Sanny loses himself in the sun and dusty trails of Southern France.
Words & Photos: Sanny
Sometimes you just have to accept that things don’t always go quite how you hoped. Case in point. A recent trip to the South of France to ride bikes in the sunshine. The £215-sized kick in the nuts for pre-departure testing and several hours of internet trawling and form filling that would give even Dr Sheldon Cooper nightmares should have served as a warning, but did I listen? Did I chuff! That said, after a stupid o’clock start and two flights, the short taxi ride from the airport up to the picturesque hilltop town of Saint-Paul de Vence in the hills above Nice afforded me the opportunity to finally relax and take in the passing scene. Street art is apparently a big thing in this part of France, although quite why someone would want a life-size roaring gorilla statue in bright gloss red in their garden or construct a building consisting of two massive slabs of concrete squashing an enormous head is a little beyond me. Still, it takes all sorts eh?
Phone shamed
Settling in at the hotel, I soon found myself in ride gear being shown the latest electronic fork technology by Chris from Fox. An instantly likeable chap, he looked on with a mix of admiration and pity when his suggestion to download the latest ride apps onto my phone was met with me sheepishly showing him what the yoof these days call a ‘feature phone’. With the advent of the smartphone, I appear to be in the dwindling minority of people who genuinely do not care about the latest goings-on on social media nor feel the need to post carefully curated highlights of their life. However, like being assimilated into the Borg, there is a tacit expectation of compliance – almost a need to have to explain yourself. For me, it is a simple choice. I only use a phone as a tool to text and speak to people. As for Wotscrap and Faceplook, fagedaboudit! I prefer things to be simple but as I was to soon find out, simple can also be your undoing…
Potentially awkward modern life social interaction No. 3 successfully navigated, I joined a merry throng of Dutch, Spanish, Italian, German and French riders for a shakedown ride of a brand new e-bike. Despite being the only native English speaker (anyone who has heard me speak in broad Glaswegian might dispute that fact), I felt at ease in the company of strangers. In bikes, we have a lingua franca which makes striking up conversations easy – well that, and the fact that almost everyone else in the world speaks English better than we do.
Pedals fitted and saddles adjusted, we were soon heading out of the grounds of the rather swanky hotel on a back road through mature woodland. Despite it being late September, there was precious little in the way of autumnal colours on the trees and plants. Most of the flowers were past their best, but the only leaves on the ground appeared to be from the previous year. As someone who lives several degrees further north, it still comes as a slight surprise that trees down south don’t shed faster than the Whomping Willow in Harry Potter. (Fun fact/micro rant: It’s not even a willow, but a bloody beech tree!) Heading in a direction that can generally be described as up, I singularly failed to do my usual trail feature spotting lest I got lost. I was in a guided group. How could I possibly get lost?
Riding with Tom Jones
Reaching an open clearing, our guides took us down a lovely figure of eight loop through the woodland. Despite the lack of rain, the loamy earth, exposed roots and weather-worn limestone bedrock demanded a little care to ride over on first acquaintance. I’m well used to riding such surfaces, but it had been so long since I had last done it that a quick reminder was called for. Darting through the trees, I found myself singing “It’s not unusual“ as I whooped and hollered my way down the trail. A twisty section of tight switchbacks put a big smile on my face and bore repeated riding. Now a sensible person at this point would have looked at the time when advised that we would regroup at quarter to five for the ride back to base. However, in the spirit of having too much fun, I conspicuously ignored that and rode back to the rendezvous at what I thought was roughly the right time. Turns out I had been so engrossed in the riding and enjoying myself that everyone else had, to use the technical term, f****d off without me.
“Oh arse!”
“No matter,” I thought to myself, “I’ll find my way back.” Retracing what I thought were the steps of the ride out, it rapidly became apparent that I was well and truly lost. Confidence overcoming experience, I found myself at the exact same spot twenty minutes later. Bugger. A runner approached. “Maybe I should ask them?” I thought. My French is passable, but then stubbornness kicked in. “Don’t be so bloody soft, Sanny. We don’t need to ask for directions. We can sort this ourselves.” I was rapidly in danger of becoming Smeagol to my Gollum. Offering a cheery bonjour, I headed off again on another fruitless circuit, passing several more locals as I went. Time passed and we were beginning to get a tad anxious. Thoughts turned to dinner. What if we were to miss out? This was getting serious, Gollum!
