Eric Poindron in La Bastide-Puylaurent
Are you eating with us? The trout was caught this afternoon and the soup is homemade. Plus, I offer the aperitif... It's the owner of L'Etoile Maison d'hôtes in La Bastide-Puylaurent—one thousand twenty-four meters high—a friendly giant about thirty-five years old who makes the invitation before showing the room. Two beds, a sink, and an old bistro table with a wooden top for evening writings. A direct view over the Allier river. The donkey has made herself at home. She will sleep in a barn, right at the foot of the river, near an old bridge. She seems to deeply appreciate the place. Here even the ducks look like they're on vacation.
Have you come from far away? - After Saint-Flour-de-Mercoire, we followed the river as closely as possible, avoiding Fouzillic and Fouzillac due to the weather, and passing Cheylard-l'Evêque to arrive before evening. At Luc, it was straight ahead, or almost. We wanted to climb to the Trappist Abbey of Notre Dame des Neiges, but with the donkey it was complicated... No regrets. According to our host, we made the right choice. It's high and still far; despite the clear night, we would have likely gotten lost. You have to know, it's wild up there. And besides, the inn is only open to retreatants.
Belgian beer for everyone? And away we go, Belgian beer for everyone. We are comfortably settled in front of the warm fire in the large room that serves both for meals and relaxation when two new hikers drop their heavy bags: Raoul, from Saint-Etienne, and Graeme, an Englishman from Bristol. Finally arriving is Billy, the gentle ginger labrador of the guesthouse. Outside the cities, there's no need for long introductions. We don't display colors; we don't raise any flags. The tired backpacks are more than enough for true complicity.
The owner returns with arms full of dried fruits. The tongues are loosening. After a long hike, a guy who dines with you instantly becomes your friend. Questions of the journey arise. The only one who explains his is the owner of the gîte: - My name is Philippe Papadimitriou, I am half Belgian, half Greek, and the rest of the time Lozérien. Before permanently settling in La Bastide-Puylaurent and attaching himself to Lozère, he wandered around Australia, searched for gold in California, and crossed France on horseback. That's exactly how he discovered Lozère and fell in love with the place. Two horses, his girlfriend with her horse, and two dogs. He settled down and, six months later, he bravely started the guesthouse.
I love it, I feel like I have a boat. Since then, I’ve been putting my back into it. Life is precious. Then he tells the little history of his house, once a family boarding house as it should be, the Hotel Ranc. Monsieur used to take his wife and children here to get some fresh air and hurried off to meet his mistress on the Riviera. Philippe actively seeks to preserve the family boarding house aspect, even if only for one night. "When you leave my place, you should have only one desire: to return as soon as possible."
He spares no effort to increase his loyal clientele: impeccable food, spacious rooms, a unique atmosphere. Not to mention his dry humor and a great aptitude for happiness. Philippe has the sacred fire; he refuses to give up, "even if this country is not his, precisely because this country is not his." He curses the labor force that seeks to win Le Puy-en-Velay, Saint-Etienne, or the South. What will they do more in Montpellier? But he blames no one; he knows perfectly well that twenty-five years in Lozère can give someone desires for elsewhere and a definitive escape. He, however, enjoys himself immensely here.
The soup smells wonderfully like the garden, the flesh of the trout is perfectly firm, and the homemade crepes are served without restriction. The little stylish wine from Notre-Dame-des-Neiges perfectly accompanies the whole meal. Fruit wine and communion wine, everything goes down the same tube. If Stevenson had known the guesthouse L'Etoile, there’s no doubt he would have stayed. At the table, everyone shares their anecdotes, their slightly disordered impressions of the places they have crossed. Raoul recounts his exploits; he went to Corsica this summer. Graeme, the slender Englishman, a specialist in German romanticism and Sturm und Drang, moderates the true importance of Stevenson on English soil. As if in deep regret. - Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes, for us, it's a children's book, a dictation book. A charming text to learn spelling. Then he proudly displays his manual, a little red book, illustrated and dog-eared, which constantly accompanies him during his hike. - When I talked about my trip to my friends back home, they were utterly astonished. In our country, Stevenson is seen merely as a storyteller of beautiful stories, a popular writer...
