France

An Inspirative song you definitely should play, pal!

You know, I won't talk about Holland or France. I mean it was start of my trip through Europe, lot of amazing people I met over there, but was usually lost in thoughts. It began on the last day of grape picking. Almost everybody left, many smiles, many tears, pal, just Ken, Buck and Julia were there, sitting and smoking the very last cigarette. Silence. Fleeting glimpses. Part of my mob disappeared into the blue, some of them were hitch hiking to Champagne. Minutes passed. Early afternoon. “Hey guys, I'm leaving, good luck,” I said towards their sombre faces, Julia nodded and I rode off. No one look back. Kilometres wildly passing on my new bicycle and I stopped only in order of water break. I passed cities like Belleville, Chaneins, Chatillon sur Chalaronne and Bourg en Bresse. I lain down to sleep every night on different places, late at evening, like a lone wolf you know. A monk treading thither his dreams through that crazy old continent. Several days later I just arrived to a truck parking, catching mine breath, close to Pont d´Ain, where I again met my fortune. About sixty kilometres behind me and I was planning to ride up to ten, not more that day. I rolled a cigarette and a man emerged from behind his truck, I did not noticed what the truck was from. He walked slowly to me, older man about fifty with a moustache twisted up in the corners like a monsieur. A driver, probably. “Bonjour garçon, d'où vous conduisez?” he asked me, naturally in French. “Sorry, I do not speak French, man,” I replied. “Oh, and English you speak?” I nodded and told him my story. He narrated what he did, about his travelling with a bike and cycling along every place he had to stop and had a necessary break. He advised me a good trace thither to Bellegarde. His name was Ben and was the English. A truck driver in Europe, he said and allegedly had to learn French because of his often trips just here. “That's bad, I should ride to Aosta, as you ride, but my boss called me yesterday and changed his mind. I could take you there but unfortunately have to go to Grenoble instead. On the other hand, you look out you want to get there by yourself, don't you?!” I noded. “Okay, take the road to Pont d´Ain and there you have to turn to left. There'll be the crossroads so follow the road number d-tousandandeightyfour towards Poncin or Labalme. It is probably the top of a mountain over here and the foothills of Alps. Be aware of that fuckin road's the only connection to Switzerland so is crowded with a traffic. Be careful.” “Well Ben, I'll pay attention, thanks. What about you, what's your plan?” I answered to him and kept talking. Really pleasant guy. “Ehh, I'm gonna cyclin along the hills here, as I usually do, havin like forty fifty kilometres long trip, arrivin to my hotel, you know, take a shower and drowsy go to a bed. Like to keep my body fit. So have I nice trip and really good luck. See Ya, Jim!” he told me, I sat onto my bike and roared off.

I arrived into that town, you know, after a while. I lost some time by looking for this “D” street what Ben had advised me, I passed the whole bloody town, turned and rode back. Finally found it and just nipped out to a shop standing at a corner to buy food supplies. A seller surprised me, even I missed almost two euros, he said : “okay, buy that milk man” in bad english, but who cares? Probably italien guy, he answered “SI” to me several times. Went out of the shop and who was standing aside my bike? BEN!

“Hey again, I've decided to cycle with you, if you don't mind. Just few kilometres and leave you, I guess in Poncin. Then goin to Serrieres sur Sain, or somehow and continue north-west to Montagnat and back down to my hotel. Okay?” he started enthusiastically so I nodded, packed that bought stuff and LET'S GO! Climbing had started soon, we passed about ten kilometres. Ben kept talking all the time, you know, sometimes saying to me : “I'm behind you, because of the traffic!”

Then we passed a village and Ben fired away “I'm gonna tell you a story, right?! One friend of mine is a soldier. He's been on a mission in Afghanistan. Once, he, one another English and three Gurkha were patrollin at a clean area, far away of their troop, you know. There were some buildings and suddenly. Bang. Bang. Bang. They ended up surrounded by Taliban. Our guys swiftly left position to a nearest building. And as he said to me they were surrounded by twenty fuckin guys with Kalashnikovs. Both sides opened fire to each other but it was more then obvious, they were without chance to escape alive. Except of these three Gurkha. They are really cruel warriors trained in a fight man to man. Nor an hour passed and all these Taliban were dead. Our guys were frankly lucky having Gurkha in the troop. You know it's honour for them to serve in British army. The feared warriors, as I sayin. You know, they use a special kind of knife called Khukuri.”

