FINALLY IN THE CÉVENNES
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| tormented sky at the Mount Lozère |
White space, windy white space, so windy that it pushes you forward because the wind comes from the back. That wind freezes our bare hands, slaps our raincoats against us furiously. One can see the path by following granite poles. The fog is thick, only a couple of poles and barely visible ghostly tree silhouettes fill-up the space above the ground. Legs feel the ascent but the real challenge is coping with wind. As on any mountain summit, conditions at the top can be unpredictable. Mont Lozère has one of those inhospitable moments. No need to go to the real summit, the Alps, the Aubrac and the Mont Aigoual won't be visible.
Instead we go down directly to the village of Finiels a few hundred altitude meters lower. It is surprising that just a few meters can make so much difference. On the north face of Mont Lozere, everything is fairly barren at the top whereas the south quickly displays a fir forest with water streams rushing down impatiently. We have entered the department of Lozère. As we emerge from the forest, not far from the small village of Finiels, clouds are opening a little, dramatically. A few sun rays manage to colour the green of some hills with a warmer shade. The wind still blows furiously, trees are shaken but not stirred (hopefully). The grass, from large meadows, is bent in waves revealing the colour of the back of its leaves which is of a more pastel green. In a way, the landscape is fluidly shaped by the energy of the wind. l feel elated by the power of the elements surrounding us. A lonely black horse has positioned himself by the roadside, in his field, hoping that someone will come and cheer him up. As a matter of fact, we stop and do so, he looks at the leaf-green of my raincoat, perhaps thinking it is edible. I escape his attempt to get a bite of it while petting him on the forehead and blowing in his nose so that he can be acquainted with my odour - a trick to make friends with horses. Time for us to go, my friend! The multi layers of clouds open up more and more. The valley, now under the sun, is still shaped by a relentless wind that pushes low altitude clouds as if we were watching a movie in fast-track.
The sun is welcome, it warms our limbs after the cold tempest at the top of Mont Lozère. The path leads us gently through the meadows, a few cows ruminate in the grass, low profile is best to avoid the wind that is strong enough to lift their tails when they stand. Then finally, we near the gorges of the Tarn river where Pont de Montvert lies at the bottom.
The sun is welcome, it warms our limbs after the cold tempest at the top of Mont Lozère. The path leads us gently through the meadows, a few cows ruminate in the grass, low profile is best to avoid the wind that is strong enough to lift their tails when they stand. Then finally, we near the gorges of the Tarn river where Pont de Montvert lies at the bottom.
Now that we have crossed to the South side of Mont Lozère, we are really in the Cévennes. On the north side of it, it was still the Margeride. Three days before, we had left Notre Dame des Neiges to its peaceful isolation to walk to a village called Chasseradès which is still alive thanks to a small home-hostel and a grocery store that does also coffee shop. This wouldn't be possible without the wanderers going along the Stevenson path. A big furry cat was waiting for us at the Modestine hostel. Apparently a fine rain forecaster, told us his owner, if it comes home in a hurry, rain normally falls within the next fifteen minutes. It actually happened, but considering the darkness of the sky it wasn't hard to guess that it would rain. A big storm broke out and it rained heavily for the rest of the afternoon during which drenched guests made their way dripping into the hostel. One German couple was travelling with Nougat, a donkey they had hired for two weeks to carry their luggages. They told us that Nougat was a very sweet animal who was taking its time to walk and make some grazing breaks. It was a good thing but also one that would get you wet in this season since it rained nearly every afternoon. Chasseradès is remarkable for its snow tunnels to protect the railway from snowdrifts and for its roman church.
We left Chasseradès under a bright sun, crossed the Chassezac river in Mirandol where fishermen were lamenting on the bridge that trouts would be too well fed, from all the insects flushed into the river by the recent heavy rains, to consider being fished. We crossed a large forest where we met two men with plastic bags full with ceps they had collected. We passed next to the source of Allier river before emerging from the woods and get a beautiful view on Mont Lozère and, at its foot, the village of Le Bleymard, which can be considered large because it has a supermarket, a petrol station, a hotel, a baker and a butcher. We stayed at the guesthouse Chez le Poulitou, whose owner decided to open a guesthouse after walking along the Camino de Santiago because she had really enjoyed its atmosphere. The building came from her grandfather who had, back in the days, run a grocery store there.
