Clermont-Ferrand to Barcelona

The interactive map of the route

On Sunday morning, we were again in theory going for a 10am start, but Paul was very careful to indulge himself fully with a leisurely breakfast, and by time we were on the bikes and ready to go, it was nearer 11am then 10.



I quickly discovered that yes, my clutch was slightly better than it had been the previous evening, but that it was still slipping when provoked in the higher gears; with 3 days and best part of 2,000 miles to ride, including the climb into Andorra and the Pyrenees, I suggested to Paul that we use the Autoroute as much as possible today. The A75, which is the autoroute that crosses the Millau viaduct, runs south from Clermont-Ferrand in any case, and it would have been perverse to look for another way of reaching the bridge. Actually, we soon discovered that as Autoroute's go it was very pleasant, with some stunning scenery and a number of excellent fast twisty sections as the motorway threaded its way through some pretty uncompromising terrain. Providing one avoided the Gendarmes, and the excess of lurking speed cameras, it was actually very good fun.

Having hit the road at about half ten, Paul decided that we needed elevenses, and led us into an Aire where we paused for a cold drink and a natter, as our leisurely approach to the day's journey continued. We would pay for our sloth later in the day. Well, I would anyway.

Our next stop, apart from a brief pause to fuel up, was to gaze in awe and wonderment upon the Millau viaduct itself. I really don't think the French were prepared for how much of a tourist attraction this stunning, indeed awe inspiring piece of architecture would become in its own right. Hell, I've just made a 1500 mile detour to gawk at a motorway bridge, and Paul has tagged along with the crazy man. Doesn't that tell you something interesting? I mean, apart from about us?

Our first view of the bridge was from a distance away on the A75 near the toll plaza, and it looked as stunning as it does in the photos, except that being a scorching and clear day, there was not the layer of cloud forming below the bridge deck that has so far made for the most stunning photos of the viaduct. No matter, there's an Aire just at the Northern approach to the bridge. It was obviously intended to be a small parking place for the odd bridge geek to stop and look, complete with a small car park and some toilets. They have almost finished trebling the size of the car park, which was nevertheless still heaving, and building a second toilet block. They have also apparently very recently converted an ancient stone grain store into a visitors centre and are selling Millau bridge merchandise and local crafts from the Tarn valley below. And they have even leveled out a bit of ground at the top of a 300 foot scree slope which will be the viewing point for visitors to the aire to look at the viaduct. One day soon they might well get round to building the path or the steps up said slope.

Obviously, as a twenty stone fat bastard in full leathers and bike boots, I really wanted to go mountaineering to see the bridge in 40 degree heat. However Paul convinced me that it wouldn't kill me, so I established base camp, hired some Sherpas and headed up to the summit.

Paul lied.

Actually, he didn't, and I survived, just about. Although I did cruelly expose my lack of cardio-vascular fitness. I think I've answered the important question 'do I have a dodgy ticker?' in the process, as well. I'm typing this now, rather than pushing up daisies, so apparently not.

Once I'd recovered my breath, the viaduct was indeed absolutely stunning, and I had absolutely no qualms about the aformentioned 1500 mile detour.

The Millau viaduct... If the architecture doesn't take your breath away, the climb up to the viewing platform certainly will!

On another day, when time was on my side and I had nothing better to do, I might well fancy taking a spin down into the valley. I've seen some pictures taken from below, and in many ways that is even an more amazing perspective on this wonderful edifice. In addition, the Tarn valley looks like a lovely place to explore.

The Tarn Valley That's a very, very long way down! From pictures I've seen, the bridge is even more spectacular from the bottom looking up!

If you get the chance, definitely worth the detour, and the climb! Once again, Vive le France!

By now, the day was rapidly ebbing, and we'd really not dented the 550 miles that had faced me when I'd set off this morning, so it was back in the saddle and back onto the A75, across the viaduct (an experience in itself) and on, heading inexorably south at a decent pace, stopping only for fuel, water and Peages as we tried to make Andorra before we ran out of daylight.

A couple of things leap from my memory as I think about that run. Being lasered by a bunch of bored Gendarmes when having just slowed down to 150kph springs to mind, although fortunately nothing came of it. Then later there was the section, I think on the run towards Narbonne, where I was leading as we joined the A9, right behind a couple of - at least from that angle - very attractive young ladies on sports bikes. Who I was entirely happy to follow. And then when the traffic started to grind to a halt, they started filtering.

Quite bravely.

Obviously, I stuck to them like glue.

Here lies Ken Haylock, killed by a very shapely leather-clad buttock...

After about 20 miles of hard-core nuttiness, the two ladies peeled off in to an Aire, clearly so desperate to get it on with each other that they couldn't wait to get home. Oh wait, that's just my fantasy isn't it - sorry.

