10th Day
Thursday 07 Sept
Start Martigny
Destination Col de Grand St Bernard
Kilometres 43
Cumulative Kms 727
Ave speed (kph) 11.2
Max speed (kph) 31
Time taken 03:50
Max Height (m) 2469
Today climb (m) 2000
Thursday 07 Sept
Start Martigny
Destination Col de Grand St Bernard
Kilometres 43
Cumulative Kms 727
Ave speed (kph) 11.2
Max speed (kph) 31
Time taken 03:50
Max Height (m) 2469
Today climb (m) 2000
Cum.climb (m) 7510
The big one. The climb. Two thousand, five hundred metres up. One and a half miles above sea level. Five times higher than any climb I had done before. I had worked and prepared for this for a long time. I was looking forward to it.
I was also very nervous about the day. What else is new? I seem to be worried about something all the time. As you'll see it will be something else by tonight. The trip should teach me to relax and be confident. Learn from Séamus - be cool!
The day was enjoyable and scenery stunning. Séamus surpassed himself and was regularly on hand to encourage me. Not that I got it easy, in addition to the climb, I faced the first headwinds of the trip. I was on my way by 08:40, passing the huge signs proclaiming that the various passes were Ouvert. Then I resisted the temptation to put the bike of one of the cycle hooks on the back of the buses making their way up to the pass. Finally I rang home and Raheny to let them know we were on the move.
These calls had become a ritual and an essential part of the trip. Each morning I rang Raheny to report on progress and progress was tracked on a large map in An Dion spread, for the duration, on the dining table. In Palmerstown Deirdre assisted Sinéad or Andrew put a sticker on a wall map in the kitchen marking my route.
By 09:25 I was in Sembrancher and making steady progress. Along the way I noticed the workmen out in sunshine cheerfully preparing the wooden posts marking the edge of the road for another winter. The head wind was a nuisance but another half hour saw me negotiate the hairpin bends above Orsieres and the first stop of the day. Séamus and I stretched out on a park bench to enjoy the view and to snack on Snickers bars and coke. Very healthy. While stopped another cyclist passed, carrying his load in a rucksack on his back (crazy). We exchanged greetings and he continued on his way (to Croatia apparently).
I settled into a low (NB not lowest) gear and climbed inexorably upwards. Hardly broke a sweat! Noticed forest harvesting operations being carried out at amazing angles on the slopes. I wonder why the Irish foresters complain of difficult sites.
Just before Bourg St Pierre we came across an impressive new building that turned out to be a primary school. I was amazed that such a fine building would find sufficient students in this relatively remote location. In Bourg St Pierre itself we stopped for lunch. As we went into the restaurant I was conscious that it was getting cold and there was a hint of rain. We had massive cheese and ham sandwiches coated with mustard. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Initially we had a standard cup but it was lovely and creamy and Séamus insisted on having large mugs. The waitress seemed not to understand but a waiter gave the game away when he glanced up behind the counter and Séamus leaned in to follow his gaze and spotted mugs hanging on a rack. These were filled with hot milky coffee that was very welcome.
When we left I rang the usual locations and Cecilia's answer phone to report that we were now one mile high (1600 m).
Onwards and upwards, still not in the lowest gear, but glad of the avalanche galleries that provided cover from the headwind. I had no problem with the tunnel - another wasted worry. Most cyclists report difficulties in tunnels. The darkness results in a loss of orientation and increased chances of a fall. My friend in the cycling club, Pat Gallagher, had in fact come this far on his holiday, but could face no more tunnels and returned the way he had come. I was lucky in that this was my first tunnel and it was relatively bright, being open on one side for long stretches. The report was written in 1995 and I only change it margianlly as we go along. Little did I realise then that Pat and I would only make one more foreign cycling trip together before he succumbed at a very young age to leukemia. He was a great friend, may he rest in peace.
Eventually these galleries gave way to a junction. Straight on the tunnel thunders through the mountain to Italy but a gap lead out to the old road over the summit. The weather had deteriorated. I put on my wet gear and prepared for an assault on the mountain. The drizzle got heavier and combined with fog - low flying cloud. The road now rose very steeply - still not lowest gear - through hairpins. The real problem was the wind gusting from the left that blew me several feet across the road. So I kept to the middle lest I go over the unprotected side. I counted each kilometre that I climbed and paused for a moment.
Séamus was there regularly but discovered that to walk up the road took considerable effort. Even though giving him ten years I was not getting out of breath. May I take this opportunity to be pleased with myself?
