Hells, bells and bicycles

Escaping the heat of the city, we headed into the hills for the weekend, in search of cool, quiet countryside and a travelling circus named the Tour de France. The Jura was the destination. We drove up on Saturday morning, parked in the sleepy village of Les Bouchoux, and set out on a gentle stroll up the hill to find a vantage point from which to view the cyclists whizz past.

It was certainly cooler, it was certainly quieter (for the moment) as we meandered along a pleasant path, fighting off an attack by killer horse flies along the way. At last we reached the quiet fly-free sanctuary of a picturesque waterfall where we paused for a picnic lunch. Thence it was onwards and upwards until we reached the route of the 7th stage of the Tour de France 2010. Finding a shady spot a couple of kilometres downhill from the Col de la Croix de la Serra, we settled down to await the spectacle. The caravane went past first, vehicle after dressed up vehicle spraying the roadside with giveaway caps, cakes, detergent samples and sundry other publicity items. Then at last came the racers, a strung out echappée followed a few minutes later by the peloton, then a few minutes later came the stragglers.

In twenty short minutes it was all over and we walked back down to the car to find our hotel in La Pesse, a neighbouring village. Looking forward to a cool, quiet night we dined in and collapsed into bed. Coolish it may have been, at least with the skylight window in our room open to the night air, quiet it was for a while. Then the clock on the village church struck ten. With the window open and the bell tower fewer than 30 metres away it was ten rather loud bongs.
"I think most church bells only ring up till about ten or eleven in the evening," said la bienheureuse, hopefully.
The clock duly announced eleven pm, then midnight..
Then one, then two, and so on through all through the night, with a few random chimes thrown in for good measure at one o'clock, which temporarily lulled me into the blissful false belief that I might have actually fallen asleep for more than an hour.

Lesson learned. Never book a hotel without checking the whereabouts in relation to the village church. In the morning, dark rims and bags under our eyes, we set off for home, stopping off en route for another pleasant walk, up and down the Crêt au Merle, followed by a short stroll to take in the stunning view at the Belvédère du Cuchet. From there it was downhill all the way, back to the Lyon heat...