I cut in on Ben : “ay, I know. When I've been to Nepal and so I've bought one and have it at home on the moment. Although I had problems in India, We're just wanna enter a train station, there were that stuff like in a police station, or an airport, you know, you're putting your bags on the belt, it rides through and people behind see what's inside. So he saw. He told me : “Sir, come here. What is it?” I had to take it out of my bag, but I promised him it's just a gift for my brother. He asked for a bill, you know, even he knew I could not probably have it. I did not. In addition I tried to grease his palm. Twice or thrice. Without success. Ultimately, he's given it back to me with warning : “Don't you try to take it out in the train, understand?!!”“Climbin's here guy! Doin good, doiin really good Jim!” he shouted at me, pretty far. I could not continue, it was simply too much. Break. Ben said a last goodbye, speeded up and disappeared behind a bend. Cigarette and coca and back into the saddle. I did overcome this bloody hill and next morning passed long way along the magnificent Lac de Nantua to the “barrage de Génissiat”. I was lying on a table in the closest park, absorbing late autumnal sun. Life had whizzed along, you know, and I´d just been there, in that park, on that bench.

end of summer -

leafage turn even more down

                           being on trees.

I'd crossed Frangy, Mesigny and La Balme de Sillingy and got into Anency fast in all, weather was all mine. Beautiful town I'm telling you, but easily get lost. Magical scenery of Europian Giants – Mont Blanc, Mont Fort and the other. Standing there for millions of decades, patiently regarding another kind of being developing into different societies, watching many downs and twilights of civilizations in a stony stillness. I'd decided to overcome one of these colossi, like a drama across centuries. Me and them. I left the town quickly and rode towards Albertville, the last big city as I thought. There'd been a cycle path, first real path after Holland. It went well until I approached it. Weather changed into bloody rain. I entered the town, stocked necessities up and lost my Indian scarf. Fuck, somewhere. But you know, maybe I did not mention I believe into SYNCHRONICITY and what happened next was just next proof of it. Because I did not lose just that scarf but also my map. I was sad about the scarf, it always was handy stuff, you know, in windy or rainy weather. Simply no fair-weather friend. I'd found the scarf almost two kilometres far and immediately. Not the map. I chose easily looking way d-ninehundredandtwentyfive. “Wow, just about twenty kilometres,” I thought and was far away of the truth. Fucking forty kilometres up to the hill, a thousandninehundredandeighty metres above sea as I realized laaater.

It took me two and a half days to climb up, but later about it. That night I was going to last out was the hardest ever. Buddy, it'd started to rain while I was leaving Albertville, darkness was coming and I did not have a shelter. I rode next five kilometres to a hill, chilled to the bone than I found out a habitable place. BUT. I was wrong, houses all around so I could not pitch my tent and the rain wound me fucking up. No chance man. Only possibility on that moment was going to a bus stop. For sure, good one like you can see at the mountains. More small hut without front wall, then stop. There was dry and I'd had another ace up mine sleeve – INDIAND SHAWL. At opposite side had been a restaurant and since was Friday even Saturday night, I think, it was full. I bet they saw me, of course I was not sure, but some of them were looking my direction. Restless sleep I had, you know man, the bus stop bench is narrow and hard and piercing cold tried to penetrate under my clothes. All my life's there – one bag, the bike and food for few hours. Believe me, I wanted to give up. If I had a magic ring I would be at a fucking Turkish bath, sitting in there drinking cuba. No guy, kidding. I liked that situation. It had taught me a lot. Especially that that's easy to get into the troubles pretty fast. Three o´clock Sir, rain finished. Finally. Packed my stuff up and rolled into the blue, into the darkness thither my tent. I compensated it next day, it was a beautiful day. Easily got into Beaufort, small mountain town with Romanesque style buildings (not all) and cosy atmosphere.