Cows, all with bells, rambled calmly along the road as the weather raised the odds. Now in extremely poor visibility the rain lashed down. I sheltered under an outcrop for a while until the mist lifted. A river ran beneath my feet before I moved on. Around the corner I was amazed to see Séamus perched high on a rock in all the elements to get a vantage point for a photo.
The elements made one last savage attempt to stop my progress and turned the rain to snow. Quickly realising this was cheating it returned to lashing rain. And then suddenly, out of the mist, appeared the sign for the Col. I thought it must be a mistake but no, there was Séamus' car a few metres further on.
The Col lies in a northeast-southeast line and this together with the prevailing winds combine to make conditions very uncomfortable to say the least. In summer the temperature rarely rises above 20ºC, while in winter it drops as low as -30ºC and snowfall averages 20 metres deep. Snow covers the Col for 8 months of the year and the lake is frozen for 265 days annually.
I ran for shelter in a shop porch where motorcyclists had already congregated. My arrival was celebrated with a flash of lightning and the rain thundered down. The bikers with their powerful machines were apprehensive about setting off again and amazed that I was out in these conditions. Then Séamus came running back to his car to announce he had booked us into the hospice. The bikers fleeting hope of shelter was dashed when Séamus said he had initially been refused entry because he arrived by car and was only welcomed when he explained that I was following behind.
But once accepted as true travellers we got a great reception. The "monks" of St. Bernard are in fact Canons Regular of the Order of St. Augustine and they came to the door to welcome me in and to hear of my trip. They have been providing this service since the middle of the 11th Century when St. Bernard founded the Hospice to end the brigandage that prevailed in the mountains.
Augustus had initially built the road in 12 BC and the Romans had erected a refuge for Imperial envoys and legionaries and built a temple to Jupiter, from which the pass took the name Mons Iovis. During the 10th century hordes of Hungarians and Saracens invaded the area and brought terror and death to travellers on the mountain road. King Canute of Denmark, in front of the Pope in Rome, pleaded the cause of the travellers to Rudolf III, King of the Two Burgundies. Order was to be restored and this fell to Bernard, a man of noble birth who lived from 1020 to 1086.
The services provided by the hospice that he founded immediately attracted the attention and support of Popes, prices and faithful alike. In 1160, for example, Henry II of England was received with great hospitality and showed his appreciation by conferring property that became the priory of Hornchurch in England. In 1817 almost 35,000 meals were distributed to some 20,000 people. Until about 1900 the monks, accompanied by dogs, set out each morning for the Hospitalet lower down the road with food for anyone they met on the way. The St. Bernard dogs, of course, are as famous as the monks and appear to have been used since 1708. Modern developments like the mountain tunnels, telephones and skis made them redundant but not before they had saved more than 2,000 lives. Today they remain only as tourist attractions in kennels attached to a museum at the hospice.
For almost 900 years the Hospice has remained faithful to its mission providing food and shelter for all travellers. In summer, when hotels on the Col are open, the monks welcome only groups such as schools; boy scouts pilgrims and the poor. In winter they provide shelter without restriction to travellers on the mountain.
That same care and hospitality was extended to us, and the monks quickly organised our accommodation - an unoccupied dormitory that on a busy night could hold eight - and offered us an immediate cup of coffee or chocolate. Comfortable, warm and sufficiently restored we went to an audiovisual presentation of the history of the hospice and then to the museum. The smell of the St. Bernard dogs was overpowering.
Then we joined the monks for mass, having waited patiently in the cold of the main chapel until we discovered mass was in a warm room in the basement. Afterwards we were treated to a piping hot meal and were joined by the other residents. These included the parents of a young man, who was thinking of joining the Order, and his brother who, on the contrary, was arrogant and selfish.
Outside I was horrified to see that snow was falling heavily. The monks confirmed that this had been threatening for some time and was heavier than usual for this time of year. They were prepared for the Col to be blocked to traffic for some days. I could not afford to be caught here for days. Certainly Séamus would have problems if he could not get back to work on Monday. Residents suggested that with chains on his wheels Séamus might get down earlier. Séamus cheerfully commented that he intended getting down although he had no chains. As usual I was sick with worry about tomorrow while Séamus was relaxed and cool. His philosophy? If its snows too much we stay, if not we go: nothing we can do, so just enjoy the evening!
