Walk Inn's first guided tour!!

More often than not, when Mont Ventoux is as clear as you see it in the photo below -- taken from Avignon -- it means the Mistral winds are howling. And this time is no exception.

Cycling Day 1: Teresa from California and Nikki from Australia, two friends who booked their cycling trip together, made up the smallest group I've ever guided. Together we set out from Avignon by bike, battling a fierce headwind into the Provençal countryside.

By the time we hit Tavel -- a town famous for its rosé, the winds are hitting us from the side, providing the beautiful blue Provençal sky but less than stellar cycling conditions. To console ourselves we carry a bottle of prized-winning Tavel up to the picnic spot where we enjoy...

...way too much food. And after years of doing this I still never learn. Lunch for 3 resembles a feast for ten. But we take our time, listen to the rave music emanating from somewhere in the nearby hills, and somewhat synchronized with the chants of the remaining few cicadas singing their last hoorahs from the branches of pine trees.

The last few kilometers to Uzes along a plane-tree lined boulevard, ending a 50km day of pedaling...

The centre of Uzes, its narrow, cobbled streets lined with centuries-old, and noble grey stone homes. Though an extraordinary town, Uzès is cleaned and restored to a state of perfection that seems almost unnatural, as if each house had just been recently built, as if the town itself was a museum... but I suppose it's better to have THAT extreme than its opposite...

Our hotel: Le général d'Entraigues, a magnificent 17th century building in the heart of the old town, its swimming pool on a terrace overlooking the city, its breakfast feast the best I've ever had in Provence...

Cycling day 2: a loop from Uzès. I manage to veer from the planned itinerary from the start, and onto a mountain bike track in the forest. Beautiful but not necessarily appropriate for our hybrid bikes...

We pass several perched towns in the countryside, praying for the moment that our path returns eastward, so that the &#!!@ Mistral winds can be of help, pushing us towards St. Quentin (no Teresa, not the prison) for a well-deserved lunch.

Cycling day 3: leaving Uzès, Teresa is caught flagrant délit with her iPhone (should I mention here that Nikki is in the bike store doing some shopping?)

We reach the imposing Pont du Gard, a Roman bridge, the tallest ever built during the Empire. I take the girls away from the tourist masses and up a path leading above the bridge, enjoying the site/sight in all its splendour.

The Mistral is at its worst today, particularly angry, and we tuck in behind a cemetery wall, facing southeast, to enjoy a potato salad...

And dessert!

Luckily we're heading southeast, and with the Mistral behind us, the kilometers zip by, and we cross the Rhône River with ease...

Before reaching our destination, at the foot of the Alpilles mountains, we cross vast fields of fruit trees and alongside a picturesque canal outside the town of Tarascon.

The 60km are worth the effort: we reach the Mazets des Roches hotel, nestled at the foot of the Alpilles. Wow. The busy tourist season ends at the beginning of September, and we have the hotel practically to ourselves. The meals are as spectacular as the setting. Below is my interpretation of a starfish in the pool... (do I really get paid for this?! Yes, I do)

Our lunch plates at the hotel, prepared on slate boards, under the shade of mature trees...

Cycling day 4: NO MORE MISTRAL!!! A 650ft climb takes us to the perched village of Les Baux de Provence, where we dismount and walk through a labyrinth of medieval streets.

And enjoy a coffee:

Cycling away from the village, climbing even higher, the views open to unveil Les Baux at its most stunning:

Hiking day 1? Ok, it's really not a hiking tour, but being at the foot of the Alpilles mountains we couldn't miss out on some of its beautiful trails, could we? I take the girls on a short hike into the hills, among the fragrant plants and brush, and we enjoy the views of the plains below:

Cycling day 5: in the afternoon, after a beautiful lunch and swim at the Mazets des Roches, we head into the flatlands, cruising on seldom-used roads and among sunflower fields. The ride is short and quick, taking us to the Roman city of Arles.

Arles seen from the coliseum:

Cycling day 6: south of Arles, in the Camargue delta, the scenery changes abruptly. We exchange rolling hills and perched villages for flatlands as far as the eyes can see: vast empty spaces with few buildings, and a never-ending horizon of marches and salt-rich soils.

Below a few flamingoes search for food in the marsh:

The Vaccarès marsh, offering a cool breeze on a hot day...

Back in Arles, at the Coliseum, after the last day's ride:

The Saturday market in Arles, just before parting ways with Nikki and Teresa...

