Cycling on Spain’s Costa Brava and in Southern France

In September 2025, New York–based photographer Cole Wilson set out on a bicycle trip from Barcelona to Marseille with longtime pals Bryan Derballa, Andrew White and Spencer Etchechoury. From long (and sometimes painful) days on their bikes to swimming holes and natural wine, Wilson and his friends made the most of their 2-week journey along Spain’s Costa Brava and into southern France. 

Wilson toted his camera for the entire journey and shares all the juicy details here.

Girona to Cadaqués

Girona, Spain, is absolutely full of road cyclists, and it probably doesn’t need any more. We awoke in our medieval abode to find hoards of them clopping down the old town’s cobblestone paths toward one of many outdoor cafes seemingly built to accommodate this unique brand of tourist. Packing logistics, equipment issues and shopping excursions for food and clothing led to a trademark late start for the group on our first ride day. 

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We embarked on what ended up being the most difficult ride of the trip, a roughly 110km route culminating with a grueling 10km climb and dusky descent into Cadaqués. All of us thought we were in the clear after the big descent, but that was before what was actually the most painful part: a 12% grade climb to our hotel at the finish.

Rest Day in Cadaqués

With just one ride day in the legs, we were ready for a rest. Rostisseria Pillo Pollo provided us with a very saucy rotisserie chicken to go – textbook food to bring to our rocky picnic cove. Bryan, Spencer and I swam out to a cliff jump occupied by a group of French teenagers on holiday. We impressed them with our backflips, but without footage, did it even happen?

We visited the Casa Museu Dalí, a short walk from our swim spot, only to discover that tours of the house were sold out for the day. We opted for the only available option, a ticket to the gardens, which gave us plenty to see in a short amount of time. Dinner was on a patio with a smattering of refreshing Catalan wines.

Cadaqués to Perpignan

After the day off, we were up early in an attempt to beat the forecasted rain. The climb out of town didn’t feel as bad and was eased by the brief company of two fellow cyclists from NYC (shout-out to Rachel and Bree from Ridgewood Rides). We lost them sometime during the descent as my interest was piqued by an amateur dirt-bike sand race somewhere near El Port de la Selva.

At lunch, the day’s only respite from the rain, I got a call from Bryan, who was using his phone for navigation instead of a bike computer. His phone screen had taken on too much water, and the app quit with no way for him to relaunch it. I spent the next 20 minutes scrutinizing his GPS bubble and navigating him step-by-step to the hotel. God bless Siri. 

We weren’t as lucky as we’d hoped on our second leg, as the rain picked back up again after lunch. At some point I was separated from the others and ended up doing the 8km climb over the French border alone. My route crossed paths with the same van driver at least five times, and each time he gave me an encouraging honk of his horn. Some time later I caught up with Spencer and Andrew, and for a minute I remember thinking, Maybe this is type 2 fun.

Andrew found his legs and understandably forged ahead, leaving Spencer and me to grind out the final 20km or so together. I still remember the gobsmacked look on the face of an older woman driving down the steep cobblestone hill that we were riding up in the pouring rain. The final reward: an incredible Szechuan spot, Chez Noï in Perpignan, France, and then the discovery that the wine bar I’d been looking forward to was shuttered – par for the course.

Perpignan to La Real

In theory, this day was to be short and sweet: a nice, sunny break from what had seemed like days of rain and misery. Slowly climbing out of Perpignan, the sun felt amazing on my face; the wind did not. A slow ascent had me oscillating between passing and being passed by an older couple on e-bikes who were wearing high-visibility vests and looks of subtle judgment. 

My game of cat and mouse with them continued as I stopped for photo after photo of the gorgeous valleys dotted with scrub brush and evergreens, and finally made the approach into the small town of Paziols, the last stop for food before our night’s rest.

I descended to Paziols to meet Bryan and Andrew at our predetermined dinner spot, a lovely little bar serving pizza. I was expecting the waitstaff to be wary of our late arrival, including bags, bikes and a minimal grasp of the French language, but we were instead greeted by a spritely man in his 50s who was happy to seat us and regale us with tales of his many years abroad as a scuba instructor.

La Real to Lagrasse

This day found one of our only reroutes of the trip. The weather was cold, gray and threatening rain, so we split the next leg into two and stayed over in the middle, in the medieval town of Lagrasse. Our lodging there was one of the best of the trip, an amazing property containing an immaculately renovated three-bedroom house as well as host Francois Xavier’s print studio and a small apartment above. 

