Short Story: A Bridge Too Far

Short Story: A Bridge Too Far

Aah, France – it has that certain je ne sais quoi that can draw you back time and again. A country so diverse and large that you need never travel the same road twice. The strangely enticing, unique aroma of gallois and sewers mixed with the tantalising smell of pine forests. What more could one ask for?

This was to be the North Devon Harley Riders fifth world tour of France and we were breaking new ground as, instead of staying in one place, we were actually doing a round tour. On our previous trips we’ve poodled around Limoges, St Jean de Mont, The Dordogne, and last year we joined the 65th war celebrations in Normandy to pay our respects to those who had selflessly given their lives in order that we may selfishly live ours. On these previous club trips we’ve taken the ‘road less travelled’, preferring the unbeaten track and exploring the countryside via the side roads. This year however, our happy band was but a small one due to various illnesses, inertia and work commitments - although being retired I can somewhat smugly and gleefully declare ‘work’ to be a four-letter word! So, as there were only five of us on three bikes we had taken this opportunity to have an actual tour. Mark had left his significant other behind to look after their cats – I mention this as it was something he was going to regret in the forthcoming days as various scenarios tested his ability to cope without his wife. All three bikes were electra glide ultra classics, (well, Mark has the CVO flag-ship of the Harley-Davidson range but we’ll come to the wisdom of his choice later on) so we were able to ‘Good Buddy’ each other via the CB radios as we went along. This did tend to lean towards the John Cleese version of the Sat Nav... “Turn left here....here! You blithering....” “Where’s he gone now?” Another reason to be grateful that there were only three bikes. Honestly, at times it’s like herding cats, or pushing water uphill with a pitchfork.

Our plan was to travel down the west side of France and grab one of the numerous motels near the autoroute for our first night; stop in Carcassonne for a couple of nights; Millau for one night and then trundle up to Saumur on the banks of the Loire and stay there for a few days R & R.

The trip started off well, it really did. We left home in glorious evening sunshine and travelled overnight from Plymouth to Roscoff aboard Brittany Ferries relatively new ship, The Amorique. A light swell may well have been running but the stabilisers and extremely quiet engine ensured that we had a peaceful night’s sleep on board – okay, the nightcap glass of wine didn’t hurt either – and we arrived well and truly refreshed and ready for the first leg of our trip.

As we left the ferry port we stopped briefly at a local wine supermarket in Roscoff so that Mark could return a bottle of red wine, purchased as part of a case the previous year. When opened in England the wine had proved to be ‘off’ and undrinkable. After the too-ing and fro-ing of numerous emails the Vintners had agreed to taste it themselves to decide whether le refund would be in order. The premises were shut as it was only seven o’clock in the morning so the guilty bottle was duly placed on their doorstep as directed. More than likely they deposited it straight into their dumpster but hey, one can but try! It’s the principal of the thing, dontcha know.*

The day grew gradually hotter as we meandered south, passing through Rennes, Nantes and Niort. We had planned to stop the night at Saintes, an interesting town with a great deal of Roman architecture and an amphitheatre to boot but we were trundling along so well that we decided to get some more miles under our belt and travelled on to Bordeaux, grabbing a Motel on the outskirts for the night. It turned out that this was not the wisest of moves as it resulted in catastrophe nombre une.

The rooms in this Hotel had numerical push-button pads to punch in a code and gain entry, which worked just fine initially. We popped out for a meal at the adjacent good old Buffalo Grill and returned later in the evening, fed and watered – well, perhaps ‘watered’ is not the most accurate description. When Mark tried to get back into his room he found that he was well and truly locked out. The requisite code was tapped in...and stamped in...and punched in.... but no amount of cajoling, swearing or stabbing of random numbers encouraged the door to open. Shoulders were used but the door refused to budge. There was no emergency telephone number, no night porter on duty, no warden’s apartment. Perfect! It was an extremely hot evening and Mark had left his window open on a security latch. I’m sure an expert burglar could have gained entry and if we’d been carrying a chain saw or a sledge hammer it wouldn’t have been a problem for us but we had none of these in our respective toolkits and the window proved immovable to every persuasion, including all known swear words, French, English and, in Mark’s case, American. Fed up and tired Mark declined to sleep on the floor of our room (a fact for which we were truly and secretly grateful as he snores – loudly!) and simply went across the street and booked into another motel for the night. When we met up with him for breakfast the following morning he didn’t look too refreshed. Apparently his room lacked air-conditioning and wasn’t quite up to the standard of the one to which he’d been unable to gain entry. He looked much the worse for wear and it crossed our minds that he had, in fact, slept in a dumpster as he had no interest in claiming back the money for the room he’d been locked out of, saying that it was no problem, Sara, his capable wife, would sort it all out when we got back.

