Getting out of town as the world (or at least, the rest of France) arrives

I am suddenly beginning to understand why those who live in the south of France do not stay in the south of France for the month of August. I'd been warned and now, before the 1st of August has even rolled around, it's started: le monde arriverais (literal translation: "the world is coming"; figurative translation: "a lot of people are on their way").

It started about a week ago when I noticed an increase in the number of cars (and worse: camper vans) on some of my favourite bike routes between here and the beaches. I'm talking about bumper-to-bumper traffic that came out of nowhere. Then I noticed a swelling of patio furniture and bottoms seated therein in the normally peaceful square with the tranquil fountain below my apartment's windows. I suddenly can't hear the fountain anymore. And then my favourite fruit and vegetable stall down at the market sold out of local melons two days in a row before I got there. All of this points to the inevitable truth which, in spite of the warnings from locals, I was hoping would not come to pass: France is going and holiday, and they are all coming here.

It's well known that this nation takes the month of August off. It's also well known that the French like to vacation in their own country. But France has only so many beaches and a large number of the least spoilt beaches are right here. So my little piece of protected paradise is about to be invaded and I'm feeling irritated that unspoilt will be spoilt for the next four weeks, but also validated by the knowledge that others want to be here, too. It's just a few too many others, all at the same time, for my liking.

So I'm doing the sensible thing and high-tailing it out of Narbonne and into the mountains for the first week of August (I have no idea what I'll do to survive the other three; but an emergency solution was needed). I've booked a week-long trip in the Pyrenees that, for some, would meet their own definition of holiday hell: I'm going to ride my bicycle up the major cols of the Tour de France. Seven days, six cols and four star accommodations that are never more than spitting distance from a lake or pool, and that will hopefully cater to a very hungry little vegan.

Besides the pertinent objective of escaping the emerging fracas here, the other obvious objective is to continue to build my strength on the bike. And if climbing 9,000 meters in seven days doesn't do it, I'll be convinced that nothing ever will.