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Between Xavier’s excellent recommendations and keen conversation, and a stumbled-upon wine bar, I was a happy boy and went to sleep almost eager for the next leg.

Lagrasse to Narbonne

I’d promised our resident backflip enthusiast (Bryan) that I’d jump off a bridge with him a few kilometers outside Lagrasse. He and Andrew had ridden off without me, doubting I’d take the leap. Indignant, I called to tell him to turn around and meet me at the bridge. With a bit of encouragement (read: the loving nag of an older brother type), I jumped first and Bryan shortly after, performing his classic laid-out backflip before we got back on our bikes and hoofed it to Narbonne. 

Arriving with plenty of time to enjoy the sun in our spacious apartment, I took a stroll in the golden light, stopping at a wine shop where I chatted up the owner, Stephanie, for some local intel. We had previously decided which restaurant we wanted to dine at for the evening, Chez Marius. I told Stephanie, to which she replied, “If you don’t have a reservation, there’s no chance.” She insisted on calling the restaurant’s owner, a friend of hers, on the spot to secure a table. Though I found the town of Narbonne strange, our meal was anything but. Stephanie’s phoned reservation served us well, with delicious local wines and thoughtful dishes. Though I did not take photos, my receipt says we ordered gua bao canard and poulet karaage.

Narbonne to Mons

Spencer’s first day back in the saddle after illness meant that my slow pace had a companion. We encountered another climb up the hill to Mons, one of the most anticipated destinations of the trip for me. Scenery forced extended stops in Roquebrun, where we encountered local cheese and beer. Many wonders stop me in my path on days like this, but when our narrow trail happened upon an older couple picking giant flowers, I had to pause to say hello and marvel at their patch.

Dinner at a tiny restaurant in town was perhaps the most memorable experience of all, and I’ll remember the hospitality of the chef and owner for the rest of my life. We shared wine with a local family who recommended we attend the dance party (another rest day!) the following night at the outdoor bar-restaurant a mere 400m from our accommodation.

Rest Day in Faugères

I was introduced to Fred and Chloe of Domaine Les Serrals by a good friend in New York who works for their US importer. My visit to their vineyard had long been a tent pole event on this trip, guiding us north into the base of the Hérault part of the Cévennes mountains.

Whenever I plan a visit to a winery, I am first of all grateful that anyone will take my appointment, especially during harvest; and second, I consider myself free labor in whatever capacity I can offer. In addition to some photographs, I was happy to help pick mourvèdre and get to know a bit about the region and its wines.

It wasn’t a long ride to the vineyard, but I was extremely grateful when Fred offered to drive me the 30km to our accomodations, just in time to have a bottle of wine in the hot tub included at our geodesic dome glampground before walking down the hill with Spencer to the outdoor rave we’d learned about the night before.

Mons to Béziers

Headwinds and vineyards categorized this meander through Faugères and other corners of Languedoc-Roussillon and some of France’s prettiest villages, some with roots in the Roman era. We were prompted to stop at a cafe along the bike path, serving neighborhood residents and cyclists alike. Our second espresso of the morning was as much an opportunity to bask in the sunlight and warm ourselves from the cold accumulated during the mostly shaded start to the day as it was a fantastic site to people watch. At least five French bulldogs (do they just call them bulldogs in France?) chased each other around a dusty outdoor dining room, two of them with plastic cones of shame adorning their tiny smooshed heads.

Beziers to Montpellier

As we were nearing the end of our tour, Spencer, Andrew and I wanted a bit of levity, so we decided a “party pace” was the right move for the day. It began with a solid chunk of flat riding along the Canal du Midi, filled with hired houseboats operated by recent graduates up to septuagenarians. Beach resorts and bicycle rentals marked most of the first chunk of the ride until we descended a small hill toward Sète, where the daily fresh fish market was coming to its close. In a rare concession, I outsourced the lunch choice to my wine professional (and mild Francophile) partner, Katie. Her choice couldn’t have been more perfect. Subdued gray light dimly lit the square, and the restaurant served portions more akin to Texas than semirural southern France.

Row after row of boats lined the canals that ran along our path, their once-vibrant coats paled by undocumented time spent in weather sunnier than this. Perpetually hazy beach light threw subtle shadows on carousel horses and hobby sailors pulling their dinghies from the water. A group of children kicking a ball at our next stop demanded I play with them, our communication limited to mentions of famous players and a lengthy discussion trying to determine each others’ age. They were shocked to find that I was not 60 but 36, a couple years Messi’s junior and a full decade older than Mbappé.

