After a day in the saddle with headwinds, trucks and some wrong turns we thought our accommodation might not exist. Google had lead us to, well nothing, the house numbers stopped at 187 and then jumped to 83, we wanted 87. Our minds flew to the worst, could it be a scam? Not that it would be a very lucrative one, the accommodation was luxury for us (there was a pool and a garden), but probably very standard for anyone else.
We had sped through the countryside of van Gough, glimpsing arles and st-Remy which were separated by a small mountain range that I had not expected to see looming from the olive groves. The top was scattered with Roman ruins as a salve to exhausted travellers. St-Remy seemed to be ‘the’ destination for American tourists, their bellies propping up their massive camera lenses, ordering with flowery phrases like “tall glasses of icy water” which caused much confusion for their french waiters.
When their was shade it was long avenues of plane trees. If there had been a shoulder it would have been perfect, but as those who are well acquainted will know, they like to crack the road like cream brulee and up and down we went like horses at a trot.
After getting lost in the cavaillon zone industrielle and then arriving at nowhere, we were saved by the lady at the tourist office who rang our host and orientated us. “ride to the crossed out cheval-blanc sign, 20m gauche down a little lane and their it is at the rusty gate. There were two rusty gates, but in the end we were ushered in by our lovely host to the relief of shade, peach cordial and a swim in the pool. Ah rejuvenation.