A French teacher for several years in Languedoc, it’s in France that Graeme truly discovered the Journey. He does not regret the hike and wants to finish without delay because for him, arriving in Saint-Jean-du-Gard means the end of the holidays. He has to return to England in just a few days. He happily raises his glass to French encounters.
Philippe takes the opportunity to bring out coffee, pear brandy, and delicious Belgian cinnamon cookies. He sets down the tray and casually grabs his guitar... "I traveled the world and California, I put my hands in the mud to find gold, I’m a gold seeker." Singing Dylan, Neil Young, the Eagles, and his own repertoire—of which he has no reason to be ashamed—he continues his fascinating story of a modern cowboy.
A fresh log in the hearth and the folk ambiance settles in. These boots are made for walking... Raoul takes the opportunity to carefully monitor his emerging blisters. Coffee, beer, and Leonard Cohen. The songs warm you up right to the core. After the beautiful star, the beautiful gîte of L'Etoile. When Graeme the Englishman asks the Belgo-Greek if he has read Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes, the other simply smiles: - I’ve read two books in my entire life. My library is my head. On the road at fourteen. Working on farms, sleeping in barns, and then America. There they are, my books.
Monks in the mountains. And I gave thanks to God for being completely free to wander, free to hope, free to love...
***
At the exit of La Bastide-Puylaurent, in the dense, silent forest, wedged tightly between Vivarais and Gévaudan, we are looking for the path that leads to the Trappe, a retreat place for the monks. The sun manages to beautifully illuminate the beeches, ashes, and firs just like a bright summer morning. Noah's load is weighed down slightly with a few sandwiches kindly prepared by Philippe.
The sound of foliage rustles. A pedestrian emerges from the deep woods and quickly hides a basket of mushrooms behind his back. He is a local farmer and surprisingly talkative. "Why are you doing that?" He points to our walking shoes and mimics carrying a heavy backpack. - "We do 'that' because if we hadn't, we wouldn't have met you... - That's not stupid... there's a lot of truth in that, my good man." Satisfied with an answer he considers simple but sensible, he unpacks everything he knows, or thinks he knows, about the Trappe. Regarding their turnover, it is whispered in the village—not him, mind you!—that it is one of the most important in Ardèche. The second largest after the cement factories. You must not repeat it, that's what they say, not him, right... "They also say" that Brother Régis, the superior, is on very familiar terms with the most important political leaders of Ardèche. He even affectionately nicknames a local oil 'Jeannot'!
Our informant reveals other hushed confidences, other wild rumors verified by the cousin's sister or by our man himself... - Don’t repeat it either, but all the political and economic decisions in the region are supposedly made up there. In the village, on quiet winter evenings, some have seen official cars going up to Notre Dame des Neiges. Only in winter, on snowy or foggy evenings. When no one is hanging around in the streets... Listening to him, the Trappe seems like an Ardèche Monopoly board. The man continues: - I quite like the brothers, but generally, in La Bastide, there is a lot of local jealousy. The monks are poorly seen. People do not like their quiet, steady success. The monks may suffer a bit from it, but after all, it perfectly suits them to be left alone. Before turning on his heels, inadvertently or out of sudden trust, he pulls his basket from his back and leaves us with these proud words: - Are my vines beautiful?
Notre-Dame-des-Neiges... In the bare and cold fields surrounding the Trappe, a 4L turns in all directions like a swarm of crows. "Brother Zéphyrin, he is always on the roads around the trap, you will see, he is a very kind man," Philippe had told us. He comes bouncing in our direction. We introduce ourselves. The monk, with a lovely pink face and laughing eyes, places his hunting rifle casually on the passenger seat. Responsible for the agricultural operation, he takes great care of the cows and the surrounding woods. This morning, he is looking for fresh traces of wild boars. - They came last night, they start by eating a mouse, and then the whole family passes by. The monk, with a face as round as the moon, is also a passionate racing car enthusiast. - If I hadn't been a monk, I would have definitely been a driver. Not necessarily a world champion, but a good driver. When a car race is prepared in the area, it is useless to look for Brother Zéphyrin. He always finds a good reason to go racing in town. And then, on occasion, he goes down to drink a cold beer at L'Etoile, provided it is brewed by Cistercian Trappists, as required by the brotherhood. He eagerly directs us to the trap's bar. - Brother Jean will be happy to serve you the aperitif and have a little conversation.
