Three go to Millau

We have all heard of London Bridge, the bridge over the river Kwai and le ‘Pont d’Avignon’. I think there is a small bridge at Baripper Harbour. The first is now in California, the second is in a film and the latter is still half finished in Provence. One can still walk across it to the middle of the river where it ends. Abruptly. There is a bridge over the river Tarn in the south of France built mainly as a ‘bypass’ to take summer traffic down to the coast. The A75 over it is the ‘route du soliel’ and is aptly named. 

Bridges are often not just functional but also visually attractive. I don’t mean the concrete spans we see on our motorways and trunk roads. They serve a purpose but they are not destination points. They attract graffiti artists whose attempts at decoration amount to illiterate daubing commenting on the state of the world, or someone’s girlfriend or that some country somewhere the ‘artist’ has never been to should be ‘free’ (free from what is rarely elaborated upon). When it comes to the Millau viaduct, anyone spotted going anywhere near it with a tin of aerosol paint and a grudge should be taken to a small island somewhere and castrated. Millau is a work of art and requires no more refinement with cheap paint than the Mona Lisa does. 

I have now raised my expectations for today’s ride. The bridge is about 100 miles south of base, a distance which should take us about over 2 hours. We will be crossing the french countryside of Cantal/Lozère. Right now the weather gods are smiling, blue sky and sunshine all the way down and back.  

At about 10, Steve, David and I set off after last minute fettling and prepping. Adrian and Trev are having a bit of a rest day and will visit Aurillac. I believe they are going in search of croissants, beer and the services of Madame Fifi and Trixie Belle. Trev is planning a rabbit stew for this evening and needs another rabbit. Carrots, onions, potatoes, thyme, basil, rosemary, garlic, beef stock and well seasoned. I’m not sure any wine went into it even though Trev likes to cook ‘with’ wine. We bought camembert, blue d’auvergne and a hard cheese called Cantal for afterwards. Adrian ensured there was a sweet: pomme tartin (everything sounds better in french). 

That was all for when the three of us returned from Millau which I now learn is pronounced ‘mee-yoh’. After leaving the farm in ‘La Nouvialle’ , we headed through Aurillac and on on through down to the Lot Valley. The map gives a little bit of a clue as to what we would see but nothing prepared us for the actuality. 

One thing that strikes me is the colours. The french countryside is like Devon and Cornwall  – green hills, fields and woodland. Cornwall at certain times blooms with the yellow of gorse. Here the yellow is broom (don’t quote me) which gives the impression of being paint scattered across the landscape by a Monet. It is vivid against the greens and shines in the sun. In Provence there is the purple of lavender and across France the yellows of sun flowers from July onwards.  Red poppies adorn the roadside verges everywhere and flower meadows are scattered across the fields. In the blue of the sunshine skies everything is vivid and becomes more so as golden hour approaches. 

We follow the empty road for about an hour and suddenly it dips down into the valley of the River Lot. The road twists and turns for several miles ever downwards. I had made the mistake of listening to video tutorials about ‘trail braking’ which turns out to be quite the wrong thing to do. It slows me up while the boys behind me keep seeing brake light. David however is in heaven and is relishing the return.  At the valley floor the wide slow blue green river appears and we stop at an old stone arched bridge at Entraygues-sur-Truyère. The village is breathtaking beautiful and sits alongside the right bank of the river deep within the wooded valley. All the houses are old cream stone built with eaves intact so that swifts and martins proliferate. There is little or no traffic to speak of. The bikes get parked and we go in search of coffee. This gives David an opportunity to discuss riding technique  – particularly the issue of trail braking and why I should not do it. Having a well experienced and qualified motorcycle instructor along is a real bonus. I’m getting lessons that others have to pay for! 

Suitable refreshed we set off along what turns out to be the steep sided valley floor following the river as it wends and snakes its way among small gorges. I cant tell you just how much fun it is riding a bike in these conditions. It is made especially so by the quality of the road surface and the  near total absence of traffic. I drop the trail braking and the flow of progress is much more enjoyable (for everyone). 

We head for the A75, the route du soliel, and the ‘viaduc de Millau’. We see it about 13 miles way in landscape that is magnificently characterised by enormous limestone gorges, cliffs and bluffs. At one point two police bikes in very close proximity to each other, past us at a speed which seems to be at least over 100 miles an hour? Further along there is a pay booth about 5 kms from the bridge so for small fee we can cross it. I read before hand that one needs to see the bridge from below to appreciate its 7 tower beauty. Crossing it is an experience as we are very high above the valley floor, thankfully this cannot be seen as we are not driving on the edge of the road deck. The plan is to cross it and take the next junction off the motorway to drive underneath. 

Shortly after doing so, we pull over to check the map only to see the two police bikers speed again down the road. Shortly thereafter they come back and have pulled over a cattle truck. While one of them chats to the driver the other sees us and comes across. I’m thinking that we will have to show documents or be told about french road etiquette. I’m not aware we’ve broken any rules. The officer wanted merely to have a chat with three British bikers in a friendly biker sort of way. He bids us farewell. We set off towards the valley floor and the town of Millau. The next time we see them is when they pass again at high speed going down the single lane twisty road  – they are still very close together as if they were two members of a red arrows team on bikes. I see a car in front but it was if it wasn’t there, they flashed past it with ease and then were gone. 

At the valley floor we are now riding towards the bridge but this time from below. In Paris they have the Eiffel Tower, but here the bridge easily rivals it. One of the towers is actually higher than Paris’s icon. It is a strange thing that often glorious landscape is marred by man made additions but bridges often buck this trend. Millau is no exception. We just have to stop and look. It is more artistic than functional and I’m not sure what in the UK looks anything quite like it. There is a visitor centre and rightly so. 

The ride home requires us to ride through the town of Millau itself, and it becomes very clear why the bridge was built to bypass this bottleneck. The town must have been unliveable in the past during the August run to the sun.

The day ticks ever onwards and time vanishes and so we have to ride home towards the setting sun. At this time of year we have plenty of light but we get close to golden hour as we drive. The colours become more vivid and we have the splendour of the return up the Lot valley and its river. David goes in front at the base of the winding road along the river valley and then up the twisties to higher ground. Steve and I soon lose sight of him. We have neither the skill or the bikes to follow. Indian scouts are quite low to the ground and are easily grounded as one leans in. Steve has already hit his footboards at roundabouts and David swears he saw Steve’s exhaust scrape the road on a bend. I scrape my heel easily as I lean in. But this is what Indian bikes do, they are not sport tourers. Right at the top David has pulled over to wait for us and for a view across the landscape. He is a very happy man. 

At the farmhouse, the rabbit stew has been festering in the oven, cold beers are poured and a pastis at sundown. The stew was magnificent, as was the beer. And the cheese. And the apple tart. 

We are very happy.