A Village in Provence Photo courtesy of Pam Inverarity

We spent our rest day enjoying drinks at the cafe and treats from the bakery, and watching petanque, a game in which old French men throw heavy metal balls around on a small flat rectangle of dirt. As the afternoon drew to a close we packed up our gear and headed off once more to spend the night high on a hill amongst prickly scrub.

A storm blew in that evening, and we tied the ropes of our tent to the bikes to keep it fixed firmly in place. From the comfort of the tent we watched the lighting play rough games in the sky and eventually fell asleep to the sound of crashing thunder.

The rain didn't stop until after sunrise, so we had a lazy morning waiting for the tent to dry out. A group of mountain bikers passed on the trail as we were having breakfast. It wasn't long before we'd packed up and caught up with them. It was our sixth day on the trail and we were confident and in good form. We probably might have impressed them, too, if Roger hadn't hit a rock while braking hard downhill and gone slowly and spectacularly end-over-end.

The group invited us to have lunch with them in the next town, and it was during our lunch banter that we finally managed to impress them, as we were doing far more of the trail than they were and covering more distance in a day, as well as actually carting camping gear around with us rather than paying for beds.

We eventually left them behind for good at the next big uphill and found ourselves in a tiny, ancient town for the evening meal, where the proprietor of the cafe was in the middle of making apricot jam. We were her only clients at that time, and she cooked us a wonderful home-style meal of duck, lentils and potato, then sent us off with a delicious packed lunch of farm-fresh goodies for the next day.

Late afternoon on day 6 Photo courtesy of Pam Inverarity

We camped high on a ridgeline and watched pastel sunset colors darken over the sparsely populated valley below.

Day seven was very hot and sunny, with plenty of hills and no cafes until late in the day, which foiled any plans for a civilized siesta. In the late afternoon we came to a sealed road and a small, touristy town, where we cooled off with some drinks and ice creams in the shade and stocked up on some bakery goodies for the evening meal and the next day's breakfast.

Once more we proceeded to get lost and frustrated trying to find the right trail over the next looming ridge. Tempers were lost too, but when we found the trail it was where neither of us thought it would be. That solved the argument. The view from the top of the ridge was commanding, and the descent was fast despite the tricky terrain-night was closing in and there was nowhere on that steep, loose slope to camp.

With sunrise the next morning, our last day on the trail had finally arrived, and after all our efforts we were looking forward to finishing by lunch time, relaxing, and basking in the glory of our achievements. We'd had enough of these huge hills, so we planned to eliminate the last three be taking the road out through the Gorges de la Meouge instead. It looked to be easy riding, nice scenery, and boasted a Roman bridge as a bonus.

At the end of our scenic shortcut, we picked up the real trail once more, only to be disappointed that although we'd cut the main hills out of the picture, there were still plenty of smaller ones to sap our dwindling energy. At last, though, we found ourselves on an exceptional section of single-track which raised our spirits and led us to a lookout over our final destination, Sisteron.

As the tiny city with it's imposing 14th century fortified citadel came into view, a siren rang out from the citadel, taking us by surprise. We almost expected the city's defenders to sally forth and challenge the two fatigued mountain bikers at its gates. As we found out later, the siren, which had replaced the original bell, was sounded each day as part of a tradition marking the end of work in the fields, and perhaps the start of pastis drinking and petanque playing.

With no city guards forthcoming, we descended triumphantly into Sisteron but we couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. Not only was there no parade of cheering people throwing flowers and welcoming us to the end of the end of our quest, there was not even a small congratulatory panel marking the end of the trail. After all our efforts and adventures over 280 km (174 miles) of steep hills and rugged terrain, we entered the city quietly, barely noticed or remarked upon by the locals. No one seemed to have even heard of the trail at the information centre.

So we had a muted celebration-a well-deserved shower at the local camping ground and a quiet, civilized meal in the centre of town wearing our change of clothes. It ended just like so many other adventures, with a wash, a feed, and the opportunity to put our feet up. Soon the heat, the aching muscles, the frustrations and lost tempers would be all but forgotten, leaving just the warm memories of an adventure which we'd enthusiastically recount to anyone willing to listen.

If You Go

Of course it was so much fun I'd recommend it to just about anyone. So here are my tips:

A little French is indispensable, even if it's just from pocket dictionaries and phrase books. You'll need it to communicate with the locals and to read the newly published guide book (which would have saved me from getting lost on a daily basis if it had been available at the time): www.chamina.com.

French trains and busses will take you and your bike practically anywhere (check the SNCF train timetable for trains which take bikes).

"Wild camping" is technically illegal in most of France, although bivouac, which is putting up your tent overnight only and moving on the next day, is permitted in a number of places such as certain parcs regionaux and alpine areas. There are paying camping grounds scattered in various places along the trail, as well as well-catered hostel-style walkers' huts (gites d'etape), hotels and bed-and-breakfasts (chambres d'hotes).

Don't expect to find many bike repair shops. Bring spares and repair gear.

Try the local goat cheese, picodon. And the salads!

— By Pam Inverarity