Brother Jean stands proudly behind the counter, which is about twenty meters long. He vigorously promotes Quineige, an aperitif specially developed and sold by the monks. The bistro brother serves every single day of the year without exception and has only left the trap once in twenty years. "To go to the doctor, otherwise I don't have time, I have to work hard, even at night sometimes." A true jack-of-all-trades, he serves, smiles, and strictly monitors the entries and exits of provisions. The bar resembles an Ali Baba cave dedicated entirely to Lady Food. They sell barrels of all sizes, hollow Virgins—ready to fill—decorated carafes, sweet chestnut jam, regional sweets, fine wine, and spirits!
Brother Jean carries his eighty years like others carry good luck. He must be about one meter fifty tall and frequently climbs on an old wooden box to bring his face to counter height. Behind him, Auvergne hams, monumental sausages, and huge cheeses patiently wait to be taken down. Brother Jean is fully used to working hard and holding a long conversation. Like a seasoned guide, he tells the life of the monks, the deep history of the trap, and its complex functioning...
At the end of the 11th century, Robert de Molesme and Saint Bernard left the Benedictines of the Cluny Order. They strongly wished to find a more rigorous faith and strictly apply the teaching of Saint Benedict. The Benedictines share their time between prayer and study; we Cistercians add demanding physical work... Moreover, Brother François-Régis, the superior, is currently absent; he is monitoring the grape harvest in Bellegarde, between Nîmes and Tarascon. That is exactly where we buy our grapes. We trust them, of course, but it is always better to be on site. We buy a very nice Merlot. Go to the cellars to taste it...
Despite the many visitors who wish to place orders, the monk takes his sweet time. Brother Jean is never in a hurry. He weighs a heavy mountain sausage and pitches it to a little round lady who is getting visibly impatient. A cohort of tourists waits their turn. While he serves, the brother grocer continues his fascinating lecture. The first trap was tragically reduced to ashes in 1912. Today, thirty-five monks live in the mountains and silence according to the strict rules laid down by Saint Benedict. Prayer and work. "They will really be monks if they live from the work of their hands," said the saint.
The monks pray four full hours a day, from the office at four-thirty in the morning to the one at nine at night... Today, many young people are heavily tempted by a temporary or permanent isolation to piece together the complex puzzle of their lives. Thus, this hiker who arrived with a simple backpack, who, after a short retreat, never left again. Here, one can comfortably live apart from the grand spectacle of society and, at the exact same time, undertake a profound spiritual and personal journey within oneself. In the middle of the forest and at the very heart of the world, just like Saint Francis.
Upon closer inspection, there are actually two traps clinging tightly to the mountain. The first is strictly for the monks, invited religious, and lay retreatants, the second is for eager tourists, great consumers of holy pork, shiny rosaries, and napkin rings bearing the likeness of Charles de Foucauld—who famously stayed here in 1890 before dying in the harsh Sahara desert in 1916. At the trap, the visitor can pray and consume in total peace. The brothers of the mountain gladly accept all magnetic cards.
Like that of all Cistercian monks, the day of the Ardèche monk begins with waking up at four o'clock sharp, followed by the office where the psalms are solemnly sung. From five to seven o'clock, deep meditation and personal reading occupy the monk's time. At seven o'clock, the lauds come in honor of Creation, then the Eucharist—always with great, respectful sobriety. During the rest of the morning, the monks passionately engage in their professional activities, perfectly according to the rules laid down by Saint Benedict... Cooking, sewing, demanding farm work, beekeeping, wine work. Lunch is taken in absolute silence, and the afternoon is once again devoted to manual activities. Then, around six-thirty, the vespers are celebrated in deep silence and reflection. After a frugal supper, the monks attend the compline, the very last ceremony of the day addressed to the Heavenly Father and Mary. All then silently retire to their cells for the night. Saint Benedict openly invites the monks to contemplation to better overcome the chaotic agitation of the outside world.
Brother Jean tells his story with a glimmer of absolute grace and forgiveness in his eyes. We have been told—a lot of "they say" in the Ardèche mountains—that he maintains his unshakeable good humor, his monastic calm, or his divine optimism from another grueling stay in a cell, this time of pure horror. He was a "resident" at Auschwitz and solemnly promised to enter religion if he ever got out of the nightmare. The miraculous brother, with a face deeply marked by suffering, with eyes burning fiercely like the biblical bush, is a striking mix of a magnificent beggar engraved by Jacques Callot and a tragic victim drawn in ink by Zoran Music in the camps of the abominable. When leaving the giant pantry, the brother who warmly crushes our hand smiles brightly once again.