Having left Teresa and Nikki, and walking back to the train station, I run into a hoard of tourist groups arriving from river boats and into town. They are led by microphone-wielding guides whose monotone stories and factory-like-ushering-of-crowds-through-town comforted me in my tour this week: more intimate, a true exchange, friendship, and a more authentic glimpse at my beloved Provence.

Thanks for the great week Nikki and Teresa!

After more than 50km, Teresa is still more than able -- while cycling -- to share some thoughts about her holiday:

Hiking Madeira, part 2

It's not what it looks like: this isn't the sun setting on my latest hiking season in Madeira. It's only mid-afternoon, Friday August 13th, and what you're looking at is a cloud of smoke and ash eminating from a forest fire halfway across the island, casting an apocalyptic glow above Funchal, Madeira's capital, as it rained an ash of eucalyptus leaves all evening and through the night. Strange and haunting.

Thanks to Amélie? for the great photo.

Above the clouds but not as high as you may think: in the photo below I'm contemplating the view from only 1600m, a plateau near the summit of the island. The Madeiran clouds form between 800 and 1200m in the laurel forests, while the high plateaus and summits, often above the clouds, are laden with low-lying brush and heather, rarely seeing the rain.

The jagged hills are sculpted with terraces, work that began in the early 15th century when the Portuguese first arrived, setting fire to the dense forests and carving the lands for their crops.

My house for a night during week one: the hotel was fully booked, and so this guide was given a house to himself on the volcanic sands, complete with a garden, terrace, and even a dog. I held a digestif here for the group,where we sampled the rum made by the nearby distillery under a canopy of vines.

Speaking of volcanic sands...
The island boasts few beaches, being only 8 million years old. Below are the volcanic sands of Porto da Cruz, where we enjoyed (for those on the découverte de Madère tour) a short swim after the first day's walk.

Week 1: Mimi, amateur photographer, contemplates the same sands.

Laden with ferns, and set in a forest of eucalyptus and mimosa, below is a shot of the northern slope of Penha d'Aguia, or "Eagle's point", set 590m above the village of Porto da Cruz, an arduous 2-hour climb out of the starting blocks of the village.

It's the toughest day of hiking of the weeklong découverte de Madère tour: a day culminating with a 704-step staircase leading to the charming village of Sao Roque. But that wasn't enough to tire my third group, who insisted, after dinner, to descend the steps by headlamp and down to the river for a night swim...

Speaking of which...

My first group during the descent of "Eagle's Point", with a view of the town of Faial in the background. My t-shirt had been completely saturated during the climb, enough to be wrung out; and so my descent was shirtless, the day finishing with a massive sunburn...

Zucchini flower. With a temperate climate, ample water, and rich soils, everything grows big in Madeira, including the 3-foot-long zucchinis we'd see along the paths.

Passion flower above a levada (irrigation canal). They grow wild all over the island. Why is it named as such? For a much less romantic reason than you may guess. Take a careful look at the reproductive parts of the plant: hammers and nails, the instruments of the Passion of Christ.

Below, The sun penetrates through the island's primitive laurel forests, once covering the island as a whole, and today only covering about 15%. Primitive because the same forests covered all of Europe 65 million years ago. But Madeira, temperate in climate, and resistant to change, has kept these magnificent laurel trees up until today.

No sandwiches for my groups for lunch!! The preparation of salads becomes a convivial lunchtime effort, where everyone chips in. I'm no expert of Madeira, and after 3 more weeks spent on the island I still can't speak Portuguese, but my lunches are damn good!

My mango chicken salad...

Near the Pico Ruivo, the island's 1861m summit:

There are 1500km of levadas (irrigation canals) on an island only 58km long by 23km wide. And where the natural contours of the mountains didn't allow for the continuation of a gentle slope for a canal, tunnels were built through the mountains. Get out your headlamps, and watch your heads: the low ceilings have walloped more than one of my hikers...

On the gentler tour I lead in the south, following the Levada Nova for about 8km:

Gentle except for this day of hiking: a 500m climb climb before a descent seen in the photo below, on a magnificent cobbled path zigzagging its way down to Paul do Mar among a chaos of volcanic cliffs.

On the ruins of a house in Jardim do Mar.

