     
|
From La Bastide to Bleymard in Lozère with Eric Poindron |
     
|
|
|
From La Bastide to Bleymard in Lozère with Eric Poindron |
|
Heading towards Chasseradès - about ten kilometers of tracks, a single line - we follow the Allier. Stuck between the river and the railroad ties, the escort resumes its march. A road like a great North, tall firs, a biting wind, and the sounds of footsteps in the forest. Cries, too, like songs. The white light overexposes the scenery, trying to distort it. Therefore it could be elsewhere... Where are we, in what elsewhere? In Alaska perhaps... The white worlds must be like this... It is neither the country nor the season, and yet the light resembles snow.
The spirit of the wild, the call of the wild in the cold morning. The earth is hard, frozen, the uncultivated fields seem covered with snow. I hear the murmurs of the underground, the winds howling beneath my shoes. It rumbles, all white. Capturing the spirit. One must move forward despite cramps, mourning, and doubt.
California, near Oregon at Eagle Creek... The first nuggets of 1.5 cm by 2 brought me in 1,500 bucks. The gold fever gives an incredible strength. I was among the old-timers from Vietnam who took me for a greenhorn. They wait to see what you're worth. One evening, I smoked a joint of marijuana they grew and emptied a bottle of vodka. I was wasted, completely naked, "I went into the river to look for nuggets...
On Saint John's Day, we hunted the bear. The hippies, the gold seekers, the kids aged eight or nine rode naked on horses like Indians. After that, I went down even more; I went crazy..." These are the last words of Philippe, the owner of the guest house L'Etoile, the Greek from Bastide-Puylaurent, a second cousin of Jack London. He spent a long part of the night telling us that the 20th century could still resemble the cabaret of the Last Chance. Jack London's cursed bistro. The Belgian speaks like a writer. "Damn it, move!" That's what we do... Eagle Creek...
As if I were walking in the great northern Cévennes. When one dreams out loud. To leave, to leave. The North, the white world, the white worlds. The Grizzly by James Olivier Curwood, in the green library, was my first reading, my first great North. Around me, in the imagined blizzard, there are ghosts of prospectors, painted warriors, invisible bears. After several days in Gévaudan, still no wolves. In my imagination, the beast has become a white wolf, elusive, that pursues us, while we are trappers in the midst of abandoned mines. Those who doubt can try, fifteen days away from the cities... They will understand.
Shamanic smokes, and the ground appears snow-covered like the land of Klondike. Tall pines on the hillside, tall fir trees, and here and there the noise of lumberjacks stripping the forest... I hear the tunnel, the lynx, I hear in echo the Gévaudan and its lament. I change the latitudes and the longitudes. Messages in the breath of the wind. I undertake the reunion of the continents. Steps echo like the sound of bells in the mist. The heart races, my breath smells of seaweed and powder. In this barren field, white with silence and dreamed snow, I imagine that here it might be Patagonia. Among cheap clichés, necessary barbed wires, and mirages. Give it a try... As soon as we walk, we make a world tour. Or almost...
On the railway line that leads from Mende to Montpellier passing through La Bastide-Puylaurent, Villefort, Génolhac, Chamborigaud, Alès, and Nîmes, many small stations have become ghosts. Sometimes we rename them, they become SNCF stops. Despite the affront, they maintain their former appearance and, for lack of a head, keep the high roof, elegant like the parasols of old. Here, like in Africa or South America, you only have to wave your arm for a train to stop... At the next stop, indifferent populations will get off the train under the fixed and ungrudging gaze of the railway stops. Stations in retirement...
On foot, back on the railway, without train or trumpet. Too bad, because those who travel without a donkey or without "donkey status" can raise their arms for a piece of rails. La Bastide-Puylaurent - Chasseradès - Belvezet - Allenc - Mende and Marjevols... There, the train crawls and drops off hikers at the foot of Mont Lozère. The viaduct of Mirandol reminds of sepia images, when the trains were pulled by two enormous locomotives puffing their smoke in front of the unconcerned cows, those from the good points at school. Yet, beneath the imposing viaduct, today I hear only the echo of Noah's hooves and the lithe murmurs of the little river Chassezac.
It's gray and cold, but the step remains wandering. And if we see mirages, it's above our heads. We walk slowly, they have wings of giants.
In the hamlet of L'Estampe, a grandmother, stronger than the wife of a Turk, has been chopping wood since dawn. She pulls her cart alone and unloads while panting, then stacks piles of logs, high as walls, with the patience of a card castle enthusiast. To better counter the winter, we start by waiting for it with rolled-up sleeves. She offers us hospitality for a moment for a coffee and tells without lamenting or feeling sorry. Of the seven inhabitants of the hamlet, five are over eighty-five years old. Here, in this perimeter of wild Gévaudan, it is not uncommon for a peasant to support a family of three children on the back - rather the milk - of thirty miserable cows.
The journey, is it we who make it or him who takes care of it? I'm not the first to ask this question. From Nikos Kawadias to Nicolas Bouvier, no one, neither sailors nor writers, has a ready-made answer. I feel sorry for this woman from the hamlet and leave her without bringing her anything while she gave me the ingredients, the spices of my little chronicles. Then my pen, which scratches the logbook, pays tribute to her. I am not making the journey: this woman and all the others are in charge of it. One believes they have control over the path, but they remain its hostage.
The Goulet mountain is approached with courage. We do not move, the mountain teases us. One thousand four hundred meters in altitude, is nothing for the donkey, it is nothing on a map, but for child legs, this is a solid test of humility. At the heart of the state forest, the overcast sky crushes the young conifers. Sometimes, the sun breaks through the clouds, coloring the green and silver trees. The ground is covered with luminous quartz, one would believe there are springs. The wind in the trees recalls the Celtic harp and even the slightest herb begins to chime: a magical forest, like that of Paimpont.
At the summit, at the heart of silence and mist, rest becomes asceticism. The conifers and the autumn underbrush, similar to those of Scotland, must shelter fairies. No humans and no civilized traces, except for the skinny road and the old milestones. Around us, the heather, thistle, and wild mulberries. Quietly, heading towards Bleymard, the village that serves as a link between Goulet mountain and Mont Lozère, we continue on our way. Slow, very slow, our descent which partly follows the Lot is a joy, a rest. Excerpt from "Beautiful Stars" With Stevenson in the Cévennes, Gulliver collection, directed by Michel Le Bris, Flammarion.
Former holiday hotel with a garden along the Allier, L'Etoile Guest House is located in La Bastide-Puylaurent between Lozere, Ardeche, and the Cevennes in the mountains of Southern France. At the crossroads of GR®7, GR®70 Stevenson Path, GR®72, GR®700 Regordane Way, GR®470 Allier River springs and gorges, GRP® Cevenol, Ardechoise Mountains, Margeride. Numerous loop trails for hiking and one-day biking excursions. Ideal for a relaxing and hiking getaway.
Copyright©etoile.fr