Torn between elation and grief, I threw my mother-in-law off a mountain in Provence. Contemplated over many months, I finally resolved to do it. To understand why, we need to go back to where it all started.
A year earlier – June 2015 – Vaison La Romaine, Provence: the family are wandering desultorily through the steep, winding lanes of the old town. Hard by the arched entrance, beneath the medieval bell tower, I stop at the Zanella gallery, fascinated by the near luminous quality of the vibrant scenes of rural Provence. A chat, in pigeon French, with the gallery owner Leon and I find myself back on the street with a collection of digital art prints, posters and books. Its been a good day for Leon and an expensive one for me.
Objective achieved, I have had my fill of Vaison for the day. But the girls want to wander some more, so my son Alex and I decide to go for a little drive. As we head for the car I notice a sign-post at the Quai de Verdun roundabout – Le Mt Ventoux. The name stirs vague memories of (for me) long-forgotten cycling exploits…didn’t some British rider perish on those slopes many years ago? Was that were Lance Armstrong raced up the mountain as if propelled by rocket fuel (he was). Fatefully, we decide to go take a look..
Reaching the lower slopes of the mountain above Malaucene, our first impressions are not auspicious. The road is heaving – vehicles of every kind – camper vans, cars, fleets of motorcycles, are elbowing their way up the mountain. The motorcyclists are particularly intimidating, accelerating through tiny gaps in the traffic to overtake the ponderous camper vans. A similar procession snakes its way down the mountain in the adjacent lane.
On the margins of this chaos an endless line of cyclists inch their way upwards. “God, I don’t fancy that’ I blurt out to Alex, who is in total agreement. On the other side of the road the cyclists are hurtling down at suicidal speeds, some overtaking cars and vans as they negotiate the hairpin bends. We have never seen anything quite like this – it is insanity made flesh.
As we struggle upwards, careful to avoid exhausted cyclists weaving across the road, I begin to pay more attention to these lycra-skinned masochists. Many do not look that healthy. Some are even older than me. One or two world-class girths are being hauled up there by emaciated, shaven legs that hardly look up to the task. Surely some would retire, if not expire, long before the summit?
A few kilometres from the top we emerge from the forest which clads the lower slopes of the mountain, the French countryside spread out magnificently before us. It is suddenly exhilarating, the blinding sunshine amplified by the bare white limestone of the mountain top, giving one the impression of being suddenly caught in a giant spotlight.
We reach the summit, and struggle to find a parking space amongst the hordes of motorists, hikers and unsteady cyclists. Yes, many of those unlikely looking specimens have indeed clambered their way to the top and the sense of achievement amongst them is palpable – the place seems to ooze elation. And each triumphant grimpeur ensures their exploit is immortalised by a photograph by the famous marker – ‘Sommet du Ventoux à 1909m’.
The satisfaction of reaching the summit is amplified by the majestic setting. Located in splendid isolation, to the southwest of the Alps-proper, Ventoux commands a 360 degree panorama of southern France; to the west numerous ranges of the Massif Central recede into invisibility. To the northeast the Alps proper rise up, like jagged grey ramparts of some brobdignagian fortress. Between these two ranges the Rhone Valley cuts its way down to the Mediterranean, just about visible on a clear day. Magnificent.
As I savoured this view I wondered – how much better would it feel if I had climbed here under my own steam? The thought could not be dislodged..you could do this…what’s to stop you trying? Except maybe fear of failure? And thus the great obsession was born.
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