The extreme heat of the previous day had brought thunderstorms to the area so, prudence being the better part of valour, we donned the waterproofs as we set off towards Toulouse and Carcassonne with the odd rumble and rogue raindrop as our companions. As we neared Carcassonne however, the sun came out, banishing the grey skies for our entire visit.

We’d heard conflicting views of Carcassonne prior to our trip; ‘loved it’, ‘too tacky’, ‘fantastic’, ‘too commercialised’. Well, our first view came as we rounded a corner driving through the town in search of our hotel and it simply took our breath away. There it was, standing proudly upon the hillside, looking absolutely stunning and majestic, it’s pointed turrets stretching up into the clear blue sky.

The old walled city and fortress of Carcassonne had fallen into such disrepair that in 1849 the French Government was actually going to demolish it but this caused such a huge uproar that the Mayor led a campaign to preserve the fortress as an historical monument. Eugene Viollet-le-Duc was the architect whose vision and commitment led to the eventual renovation work commencing in 1853. He used a little poetic licence in his reconstruction but his use of slate for the roofs and the restoration of the towers as pointed cones resulted in a stunning and impressive skyline. The renovation is an on-going, endless task and in 1997 the importance of Carcassonne was recognised and it became a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

This fortress is truly a delight to walk around. The battle-scarred double ramparts have fifty-three towers and as you walk around you have superb views across the countryside and to the Pyrenees in the far distance. Within these ramparts lies the fortified Cite and the more expansive lower city; la ville basse. Yes,there are a few shops selling plastic swords and shields of armour but so what? The kids love them. There are also some charming and beautiful shops, selling delightful jewellery, clothes and crafts. The architecture is quite stunning, and with numerous gorgeous restaurants where one can watch the world and his aunt go by whilst enjoying a perfect french salad and a nice-cold, ice-cold beer what more could one ask for. Heaven!

With grey skies and heavy mist as our early morning companions once again, we left this fascinating Cite and continued our tour. Luck seemed to be with us as we dodged the rain drops and kept in front of the thunderstorm, our travels taking us up and over the beautiful forested hills of the Central-Massif towards our goal – The Millau Bridge.

As we sped along the autoroute, luck proved to be a fickle companion as catastrophe nombre deux raised its ugly head. Mark’s bike - yes, the CVO, the flagship of the Harley-Davidson range (I told you we’d get back to it!) started to misfire. Well, not so much misfire as not fire at all in one cylinder. He limped along to the next service station and three manly heads shook in unison as the bike was looked at, poked at, prodded and mumbled at. ‘Spark plug’ was the collective theory and diagnosis. Thankfully Steve had recently had a Harley-Davidson Sat Nav fitted to his bike and this showed the nearest Harley-Davidson dealer – about sixty miles behind us in Montpelier! We decided to carry on to Millau – we had an hotel booked there and decided we could sort out Mark’s bike once we arrived. We let Mark lead so that he could go at his own – or should I say his bike’s - speed.

He wasn’t too keen at being in front as that meant he’d be leading over the bridge. “What’s the problem?” we asked. Well, it turns out that Mark doesn’t like heights. Now, for an ex-Vietnam helicopter pilot, not to mention a retired airline Captain, this sort of filled us with disbelief and a certain picture leapt into my mind. ”Good morning, ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome on board. I’m your Captain and today we’ll be flying at twenty thousand feet....holy ****....whatever you do, don’t look down!”

We had watched Le Viaduc de Millau’s construction in fascination on National Geographic’s Mega Structure series and ever since then our club had lusted to join that merry band who could claim to have ridden across it. It was designed by Norman Foster and Michel Virlogeux and is the tallest bridge in the world. Work commenced in October 2001 and completed in December 2004, with building costs reaching 400 million Euros, which is gradually being scraped back by a toll of 5.60 euros per vehicle – worth every single cent for the experience, privilege and eye-popping views.

Le Viaduc de Millau is part of the A75/A71 autoroute which runs from Paris to Montpelier and spans the valley of the River Tarn near Millau in Southern France, linking two limestone plateaus; the Causse du Larzac and the Causse-Rouge. Its eight-span steel roadway is supported by seven concrete pylons and seven cable-stayed masts that stretch across the chasm like the giant white sails of ships. To give you an idea of the sheer size of this construction, one mast’s summit is at 343 metres (1,125 ft) slightly taller than the Eiffel Tower and only 37 metres shorter than the Empire State Building. This bridge is simply stunning and takes your breath away – it certainly took Mark’s, however he did make it over alive and well, which is more than could be said of his bike, which was decidedly poorly and in need of a good talking to.