The motto of the hospice is that 'Here Christ is adored and nourished’ and the monks aim to welcome, accompany and liberate the traveller. They seek to do so not only in the physical sense for those who, seeking the absolute, are motivated to risk their lives, but also spiritually in that the hospice while providing temporary shelter, is also witness of the other places towards which the pilgrim must set out. In this way the pilgrim is reminded that he cannot hide from the challenges and dangers of the world but must go forward to meet them.
It's late, I look out, and it’s still snowing.
I was also very nervous about the day. What else is new? I seem to be worried about something all the time. As you'll see it will be something else by tonight. The trip should teach me to relax and be confident. Learn from Séamus - be cool!
The day was enjoyable and scenery stunning. Séamus surpassed himself and was regularly on hand to encourage me. Not that I got it easy, in addition to the climb, I faced the first headwinds of the trip. I was on my way by 08:40, passing the huge signs proclaiming that the various passes were Ouvert. Then I resisted the temptation to put the bike of one of the cycle hooks on the back of the buses making their way up to the pass. Finally I rang home and Raheny to let them know we were on the move.
These calls had become a ritual and an essential part of the trip. Each morning I rang Raheny to report on progress and progress was tracked on a large map in An Dion spread, for the duration, on the dining table. In Palmerstown Deirdre assisted Sinéad or Andrew put a sticker on a wall map in the kitchen marking my route.
By 09:25 I was in Sembrancher and making steady progress. Along the way I noticed the workmen out in sunshine cheerfully preparing the wooden posts marking the edge of the road for another winter. The head wind was a nuisance but another half hour saw me negotiate the hairpin bends above Orsieres and the first stop of the day. Séamus and I stretched out on a park bench to enjoy the view and to snack on Snickers bars and coke. Very healthy. While stopped another cyclist passed, carrying his load in a rucksack on his back (crazy). We exchanged greetings and he continued on his way (to Croatia apparently).
I settled into a low (NB not lowest) gear and climbed inexorably upwards. Hardly broke a sweat! Noticed forest harvesting operations being carried out at amazing angles on the slopes. I wonder why the Irish foresters complain of difficult sites.
Just before Bourg St Pierre we came across an impressive new building that turned out to be a primary school. I was amazed that such a fine building would find sufficient students in this relatively remote location. In Bourg St Pierre itself we stopped for lunch. As we went into the restaurant I was conscious that it was getting cold and there was a hint of rain. We had massive cheese and ham sandwiches coated with mustard. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Initially we had a standard cup but it was lovely and creamy and Séamus insisted on having large mugs. The waitress seemed not to understand but a waiter gave the game away when he glanced up behind the counter and Séamus leaned in to follow his gaze and spotted mugs hanging on a rack. These were filled with hot milky coffee that was very welcome.
When we left I rang the usual locations and Cecilia's answer phone to report that we were now one mile high (1600 m).
Onwards and upwards, still not in the lowest gear, but glad of the avalanche galleries that provided cover from the headwind. I had no problem with the tunnel - another wasted worry. Most cyclists report difficulties in tunnels. The darkness results in a loss of orientation and increased chances of a fall. My friend in the cycling club, Pat Gallagher, had in fact come this far on his holiday, but could face no more tunnels and returned the way he had come. I was lucky in that this was my first tunnel and it was relatively bright, being open on one side for long stretches. The report was written in 1995 and I only change it margianlly as we go along. Little did I realise then that Pat and I would only make one more foreign cycling trip together before he succumbed at a very young age to leukemia. He was a great friend, may he rest in peace.
Eventually these galleries gave way to a junction. Straight on the tunnel thunders through the mountain to Italy but a gap lead out to the old road over the summit. The weather had deteriorated. I put on my wet gear and prepared for an assault on the mountain. The drizzle got heavier and combined with fog - low flying cloud. The road now rose very steeply - still not lowest gear - through hairpins. The real problem was the wind gusting from the left that blew me several feet across the road. So I kept to the middle lest I go over the unprotected side. I counted each kilometre that I climbed and paused for a moment.
Séamus was there regularly but discovered that to walk up the road took considerable effort. Even though giving him ten years I was not getting out of breath. May I take this opportunity to be pleased with myself?
Cows, all with bells, rambled calmly along the road as the weather raised the odds. Now in extremely poor visibility the rain lashed down. I sheltered under an outcrop for a while until the mist lifted. A river ran beneath my feet before I moved on. Around the corner I was amazed to see Séamus perched high on a rock in all the elements to get a vantage point for a photo.
