Contributor: Yoann Rogalski
In May 2025, I set off on a solo cycling trip from Figeac to Marseille—a ride that promised wide horizons, steep climbs, and the quiet kind of introspection that only long days in the saddle can bring. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for on that trip, but I knew I needed distance, landscapes, and movement. I also knew that my first night would set the tone for the rest of the journey. I just didn’t expect it to do so with such generosity.
That first day was a long one. I crossed every kind of terrain imaginable. I rode through rolling agricultural plateaus, ancient stone tracks, dense forests still glistening from recent rain, and wide-open fields under a sky stitched with fast-moving spring clouds. I met a shepherd who waved at me from across a valley, a farm dog who seemed determined to make me his afternoon snack, and an unpredictable forecast that somehow stayed kind whenever I had a major climb ahead of me.
After hours of pedaling through the lush colors of spring—grass impossibly green after a wet winter, flowers opening everywhere, birds crossing my path—I saw the silhouette of Castelnau-Pégayrols appear in the distance. I had never heard of this medieval village perched high above the valley. I didn’t know its history, its people, or even the shape of its streets. All I knew was that a “Warmshowers couple” had agreed to host me for the night.
I arrived in the late afternoon, tired but exhilarated. The sky was huge, the wind soft, and the village seemed suspended above the cliffs. I felt that mixture of relief and amazement that hits when you reach a place you’ve never been, where you know you’ll finally be able to rest. When my hosts, Michel and Hélène, opened the door to their home—an astonishing medieval tower overlooking the valley—I felt something shift. A smile, a “Come in!”, a sense of being exactly where I needed to be. It was enough to erase the fatigue of the entire day.
Inside, everything felt both timeless and alive: stone walls, wooden floors, light pouring in from windows high above the valley. Beyond the terrace railing lay an endless sea of hills, deep green and layered in the distance. I settled into a single wooden chair, sat in the sunlight facing the landscape, and took a breath before the next day began.
Michel and Hélène made me feel at home in seconds. They offered food, something to drink, a hot shower, and a place to sleep—everything a touring cyclist dreams of after a long day. What struck me most was how present they were. They asked questions, truly listened, and shared their ideas with a kind of passionate clarity that surprised me.
These two had the curiosity and energy of people half their age, paired with the wisdom of a lifetime spent observing, doing, and building. They were deeply involved in projects around sustainable mobility in rural areas, and they didn’t just talk about solutions—they built them. In their garage sat a prototype of a light electric-assisted vehicle they helped design and promote locally. It’s called a “Véli”: a small, innovative, pedal-powered vehicle aimed at making mobility cleaner, easier, and more accessible.
What moved me most wasn’t the innovation, the views, or even the comfort of their home. It was attention. The way they listened. The way they made space for a traveler they had never met. The way they opened not just their door, but their world.
When I went to sleep in their medieval tower, the valley silent below, I had that rare feeling of arriving at exactly the right place at exactly the right time.
The next morning, before I left for the Cévennes, Michel insisted I try the Véli. It was early; the sun had barely lifted over the ridgeline. He opened the garage door, and there it stood—an odd, fascinating hybrid between a cargo bike, a micro-car, and a futuristic tricycle. With wooden panels, a transparent canopy, and technical parts repurposed with creativity, it looked like something invented in a workshop where imagination was the only rule. Riding it was both fun and unexpectedly moving. There was something beautiful in how much thought and energy had gone into solving a problem most people simply accepted as unsolvable.
That sense of purpose—thinking, acting, proposing, testing—defined Michel and Hélène. They spoke about their village, about ecology, about mobility, community, and cycling with contagious optimism. They made me think about what it means to move through the world simply, slowly, and respectfully. They made me reflect on how much individuals can do when they believe in their ideas. And they showed me that aging doesn’t mean slowing down—it can mean accelerating into the things that matter.
The next day, I rolled my bike out at sunrise. The light was golden against the stone walls, the village still sleeping, the air cool with early summer stillness. Michel and Hélène waved me off with the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’re leaving friends, not strangers you met 12 hours earlier.
Warmshowers gives you a roof, a meal, a shower, a bed. But sometimes, it gives you much more.
Sometimes it gives you a story you’ll carry for the rest of your life.
This was mine.
Catch up with Yoann on Instagram: @rogalskiyoann