After safely tying Noah, we take a long walk within the trap. The long, austere buildings, the heavy silence, and the piercing blue sky calm the visitor and force him to respectfully bow. At the top of a mountain, in what could almost resemble a heavily fortified estate, there is no flashy architecture; only a simple bell tower rises. The crossing monks smile gently and greet silently.
In the shop, we expand the small business by offering visitors lapel pins, ridiculous painted metal pieces that the customer can proudly pin on the edge of his jacket, decorated plates, varnished sticks for those who feel like true pilgrims, and many works dedicated to the order. There is no trace of the Scotsman, I specify it because an English couple absolutely wants to bring back a souvenir - "you understand, we came especially from London, we are retracing Stevenson's journey in a Jaguar coupe..." In the thick monastic silence, one could almost hear the sweet music of the cash register.
In the cellar, the wines gracefully age in thick oak barrels. The dedicated monks of the Abbey Notre Dame des Neiges in Ardèche buy the grapes, expertly vinify them, and closely monitor the aging process. We taste immediately—well, straight from the barrel—a simple, honest, and fleshy Merlot, a true country wine as rocky and robust as the winemakers who produce it. For aging and selling, the monks regularly hire additional staff—from the wine technician to the mechanic, from the agricultural worker to the skilled carpenter, thus actively contributing to lowering local unemployment rates.
In the chilling silence of the tuff vaults, tourists eagerly extend their cups and employees hustle at the foot of the giant stainless steel tanks like at a busy gas station on the highway of the sun. The long, dark corridors house the giant barrels and the blessed wines. Amen! The absolute highlight of the production is the Fleur des Neiges, a sparkling wine that the poet Kenneth White sometimes enjoyed when he lived and meditated in Gourgounel, his quiet retreat a few leagues from here.
At the sawmill, brother "grumpy" strictly supervises the cuts. Philippe Papadimitriou, the Greek from L'Etoile, is busy preparing to load the few heavy pieces of fir he has negotiated for the impressive chimney of the guesthouse. With the time of a helping hand, we quickly become lumberjacks according to the monastic rule. Prayer and work; prayer will definitely come later.
The accommodation at the trap is completely full; we will have to content ourselves with the forest. We are directed to the Mas de Félgière, an old house of prayer and charity that remained miraculously standing after the Revolution. "After the last buildings, it's straight ahead, follow the gorse... Get some supplies at Brother Jean's and go lie down in the soft grass." Slow walk with Noah, who always hesitates to put her delicate hooves in the freezing rainwater. The day quickly dwindles over the cedars and pines, the blues of the sky give way to the first orange and flaming glimmers of twilight. A wild pheasant suddenly appears. Long, tense seconds face to face. The pheasant flies away rapidly. Will we see, tonight, the short-winged and round-eyed owl that my grandfather often told me about? How to recognize it? If I hear a sharp hoot, it will be a tawny owl. Nothing simpler.
On September 26, 1878, after four or five grueling days of walking, wandering, and negotiating with Modestine, Robert Louis Stevenson finally stops at the trap. He approaches it, filled with sincere, deep anxiety. As the son of a strict Scottish Presbyterian, he does not know and greatly fears the welcome that awaits him in the Catholic enclosure. Brother Apollinaire, wheelbarrow firmly in hand, is exceptionally pleased to meet his very first Scotsman. The other monks hurry over...
The porter brothers, the hospitalers, and finally the abbot who graciously receives Stevenson. During his stay, he carefully observes the life of the monks as a learned entomologist and inevitably compares the monastery to his own experiences of secular communities—more devoted to the cult of wine, women, and revolution than to prayer.
