the tyranny of the poles

 

WELL, OF COURSE Le Géant is closed at this time of year. Gated most often. But after the obligatory mooch through Bedoin’s Monday Market, after getting a BiB of Ventoux rouge, and after sinking coffee and croissants in the aforementioned town’s market square, we nevertheless set off up the hill. 

We got as far as Chalet Reynard, and then on up to the barrier above that – where we parked, booted up and set off up the D794 on foot. True, the barrier was raised but only to allow heavy lorries bringing down the dispiriting dump of old tarmac, displaced concrete and rubble (from the gentrification of Ventoux I have had occasion to discuss in earlier posts) safely and without impediment of motorised visitors – to where the detritus was being redeposited at Chalet R to ostensibly extend the already outsize car park. Other ascenders included the odd rogue Belgian, half a dozen two wheel mental-cases and a bloke on a moped or was it an electric bike. Two service vans went up and down aussi. To change a light bulb or some such. 

There were no other walkers ahead or behind us. It was just us and the mountain. Each member of our party was sunken and alone in their own thoughts as they toiled up the relentless slope. Counting steps. Struggling to gulp enough oxygen into their lungs from the thinning air. Would it go? Was this the day we would summit? Would we get back down in time for lunch? 

Luckily the idea of going all the way to the top was not openly or extensively discussed until we were well up the hill and only then, as the roadside snow became appreciable, did the issue break surface, come to the fore. There were doubts expressed (in a kindly manner) as to our stamina levels, whether my back and legs would hold up, etc etc, but we persevered, eventually concluding that we could at least put two of our party on the summit cairn. Mme Melling thought she would sit out the last bit up the rocky stretch, off the road, so Dr G and self took off in one last superhuman effort, to try to top out. Needless to say, when we arrived in the vicinity of the Family Seat, Mme M was already there, having ‘nipped’ up the road. Sneeky. 

Thankfully there was only a slight breeze on our ascent and only a slightly stronger zephyr on the top. It was quite chilly. As previously commented there were but a half dozen or so of the cycling persuasion toiling on the slopes, those service vehicles and the Belgian party in a small white car, unable to read road closed notices. Yes, lorries passed up and down carting the aforementioned spoil, but there were but three of them and we always stepped aside to allow them free passage both on our assent and descent and on theirs.

Our endeavour was worth it. Family Seat was confirmed as still extant, snapped for the nth time, the lip curled at the misuse of summit concrete etc. including those steps I vowed never to set foot on, now usefully employed to aid our return to lower altitudes… Two hours up and one hour down. Dr G opined that there were over 600 yellow and black poles marking the road to the topmost tarmac. I am not in a position to confirm or correct her assertion. I do know that they were an unrelenting presence, unsurprisingly in both directions, up and down. And that I photographed again post 225, the post I first walked to as a maximum upward excursion from the motor of the day at the first closed barrier visit way back in the early 2000s or was it late 1900s. I was a young man then, still green, still moderately fit >sob<. 

As road walks uphill go, this trek, strictly in sans traffic conditions, is both fairly easy and full of interest: not something you’ll hear me admit to very often about road walking up hill. 

I shall not, nevertheless, be doing it again. You read it here first, and that’s official. Until the next time at least. Future guests at this address take note.