I did wrong decision there, according to an information woman, good weather and time I decided to continue same day to climb over the top. She said to me : “Don't worry mister, it is just twenty kilometres to Bourgh-Saint-Maurice!” I did not have too much shop so I waited till three when the only shop should open and it was only waste of my time. Then I hit the road with the thought “I'm gonna pass that bloody hill – "Cormet de Roselend!” I didn't know what the hell I was going to do. Kilometres passed slower as I got higher, my force was leaving me and weather was getting cloudy. You have no idea what it is to climb up the hill, ten percent gradient, with a bag, who known how heavy? A mad smile emerged at a breathless mug beyond each kilometre. I passed, I thought, eleven or twelve and totally drained of energy sat down in a bend high up with magical view of the closest mountains. “No man, there's no possibility to go. Don't be fucking crazy!” I said to myself. But what now? There was the road and hills. Nor small piece of flat land, except. Do you see it? Ay! Small path leading somewhere off. A little bit narrow, still better then nothing, right? I scrambled up twenty metres, the path contracted at a tents width and continued into the forest. I pitched camp there. You should see it, one side of the tent was tied as it could, fastened into a rock while second side was hold by a fall trunk. And then a deep chasm. Behind me, probably in the forest, had been a waterfall. I didn't check it. Next day was raining. The whole day. Day off for me. Bloody hell. Food supply grew thinner – exactly I did have two baguettes, a half of bottle with olive oil (damn good) and three carrots. I almost forgot, one or two cloves of garlic. What a prospect! Time was passing tick – tack. On the other hand I could rest. Not well resting nor bad. You know, golden middle way. Buddha came to me and I pushed him down the ravine. Annoying guy. I'd been dreaming about future a little, even there's no future, feeling fucking alone in the dark night, a thousand and something metres up. The belly's empty. Sweet nescience hazed my mind and led it into unconsciousness. Next morning was cold. I woke up early, seven o'clock and I shot off. Three hours later I was looking down into the end of France, that crazy France and I remembered my second impression in here. Must say, the first one was terrible, a night sequence in a bus from Holland, no one spoke English nor a driver. Bah. Second, as I was telling you, was different. It happened somewhere in a village I rode through, agreeable sensation pervaded me and the SMELL. I didn't know what it was, but it was, it was reminded me of a forest in spring, a meadow in summer, all these flowers around you and a girl. You're looking into her glinting eyes and talking sweet in a hug, grass' rustling and a bee, little bee's drifted by occasional breath of air. Grapes and dandelions, it smells of marigold. There was a big herd of cattle, maybe hundred head, spread close to the top, Cormet de Roselend, and their bells were ringing like an orchestra. Otherwise nothing, another different sound, just wind blew great guns. Ding-a-link!

It did not take nor an hour to get to Bourg Saint Mauric, really the last one city in here. Finally. Furious downhill cycling, at least sixty an hour pal, wind whizzed along with its typical “WHOOSH”. You could feel the power, trust me as telling you, it is same kind of power like you ride up, but more manifested outwardly. Another lazy day, this time I spent at a “proper” campsite, you know, I needed to do laundry because of previous rainy days. Then I climbed my life's mountain on the bike – Col du Petit Saint Bernard, twothousandhundredandeightyeight metres, pal. I did pass across at one go, you know. First half was okay, I had power and everything but then, suddenly, the neighbouring peaks sent a heavy fog down on me and so I could not see further than thirty metres. Two, three hours lasted to get the top, who knew, I was tired out, frozen like a shit, my nose's running, getting angry, angry with all these people riding in all that polished rattletraps watching me like “Hey guy, what are you doing here in that weather, what are you trying, hmm?” Bloody hell with all Bodhisattvas, I simply wanted one frigging bath and a cigarette. A sign proclaiming “Ancien Hospic – 500m” emerged and I was smiling like a small boy who had got his chocolate. I was only five hundred metres away from coffee and a shot. So cruelly wrong I was. I arrived outside of a tall, stony building, got inside and there's no one in the whole damn pile. There should be an open bar or restaurant, open hospice for all kind travellers, but nothing, just that mad light controlled on photo cell switching on with every my move. Fuck. Took French leave towards the borders in one kilometres distance, discovered another café – closed, and a small shop with different kind of souvenirs you can buy in this freaky wasteland. “Hey madam, is any open café here? Except this one,” I addressed to a bit older lady in there and pointed to the closed café. “Si, Segnore. At the French side is one restaurant what could be open, by my opinion. So try it there.” I passed a big signboard reporting “You are on the top!” and found out the restaurant's closed thus I stepped into the pedals and dashed away to meet my light future in there, where I was heading to. CHEERIO France.