France had never been on our list of bikepacking destinations - having visited family there, we knew it was a beautiful country, but it lacked the "flavour" that had drawn us to places like China, Laos, Zambia, etc. But, finding ourselves in circumstances that would sweep us over to France again this summer (2004), we decided to plan a short bike trip in the Massif Central for the month of May. Though it doesn't share the Mediterranean climate of the South, or the imposing majesty of the Alps, this region would charm anyone who enjoys clean air, green rolling mountains, windy plateaus, and plunging river gorges. There were more cows than there were people, and more people than traffic. Bref: nous étions enchantés.        The Auvergne region of central France has so far been the smallest area we've cycled through, and, ironically, the least planned-out. Our route map was a collage of tourist brochures, photocopies, and hand-drawn sketches on loose scraps of paper, which grew rather "organically", expanding and changing as we rolled along. The only constant was the direction (south-ish), since we had tickets for a ferry from Marseille to Tunis on June 3. In the end, this took us through four districts or départments: Puy-De-Dôme, Cantal, Lozère, and the Gard. We chose the smallest possible roads to cycle on, with minimal traffic. We were utterly charmed by French road etiquette, much to our surprise: rather than blasting inches away from us at rocket speed, cars actually slowed down, giving us a wide and courteous margin as they made their way around us. Roughly one-third of our route consisted of dirt trails, fine for the most part but not always congenial to heavily-loaded bikes, but which led us through some remote and spectacular scenery.        Although May is low season for tourists (good news for the reclusive such as ourselves), travelling in the Auvergne at this time of year might have posed a problem weather-wise: it has been known to rain 20 days out of 30, with tooth-rattling temperatures. But blessed we were, with no more than three days of rain in as many weeks (including a hailstorm of biblical viciousness) and temperatures very agreeable to those who prefer a brisk coolness to blistering heat... though it must be admitted, at one point we wrapped ourselves in all the clothes we carried, including pyjamas, underwear, and an old scarf we'd found on the side of the road. The sun could be rather spicy as it emerged from behind a cloud, causing us to peel off layers in a hurry - which Yannick eventually achieved without bothering to stop his bike.        As far as accommodation was concerned, our budget was not of the five-star variety (not that there were many five-star options in the little villages we passed through); and no overcrowded gîte with backpackers' socks drying at every window could compare with a night of camping under the stars. Campgrounds were quiet and scarcely populated so early in the season, and where no official campground could be found, a clearing in the woods or beside a lake would do. And - indescribable joy! - France is not NEARLY as infested with mosquitoes and blackflies as is our own dear but itchy Canada. We occasionally broke the no-campfires-on-pain-of-death law for the sake of some hot tea on a cold night; we once attempted to brew tea with hot tap water, which tasted like - well, tea made with hot tap water.        As for our daily fare, what could be better after a hard day's cycling than a baguette rustique, black-olive tapenade, wild boar pâté, a selection of stinking cheeses, and a full-bodied bottle of red? Nothing! Our spread was almost embarrassingly gourmand, which explains how Kathleen gained 10 lbs on a bike trip while Yannick continued to enjoy his usual hummingbird metabolism. We ate like kings, slept like princes, and travelled like...well, like people who like to get around by bicycle.        Although you couldn't quite call it "culture shock", getting used to the French work schedule for the purpose of buying groceries (or doing anything, for that matter) was a bit of a challenge. For anyone interested in mastering this science, here are the basics: bakeries open from 7 a.m. to noon, then close until 3 p.m., then are open until 7 p.m.(or until they run out of bread) - except on Sundays and often on Mondays, as well as the weekday holiday which could fall on any given day (check tiny little scrap of paper pasted to shop window), or the occasional and unpredictable Strike Day. Grocery stores operate in a similar fashion. And do not take for granted that Huit à 8 actually means "open from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.", or that 24/7 actually means 24/7. The tourist office schedule, I'm afraid to say, is a baffling mystery.        The goal of this trip (if we must speak in terms of "goals") was not to go sightseeing, so we can tell you nothing of Louis XIV's palace, the Eiffel Tower, or the nude beaches of St. Tropez. We were more content on the windy, misty Causse du Méjean where miniature Mongolian horses are being bred for repatriation; or cycling through villages of shuttered stone houses that seemed to grow right out of the landscape; or sitting quietly for a moment in a village church, each one ancient, Roman, medieval, and still very different one from the other; or coming upon a village like Allanche during the Fête de l'Estive, where farmers and artisans set up their stands and ribboned cattle paraded coquettishly through the streets, and where we were served local specialties like aligot, truffade, and - blehr! - andouillette (never order it, it tastes like pig guts stuffed into a filthy sock).        We cycled many a road winding its way up to a mountain pass, and were rewarded each time by the view of an expanding sea of peaks (not to mention the downhills that followed). We finally got to meet some real Gypsies or Gitans, who travel in caravans so uniformly white and new that we thought at first they were some kind of cult; the locals have a rather acidic opinion of them, though the ones we camped next to were friendly enough, and entertained us with lovely old French ballads. Whatever wildlife we saw consisted mainly of cows, it's true... but they were French cows, and we did have the pleasure of glimpsing a deer as it bounded blithely across our trail with a look of extreme astonishment in its eye.        So no, this wasn't China, or Namibia, or Burma... but it was France, and vive la France! We could scarcely have chosen a better way to spend our three weeks.

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