Cévennes Trip: Day 8–Florac to Nîmes

As many of you know, I was once a cycle tour guide in Europe (which was the genesis of this blog). The company where I worked for all those years, Blue Marble Travel, has shaped my life in countless ways but sadly no longer exists. A couple months ago, I was back in France, riding one of those Blue Marble routes, but not as a guide; this time I was riding solo.

Today is the last day of riding, the last stretch of road on my trusty steed before heading east, into Provence. But. As I look out the window, the sky is forbidding, the temperature is low (about 8°C or 45°F), the ground is saturated, and it is raining. Heavily.

Um. No.

I am not, however, upset. I had been checking the weather religiously (obsessively?) for days and I knew this was coming. I had also, the day before, completed what is certainly rare in my own personal world: I had surpassed 300 miles of riding for a week (it was actually 301.2 miles with over 20,000 feet of climbing, but who’s counting?).

So, since I knew this bad weather was coming, I figured I needed a day off, and I had a plan.

At least the beginnings of a plan.

Under last night’s gloomy skies, I sat in my rather comfortable (at least relatively, for this trip) hotel room, refreshing the weather forecast every three minutes on my laptop (it never improved) and plotted my alternate day.

My destination is Nîmes, a fairly large city in the Occitaine region of France (it is right on the border of Provence, but locals are quick to point out that the city is not Provençale [this applies to both the denizens of Nîmes and the Provençals]). It is known for its ties to antiquity: the Roman amphitheater is perhaps the finest example outside of Italy, La Maison Carrée dates from 2,000 B.C., and the Pont du Gard (just outside the city) is the best preserved Roman tri-level aqueduct in the world (I think).

Here is the scheduled bike route for the day:

Clearly, today’s cycling route stops in Alès (a good 60 kilometers or so from Nîmes) where there is a regular train to take one’s self and one’s bike into the regional capital. Of course, when planning the trip, I had determined that I would ride the entire distance since I am male and have an inability to recognize my own limitations.

But the forecast all week called for rain. Heavy rain. Even Biblical rain. At least that is how I read it.

So last night, I made a plan. There was a regional bus that I could catch in Florac (where I am currently located) that would take me to the train station in Alès where I could then transfer to a train into the Roman city.

Easy peasy.

Except this is France.

Don’t get me wrong: the public transit system in France is remarkable (when not on strike) and getting around the county without a car (for the most part) is fairly easy.

But.

French people live in France.

If there are two things that regular readers of this space know, it is that I love France and I love the French. But. The latter can be trying at times.

Case in point.

I show up at the bus stop in Florac with plenty of time to spare. It is raining buckets, legitimizing my decision to “bail-out” and take the bus/train. The bus is there on time (as it almost always is in France) and there is one client already on the 20-passenger bus (it was more of a glorified van, but I digress).

The website of the “bus” (glorified van) company clearly states that it takes bikes, but, nonetheless, my bike is carefully packed in a travel case. I wait at the back of the “bus” (glorified van) to load with said bike case at the back. Here is the discussion that follows (more or less):

Van Driver (VD), who is a fashionably dressed, wearing a cute skirt (by anyone’s standard), several fancy rings, a stylish hat, and is probably around 28 years old. She says (in French): “What is that??”

Me (also in French–yes, that is a flex): “A bike. In a bag.”

VD: “We don’t take bikes.”

Me: “Yes you do, it says so on your website.”

VD: “Well, you have to call the day before to alert us that you have a bike.”

Me: “Yesterday was Sunday. No one answered the phone.” (Everyone in France knows that everything is closed on Sunday, particularly outside of Paris.)

VD: “Well, if it is a bike, you will need to take it out of the bag.”

Me: “Why?”

VD: “So it will fit.”

Me: “It will more likely fit like this, I am pretty sure.”

VD: “No it won’t.”

Me: “Yes it will.”

[I will save about 1,000 words here by stating those last two lines were repeated about 173 times.]

VD: “Well, I do not have enough room on the bus [my emphasis], there will be a lot of passengers today.”

Me: “Well, this bike needs to be on this bus [yeah, I was trolling a bit, but she did not pick up on it], and I am sure it will fit in the back seat.”

VD: “Yeah, but I might need those seats for passengers.”

The Van Driver then abruptly walks away. I load the bike onto the van/bus and then proceed to board the bus/van. The fee for the hour trip? 2€ (about $2.15). I sit in the front seat. There are three people on the van/bus when we leave Florac. There are five stops along the way. One of the passengers engages the VD for an extended conversation. Questions about kids, spouses, uncles, donkeys. Clearly, the VD does this trip often.

We gain four more passengers on the trip, but three of the original travelers get off before Nîmes (no, this is not a logic problem, I promise). So the van pulls into Nîmes with a total of four passengers. On a “bus” (glorified van) that could carry twenty.

But there is no room for my bike.

Gotcha.

In Nîmes, the VD hops out of the “bus” (glorified van) and sprints around to the back to help me remove my bike. “Have a great day! Hopefully you do not have to ride in this weather?” Me: “Thank you! No, I am taking the train into Nîmes.” VD: “Bon Voyage!”

And she is off. As if the confrontation loading the bike in Alès never happened.

Oh well, welcome to Nîmes.

Arriving in Nîmes, the first order of business was lunch. I continued on my salad tour with a Salade Niçoise, and a carafe of rosé, as one does.

After checking into the hotel (and with the rain subsiding), I headed to the center of town and the Roman Amphitheater.

As impressive as the exterior was, the galleries on the interior were stunning (I have no idea who these people are, but I did not want to wait for a “clean shot”).

The upper levels had fewer people (stairs were required).

I then headed to the arena floor.

The skies remained ominous, but whoa.

I tried to imagine myself Russel Crowe.

I then climbed all the way to the top, through many more galleries.

Passing by a couple of bars (buvettes) which were closed, but had several option when it came to champagne, including Ruinart, Bollinger, and Dom Pérignon (next time!).