Rest Day in Montpellier

While Bryan logged a few extra morning kilometers, Andrew, Spencer and I wandered around Montpellier, a brief tour involving vintage shops, mini parks, many espressos and buckwheat crepes for lunch.

Though we’d made a restaurant pick that suited everyone’s dinner preferences, it was Spencer’s birthday and I wanted to treat him to something special. Earlier in the day, we’d passed by a quaint seafood restaurant setting up for the day, an older man shuffling as he organized flatware in the stone alley that would become its dining room. Hours later, the memory haunted us to the extent that we wagered we could fit in a glass of wine and some oysters before dinner – a petit snack, if you will. This phrase was not in the lexicon of the restaurant’s proprietor, Muriel, who upon hearing it was Spencer’s birthday, insisted she curate our shellfish experience to a great extent. The two of us showed up to our planned dinner bursting at the seams and barely able to stomach a glance at the night’s menu. I did save room for wine.

Montpellier to Arles

Very flat, very boring, very tired legs: there was not much wind but the status of my body made each gust feel like a freight train. A sizable chunk of the ride was along the boardwalks of La Grande-Motte, a homogeneously beautiful brutalist resort town that seemed to go on and on, spanning many kilometers of the Languedoc-Roussillon coast. For lunch we stopped for ham and cheese crepes in Aigues-Mortes, a commune surrounded by a medieval wall that’s well preserved and full of tourists. 

After the leisurely start to match our leisurely surrounds, we carried on through blue skies, wetlands and the same occasional brute gust that made riding with consistent pace a genuine struggle. Multiple espressos and one ancient can of vending machine peanuts later, we arrived in Arles, another town with a ton of history.

Arles to Marseille

After another solid chunk of wetlands-adjacent flat path, we began to see the sprawl of the French Riviera. As we neared France’s second largest city, Marseille, the concentration of small beach towns with impatient locals increased, now every few kilometers. Construction workers, cafe owners, surfers changing in parking lots and cars in traffic couldn’t wait to be rid of us, and the feeling was mutual, adding to the dangled carrot of Marseille’s restaurants and calanques. 

The closing kilometers of the day dragged on, each hairy moment in traffic surpassing the last. Dirt bike after dirt bike brrraapped past, giving their best 12 O’Clock Boys impression, until finally the landscape transitioned from dusty mountain passes and began to take on the appearance of city we’d been dreaming of: a cliff-y, chaotic metropolis lined with sunny outcroppings of cerulean waters. Marseille is not known for being a cycling-friendly place, and the final approach to our destination was hot and harrowing. Our incredible Airbnb host, Jocelyn, even helped us lug our gear up the long stone staircase to our oasis on the hill. 

Dinner that night was well worth the effort to get there, as was the day’s second dinner and the drinks that followed. Andrew had to leave the next morning to attend a wedding back in Barcelona, and we were all ready for rest. Finally, we could look forward to a day that didn’t involve waking up.

3 Days in Marseille

Whenever I’m in a new place, my body has a difficult time not shaking me awake early in the morning to explore my surroundings. I was up and eager to find coffee near our lodging in the hills above Bompard. After a lazy morning zipping around the city on an e-scooter, I met up with Spencer and his old friend Ben, who had taken the train down from Paris to meet us for a couple of days. We wandered down every available staircase in search of the best beach access. My mind had Sheryl Crow on repeat as we soaked up the sun on several rocky calanques before a dinner reservation at Limmat and, yes, more wine. With prices this low, you can’t afford not to.

Spencer and I betrayed our analog steeds for bikes of the electric variety on day 2 in Marseille and clunked down to Les Goudes, a tiny fishing village on a peninsula just south of town. Ben ran the 13km from our Airbnb and was justifiably hungry. He decided not to hoof it to the next destination, Le Corbusier’s Unité d’Habitation, a stunning brutalist housing complex built in 1945 that I will absolutely not attempt to describe.

On day 3 in Marseille, Ben left for Paris, leaving Bryan, Spencer and me to complete our final must-sees. Spencer and I woke up early to catch a flea market in a far-flung neighborhood, but the big goal for the day was a ride (back to analog bikes) to some more remote calanques a few kilometers south of the city. We swam, made friends and even encouraged some to take their first jumps, ultimately departing just before sunset. Spencer and I had reservations for our final dinner in the cavernous dining room at Ripaille, a homey, wine-forward restaurant where we ordered the entire menu and a bottle of Rhône red, recommended to us by our generous server, Simon.

All photographs by Cole Wilson for Lonely Planet.