Picturesque Pyrenees

The Travel Architect

Sep 8

Way back when, COVID killed the first version of this trip. You may remember me hemming and hawing about whether we should put Barcelona on the itinerary. Podcast listeners may recall how I accidentally booked a non-refundable room in the Catalonian capital and ended up losing $700. A small bell might ring when I tell you that the COVID cancellation helped me escape the expensive travel planning mistake of booking a rental car pickup in Spain and drop-off in France. Whether you remember these things or not, that iteration of the trip, as well as the Spainless version we just finished, revolved around one thing: cycling in the Pyrenees.

And more specifically, ascending Col du Tourmalet.

A few days after this was taken, the col was not ouvert (open), but fermé (closed) for the Women's Tour de France.

You see, for the past nine years, the husband has been chipping away at his Dust-Farm-Pail List goal of cycling up three iconic Tour de France routes. In 2014 he ascended Alpe d'Huez and three years later he topped Mt. Ventoux. This most recent trip was designed around that final, elusive mountain pass.

Spoiler alert: he made it

Now, the husband insists he's going to do a ~~blog takeover~~ guest post about this cycling portion of our trip, but the school year's just started and he's in the midst of the cross country coaching season, so I have my doubts. And if he does? Well, I'll ~~publicly eat crow~~ come back and adjust this paragraph. But just in case, I'll leave much of the actual cycling stuff aside and share some other memories of our time there.

Five miles and many twist and turns apart, two areas were our focus in this part of France. The tiny village of Viscos was the lofty, mountainside home of our accommodation, while Luz St. Sauveur held the restaurants, stores, and the all-important bicycle rental shop.

Did I mention my brother joined us for this part of the trip? No? Oh, well, that's my brother.
He's pleased to make your acquaintance.

Our accommodation in Viscos—the verbosely named Hôtel et Restaurant La Grange aux Marmottes, but which we called The Marmot Hotel for short—was the same one we had booked before the original trip got cancelled, and I was determined to stay there this time. Here's why:

The place was oozing charm. And cats. It was oozing cats.

We had a lovely room with an alpine feel.

My brother's room was a bit smaller, but lacking that massive support beam in the middle, it appeared just as big. It, too, was lovely, except for the eyesore that was his open suitcase.

LEFT: Mon Dieu! Quelle catastrophe! RIGHT: J'aime mon Solgaard.

When not cycling, we enjoyed as much of the property as we could.

The blink-and-you'll-miss-it village of Viscos lacked any services except a tiny church, but it was very pretty and afforded lovely views of Luz St. Sauveur.

Viscos also had the friendliest, most happy-go-lucky dog I have ever met. His name is Gaspar and I love him.

For its part, Luz St. Sauveur is the home base for many visitors who flock here to hike and cycle in summer and ski in winter. It's home to the starting point of the Col du Tourmalet ride, a castle we didn't have time to explore, a 900-year-old church, and like Toulouse, so many doors.

Luz also boasts the picturesque Pont Napoleon. Envisioned and commissioned by Napoleon III, who'd been visiting Luz to "take the waters," he would later return to inspect the completed project. Equally exciting as seeing the historic structure was finding, right next the the bridge, the purveyor of the single best lime sorbet on Planet Earth, full of chunks of candied lime peel. Napoleon, dude, you were 160 years too early—you missed the sorbet!

We finished our last day in the area with a drive to Cirque Troumouse to ogle the scenery . . .

Just over those peaks is Spain.

. . . and catch one last glimpse of sheep shading themselves (you'll see more of this if/when the husband does his "blog takeover.")

The next morning we bid adieu to my brother, the sheep, the cats, Gaspar the dog, and—temporarily, at least—to France, because Andorra, my 20th country, was waiting . . .