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From Briançon to Izoard, then Saint-Véran

Saturday 5th August,

End of our stay in Le Grand-Bornand. This weekend was certainly the most
busy on France's roads. Bison-Futé is seeing the dark side, but we're seeing the rosy side - a real pensioner's life. Instead of heading for Valence, the A9 and the Rhône valley, we're heading for the Hautes-Alpes on Saturday morning, with Briançon at the foot of the Izoard as our first objective.

Tomorrow, Sunday, traffic will be more fluid, so let's make the most of the day by taking a stroll along the back roads.

Rather than heading for Valence, the A9 and the Rhône valley, we're heading for the Hautes-Alpes this Saturday morning, with Briançon at the foot of the Izoard as our first objective.

Tomorrow, Sunday, traffic will be more fluid, so let's make the most of the day by taking a stroll along the back roads.

For the moment, we're covering the Val Sulens, via Saint-Féreol, as a farewell to the route I've travelled so many times this summer.

After Albertville, the GPS takes over. The finish is scheduled for Briançon at around 10.40 am. That will be a little late to tackle the Col de l'Izoard,
but it's feasible with the possibility of refreshments
to the Napoléon hut, almost at the top of the pass.

On that occasion, I climbed the Vars pass on my bike, in the sunshine, in a crystal-clear landscape, and I pointed out the BPF for this pass. What does this have to do with the Clarée valley? I've been there. I remember reading, or rather devouring, one of the first books that opened a new window in literature, that of the local novel. It was "La soupe aux herbes sauvages" by Emilie Carles. I still remember those moments I spent in the sunshine of a panelled room, with the smell of wood, behind a window overlooking the snow-covered mountains. The morning sun on the snow, the warmth, the softness of a mountain gîte and the testimony of Emilie Carles, flag bearer in a fight to defend the Clarée valley, she a retired mountain teacher and I a young teacher at the time. It's something you never forget.

Here we are. At the foot of the pass, we turn right towards the upper Clarée valleyIt's a long way from Briançon. Given the time, it's too late to drive before lunch, so while we're here, we might as well visit and enjoy the place. We reach the end of the valley, where the road stops for motorists. The rest is up to the hikers, and by the time we reach the full car park, many of them have set off along the trails.

À Névache we found our happy place in a meadow, on the banks of the Clarée, which flows just five metres from us. The inn is on the other side of the road and the waitress is carrying our plates in this bucolic setting, our feet in the grass, the valley floor disappearing into the distance, the mountains with their steep, stony slopes on one side, the torrent close by, offering us this beneficial coolness accompanied by a welcome breeze. At this moment, Saturday lunchtime, we are thinking of the Rhône valley, which is certainly blocked by temperatures approaching 40°C. We feel so at home here at this end of the world! As for the heat, I'm dreading it in view of what lies ahead. And I soon found out when, having resumed our journey towards Briançon, the thermometer inevitably climbed as the road descended. At Val-des-Prés it was close to 38°C, then at Briançon it reached 40°C.

Le col d'Izoard starts as soon as you leave the city. And from the very first turns of the wheel, the penalty falls. I should have said put my bike in the oven rather than get on it, because the heat is so stifling, like in an oven. The only positive point was that the wind was favourable. I regret it for once, because on the rare occasions when it's against me, I feel a semblance of coolness that revives me a little. But it doesn't last. I
I play with my computer, displaying mileage and elevation gain. I hesitate to display the
temperature, I'm too scared of losing my morale for good. And yet here I am. 39°C, then by tenths it continues to rise. Me too, and the slope isn't very forgiving. I've decided to stop at 40°C. At 41°C I tell myself I'm crazy, I turned 64 last month, it's not wise, I'm not young any more. At 41.2°C, I switch my meter to the hour. There's no point in continuing to look at the temperature on the display, it's demoralising. I realise that the heat is hard to bear. My can of water, poor thing, is like me, still lukewarm a quarter of an hour ago, but now a real broth, a tasteless herbal tea. Suddenly, oh miracle, some shade! It's not that it's nice all of a sudden, it's just a little better, not feeling the sun burning your skin, losing two or three degrees, that's the beginning of happiness. What's more, the slope seems to be getting gentler. The kilometres tick by, in slow motion of course, but with each kilometre taken off the total, hope increases, even if the body weakens.

Past Cervières I've finally found my cruising speed, which fluctuates between 10 and 12 km/h. A bit of shade and a few hairpin bends break up the monotony of the climb, offering sections where the wind alternately pushes or cools the cyclist. It becomes automatic. The summit can be seen in the distance. The 2000 metre mark has now been passed. The last few switchbacks seem tighter and the slope steeper. Anyway, here's the Napoléon refuge. I stop here to enjoy the mountain breeze.

On enquiry, there's a souvenir shop at the top of the pass, so that's where I'll validate my BPF. The last kilometre is a real pleasure, the feeling of having won the race, of having reached the goal, of realising a long-cherished project.