This had almost proved to be a bridge too far but one should never underestimate the power of a Harley-Davidson. It might only be firing on one cyclinder but that one cylinder still equated to a 900 cc engine and got him comfortably to our hotel in the town of Millau. HOG Assist was duly called and numerous scenarios were put forward; collect both bike and Mark the next morning and take it to the Harley dealer in Montpelier; get a local bike dealer to have a look at it -cancel that, he didn’t have the new diagnostics; load the bike tonight and return in the morning for Mark and head back to Montpelier; cancel that - Harley dealers in Montpelier can’t even look at the bike for another 10 days. Impasse!

Steve consults his all-singing, all-dancing Sat Nav – (I have just got to get me one of these!) - there is a Harley dealer in Clermont-Ferrand, about 70 miles en route to our next destination. Mark spoke to HOG Assist and told them that he would baby his bike along to Clermont-Ferrand first thing in the morning and could they have the mechanics standing by? All credit to HOG Assist, that is exactly what happened. Mark limped along on his 900cc motorbike and we arrived on the doorstep of Harley-Davidson at 9.15 am.

We had just settled into buying mode looking at t-shirts and bling and enjoying a courtesy coffee when Le Mechanic arrived with the sad news. It was not going to be a simple case of new spark plugs – hey, no-one’s perfect, the lads gave it their best shot. Apparently the ignition coil had gone and also something was loose in one of the pistons. Terminal, as far as this holiday went. What a bummer! We had no option but to leave our good buddy as he made arrangements for his journey home, sans bike, which would follow at a much later date.

So, in sombre mood we continued our journey towards Saumur. At the next services however, we decided to telephone Mark - surely with Hog Assist he would be entitled to some sort of courtesy vehicle? No sooner had he answered the phone than he informed us that he had a hire car coming and would catch us up. Our mood lifted and it was in happier spirits that we continued to Saumur, where we had hired chalets for our short three night stay at the campsite on the Ile d’Offard, in the middle of the Loire. At 7.30 pm Mark arrived, having made good time in his hired car - our happy band was once again complete.

We spent a delightful day in Saumur enjoying their cafe culture and wandering around the Chateau, which hangs majestically above the River Loire. In the 13th Century it was a fortress and it’s a construction that would have made Walt Disney green with envy. In the past it’s been a residence for town governors, a prison, and a munitions depot. It has undergone meticulous restoration over the last decade and is a delight to walk around, although much of the interior was unavailable to visitors due to the current renovations.

There is a glut of superb Chateaus in Loire but our limited time there meant that we could only choose one – and it really was a no-brainer. We didn’t want Mark to feel bad or left out or lonely so we all clambered into his car - okay, okay, it was raining, it made sense to use the car! – and headed off to the magnificent Chateau Chenonceau. This stunning and romantic Chateau with arches that span the River Cher also boasts exquisite landscaped gardens, including a maze, which didn’t exactly test us but was a huge improvement upon Hampton Court’s. The whole experience was a delight.

And so Saturday arrived and we headed for Roscoff and the return ferry home. On the bright side Mark got a refund of £17 from Brittany Ferries as he was now a foot passenger. ‘But what happened to the bike?’ I hear you ask. Well, nineteen days later that finally made it back to Riders of Bridgewater. It arrived at 10.30 in the morning and by the time Mark drove up there – a mere one and a half hours later – they had fixed it. Turned out it was a frayed wire in the ignition. Simples! All credit to HOG Assist but they must be more than a little miffed that Monsieur le Mechanic had been unable to diagnose that as the cost of recovering a vehicle is not cheap.

Eeh, it were a grand trip despite the trials and traumas and already our thoughts have turned to next year. The Massif-Central certainly bears another look so maybe we’ll head back that way. I shall investigate - the internet beckons, must dash!

(*Aah yes, before I forget - A substantial refund of 50% was agreed on the case of iffy wine. Vive la France!)

Other Information:

Brittany Ferries – Plymouth>Roscoff. www.brittanyferries.com

Residhotel de la Cite, Carcassonne – www.booking .com

Cevenol Hotel, Millau – www.booking.com

Chalets, Camping Ile d’Offard, Saumur – www.cvtloisirs.com

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