The elements made one last savage attempt to stop my progress and turned the rain to snow. Quickly realising this was cheating it returned to lashing rain. And then suddenly, out of the mist, appeared the sign for the Col. I thought it must be a mistake but no, there was Séamus' car a few metres further on.
The Col lies in a northeast-southeast line and this together with the prevailing winds combine to make conditions very uncomfortable to say the least. In summer the temperature rarely rises above 20ºC, while in winter it drops as low as -30ºC and snowfall averages 20 metres deep. Snow covers the Col for 8 months of the year and the lake is frozen for 265 days annually.
I ran for shelter in a shop porch where motorcyclists had already congregated. My arrival was celebrated with a flash of lightning and the rain thundered down. The bikers with their powerful machines were apprehensive about setting off again and amazed that I was out in these conditions. Then Séamus came running back to his car to announce he had booked us into the hospice. The bikers fleeting hope of shelter was dashed when Séamus said he had initially been refused entry because he arrived by car and was only welcomed when he explained that I was following behind.
But once accepted as true travellers we got a great reception. The "monks" of St. Bernard are in fact Canons Regular of the Order of St. Augustine and they came to the door to welcome me in and to hear of my trip. They have been providing this service since the middle of the 11th Century when St. Bernard founded the Hospice to end the brigandage that prevailed in the mountains.
Augustus had initially built the road in 12 BC and the Romans had erected a refuge for Imperial envoys and legionaries and built a temple to Jupiter, from which the pass took the name Mons Iovis. During the 10th century hordes of Hungarians and Saracens invaded the area and brought terror and death to travellers on the mountain road. King Canute of Denmark, in front of the Pope in Rome, pleaded the cause of the travellers to Rudolf III, King of the Two Burgundies. Order was to be restored and this fell to Bernard, a man of noble birth who lived from 1020 to 1086.
The services provided by the hospice that he founded immediately attracted the attention and support of Popes, prices and faithful alike. In 1160, for example, Henry II of England was received with great hospitality and showed his appreciation by conferring property that became the priory of Hornchurch in England. In 1817 almost 35,000 meals were distributed to some 20,000 people. Until about 1900 the monks, accompanied by dogs, set out each morning for the Hospitalet lower down the road with food for anyone they met on the way. The St. Bernard dogs, of course, are as famous as the monks and appear to have been used since 1708. Modern developments like the mountain tunnels, telephones and skis made them redundant but not before they had saved more than 2,000 lives. Today they remain only as tourist attractions in kennels attached to a museum at the hospice.
For almost 900 years the Hospice has remained faithful to its mission providing food and shelter for all travellers. In summer, when hotels on the Col are open, the monks welcome only groups such as schools; boy scouts pilgrims and the poor. In winter they provide shelter without restriction to travellers on the mountain.
That same care and hospitality was extended to us, and the monks quickly organised our accommodation - an unoccupied dormitory that on a busy night could hold eight - and offered us an immediate cup of coffee or chocolate. Comfortable, warm and sufficiently restored we went to an audiovisual presentation of the history of the hospice and then to the museum. The smell of the St. Bernard dogs was overpowering.
Then we joined the monks for mass, having waited patiently in the cold of the main chapel until we discovered mass was in a warm room in the basement. Afterwards we were treated to a piping hot meal and were joined by the other residents. These included the parents of a young man, who was thinking of joining the Order, and his brother who, on the contrary, was arrogant and selfish.
Outside I was horrified to see that snow was falling heavily. The monks confirmed that this had been threatening for some time and was heavier than usual for this time of year. They were prepared for the Col to be blocked to traffic for some days. I could not afford to be caught here for days. Certainly Séamus would have problems if he could not get back to work on Monday. Residents suggested that with chains on his wheels Séamus might get down earlier. Séamus cheerfully commented that he intended getting down although he had no chains. As usual I was sick with worry about tomorrow while Séamus was relaxed and cool. His philosophy? If its snows too much we stay, if not we go: nothing we can do, so just enjoy the evening!
The motto of the hospice is that 'Here Christ is adored and nourished’ and the monks aim to welcome, accompany and liberate the traveller. They seek to do so not only in the physical sense for those who, seeking the absolute, are motivated to risk their lives, but also spiritually in that the hospice while providing temporary shelter, is also witness of the other places towards which the pilgrim must set out. In this way the pilgrim is reminded that he cannot hide from the challenges and dangers of the world but must go forward to meet them.
It's late, I look out, and it’s still snowing.
