With Stevenson from Cheylard-l'Évêque to Luc

The inn at Cheylard-l'Evêque "To be frank, Cheylard hardly deserved all this searching. A few haphazard exits from the village, no defined streets, but a series of small squares piled with logs and bundles, a couple of crosses with inscriptions, a chapel to Our Lady of All Graces on the top of a hill, all located by a murmuring river in a recess of an arid valley. What were you going to see there? I thought to myself. But the locality had its original life. I found a plaque commemorating the donations of Cheylard from the previous year, hanging like a banner in the tiny, shaky church.

GR70 It appeared that, in 1877, the inhabitants had contributed forty-eight francs and ten centimes for "the work of the Propagation of the Faith." A bit of that money, I couldn't help but hope, would be destined for my homeland. Cheylard was painfully gathering small change for the souls of Edinburgh still engulfed in darkness, while Balquhidder and Dumrossness lamented that Rome ignored them. Thus, much to the angels' jubilation, we send Evangelists against each other, like schoolboys quarreling in the snow.

The inn was still remarkably devoid of pretensions. All the furnishings of a comfortably well-off family were in the kitchen: the beds, the crib, clothes, the dish drainer, the flour bin, and a photograph of the parish's priest.

There were five children present. One of them was busy with his morning prayers at the bottom of the stairs shortly after my arrival, and a sixth was about to be born. I was kindly welcomed by these good people. They were very interested in my misadventures. The wood in which I had slept belonged to them.

The man from Fouzilhac seemed to them a monster of wickedness, and they warmly advised me to sue him "because you could have perished." The good woman was quite frightened to see me drink a pint of unskimmed milk in one go. You could hurt yourself, she said to me. At least let me boil it for you. After starting my morning with that exquisite drink, as she had to attend to a multitude of things, I was allowed, what do I say? I was required to prepare myself a bowl of chocolate.

On the GR70 with Stevenson from Cheylard-l'Evêque to Luc My shoes and gaiters were hung up to dry, and seeing that I was trying to write my journal on my knees, the oldest girl brought over a folding table for my use in a corner of the fireplace. It was there that I wrote, drank my chocolate, and finally ate an omelet before leaving. The table was covered with a generous layer of dust, for, as I was informed, it was only used in winter. I had, when I looked up, a clear view of the sky through the opening, amidst the dark piles of soot and blue smoke. And every time a handful of twigs was thrown onto the fire, my legs were roasted in the flame.

The husband had started his life as a muleteer, and when it came to loading Modestine, he showed himself full of foresightful experience. "You should modify this packing, he said; it should be in two parts and then you could have double the weight." I explained to him that I had no desire to increase the weight and that for no donkey ever born, would I want to cut my sleeping bag in half. That, however, fatigue, the innkeeper said, that tires one out during the walk. Look. Alas! Modestine's two front legs had nothing but raw flesh inside, and blood was dripping from her tail.

I had been told at the time of departure, and I was quite inclined to believe it, that in a few days, I would come to love Modestine like a dog. Three days had passed, we had shared some misadventures, and my heart was still as cold as ice towards my beast of burden. She was quite nice to look at, but she had also shown a fundamental stupidity, redeemed, to be honest, by her patience but exacerbated by unfit and distressing bouts of sentimental lightheartedness. And I admit that this discovery constituted another grievance against her. What on earth could a donkey be good for if she couldn't carry a sleeping bag and a few small accessories?

I saw the resolution of the fable approaching swiftly when I would have to carry Modestine. Aesop was a man who knew the world. I assure you that I set off again, my heart heavy with worries, for my short stage of the day. It wasn't just serious thoughts about Modestine that were weighing me down on the way, it was something far more painful to bear.

First of all, the wind blew with such force that I was forced to hold the pack from Cheylard to Luc with one hand. Secondly, my path crossed one of the most miserable regions in the world. It was somehow even below the Highlands of Scotland, in a worse state.

Stevenson Cold, arid, hideous, poor in wood, poor in heather, poor in life. A road and a few fences broke up the uniform immensity, and the laying out of the road was marked by standing stones to serve as landmarks in times of snow." from "Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes."

In this book, the author recounts his journey through the Cévennes, a mountainous region in southern France. The story begins when Stevenson, eager to leave urban life and reconnect with nature, decides to embark on a hike with a donkey named Modestine. This choice of an unexpected companion adds a touch of humor and tenderness to his journey. Throughout his journey, Stevenson describes not only the magnificent landscapes of the Cévennes but also his encounters with local inhabitants. His writing is poetic and full of detail, allowing the reader to immerse themselves in the atmosphere of each place. He also addresses themes such as solitude, wandering, and the quest for self. Through the ups and downs of his journey, sometimes difficult but sometimes enchanting, Stevenson evokes a sense of freedom and escape, contrasting with the anxieties of modern life. In short, it is a narrative that is both introspective and vibrant, where the author explores both the landscape and his own mind.

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.