Always ask a local…
Cutting back from a dead end, I bumped into two riders from the group going the other way. Now at this point the obvious and sensible thing would be to ask for directions back to the hotel or ask to join them. Of course, I didn’t do that. Rather, I just acknowledged them with a friendly smile and pressed on. More minutes passed and by this time I was becoming a tad more concerned about my situation. In practical terms, I knew I wasn’t that far from the hotel but I was getting increasingly hungry and to be blunt, dinner is a non-negotiable meal in my house. Swallowing my pride, I asked an older female walker in my best schoolboy French the way back to Saint-Paul de Vence. To my amazement I even understood her directions and with a relieved farewell, I followed them to the letter. “Straight over the main road and keep going,” she said. Easy-peasy I thought. What could possibly go wrong, you ask?
After a good mile or so of pedalling, my inner Andy Kirkpatrick kicked in (think Bear Grylls, but a lot funnier and about a hundred grand cheaper for speaking engagements) and I realised that I should be riding into the sun and not away from it. A good hour had now passed and after retracing my steps to the main road and following the sun, I decided to call in the big guns – my wife aka The Good Lady Professor Her-Indoors.
“Hi honey! How are you? Yes I’m fine. The riding is great, yeah. And the folk I am with? Yeah, they are all really nice. Where am I right now? (long pause). Errm. Not sure. I appear to be a bit lost. (longer pause) Where is everyone else? Probably in the bar drinking beer right now… Yes, you’re right. If I had a smartphone, I could easily find my way back using a map app…” The irony of the last statement was not lost on me. Cue several minutes of slightly painful to and fro exchange to try to identify where I was and to figure out between us how the hell I was going to get back to the hotel. Of course, in classic brain fart style, my mind went completely blank when she asked me the name of the hotel. I must have sounded vaguer than Sergeant Wilson in Dad’s Army at his vague best. I was not exactly covering myself in glory. It was like Waiting for Godot – lots of chat, but not much else.
Fortunately, my other half is blessed with infinite patience, understanding and Kung Fu level IT skills and was eventually able to figure out that I was on the right road and only a few hundred yards up it from the hotel. Hurrah! I was saved, although further irony was poured upon me as I was reminded that my hotel was called La Vague de Saint Paul. Honestly, I’m sometimes amazed I am even allowed out of the house to buy milk! Freewheeling back down the hill, I was both elated and annoyed. I’d found the right way back, but only after caving in and calling the cavalry. What a bloody wuss!
The final blow
As predicted, my fellow riders were kicking back in the car park drinking beer and eating snacks. Had I been missed? Had I heck. Recounting my tale to new friends Chris, Killian and Petr over the dinner table as we awaited our much anticipated main course, we laughed at my general ineptitude. On any new trail, I always make a habit of actively scoping out landmarks and features in case I find myself on my own. Typically, the one time I don’t do that is the one time that it well and truly bites me on the ass. We have a saying up here in Glasgow for that – yapurefanny! I think I earned that T-shirt. Still, all was well in the world again and I was ready to inhale my main course.
With classic French style, beautifully presented plates arrived at the table. I looked down at my plate then up at the waiter, then down again at my plate, a look of vexed quizzicalness on my coupon. “Is that small or far away?” I said, turning to my companions. I know that Nouvelle Cuisine is still a thing, but I’ve seen substantially larger portions in a Maccy Ds kid’s meal. In my extensive culinary experience, more plate than food is generally a bad sign. Five mouthfuls and it was all gone, having barely even touched the sides. It was utterly delicious, but comedy small. I could have cried. I guess the kitchen wasn’t used to catering for a hungry cyclist who had nothing but their wits (and a long-suffering wife) to rely on after getting lost in what could almost be considered the hotel’s back garden.
So what did I learn? I’d like to say that I went on a journey of self-discovery and enlightenment, but that would be a total lie. I still refuse to succumb to the dubious charms of smartphones and merely confirmed my long-held suspicion that strangers would rather give you the wrong directions than admit they don’t know. All I know is next time I am riding in France I’ll be packing the family-size packet of Mr Porky’s finest pork scratchings lest my dinner come in miniature.