Mindy Hammond
Every week in S Magazine A French trip made our columnist realise what a whirl of difference lies between two sets of wheels
After whizzing around Paris on electric scooters, we missed our “noot noots”, as we’d called them. But instead, we hired a handful of bikes on arrival in the South of France. It seemed the perfect transport solution when our villa was a 20-minute walk or a 10-minute cycle from the town in one direction and the beach restaurants in the other as the coast road became a slow-moving traffic jam.
The road might have been busy but in typical French fashion there was nearly always a cycle lane or the option of riding along a parallel road – and we definitely weren’t the only cycling family.
When the temperature is 30-plus degrees during the day, and almost as hot in the evenings, what better way to keep cool than a 10-minute spin in your own personal breeze? Sounds idyllic. Yet there was a small hiccup. Our lovely house had a fabulous view of the bay – but the building was perched on the side of a hill. Quite a steep one, too.
Freewheeling at speed on leaving the place was fantastic fun but the last 100 yards on the way home was a killer. It became a challenge with us cycling for all we were worth to get up a head of speed before the incline, changing through the gears on our adorable – if slightly outdated – bikes in a bid to reach the top without coming to a full stop.
I managed it once, then decided I was too old and far too hot to put myself through it again, and dismounted at the foot of the hill for the rest of our stay. Willow and Richard never once bailed, while Izzy had a 50% success rate.
Our first cycling trip to a beach bar didn’t go too well – who thought it a good idea to let Richard navigate? We all know Izz is our default leader in such situations but this time he set off in the lead and so we followed – uphill.
“It’s a short cut,” he assured us.
It wasn’t. We strained our calves pedalling to the brow of the hill, then he took a sharp right – a welcome relief to see the road disappearing down towards the sea. But Izzy yelled from behind, “Stop. That’s the wrong way.”
Willow and I skidded to a halt halfway down and pushed our bikes back up, where we waited for Richard to join us, “glowing” by then.
Izzy showed us the route on her phone. We had to continue on to another, steeper, incline before we could get near our destination. The coast road would’ve been flatter, breezier and quicker.
We huffed and puffed our way along, following Izzy, and soon realising that Richard’s short cut wasn’t suitable for old bicycles. There were potholes aplenty, which bounced several items out of the French market basket I’d carefully secured in the metal rack on the rear of my bike.
We bumped along unmade tracks and slid across deep gravel until we came across a higgledy-piggledy smattering of bollards designed to stop cars from taking the track. As Izzy approached, Richard called from behind. She stopped and reached her foot out to lean against the bollard as she turned to see what he wanted. But though it looked solid, the bollard was soft and collapsed. And so did Izzy, keeling over in slow motion and ending up in a heap on the floor with her bike on top of her. But she was laughing before she landed and we had to stop for five minutes to control our giggles.
What was it Richard had shouted? “Look out for the bollards.”
By the time we reached our favourite beach bar we were ready for a drink and delighted to see that Ricardo, who we’d last seen before lockdown, was still cooking up a storm and as busy as ever. The place had been given a facelift and the food was as delicious as ever.
Bizarrely, we discovered Ricardo lived just up the hill from us. “Any chance of a lift home?” I joked, after telling him about our adventure. He laughed, “What were you thinking, going over the top?” We all raised our eyebrows at Richard.
Then Ricardo added, “You need scooters. There’s a guy a couple of miles away who hires them out.”
So guess what arrived the following day? Exactly. Noot noots forever!