Velotouring.fun
Lac de l abbaye to Belvédère de la Scia
Meadows, mountains & wildflowers. 31st May 2021
We begin today’s ride at Lac d’Abbaye, a twenty-five minute drive from out house. Blue sky and white fluffy clouds are reflected in the still lake as the clock chimes twelve and we pedal away from the car.
It’s warm, but the wind continues to cool the air as we follow the winding road through lush green valleys and a cool woodland.
Around the corner and my bike slams on the brakes. The view has to be admired. Meadows lead down to a valley in which a village is tucked, woodland to either side, a myriad of greens. The light green of deciduous trees contests against the dark green of the firs and spruces. After all the rain we’ve had everything is bursting with life. In the distance we see part of the Jura mountains and there are patches of snow speckled against the grey rocks. Wow.
We continue around and down through Chateau des Pres, where the navigation system takes us down a short cut and then tells us to turn right which looks like it is taking us back to where we have come from. After a confused moment we see there is another road parallel to the one we have already travelled along and it goes to the next village, Chaux des Pres.
The roads winds and descends through forest. There is more traffic than we expected so we remain one in front of the other, but it’s not busy. We continue down and down. A relaxing ride but we know that if you go down on a circuit in the Jura then at some time up will be the only option. But we don’t care, we are enjoying the fresh air and new scenery.
We take a left turn onto a quieter road, a cut through the forest and spying a log on the side we stop for a snack. A baby bird is loud and persistent in its call from a tall pine tree but we cannot see the nest or the parent as it arrives. We just hear the call become more frantic, quietening and then beginning again.
Butterflies, beetles, and bees ignore us as they trundle, flitter and buzz past. Here, out of the wind the sun is hot, so we don’t stay long.
The views are more awesome, greener, and far reaching as we continue to climb until suddenly, we are at the top. There is a wooden bench under a tree and an awe-inspiring view.
I wish I had more words to describe the deeply folded multi-green, wooded, mountain slopes and valleys but the photos will have to suffice.
We are hungry as it is now two-thirty and lunch is well overdue.
A flavourful couscous salad – I am we’ll practised at making these, crackers, fruit puree and some flapjack do nicely, thank you.
It’s a popular spot. A couple with their dog wander past as they follow a mountain trail, a man on an electric mountain bike cruises out of the forest and down the hill, a man strides past clutching a huge bouquet of white flowers on long stalks before vanishing down the path to out left, a couple puff to a halt on their electric bikes to admire the view. The man pointing out the names of the mountains we can see in the distance.
We enjoy our rest.
A local man arrives on his electric bike and is eager to share some local history. He tells us the names of the mountains and talks about how two brothers arrived in the region about four hundred years ago. They arrived at Saint Claude, a town tucked behind one of the folds of mountain and forest. A dark valley and very industrious town, although I imagine it was much quieter then. It was too dark for the brothers, so they moved, one named Lupicin, settled into the valley below us and the other, Roland settled further down the river valley, out of our sight. The two towns are names after these men.
He tells us he was given the opportunity to work in Paris and he laughs and points to the scenery.
‘Why would I leave this?’ He says, ‘Paris is a beautiful city but only to visit. This is where to live for a healthy life.’
We agree and he continues on his way.
An hour has passed so we also leave, but not the same way we came. We take the road down and behind the viewpoint. I say down, but it’s a false down, if we stop pedalling, we stop. But it’s gentle and pretty and we look out for more blue flowers to take a photo but don’t see any. I wonder if they were wild or seeds from a cultivated plant dropped by a bird. We are still searching for the identification.
The road is broken in places but nothing too bad. We continue along and around and then a steep downhill ride down until we spy another small lake with a track at the side.
‘We’re going this way,’ Martin says. ‘It’s a gravel track but not too long.’
We stop first to take a couple of photos and a fisherman tells me to take care, the track is rough.
I smile and thank him. It doesn’t look too bad.
The track slips into the forest and we dismount to cross a rocky stream and remain pushing our bikes as the stones are large and the track steepens. There is another track that doesn’t look as steep but when Martin checks it on the maps it winds up the mountain side. It’s not our track. Ours is the steeper one.
We push onwards. The light is dappled through the trees with tattered hanging moss as if they are shedding it like deer shed the velvet on their antlers.
The track steepens ,with gullies carved by water and filled with larger stones. We weave from side to side, puffing and pushing.
It steepens more and my cycle shoes slip. My bike slides with me and I sit on the ground, wondering how to continue. I try again but it’s a case of one step forward three slips back. I stop, using the brake to halt the downward plunge of my bike and think. How can I get more traction? I look at my feet and at the steep almost sandy track and I take off my cycle shoes. I have more grip in my socks but, boy is this a workout.
Martin reaches the top and comes back down to help me the last few metres. We laugh at my socks and sit for a while to catch our breath before re-joining the road and continuing on. Up and down, around bends, past meadows, and along tree shadowed roads. The route climbs up slowly but surely.
We look for a café in each village and then realise it’s Monday and they are all closed. You’d think after fifteen years we’d remember this.
We stop on a shaded corner after passing through another small village for a drink and a snack and I count the chimes of the village church.
‘Five ‘o’clock,’ I say.
‘No way. Check your phone,’ Martin says. ‘It must have been four.’
No. It’s five o’clock.
He checks the route.
‘Only eighteen kilometres to go and most of it is downhill.’
We continue up, the road teasing us with hints of downhill only to take us up again, until we enter a narrow valley.
Our legs rejoice at the rest as we coast through the meadows and villages but there is no lake to be seen.
A shortcut winds through fields full of rocky outcrops in fantastic shapes and shades of grey.
‘I can see the lake on my map,’ Martin calls to me and I smile. We pass another village and then there it is.
‘We’re on the wrong side,’ I say with a giggle. ‘We’ll just have to swim.’
‘Ha.’ Martin grins.
The road continues down and around the lake, back to the car park we set out from and the church bells chime six o’clock.
A lovely, meandering, view encrusted ride.
If you like reading about our adventures, written by Jenni, she also writes many interesting blogs, short stories and fiction in her writing hut. To read and find out more visit her website.
Route Info
Difficult Level
59 KM / 37 Miles
1000 Metres / 3280 Feet
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