Most of the buildings and homes are new and well-kept on the island, the fruits of the post-1986 boom when Portugal joined the European Union. Roads and tunnels were built, jobs created, and many Madeirans from the diaspora returned. In the 40s and 50s there was still no electricity on the island, many of the families moving to Venezuela, Brazil, and South Africa for work.
The jump from subsistance farming to a modern, internet generation was shockingly quick. Just steps away from an internet café you can follow a levada through a field, where a couple uses a sickle to cut their crops and tend to their fields...

The town of Jardim do Mar at the outset of a 2-hour climb...

Sunset on Paul do Mar, from the hotel where we stay all week:

Ah, Brisa Maracuja! God's gift to soft drinks, made in Madeira, from actual passion fruit (9%!), refreshing after sweating up and down the island's steep paths. I should look into exporting this stuff!

Climbing up to the town of Santana, on an old cobbled path, with a ginger lily in the foreground.

My group's home in Sao Roque, after walk 2, as our usual hotel was full. It's an old family house in Sao Roque, draped in a rainbow of Bougainvillea. The old woman who owns the home was present, a former schoolteacher from Funchal. She did my laundry and hung my clothes to dry as I left with half of the group to bathe in the river at night...

A small shack near Sao Jorge:

My third and last group of the season, at the outset of our walk, above the clouds, before our climb of Pico Ruivo. Something just clicked this week, and right from the start: a strong bond within the group, full of laughter and friendship. Always bittersweet: the joy of sharing and of heartwarming encounters mixed with fleeting relationships, intense for a week and then vanishing with the arrival of the next group. It's something I'll probably never get used to. But hey: in my job I have little to complain about...

Friday, August 13th. The fire seen from Pico Arieiro, at the end of the day's walk.

Within 15 minutes of arriving at the end of the walk we were engulfed by the far-reaching smoke, carried by the strong winds. Luckily our taxis arrived quickly, taking us down to Funchal.

Tour de France

Could I convince you to drive 4 hours in the sweltering heat to watch 200 grown men ride bicycles for 30 seconds? Could anyone be convinced? Well I convinced myself: on a day where temperatures rose close to 40 degrees, where my sandal-kept toes fried in the sun, waiting anxiously at the side of the unshaded road for a group of three cyclists who managed to escape from the peloton, who when approached didn't seem to care much about conserving their 3-minute lead.

And then the 3-minute wait for the peloton to sweep by, who did so rather anticlimatically, and I waited for the very last cyclists to pass to get a glimpse of the back of jersey #21, worn by Lance Armstrong, chatting with another cyclist at the back of the pack.

And then that was it.

My whole day and 30€ of gas for this?

Yes sir, I'll be back next year!

Cycling with the Swedes, Part 2

Another week of being that guy who drives the support vehicle...

One tiny blue van, 21 bikes: 4 on the roof, 1o on the trailer, 2 on a bike rack attached to the trunk, 5 in the car.


The disciplined Swedes in single file, headed by Magnus, the only one sans helmet. This picture was taken early in the morning, the only time that seemed tolerable this week: the temperatures rose well above 30° every day in the piercing Provençal sun, and some of the participants in the group, used to a cooler climate, had a hard time adjusting. I was in the car all week, handing out water, listening to terrible French radio, and with the AC on full blast...


The lavender was out in full bloom, offering the group a photo-stop:



Descending from the village of Oppède-le-Vieux, perched in the foothills of the Luberon Mountains.



Having noticed that there were several strong cyclists in the bunch -- like Joe, pictured below -- I decided to take a few of them on an après-ride in the Monts du Vaucluse. They had already done 50km with the group that day, but were still keen to join me. I had been sitting in the support vehicle all week, and was aching to get some exercise myself.

The 2-hour route I was going to take them on was to be tough, unlike anything they were doing with their tour guide, including a 5km climb into the mountains, to visit lost hamlets on steep and windy roads. I instructed them to be careful, drink loads of water, and stop as many times as necessary during the climb.

I paced them to the beginning of the hill, reminding them once again that it was hot, very hot, and that we could take as many stops as required before reaching the pass. What then transpired wasn't exactly as I had expected: the three of them kept a strong pace going uphill, didn't stop once, with me trailing several hundred meters behind and trying not to embarass myself silly.

When I explained to Joe that he was 20 years older than me, and that I should be keeping up, he told me that while participating in races he's passed by people 20 years older than him: "and that doesn't make me feel bad, it gives me hope for when I'm 20 years older..."

The following morning, met by the entire group and their guide, each had heard the story that I had a hard time keeping pace with the Scandinavians. Magnus explained: "I hear you go downhill very well, Stuart".

At 210 pounds I should hope so.