“Voulez-vous le filet de bœuf ou l’agneau?” asked Léa, our smartly dressed cheffe de rang in the dining room of the Hôtel de France in Mende. Choosing between beef and lamb would end up being one of the few decisions I’d have to make all fortnight. It was late June, and I was sitting, dazed from exhaustion, in the loveliest of restaurants with the best of company – my brothers Trevor and Chris – halfway through a fully supported 1,600km (1,000-mile) epic from the Atlantic coast to the French Riviera.
Simon Fellows is clawing his way out of middle-brother obscurity one feature at a time
My brothers and I were close as children, but our decades of life decisions had the unintended consequence of pulling us apart. Latterly, we’d seen one another only at Christmas, when conversations were as dull as the weather forecasts they rarely strayed beyond. Now in our late 50s and early 60s, finally free from the relentless obligations of young families and careers, we’ve made the grown-up decision to reunite for a 13-day adventure worthy of our younger selves.
(Image credit: Simon Fellows)
For logistical ease, we chose a guided tour, Saddle Skedaddle’s ‘St Malo to Nice Classic’, which carves a sweeping crescent from Brittany and Normandy in the northeast to Provence in the south. However, as we brushed the Breton sand off our cycling shoes, we had no idea that France was on the verge of suffering its second-worst heatwave on record. We were about to ride into the four à pain – the bread oven.
Land of butter
St Malo is a difficult city to depart. Blessed with an endless promenade of fine seafood restaurants and a medieval old town, it was tempting to stay put. But adventure called, so with our stomachs heavy with croissants, and our heads light with excitement, we were off.
Leading us were our wonderfully Gallic guides, Luc and Nicholas, who took turns riding with us or driving the support van. Nothing was ever too much trouble for Luc, strong as an ox and always armed with a joke. Nicholas, a slender, powerful rider, was equally good-natured, and, because he hailed from Nice, this ride would deliver him to his doorstep.
My younger brother Chris is the strongest and lightest rider among us. Trevor, forever trying to keep his younger siblings in check, is easily the most competitive, compensating for any age-related loss of fitness with his admirable mental strength and sheer tenacity. Me? I just try to keep up. The first few days eased us gently into our coast-to-coast escapade. As we waved farewell to the intimate beaches of the Côte d’Émeraude, and bid adieu to a hazy Mont St-Michel, its silhouette partially shrouded within a soft sea mist, the flat, fertile Breton countryside opened up before our wheels.
(Image credit: Xavier Veyron)
Northern France is a dairy stronghold, where pasture and vast fields of wheat dominate the landscape, and butter defines the cuisine. We would have to put many kilometres beneath our tyres before groves of gnarled olive trees would force a fundamental change in flavour. During these early, relatively flat days, we formed a steady paceline for the first few hours. With little effort required, conversation – weighty issues and immature banter in equal measure – flowed easily, interrupted only by the clattering exhaust note of the occasional tractor.
The three of us looked forward to our mid-morning coffee stops enormously. Invariably, Luc and Nicholas would guide us to a picturesque village square, with the most French cafe imaginable, bang next to a pâtisserie groaning with pastries. One of my favourites was the impossibly quaint village of La Guerche-de-Bretagne, with its glut of timber-framed medieval buildings. Soaked with caffeine and loaded with tartes aux fraises, chaussons aux pommes, and pains aux raisin (we’d convince ourselves that this level of carb-loading was a necessary part of our fuelling strategy), we’d fragment, riding at our own pace for the next 40km or so until lunch.
“WEIGHTY ISSUES AND IMMATURE BANTER FLOWED IN EQUAL MEASURE”
The picnic was the second highlight of the day. Under the shade of sweet chestnut trees, we’d feast on bread, local cheeses, pork rillettes, and a variety of salads. This extended break provided Trevor and Chris a chance for some good-natured vocal sparring. A common theme was their cycling prowess from that morning’s ride, although this could extend to any aspect of life where one of them spotted a weakness in the other that could be exploited. Remarkably, the fact that Chris could ride circles around him never diminished our big brother’s enthusiasm for such swordplay. Bless him.
Eventually, tiring of baiting Trevor, Chris would give impromptu history lessons – his inability to recall basic historical facts, let alone dates, made these lessons sketchy at best.
(Image credit: Xavier Veyron)
“The Hundred Years’ War, which ravaged this part of northern France from about 1250 to 1450, er, hang on, that can’t be right…” Trevor would take these intellectual retreats as his cue to school himself, and the rest of us, in French grammar, helped along by Nicolas. It was a relief to get back on the bike.