Not knowing the french for 'Hello, I'm old enough to be your biological father, I've been leering at your arse for the last 30 miles, and now I've started following you and your girlfriend about. Pleased to meet you!', and also with time marching on, sadly I had to ride on by.

When we got to Narbonne, a tantalising sign pointed out that Barcelona was a mere few hundred kilometers ahead of me. But Andorra also beckoned, and my GPS assured us that a huge dog-leg up the A61 and then back down the A66 was the quick way to go to get there.

En route, we stopped for a petrol and water stop, and got chatting to a French biker.

Now, my schoolboy grade French is pretty poor, but I'd been pleasantly surprised by how much I'd retained since my last trip to la belle Francais, many many years ago, and I had found myself able to dredge some stuff up on demand that I'd forgotten I even knew. In fact, I frustratingly found myself running out of vocab having confidently embarked on sentences that I should have known I wouldn't have a hope of finishing, but didn't. I think it was a symptom of some of the basic stuff coming back to me far more easily than I ever expected. My pronounciation remained reassuringly english, throughout - or crap in other words. Paul did a good job of filling in the gaps - but then the bugger should do, he has lived here for some years now! His daughter speaks French like a native, while he speaks french like an englishman reading from a phrase book :-).

Like several people we had spoken to, he was quite impressed that I was heading for Faro, but thought I was possibly a bit cracked going the way I was. He was off to Nice I think, from memory, and we had a good natter in a mixture of English & French. But by now, the sun was getting quite low in the sky, so once again we hit the road.

Our dog-leg north kept us on the Autoroute, which was good for my clutch, and was quicker if you believed my GPS, but was not good for my karma.

Eventually, the dual carriageway came to an abrupt end at Quié and suddenly we were on the long mountain road up to Andorra. Miles and miles of twisty mountain goodness. And as long as I kept it in the lower gears and didn't go too bok with the throttle, I was able to have a bit of fun. Although not as much fun as Paul, who is clearly a complete, if aging, hooligan. I couldn't take the uphill snap overtakes he was taking without buzzing my clutch, so I was having to plan things a little more and show a little restraint, but it was still damned good fun, for mile after mile after mile, as we climbed up the steep side of the Pyrenees.

By the time we passed the French customs post on the Andorran border, and then reached the entrance to the toll tunnel that cuts out the last few even more steep and twisty miles up and over the very top of the mountains, the sun was heading down and time was at a premium. Not wanting to get caught on the mountain in the dark, we took the tunnel into Andorra, and headed into the little principality.

The scenery was epic, of course, but we were looking for a decent hotel for Paul for the night, and then somewhere to grab a meal. I had a hotel booked in Barcelona for my sins! In due course, in somewhere like Encamp, we found a flea-pit for Paul, chained his bike to the nearest solid object, and then headed for a nearby bar-restaurant, where Paul stood me dinner, and I practiced my hideously limited Spanish on the staff.

It was around 9:30pm, and quite dark, when I bade Paul goodnight and headed back to the bike. I took this photo before I fired the bike up...

Andorran nosebag... We had dinner here, before I rode off into the night...

And so, onwards. Into Andorra de la Vella, in the dark, and onwards towards the Spanish border post. Pausing only to fill up with ridiculously cheap Andorran petrol (which it turns out is not much cheaper than ridiculously cheap Spanish petrol).

The customs shed was staffed by a Spanish cop who was saearching every car, looking for contraband alchohol and fags, which are tax free in Andorra. He gave my panniers a good once over, and questioned me suspiciously, before waving me on. And then I was into Spain, and onto twisty mountain roads, at around 10pm with 200 miles to ride before I could go to bed. Quickly, the traffic thinned, until it was just me, and a couple of local hotshots in an Impreza and a Celica Supra, tearing across the Pyrenees in a high speed elastic convoy, despatching other traffic. After about 50 miles, I turned South and took the toll tunnel through several Pyrenean peaks, then got onto another 50 miles or so of mountain twisties, a section of new peage under construction, and then the E9 motorway. The E9, a motorway that has clearly been built on the line of an old goat track. At that point, I was more or less entirely on my own, it was 11pm on a Sunday night in Spain, miles from anywhere, and I wanted to go to bed. So I cranked it up another notch, and settled in for a long, WFO blast to Barcelona. And then the motorway suddenly turned 90 degrees left...

It was a wild rollercoaster of a ride, the next 90 odd miles, and great, if somewhat bonkers fun. I was wired by the time I got to Barcelona, and rolled up outside the hotel, not long after midnight, seemingly feeling ready to do it all again, after a 550 mile marathon day.

And so, to bed...



Many thanks to the indomitable Mr Minton for accompanying me to Andorra, despite having three months work to do in eight weeks back at home.

X-posted to khaylock, uk_bikers, motorcycles

Coming next: Elche...