Cold Mountain

A cold, quick ride on my mountain-side loop. Bundled up against the below-freezing temperatures, introspection is easier, anything to distract from the numb fingers and toes. In Sorede, an older couple is out for a early morning promenade. I meet them on the bridge; they are dressed in long wool coats, colors muted to match the greys and tans of the village. This is what I love about France: the focus on the personal, the couple taking time to walk together; the pace of life is like the even ticking of a clock, or footsteps on a bridge.

Initially we were out of step with the rhythm of the place we put ourselves into. The American idea of getting what you want, when you want it was in conflict with the regularity of getting your baguette before the afternoon and evening mealtimes. The boulanger closes his shop when he has no more baguettes. There’s no sense in trying to go shopping on a Sunday afternoon when we should be doing something in the park together like other French families.

The creak that comes from my crank as I climb a small hill reminds me of some of my frustrations with living here. I’m still waiting for packages sent weeks ago. The charger for our phone, ordered from a French company when were still in Paris nearly a month ago, still hasn’t arrived. Parts that would fix the squeak in my crank, a new roulement de pedalier, ordered from a shop in Italy would take just a week to get to Iowa from Treviso; here, 15-20 days isn’t unusual, I’m told.

The descent from Sorede to Argeles takes me past the old maison that Janet and I have talked about. A wrought iron fence surrounds the house and grounds on one side and the barn and stone sheds make the other border. The entire property is ‘avendre’, for sale, and is central to the village of Argeles and the plages of Argeles sur Mer. In it’s time, it must have been a grand residence. The two story main house has a lovely tiled staircase to a large entrance hall. There is a small ‘grandparents’ quarters at the rear of the house and the grounds, if mowed, weeded and landscaped, could be very nice. We’ve written down the number, but haven’t taken the next step of actually calling it.

I know the route through the centre ville of Argeles now and take the left turn back to St Andre, gliding over the Autoroute and onto the flats of the D618. The blood is flowing, life moving back into my limbs and my brain and a quick ‘Salut’ to another rider heading the opposite direction. Life is good.

1:02, 15.2, 540ft