The next morning, opinions on the weather were differing. The sky wasn't exactly blue but some weather report had forecast that it would soon clear-up. However the lady at the bakery was of a different opinion saying that since it had rained during Saint Médard and Saint Barnabé, it would surely rain for the next forty days, at least this is what she had decided to believe after being told by an elderly farmer who was always accurate about the weather, and well, she was partly right as you could read earlier since the sun only made its appearance much later on the other side of the Lozère mount.
We left Chasseradès under a bright sun, crossed the Chassezac river in Mirandol where fishermen were lamenting on the bridge that trouts would be too well fed, from all the insects flushed into the river by the recent heavy rains, to consider being fished. We crossed a large forest where we met two men with plastic bags full with ceps they had collected. We passed next to the source of Allier river before emerging from the woods and get a beautiful view on Mont Lozère and, at its foot, the village of Le Bleymard, which can be considered large because it has a supermarket, a petrol station, a hotel, a baker and a butcher. We stayed at the guesthouse Chez le Poulitou, whose owner decided to open a guesthouse after walking along the Camino de Santiago because she had really enjoyed its atmosphere. The building came from her grandfather who had, back in the days, run a grocery store there.
The next morning, opinions on the weather were differing. The sky wasn't exactly blue but some weather report had forecast that it would soon clear-up. However the lady at the bakery was of a different opinion saying that since it had rained during Saint Médard and Saint Barnabé, it would surely rain for the next forty days, at least this is what she had decided to believe after being told by an elderly farmer who was always accurate about the weather, and well, she was partly right as you could read earlier since the sun only made its appearance much later on the other side of the Lozère mount.
We are now walking on a steep stony path that descends into the village of Pont de Monvert which has a long history of fights between Catholics and Protestants. In 1702, the Abbot of Chayla tortured and killed seven Protestants that he had arrested because they were accused of wanting to emigrate out of France. The killings triggered a rebellion from some Protestants whose movement was called the Camisards. However this episode was only a spark in the century-long resistance that Protestants fought against the Catholic kingdom to have their rights of cult acknowledged. The village now has a church and a temple. On the ancient stone bridge crossing the Tarn, a tower topped with a metallic structure carrying a bell as it is often seen in South of France, is marking the entrance the bridge.
We stayed in a hotel called La Truite Enchantée (the enchanted trout) which offered a particularly caring service for dinner and breakfast. I still salivate at the thought of the cod filet served with aïoli (South of France specialty which is a sort of spicy garlic mayonnaise) and oven backed vegetables. The only unpleasant thing was the ongoing renovation of the hotel exterior, which prompted the owner to put some stickers in the town to map an entrance through the garden's backdoor. The sticker read "trout enchanted by the garden".
We stayed in a hotel called La Truite Enchantée (the enchanted trout) which offered a particularly caring service for dinner and breakfast. I still salivate at the thought of the cod filet served with aïoli (South of France specialty which is a sort of spicy garlic mayonnaise) and oven backed vegetables. The only unpleasant thing was the ongoing renovation of the hotel exterior, which prompted the owner to put some stickers in the town to map an entrance through the garden's backdoor. The sticker read "trout enchanted by the garden".
Pont de Monvert resonates in the mind of alternative people in the region. I am not sure why, is it because so many of them have found the region hospitable to their projects: vast empty spaces, a flavour of South of France with its windy and sunny climate? Affordable land? The remoteness of the place? Is it the opposition spirit of the Camisards that lingers on?
As Stevenson did before, we continued our journey by climbing on the opposite side of the town to the plateau which had round rocks protruding randomly amidst low bushes, typical of the Cévennes countryside.
As Stevenson did before, we continued our journey by climbing on the opposite side of the town to the plateau which had round rocks protruding randomly amidst low bushes, typical of the Cévennes countryside.
Our next halt was Florac, a " larger" town of about two thousands inhabitants, quite large for the department of Lozère that has around seventy seven thousand inhabitants. Yet Florac is a rather dynamic town enjoying the benefits of tourism. As we were there, the Gévaudan mountain bike race was about to take place with two hundred kilometres around the Lozère department and a lot of ups and downs. The night before the race, participants were called under the shade of the plane trees of the Marceau Farelle square to pick-up their bibs. We saw a few of them seating down at the nearby cafes, content to sip a Perrier for aperitif!
Florac has another peculiarity, it has its own brand of Jeans, called Tuff's, after the name of its founder Célestin Tuffery, who started its sewing business in 1892. It is still a family business.