It's done, it's in the bag. Now let's enjoy. The view is magnificent on both sides of the pass. On the left is a stele dated 1934, a reminder to passing tourists that this splendid Alpine route is the fruit of human labour and that these passes where we sweat for our leisure, others sweated there to earn their bread. The panorama is exceptional, with these flat, smooth mountains, covered in a kind of sand, plunging down towards the valley in a straight, sloping course, as if everything were going to plan.
sliding towards the bottom. Slopes for tightrope walkers only, with the occasional suffering tree clinging on, or rocks pointing skywards, their rigidity seemingly defying erosion. And the best is yet to come.

As soon as the descent begins, the Casse Déserte site comes into view, a mineral landscape where erosion has rolled everything in its path, forming vertiginous scree slopes overlooked by a sparse forest of jagged peaks.
Some of the finest pages of the Tour de France have been written on these slopes. A stele in memory of campionissimo Fausto Coppi and champion Louison Bobet reminds passers-by of this.

The descent to Brunissard and then Arvieux is like zooming in on the valley floor. It's also a moment of recovery and speed that soothes the sensation of heat.

But already a fork in the road is signalling the end of playtime. Here's the Guil valley, which I climb up before turning right towards Saint-Véran. By the way, Château-Queyras boasts a lovely view of its medieval castle, where Vauban once again ruled.

I know that St-Véran is the highest commune in Europe at over 2000 metres altitude. I quickly did the maths, from 2360 metres at l'Izoard and after 15 kilometres of descent, I should be at around 1000 metres altitude, so I've got another 1000 metres or so to climb.

Given the man's state of freshness, I'm going to make my ascent of Golgotha, my way of the cross in short, but freely consented to. Later, memories will embellish the episode. You have to find something to motivate you when the sun is beating down on your back, when your legs are crushing the pedals and the road is going by in slow motion, when every bend you put your hopes behind only increases the difficulty.

So what can you say about Queyras? I can't sing its praises, my judgement would be too subjective. Nevertheless, I would describe its beauty as austere, arid and mineral. The sun influences me, of course, but you have to understand where I come from, Grand-Bornand, Haute-Savoie, with its wide, green valleys, accessible, wooded mountains and friendly roads that I used to drive along in the mornings. Now it's nearly 5pm and I've been on the asphalt for almost 4 hours, as if on a grill. I wouldn't say I'm sweating, in fact I'm dripping water, the sweat making little rivulets down my shins. My legs are glowing a coppery red, like after a shower. At this point, I'll make it, I'll move forward, like a pigeon in the rain, unperturbed by the elements. I'm going to get up there, to that village where I can finally see the houses perched above the void.

And the last two kilometres are the hardest, not just because of the cyclist's state of disrepair, but really the steepest.

Saint-Véran, one of the most beautiful villages in France, an appellation distilled down to the last drop, generally justified, but an appellation that attracts... tourists. And as is often the case, the motorised crowd is kept outside the town, in return for a parking fee. Parking 1, 2, 3...

We are now preoccupied with our accommodation for the evening. We take the first street up to Les Chalets du Villard, where we find a hotel that is very much in the mountain style, wood and stone, blending into the landscape with nothing to draw our attention. The interior made us want to sleep and eat here tonight, which would be the high point of our holiday.

Unfortunately, the hotel was fully booked. The setting was good and so was the owner. He spent
He spent a good 15 minutes on the phone canvassing his colleagues in the area before finding us a base in Abriès, in the valley. What's more, he gave me the famous stamp in one of the six boxes on my BPF card for the Hautes-Alpes. It was well worth a drink, snug in a good armchair. That's when you realise that some beers taste better than others. Philippe Delerm's La première gorgée de bière (The first sip of beer) is a book that details the little pleasures of everyday life that often go unnoticed. What would he have written if he had drunk it in Saint-Véran at the end of an exhausting afternoon? A great happiness, certainly.

To be honest, we didn't get to walk through the whole village of Saint-Véran, because of the time, the heat and our fatigue, but we did take the time to capture on film some of the narrow streets and, of course, the large traditional houses that serve as homes, stables and crop storage areas. The open attics let the air circulate to dry the hay. The weathered wood, which is omnipresent in these buildings, poses a threat in the event of fire; these houses are potential Midsummer fires. The majority of these houses date from the 17th and 18th centuries and have preserved their charm of yesteryear. This village has a surprisingly well-preserved and enduring soul and past. We regretfully leave Saint-Véran, where we would have liked to spend the night.

At 7 p.m., we check into Chalet Lanza in Abriès, a modest, family-run Alpine hotel where the rustic cuisine will fill us up this evening. After the 41°C of the Izoard, a short stroll before bedtime is very welcome in this village on the doorstep of Italy. The evening stroll along the banks of the Guil, a torrent born just above us in the mountains, brings us that pleasant coolness that predisposes us to sleep.

And the next day, the mountain delivers one of its meteorological tricks that we're starting to get used to, but which always surprises us: a little 12°C topped off with a thunderstorm. The Italian traders who had come especially for this particular Sunday market retreated under their canvases. And we head back to the Hérault, leaving behind us Abriès, the last stop on our 2017 summer holiday.

Text and photos:
René BALDELLON
CC Vias.