Col du Pré ( Alt 1703m )

Departing down the hill through a small village we then merge onto the main road to Albertsville where we turn off up through the mountains to Areches Beaufort. It’s a beautiful drive and the mountain are becoming grander and more snow-capped the closer to our destination we get.

We reach Areches Beaufort and drive up a steep road to a ski resort carpark. Martin is concerned about the climb as we will be doing that at the end of today’s ride, but I laugh and say,

‘It’s not a problem. I can sit in the café at the bottom, and you can bring the car to me.’

We change and ride around the carpark to warm up our legs as the climb begins immediately, but as we reach the road Martin has to go back to the car. He’s forgotten his helmet and I didn’t notice! Am I already distracted by the music? No, he was behind me checking the navigation was working although I think it’s quite straightforward, up and up. And then down and down before up again. 

We set off only to stop and wait at the longest red light known to man, honestly it remained red for so long we thought it was broken and Martin pedalled forward with caution. As he passed the light it changed to amber. Phew. 

We cycle through the village and then turn at the sign for the Col Du Pre- of tour de France fame. It is immediately steep but after the first bend the view is stunning, actually the view was pretty stunning from the car park, and it gets better and better the more switchbacks we conquer.

‘Yep.’ Martin stops and sets up his camera and we hear the swoosh, swoosh, of a professional bike team as they glide around the corner and pass us, chatting and smiling. Not a drop of sweat or a puff between them as they ride in preparation for this year’s tour de France.



Martin grins, filming as they pass, and leave us far behind. We follow at a distance until we can no longer hear them. We didn’t want to hurt their egos by keeping up with them.

The water is a milky glacial blue, but the reservoir is not even half full and the steep sides are striped and barren. A stark landscape gasping as if stranded without water.

Martin spies a potential sheltered spot for a picnic, and we investigate. There is a goat’s trail path to a rock. It overlooks the reservoir and is out of the wind, with some shade and some sun. Perfect. 

We clamber up the rocky path and gratefully devour our picnic, feasting on the views of the water, mountains, crags and …



‘Look, a waterfall.’ I point.

I surprise him by saying I think we should do it. I’m feeling great, invincible, full of ‘I can’. Until we clamber back down the path to the bikes. Our legs have stiffened while we rested. Ah well, they will loosen again.

We glide down to the edge of the reservoir and stop to stare at the desolate moonscape of dry rocks and scree, normally hidden beneath so much water. It’s a huge reservoir and we cycle over the dam which curves far below into the valley, the water providing electricity for the town of Albertville. 

As we cross the dam, we stop to admire the sight of water pounding down into the reservoir, the main feeder chute which would normally be below water but today is churning and fuming so much we can hear the roar from this distance although it is on the other side, and we can see two more waterfalls. I try to take photos, but we are too far away. I gaze at them instead, committing their beauty to memory.

As we round the end of the lake, we see a rough track leading down to the water flume. This track would normally be submerged but it is accessible and safe today. We can even see a tent next to another waterfall further around the reservoir. I wonder if they are scientists testing the water as I’m sure no tourist would be allowed to camp in the reservoir, but they are too far away for us to see anything.

We turn off the road and dismount as the track is large stones and scree and push our bikes down into the bowels of the reservoir. We cross a marshy patch and small stream before parking our bikes near the roaring beast of water.

I have no idea how much water is gushing but it’s fast and furious, hitting a large boulder and leaping high before pounding down the rocks and shale to join the still grey-blue water.

There are pieces of quartz under our feet, glinting when the sun touches it and one small piece leaps into my pocket. Oops. 

We clamber down to get closer, and I see tiny pieces of slate on their edge, curving like a sinuous snake where water currants have pushed and shaped them. Nature’s art.

We look around and realise what a huge volume of water this reservoir must hold when it is full. We would be beneath the icy waters fed by the snow melt above if it were full. I wonder how quick the water rises.

We take some photos and videos of the flume and are kissed by the spray as the water jostles and plays with deathly intent to reach the bottom and to sweep all before it. The water is mesmerising, the sound deafening, and I shiver with a touch of fear and awe at its power.



We clamber back up to our bikes and push them up to the road, full of delight and smiles. I don’t know what it is about fast moving and falling water but I’m giddy and giggling as we ask our legs to climb a steep road once again. 

There are some clouds gathering and we know rain is forecast for later, so we pull on our arm warmers, zip up our zips and prepare for the downward journey. We have learnt from previous rides that mountain downhill roads can be cold.

We plunge into the deep green forest, full of life and water. There are unbelievable views through the trees of green valleys and mountains folding into the distance and with the epic music in my ears I am truly riding through a fantasy novel, and if a dwarf or dragon were to appear I’d not be surprised.

It is steep and switchbacks are frequent. Martin flows with more confidence than me and soon I am alone. I look up at the green wall of forest in front of me. I sigh and laugh and my heart swells with joy and disbelief. 

I am cycling in the alps.

Little me.

I am so lucky.

A deep gorge with a tantalising song of water deepens beside the road but I cannot see the water rushing below.

My brakes are working hard as I continue sweeping down and around. Martin waits for me on a corner and he points to a road far, far, below.

‘I think that’s where we’re going,’ he says.

Oh my, that road looks so twisting and tiny.

We grin, Martin swooping ahead and then waiting for me to catch up and pass him. A hopscotch ride through the forested slopes.



He is alongside me when a huge buzzard swoops from the right and crosses our pathway into the forest on the left. His wings turn and fold to avoid us and the trees. He is travelling with such incredible speed and skill, and our hearts pound a little faster. Being wiped out by a large bird is not on today’s plan. 

Just think if it had been a dragon? My imagination flares.

We cycle on down finding a new piece of tarmac humped over a gully. A brand-new piece of road over a recent landslide. Lucky for us it had been fixed.

The switchbacks continue until we are on that tiny piece of road, we glimpsed from up high. I look up but the forest of green hides all traces of our route.

We turn a corner and there is a buttercup saturated field, some farmhouses, and a sign saying Areches Beaufort.

There are ominous clouds gathering on the ridged beyond the town, so we do not linger but begin the four-kilometre uphill to the car and its not as steep as it seemed, which is good. I can feel the pull in my legs, but I know I can do this.



Specks of rain begin, threatening to get harder and we see an old building under some trees and pullover to put on our rain gear. The clouds descend and torrential rain pounds the road. We lean against the building, and we wait out the worst for fifteen minutes.

The sky lightens and the rain lessens so off we go. Misty clouds form around our feet and legs as the rain is lifted back into the sky. The smell of petrichor infuses my body, music infuses my mind, I shift my position and zoom up the hill leaving Martin behind with a shocked expression on his face. He catches up and we reach the car park together, tired but surprisingly okay.

‘Good legs,’ I say. ‘That was…’ I yet again struggle for the right words.

‘An okay ride?’ Martin asks with a grin.

‘Oh yes. An okay ride.’

Forty kilometres of awesome, spectacular, okay cycling.

‘Another Tour de France col completed,’ Martin says as we drive back to the campsite. ‘Only three hundred and ten more to go.’

I’m not sure if I wince or smile.