Florac has another peculiarity, it has its own brand of Jeans, called Tuff's, after the name of its founder Célestin Tuffery, who started its sewing business in 1892. It is still a family business.
We proceeded from Florac to the valley of the Mimente, a small river flowing into the Tarnon that in its turn feeds the river Tarn. The Mimente is quite lively. It has managed to carve deep gorges into the rock. Between Saint Julien d'Arpaon and the former train station of Cassagnas, the Stevenson track has been put on an old railway track which overhangs the gorges and goes through a few tunnels. It was hot, probably over 30 degrees Celsius. We noticed a small path going downhill towards the river. It actually led us there and the temptation was too strong to resist to get a spontaneous dip in the cool waters. Very refreshing, 14 degrees at most, but a nice memory. The old train station in Cassagnas has been turned into a hostel and camping ground.
During dinner, the waitress introduced herself as a part-time worker. She was working at the hostel but also involved in bee-keeping and saffron production. It is better to have several businesses to be able to survive here, she said. She also explained that people, more and more, made money from reselling crocus bulbs rather than getting involved with the collection of saffron fout of the stamen of crocus flowers. She drove a van where she probably slept frequently judging by the duvet at the back.
It seems that there are still young people with a lot of appetite to come and live from the land. In the 1960s and 70s, the Cévennes were dreamt to be an Eldorado for freedom, an alternative way to materialism where new experiments could be led, a lot of free (albeit very poor) land that could be taken hold of to live pastoral dreams. Even today that dream is still being chased by new comers, the waitress was one of them.
We walked down to the river before dinner.
A young man was seating topless on a low stone wall by the riverside and was weaving a basket while his cows drank in the river and his sheep herd grazed.
He was the father in a family of three travelling with a rolling cart drawn by oxen. A bicycle with a baby back-seat was bound at the rear of the cart. They would soon travel to Pont de Monvert, said the mother. They perhaps wanted to join the cattle-migration fest in Mont Lozère. The next morning we saw her walking their little boy on the pebbles by the riverside while the mist was dissipating. The whole scene exuded harmony with nature.
At dinner we got served some famous sausage from Pont de Monvert from a butcher called Folcher who mixes lean pork meat with chard to make sausages with very little fat as a result.
The next morning, one of our roommates was busy piercing a huge blister, located right under his foot, with a needle and a wire so that the liquid would go. The whole scene looked quite painful, we pitied him a lot.
We left Cassagnas through a forest of pine ascending gradually the slope of the hill of Montfort. There was a Neolithic grave on a rock facing a wonderful panorama and next it a dolmen. The air was still cool but the powerful scent of pine trees was reminiscent of the South of France to come. The temperature climbed seriously as we were descending towards Saint Germain de Calberte through a beautiful forest of chesnut trees. This village is small and built along the slope of a hill. A bronze statue, of a naked man piling up slabs of stones, has been erected next to the church as an homage to "the men from the Cévennes who have built this country". It is certainly an acknowledgement of all the hard work that has been put in by generations of farmers who have built terraces stone by stone to grow crops on the slopes.
We stayed at a very quiet place, a camping ground called La Garde, which rather looked like a vast garden with a lovely pool. The owner had South American features. He said he had been running the place for thirty years, initially with his wife and another couple. But life has made it go differently, he is now on his own with his son. He introduced us to a large grass snake, that quickly took refuge in the stone wall along the swimming pool, on the way to our wooden chalet that was very comfortable and visibly customized to the taste of the owner.
That evening we had dinner on the terrace overlooking the hills of surrounding scrubland, very green this year because of the rains. We had a kir with elderflower sirup for aperitif.
We had just one more day to go to complete the travel done by Stevenson with Modestine to Saint Jean du Gard.
At this time of the year, second half of June, summer was around the corner. This can be felt through the fragrance of pine trees which is amplified by the heat of the sun. The light is intense, turning the path of schist into a gleaming silvery surface that can't be looked at without sunglasses. The sky is deep blue, some days when the mistral blows, it feels surrealistic blue. This is the prerequisite expressed by cicadas to perform their string concert perched on trees, perhaps to give space to their art. Their noise can be very stringent to the ear at the hottest time of the day when all the plants fragances are dizzying. The sight of the first olive trees made us aware we had arrived in "le midi" (the South of France).
It was now time to quit the hills for the valley of the Gardon river through a long steep descent under a burning sun. Sweat was running abundantly and as we reached the bottom of the valley we thought it appropriate to dip our legs in the cold waters of the Gardon. There were just a few kilometres to go to complete this stretch of the journey to Saint Jean du Gard and bid our farewell to Stevenson and his faithful Modestine.