The superior, Father Michel, generously offers the newcomer an aperitif and dinner. At the table, the writer meets a country priest and a retired soldier who openly show deep intolerance towards other faiths. While heavily threatening the Scottish traveler with hell and vigorously condemning Protestantism—"it is a sect, nothing more, nothing less"—they forcefully try to convert him. Stevenson gets a bit angry but strictly maintains a distinctly Scottish politeness. He passionately defends the religion of his mother and his childhood, then leaves the two devotees to their sectarian faith. At the warm invitation of an Irish brother, he visits the library where Chateaubriand, Hugo, and the mischievous Molière stand proudly alongside the foundational and sacred texts. Then, in the quiet evening, he finds himself entirely alone in a bare cell. Stevenson begins to question his own faith, which he tries to disguise as best he can. He profoundly fears silence, solitude, and compares the monks to the living dead. He also notes in his journey a cheerful French song to better mask his anxious state of soul... The real doubts will come later.
What beautiful girls you have,
Giroflée,
Girofla !
What beautiful girls you have,
Love will count them!
Behind the song and the polished book he intends for the public, a feverish and little-known Stevenson opens up without disguise. This is the other Stevenson, the one from the Journal and the harsh, unforgiving road. A pilgrim who does not completely realize it and actively doubts in the heavy silence of Vivarais. A feverish pilgrim in search of true love, of faith, who desperately seeks to silence his mystical mood. Stevenson writes a touching Prayer to friends that he will not include in the final book. He has taken the utmost care to specify that a journey is, at best, a highly revealing piece of autobiography.
You who have given us love for the woman and friendship for the man, keep alive in us the feeling of communion and lasting tenderness; let us forget offenses and remember the services rendered; protect those we love in all things and accompany them with kindness, so that they lead a simple and suffering-free life and finally die in peace and with a calm spirit.
At Notre-Dame-des-Neiges, in the very heart of the world and far from the world, a young man falls asleep. The childhood chimera—the tormented stories, the violent nightmares, and the old legends—are vividly revived. A young man prey to deep hesitations, to inner tremors, and to piety falls peacefully asleep in the heart of the world and far from the world. Behind the chaotic emotions he seeks to make disappear, the eternal questions that await answers—always the exact same ones—arise vividly like a specter.
Stevenson has heavy accounts to settle with Scotland, which he will soon leave forever, without actually leaving it: the dark Scotland of childhood, of strict spiritual formation and haunting demons; the Scotland of suffering and austere education; the affective Scotland of his first steps on the windy heath, of bleak suburbs and black towns. He has other major accounts to settle with his family because, in choosing to love Fanny, he has completely opposed his father. This inflexible Presbyterian father, who exerts a massive financial and moral yoke over the child. And behind the father, the whole of England and the tight literary milieu that strongly hates waves, at least those who create them... Stevenson will rebel, and this very rebellion will birth the brilliant writer...
When he creates, during his adolescence, with his cousin Bob and other agitators among their friends, a small secret and highly provocative society, one of the first established articles is a complete rejection of everything their parents may have taught them. A powerful motto that absolutely speaks for itself.
Stevenson also has intense accounts to settle with faith and its creeping doubts, a sneaky, volatile mixture of religious resurgence—does not his first text, self-published by his father, address the fierce rebellion of Scottish Puritans?—and creeping atheism, even pure anticlericalism. Finally, there is Fanny, always Fanny, the primary subject of the journey and his (un)reason mistress. She is constantly behind each of the words, each of her soft steps, each of her profound thoughts. Fanny, his ten years older, both a woman, a mother, and a father. Fanny, the bold adventurer who completely disregards conventions and the strict literary coach. Fanny, the beautiful woman to come. His absolute Future.
Lying in my warm sleeping bag, by the crackling fire in a dark barn, I reread and carefully compare the texts. In the travel journal, Stevenson freely pours out and gives in to his honest, raw emotions. In the final Journey, he heavily moderates his hesitant faith and finds a much sharper tone. He crosses out, deletes his most personal experiences. Anyone wishing to truly travel with Stevenson in the Cévennes must necessarily equip themselves with the Travel Journal to discover the other hidden side. The Hyde mystery. The secret, intimate meaning, as he wrote in his preface. Only there does the man completely reveal himself. The definitive, rewritten edition gives absolute pride of place to the flashy writer, and this Travel Journal acts as a flawless seismograph of the spirit. Back in shelter, in front of a sturdy desk, Stevenson intervened heavily on the seismograph, strongly tempered his warm reflections, and heavily censored himself.
By Eric Poindron. Beautiful stars. With Stevenson in the Cévennes. Publisher: Flammarion. Collection: Gulliver.
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