The Day of Bridges.
The ride down the hill from the Auberge was a slick glide of effortless descent that saw us to the door of the nearest market, the last effortless moment of the day. We gathered our food and ate breakfast in the Jardin De La Fountain. Children on a field day crowded the beautiful lanes of plants and groaned as they were made to run laps around the 18th century fountain. If there is a better way to make children hate history I can't imagine it.
We left Nimes down a long broad avenue, the sides lined with trees, the centre occupied by a lively market selling everything from used clothing to amusement park rides. There was an elegant pyramid erected in the central park, flanked by two stone men holding stone rifles eroded with age, a monument to the martyrs of the French resistance, gleaming bright and cold in the November morning. Behind it, rising high on a pedestal of glory that threatened to reignite old diatribes was “La Taureau,” a proud statue of a defiant bull raising his head and horns to the sky. The pamphlet for the town of Nimes regally declared the Bull to be the true king of France. Based on the way the French treat their kings…
We cycled out of Nimes and into a blasted hell of jagged rocks, rising hills and wind. A hurricane of air swept over us, around us, through us, making every inch of land a twisted epic of battling muscles and raging elements. The rocks here were pure white that leered skeletally from open cliff faces and roadside verges. A bare and stark castle rises to our left, an extension of the pale earth. We slowly inch up the curving roadside and somehow, impossibly, find ourselves looking down a long hill into a deep valley. Surely we cannot have climbed so high? But we look forward to the joy of descent, the unfettered rolling of wheels down a long gentle slope. We are disappointed. The wind has become so strong that we have to fight our way downhill, peddling like mad to gain even a modicum of momentum, which is stolen away by gusts of wind even as we struggle.
I begin to get angry; our one method of relaxing while biking has been stolen from us. But then the valley closes in around us, the trees shelter us from the worst of the wind and a cathedral silence begins to descend. Something awesome approaches. The bridge is visible only as arches through the trees at first, a span here, cut off by an overhanging branch and a cluster of leaves. Another span over there, impossibly distant, too far for them to belong to the same structure. The leaves and trees thin slowly, revealing span after span, arch after arch until with a sudden shock of exposure it appears in its entirety.
Each span is impossibly wide. The whole structure unbelievably high. You cannot believe that it is older than the oldest government still in existence, older than almost any building you can find. It seems so delicate that the slightest push will send it tumbling into the valley below. We climb the steps that lead under the first set of aches. There is a solemnity standing beneath the bridge, as though you stand under a grand religious edifice. We climb to the second span and follow the footbridge across.
We follow the rocky hillside upwards to the arches that led to the water regulators. All are gone now, evidenced only by deep cavities in the dirt. We descend and cross back after exploring the far bank for awhile. There is an olive tree planted near the aqueduct that began life in 908 and was brought from Spain. It seems impossibly ancient and yet it is 850 years younger than the bridge.
We climb the other side of the bridge to the topmost arcade, high above the valley floor.
The aqueduct is locked off, fear of tourists preventing easy access but you can stand in the depths through which the water coursed and you can see the stone lids that prevented evaporation.
Behind us is a tunnel through the mountainside, dug in 1863 as the beginning of an attempt to return the aqueduct to working order. The Roman aqueduct curves around the mountain to the left. We cut through the tunnel and rejoined the watercourse on the other side, its passages filled with dirt now. We come unexpectedly upon the Pont de Valmala. One of the Pont Du Garde’s forgotten lesser brothers.
The aqueduct continues on, lost now beneath dirt and the roots of trees young by its standards, all the way to Nimes.
There is something about the faint ruins peering through the dirt that seems to lure you on, some ghostly liquid quality of water long vanished that entreats you to follow the course. With difficulty we resist and return to the valley of Gardon river. The aqueduct is difficult to leave. It is amazing in its scale, in its age, everything about it. We lunch in its shadow, hardly able to pull our eyes from it.
We must go and we tear ourselves away with effort. The Pont Du Gard recedes into the foliage once more, to rest majestically long after I, and this journal, fall into the unremembered dust of history.
The going is harder now, as if the bridge is drawing us back. We fight our way into the Mistral and up the hills that have become our burden. We are forced to climb, a long steep slope filled with angry drivers who were less than pleased to share the road. The climb went on forever, the mistral wind pushing us back with every advance and it does not relent even after we pass the hills crest and begin to descend. A long descent into Avignon cutting through cliffs and racing down a long bridge with a speed that makes our knuckles clench white.
We cross the Rhone into the city. One bridge of Avignon.
The Palace of the Popes becomes visible as a misshapen grey lump against the horizon, a glittering Mary looking down in gentle benediction. Then we are forced across the Rhone again to the flat shifting soil of the Isle de la Barthelasse. 2 bridges of Avignon.
Our campground is large, almost entirely abandoned. Moss grows in place of grass. The trees bend and dance beneath a wind that we hardly feel. The Pont De St. Benezet shattered by times and tides is clearly visible from the entrance. 3 bridges of Avignon. The bridge of Avignon.
There is something about the faint ruins peering through the dirt that seems to lure you on, some ghostly liquid quality of water long vanished that entreats you to follow the course. With difficulty we resist and return to the valley of Gardon river. The aqueduct is difficult to leave. It is amazing in its scale, in its age, everything about it. We lunch in its shadow, hardly able to pull our eyes from it.
We must go and we tear ourselves away with effort. The Pont Du Gard recedes into the foliage once more, to rest majestically long after I, and this journal, fall into the unremembered dust of history.
The going is harder now, as if the bridge is drawing us back. We fight our way into the Mistral and up the hills that have become our burden. We are forced to climb, a long steep slope filled with angry drivers who were less than pleased to share the road. The climb went on forever, the mistral wind pushing us back with every advance and it does not relent even after we pass the hills crest and begin to descend. A long descent into Avignon cutting through cliffs and racing down a long bridge with a speed that makes our knuckles clench white.
We cross the Rhone into the city. One bridge of Avignon.
The Palace of the Popes becomes visible as a misshapen grey lump against the horizon, a glittering Mary looking down in gentle benediction. Then we are forced across the Rhone again to the flat shifting soil of the Isle de la Barthelasse. 2 bridges of Avignon.
Our campground is large, almost entirely abandoned. Moss grows in place of grass. The trees bend and dance beneath a wind that we hardly feel. The Pont De St. Benezet shattered by times and tides is clearly visible from the entrance. 3 bridges of Avignon. The bridge of Avignon.
We are too tired and too cold to dance. Instead we hurl ourselves into the tent sleep.
Next Entry: Day 99. Avignon
Previous Entry: Day 97. Nimes
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