During dinner, the waitress introduced herself as a part-time worker. She was working at the hostel but also involved in bee-keeping and saffron production. It is better to have several businesses to be able to survive here, she said. She also explained that people, more and more, made money from reselling crocus bulbs rather than getting involved with the collection of saffron fout of the stamen of crocus flowers. She drove a van where she probably slept frequently judging by the duvet at the back.
It seems that there are still young people with a lot of appetite to come and live from the land. In the 1960s and 70s, the Cévennes were dreamt to be an Eldorado for freedom, an alternative way to materialism where new experiments could be led, a lot of free (albeit very poor) land that could be taken hold of to live pastoral dreams. Even today that dream is still being chased by new comers, the waitress was one of them.
We walked down to the river before dinner.
A young man was seating topless on a low stone wall by the riverside and was weaving a basket while his cows drank in the river and his sheep herd grazed.
He was the father in a family of three travelling with a rolling cart drawn by oxen. A bicycle with a baby back-seat was bound at the rear of the cart. They would soon travel to Pont de Monvert, said the mother. They perhaps wanted to join the cattle-migration fest in Mont Lozère. The next morning we saw her walking their little boy on the pebbles by the riverside while the mist was dissipating. The whole scene exuded harmony with nature.
At dinner we got served some famous sausage from Pont de Monvert from a butcher called Folcher who mixes lean pork meat with chard to make sausages with very little fat as a result.
The next morning, one of our roommates was busy piercing a huge blister, located right under his foot, with a needle and a wire so that the liquid would go. The whole scene looked quite painful, we pitied him a lot.
We left Cassagnas through a forest of pine ascending gradually the slope of the hill of Montfort. There was a Neolithic grave on a rock facing a wonderful panorama and next it a dolmen. The air was still cool but the powerful scent of pine trees was reminiscent of the South of France to come. The temperature climbed seriously as we were descending towards Saint Germain de Calberte through a beautiful forest of chesnut trees. This village is small and built along the slope of a hill. A bronze statue, of a naked man piling up slabs of stones, has been erected next to the church as an homage to "the men from the Cévennes who have built this country". It is certainly an acknowledgement of all the hard work that has been put in by generations of farmers who have built terraces stone by stone to grow crops on the slopes.
We stayed at a very quiet place, a camping ground called La Garde, which rather looked like a vast garden with a lovely pool. The owner had South American features. He said he had been running the place for thirty years, initially with his wife and another couple. But life has made it go differently, he is now on his own with his son. He introduced us to a large grass snake, that quickly took refuge in the stone wall along the swimming pool, on the way to our wooden chalet that was very comfortable and visibly customized to the taste of the owner.
That evening we had dinner on the terrace overlooking the hills of surrounding scrubland, very green this year because of the rains. We had a kir with elderflower sirup for aperitif.
We had just one more day to go to complete the travel done by Stevenson with Modestine to Saint Jean du Gard.
At this time of the year, second half of June, summer was around the corner. This can be felt through the fragrance of pine trees which is amplified by the heat of the sun. The light is intense, turning the path of schist into a gleaming silvery surface that can't be looked at without sunglasses. The sky is deep blue, some days when the mistral blows, it feels surrealistic blue. This is the prerequisite expressed by cicadas to perform their string concert perched on trees, perhaps to give space to their art. Their noise can be very stringent to the ear at the hottest time of the day when all the plants fragances are dizzying. The sight of the first olive trees made us aware we had arrived in "le midi" (the South of France).
It was now time to quit the hills for the valley of the Gardon river through a long steep descent under a burning sun. Sweat was running abundantly and as we reached the bottom of the valley we thought it appropriate to dip our legs in the cold waters of the Gardon. There were just a few kilometres to go to complete this stretch of the journey to Saint Jean du Gard and bid our farewell to Stevenson and his faithful Modestine.
Images:
1/ Mont Lozère, tormented sky
2/ Pont de Monvert from the donkey's night ground
3/ Nougat arrives wet in Chasseradès
4/ Cévennes landscape
5/ Mimente river, time for a dip
6/ le midi
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| Pont de Monvert from the donkey's night ground |
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| Nougat arrives wet in Chasseradès |
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| Cévennes landscape |
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| Mimente river, time for a dip |
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| le midi |
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