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Dec 17 Saturday Bicycle touring France from Draguignan France to St Raphael France Morning comes much too quickly. At least we got some sleep. Sure beats leaning against a cement wall. We push our fully loaded touring bicycles back into the train station. A guy, trying to be helpful, asks me where I am going. He tells me bikes won't be allowed. I just shrug and say no problem. He has no idea what we've gone through to get here. By now it has turned into a quest. And I have this system figured out. The schedule I looked at definitely allows bikes on this train. We cycle into town since we have a few hours before the train leaves at 1:30 PM. As I am off scouring the area to buy groceries, Sharon stays in a park with the bikes. Another woman sees my Canadian flag and talks to Sharon. They have lived in France for the past ten years, but they are going back to Ottawa as it has become too expensive for them to live here. She has brought an old chap into town to shop and says she will take him home and then come back for us so that we can follow her to their house which is just past the train station. Sharon and I sit and eat buns with jam while waiting for her to return. She returns and we follow her. He husband tries phoning information for us to find a phone number for the Verrerie Hotel. Only the one number I found last night in the yellow pages is listed. There is no answer. The hotel is not in Cannes, but about 25 kilometres away in Les Adrets de L'Esterel -- a tiny village in the mountains. We talk for a while over a cup of tea. They tell us the taxes in France are incredible. They plan to return to Ottawa in the spring. We cycle back to the train station and catch the train to Frejus and St Raphael. No problem. This is our second to last leg of our train trip to Cannes. The train conductor on this train is fun. It is a small train. We load our bikes onto a First Class car and go to sit down. He tells us, "This is the First Class section." "Should I move our bikes?" "No," he says. "They're okay." "Should we go to the Second Class car?" There is only one passenger in First Class. "Go ahead," he says. "Stay here." "Phew," I say. "The train conductors here are a lot better than in Spain." "I'm Spanish," he says. "Oops," I say. Faux pas. Sharon says she had been warned about this. We tell him about our tribulations with the Spanish train Interventors and he says, yes, conductors in Spain are very important and have lots of power -- unlike conductors in France or Canada. We are pulling into Frejus and I ask "Is this where we get off?" His command of English is weak and instead of telling me to sit down he tells me to shut up. Then he says no, that's not it. Sit down, I mean. I say fermé la bouche and he says they say something else and is trying to teach me the phrase along the lines of "shut your mouth," just as a female postal clerk hands him a bag of letters. She is aghast at what she hears and I say "Enchanted," to her and everyone laughs. "Now he's try to be nice," the conductor says to her as we pull away. Four minutes later we are at our stop. As I star to unload my fully loaded touring bicycle it somehow hits the conductor's open briefcase. With a crash it falls off the bench and a sea of documents and pens spill over the floor, and out the door. I look at the conductor and say "No problem." "Get these Canadians out of here," he says. We find out that the 1:45 PM train we are supposed to catch to Cannes has been chopped in the latest budget cut. It goes into effect today. Perfect. If we would have been here yesterday we could have taken it. We decide to ride our bikes the remaining 44 kilometres to Cannes. After all, we have come here to bicycle tour. And we are told it is a beautiful strenuous coastal ride along route 98. Off to the tourist info centre I go to check on the Verrerie. A woman tells me it's a glass-making company. I try to phone the Hotel Verrerie again. Still no answer. The info woman figures that since it is located in the mountains, it is closed for the winter. We cycle along the beach front. The beach is not sand, but small pebbles. We stop to admire the sea-view. Dog doo-doo permeates the air. The French haven't got this poop and scoop down yet and almost everyone seems to have a dog. A couple tells us we can't free camp in the park -- the police are very vigilant here, they warn. A 2 AM wake-up call is something I can do without. The campground that the tourist info woman indicated on my map turns out to be closed. We cycle out of St Raphael looking for a free camping spot. It's dark -- as usual. Really got to get a generator for a front bike light. A few minutes later we spot a 4-star campground and pull in with our fully loaded touring bicycles. The fella at the check-in office says he's the only one still open. We shell out 80 francs ($22) and are escorted to a sandy patch of land on a terrace that is not much larger that our petite bike touring tent. After supper we shower, then hand-wash our clothes. I discover I have a lot of stuff! It takes a long time to scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, and wring out each piece -- especially when I'm so tired. We hang our cycling clothes in the drying room and wearily sink off to sleep. |