Within three days, we’d crossed a broad, sleepy Loire and were fast heading into the Dordogne. By now, it was apparent that there was something very wrong with Trevor’s backside. He was performing a perpetual waltz in the saddle, a cheek-to-cheek glide on the first two beats, punctuated by a brief hover on the third. Saddle sores were making their mark.
After an emergency stop at a pharmacy, which tested Trevor’s mime skills as much as his newly honed French grammar, he reappeared cheerfully waving a large assortment of gels, salves, ointments and – inexplicably – a large tube of Durex lube. We’ll never know whether it was his poor acting ability or his shaky grasp of French anatomical terms that was to blame.
simon Fellows France cycling family brothers lifetime ardeche summer heat hot eating south of france 2025 June
(Image credit: Xavier Veyron)
The Dordogne region ushered in subtle changes in the landscape and a significant shift in the weather. As we navigated twisting roads through increasingly steep wooded hillsides, the sky appeared less expansive, and the horizon closed in. We started to notice terracotta roof tiles for the first time, replacing the plain clay tiles – tuiles plates – favoured in the north. It was getting hotter. The mornings were cool enough, but the afternoons grew oppressive and sticky.
Early starts became an unwelcome but prudent solution, with the three of us hitting the road by 7:30am. I’d sometimes leave slightly earlier, but within 15km I’d hear whoops of “Salut!
“THE DORDOGNE USHERED IN SUBTLE LANDSCAPE CHANGES AND A BIG SHIFT IN THE WEATHER”
Allez, Allez, Allez!” breaking the still air as Trevor and Chris closed my lead before passing me, the bright taillights of their Wahoo Trackr radar units dancing away into the distance. For ourselves to leave early was worth it, not only to escape the heat but also for the extra time it allowed us to explore the day’s destination. Brantôme, a charming medieval town completely encircled by the languid River Dronne, was a particular highlight. The three of us enjoyed a memorable afternoon at Restaurant Côté Rivière, spent sipping chilled glasses of Bergerac Sec.
simon Fellows France cycling family brothers lifetime ardeche summer heat hot eating south of france 2025 June
(Image credit: Xavier Veyron)
Land of Oil
Fittingly, the border between the land of butter and the land of oil is more a messy smear than a sharp line. The department of the Lot lies between the two; its traditional cuisine shuns dairy and olives in favour of rich globules of duck and goose fat. We had entered a no-man’s land – the Lot is sparsely populated – where confit de canard, foie gras and cassoulet stew reign supreme.
The road south into the hills from Souillac was greasy from overnight showers that refused to quit, and we relished their damp, clingy coolness. Chris, a Lake District local, no stranger to hills or downpours, was in his element, taunting me from above as we climbed steadily towards the precarious clifftop village of Rocamadour. I could never catch him when we were nippers; some things never change, except now it made me smile. Pedal stroke by pedal stroke, the earthy fragrance of petrichor filled my nostrils with every inhale. Life was good.
“WE POURED BIDON AFTER BIDON OVER OUR HEADS”
(Image credit: Xavier Veyron)
From a mist-shrouded yet majestic Rocamadour, our journey turned a corner. We would now be travelling as much east as we were south. I kicked myself for not discovering the Cévennes d’Ardèche earlier. A bewitching southeastern corner of the Massif Central, it’s an enticing wilderness of oak forests, moorland, limestone plateaus and granite outcrops. Home to roe deer, mouflons, beavers, griffons, otters and very little traffic, it’s a cyclists’ paradise.
However heavenly the Cévennes d’Ardèche, the intense heat was now hellish. With my GPS computer recording temperatures nudging 40°C, we responded by pouring bidon after bidon of water over our heads, never missing the opportunity to swim in the icy streams that lined the route.
(Image credit: Xavier Veyron)
Despite the heat and 2,000m of ascent, the experience of riding 150km from the Ardèche to the foot of Mont Ventoux in a day defies superlatives. Ridden in the early morning light, the Gorges de l’Ardèche – known locally as the ‘European Grand Canyon’ – is utterly breathtaking; the road twists and turns, writhing like a serpent over the churning Ardèche River, the golden limestone cliffs towering above. It’s precisely the kind of terrain my Look 785 Huez was made for.
By contrast, crossing the flat, dull Rhône Valley was an unwelcome distraction, but our spirits lifted as we exited up the steep Gorges de la Nesque. This generous second helping of hairpins pounded the legs, but the views far across this rugged ravine more than made up for the punishment. What a way to arrive in the Vaucluse. That evening in Sault, sleep enveloped me gently, like a soothing balm. With a demanding 110km day ahead, Trevor and I set our alarms for 6am, by which time Chris planned to have already summited the gruelling Mont Ventoux, extending his day by a further 52km.
