Freewheeling in Provence

Dominic O'Grady: Copyright (2018).

SO THERE we were: 10 single, white, gay men - and me - pedalling merrily on the road to Arles.

It was a bright Provencal morning. Behind us were the ancient walls of Avignon, to the right the remains of the city's famous bridge could be seen emerging from the Rhone, and ahead lay a week stuffed full of promise, picnics and God knows what else.

The previous night was the meet-and-greet night. Wine and cheese in the Hotel D'Angleterre's breakfast room, followed by dinner at a small Avignon restaurant run by Alain, a retired drag queen from Paris whose soulful eyes gently reproached those of us who hadn't managed to polish off the slabs of the home-made pate, sole and warm tarte tartin he proffered as a simple evening meal.

I knew I'd have to 'fess up about myself some time, and decided sooner was better than later. After a few fortifying glasses of fine local red, I confessed to my room-mate, Bill, a radiographer from Washington. "You know how this trip is supposed to be for single, gay men? Well, um, I should tell you that, um, I'm not. Single, that is."

That took care of the conversation for the next half hour or so, and cleared my conscience mightily. It also cleared the way for Bill's nightly instalments of his own boyfriend saga. By the end of the week we'd grown into two adolescent runaways, lying in our beds late at night, the lights off, swapping secrets and laughing our heads off at the day's events. But I digress.

My fellow bikers and I had signed up with a Boston-based gay travel agency, Alyson Adventures (since merged with HE travel), for a week-long bicycle tour of Provence. It was marketed as a "moderately easy ride over flat and gently rolling terrain", with bikes, maps and tour guides provided. The added bonus was the van which carried our bags from hotel to hotel. All we needed to do was hop on the bike, make it to the designated picnic site in time for lunch, and afterwards cycle to the pre-booked hotel in time for dinner. All this for $US1,595 ($2,515), including most meals and accommodation.

Not surprisingly, most of my fellow travellers were American. In addition to my new friend Bill, there was Bob, a doctor from New Hampshire; Louis, the Californian computer whiz; Victor with the killer thighs from Vermont; Greg One, the mature-aged medical student from the mid-west, and Gregg Two, the initially shy banker from Chicago who turned out to do a wonderful Barbra Streisand. Throw a Canadian, a New Yorker and a Boston party boy into the mix, add one Australian journalist, and our tour leaders Ed and Jean-Paul, and there you have it: a happy band of cyclists, sweating our way through the back roads of Provence, finding it hugely amusing that every time we rolled into town we'd send the gay population soaring.

It was fun. There's no doubt about that. But there were also times when I wanted it to be over, quick smart. In fact, I could have happily jumped in with the luggage after lunch on the first day's cycling. Unfortunately, it was made clear from the beginning that the van was for luggage only.

Our first picnic spot was at the Pont du Gard, a majestic Roman aqueduct, 2,000 years old and rated one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. It was a beautiful place to stop, but after loading up on baguettes, cheese, ham and fruit, I was ready for a leisurely afternoon nap. Instead, we had to complete the trip to Arles - 69 kilometres all up - with the afternoon sun and "gently rolling terrain" conspiring to produce a feeling of duty rather than relaxation.

At last we reached the mid-afternoon pit-stop, a fine 13th-century chateau-fort in the village of Tarascon. And it was downhill from there. By the time we'd checked into the Hotel St-Trophime in Arles at the end of day two, most of us were glowing with a sense of achievement - sore calves and butts notwithstanding.

Day three saw us mercifully free to enjoy the sights of Arles. The town was a Roman capital and a major religious centre in the Middle Ages, and it still boasts a vast amphitheatre and the magnificent Cloisters of St-Trophime, considered the best in Provence for their elegance and the richness of their carved decorations.

Vincent Van Gogh came to Arles in 1888, immortalising the landscape and Provence's unforgettable quality of light in more than 200 paintings that he produced before he was confined a year later to an asylum at St-Remy-de-Provence. Van Gogh's Starry Night makes perfect sense after experiencing Provence's late evening, luminously deep blue-black sky.

From Arles we rode 30km to St-Remy, stopping en route at the fortress of Les Baux. From a strategic point of view, one can understand why Les Baux's 10th-century citizens wanted to build their castle on top of the highest hill in sight ... but it is nevertheless an attitude that costs late 20th-century cyclists dearly. Still, we endured, and were duly rewarded.

In its heyday, Les Baux had a reputation as an elegant court of love. Noble men and women with time on their hands read poetry, debated the virtues of platonic versus sexual love, and were entertained by wandering troubadours.

Days five and six saw us wheeling through fields of red poppies, saluting farm workers with a cheerful "Bonjour" as we passed, breathing the fresh country air, climbing the odd hill, and making a pilgrimage to the little cafe in the main square of Menerbes.

Those who completed their pre-tour recommended reading list knew Menerbes as the town where Peter Mayle lived when he wrote A Year in Provence. In summer, Menerbes is said to be horribly overrun by tourists; off-season it settles back into a sleepy torpor of shuttered windows and stray dogs.

Before we know it, we're leaving the hotel in Fontaine-de-Vaucluse where we've been staying for the past two nights, and are cycling our way back to Avignon. Day seven has arrived, with a mixture of regret and relief.

We meet up that night for a farewell dinner, exchange e-mail addresses and promises to visit. A few months later, I e-mailed a few of the guys and asked them about the trip. Gregg Two's reply from Chicago was typical: "What did I like about my cycling vacation in Provence? I think what I will remember most is the fresh air, the views, vistas and amazing scenery, the cycling and wonderful weather. It was the perfect combination of physical effort mixed with wonderful climate and scenery, great food and wine, and great companionship. How's that?"

Couldn't have put it better myself.

- First published in The Sydney Morning Herald.