savoyard my mum has somehow won in a raffle at the boulangerie after a mere four days of custom, a jar of syrupy bilberries and a dollop of Alpine yoghurt. I take it all on board, eating like I’m going to spend the next day bagging yet more cols, rather than embarking on another railway marathon. I’ve earned it.
Following an early-morning trip to said boulangerie for a croissant (8/10, slightly soft texture but excellent flavour – merci, Tiffanie!), I ride back to Cluses station, shedding altitude with every kilometre as the mountains recede behind me and going so fast, in fact, that I sadly fail to stop in time to photograph the sign for the little hamlet of Le Pissoir on the way into town.
Having missed this golden opportunity, I don’t let the cheese co-operative on the main road pass me by, and after leafing through some rather sanitised children’s picture books on the dairy industry, I quiz the girl behind the desk on the finer details of tartiflette. Unsurprisingly, she has particularly strong opinions on the cheese element: you can put in wine, bacon, even cream if you want, she tells me, but without Reblochon it isn’t tartiflette.
She has a point. Though based on a much older dish called a péla, the modern recipe was dreamt up by the Reblochon marketing board in the 1980s. It is to be hoped they were rewarded for it, because it is a work of sheer culinary genius.
One More Croissant for the Road Page 20