Passing Pont-Saint-Esprit as the ride to the sun continues
(Image credit: Unknown)
The next morning delivered provençal riding at its finest. The cycling gods, or rather our guides Luc and Nicholas, dealt us a fair hand of ascents and descents, ultimately guiding us to the purple haze of the Plateau de Valensole, a remarkable 800sqkm plain of lavender fields. As we rode on, the soporific scent of lavender tickling our noses and the buzzing of a million bees ringing in our ears, Chris, tired from his effort on Ventoux, bonked just a dozen kilometres from our hotel.
Trevor and I, proud to play our part as benevolent older brothers, managed to partially revive him with handfuls of under-ripe bananas and a litre of cold milk from a local Intermarché. After some coaxing, he was steady enough to ride triumphantly, albeit a little bloated, to the ancient hilltown of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, our stop for the night. Another day, another dramatic canyon.
This part of Provence delivers banger after banger, this time the Gorges du Verdon, famed for the Verdon River’s vivid turquoise waters. Roughly 700m of ascent over the first 11km is rewarded by 1,500m of exhilarating descent over the next 60km, punctuated only by the occasional ramp. This proved to be the perfect playground for Trevor and Chris, both competent descenders pushed to new limits by sibling rivalry.
(Image credit: Simon Fellows)
Arriving in Nice was a bittersweet moment. Hotter and more congested than a cauldron of thick, simmering Bouillabaisse, the city was a shocking assault on the senses, an abrupt full stop to our journey’s end. The aquamarine Med may have obliged with a jewel-like sparkle, and, though the clink of our celebratory champagne glasses rang true, I pined for the times I reconnected with my brothers in the quiet forested lanes of the Cévennes d’Ardèche.
“WE FORGED SOLIDARITY FROM STEELY DETERMINATION AND HOT TARMAC”
Fraternité reaffirmed
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. It’s impossible to escape France’s national motto, it’s carved into every village mairie, school and library. It’s even engraved into the euro coins that rattled across marble countertops to pay for my mid-morning cafés noisette. Initially, a familiar three-word phrase that meant little to me personally, as the kilometres ticked by, it gained greater resonance.
Liberté satisfied my nostalgia for more youthful times, when the bicycle gave the three of us unbridled freedom for the very first time. That sense of liberty was reignited in France. Cycling may not appear to be a great vehicle for Égalité, but so focused were we all on battling the climbs and the elements, any notion of superiority evaporated in the hot, dry air.
(Image credit: Simon Fellows)
I found the word Fraternité, from the Latin root frāter, meaning ‘brother’, especially apt. Childish bickering may still occasionally ride roughshod over our relationship, but ultimately, we all always want the best for one another. In the cool early Provencal mornings, our egos suitably refreshed, every ramp was a race. But, in the cruel heat of the afternoon, we’d tackle the hills as a group, supporting one another with encouragement and the offer of a wheel to draft.
The same holds in everyday life. If I’m going through a difficult time, I’ll turn to my brothers for help. I may not always like what they have to say, but I’m reassured that it’s coming from a good place. The experience of Fraternité – a hard-won solidarity forged from steely determination and hot tarmac – was the most enduring and beneficial gift of our time together in France.
KEY INFORMATION
(Image credit: Unknown)
HOW TO GET THERE
The nearest international airport to St Malo is Rennes. The 75-minute flight from London Gatwick with EasyJet costs about £50. Sailing overnight from Portsmouth to St Malo is a solid, if slow, option. Ferries cost from £222, and the journey time is 11 hours. The flight home from Nice, also with Easyjet, is about £75.
WHERE TO STAY
Charming hotels and chambres d’hôtes (B&Bs) are plentiful along the entire route. Expect to pay €110-170 for a comfortable room, including breakfast.
ORGANISED TOURS
CW travelled with Saddle Skedaddle, whose 15-day tour (13 days of riding) is priced from £4,395, including shared accommodation, breakfast and picnic lunch, guides, support vehicle and local transfers.
Single-room supplements apply, and flights, bike hire, and evening meals are all extra.
WHAT TO RIDE
Simon rode a Look 785 Huez Pro Team Edition, a climbing-biased endurance bike. Its 52/36t semi-compact chainset, matched to a climb-friendly 11/34t cassette, proved a versatile choice for this trip. Chris and Trevor hired Giant Defy Advanced endurance bikes from Saddle Skedaddle. All three brothers rode with Wahoo Elemnt Roam head units for navigation, and Wahoo Trackr Radar for increased visibility and peace of mind.
