Leaving Pradelles, we descend into the valleys of the Allier and the Langouyrou. Down below, the clear early-afternoon light reveals Langogne, the historical capital of Gévaudan. There is no need for a compass or an ordnance survey map; we simply glide straight ahead toward our destination. We hesitate between the paved road and the winding paths tucked away, but Noée makes the final call. She utterly refuses to share the way with roaring automobiles. Higher up, on the slopes crowded with cars, conifers provide only a meagre vegetation. A few needleless fir trees stand tall, stretching their many spindly arms as if to ward off lurking wild beasts—much like the wolf or monster Stevenson himself once fretted over. And so, we follow the river.
Following that metaphorical bloodbath, a glorious sunbath now graces our escapade. One of my legs is aching, but to hell with it. The long journey is slowly turning into a long ordeal. It is a brave path, however, entirely devoid of dead ends. Despite the aches, our spirits remain light. The stream murmurs like a gentle woodland chime, offering a sense of sybaritic leisure and sylvan strolling. When we walk, are we clearing the path, or are we deciphering it?...
Speaking of wastelands and wayfinders, it was just after the Second World War that Roger Beaumont and his wife Mireille conceived the idea of marking France's trails in red and white. At the time, only a hundred and fifty kilometres of footpaths were officially recorded, mostly along the Loire. At their own gentle pace, this quiet, amiable couple would go on to mark some fifteen thousand kilometres of wild trails over the course of a lifetime. These eventually became the famous GR routes—the Grandes Randonnées.
Take Corsica on foot, for instance—the renowned GR®20, the most gruelling of them all. Or the Alps and the Tour du Mont-Blanc, the Chamonix-Menton route, and the Pyrenees stretching from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. Since then, other dedicated souls and loving couples have taken up the mantle. Today, forty thousand kilometres of trails are available to anyone seeking a safe haven far from life's frantic pace. We owe a heartfelt salute to Arthur and Zoé, those two fervent dreamers of the rocky paths. This afternoon, the autumn air smells wonderful, and the fading sunbeams gently toast the back of my neck and my scalp.
I leave my worldly obligations behind. I am a piece of origami, a wild duck, a tiny paper boat—a mere wanderer drifting toward Langogne. In a matter of minutes, my river will empty into the Allier, leaving behind only the memory of a sunlit, beautifully simple drift.
In the Heart of Gévaudan
The first noises of civilisation reach us as we near the city. This marks our entry into the Lozère department. On the bridge, a fuel truck bearing a painted image of the Beast of Gévaudan on its tank points us in the right direction. It proves to be our only guide... The road now belongs to hurried motorists who honk their horns vehemently. One of them even yells out, "Get lost!" The old bridge that Stevenson once crossed no longer exists. It was right here that he encountered an insolent young girl. Today, that ill-mannered child would quickly be run over by these fools on wheels. Over the past century, ancient stones have surrendered to asphalt and its inherent bad manners. Upon our arrival, there is not a single female presence to be seen. In truth, since the journey began, we have hardly caught the eye of a woman. Here as elsewhere, the fair maidens must have long since been devoured by the legendary beast...
Opposite the 18th-century covered market—the pride of the town thanks to its "historical monument" status—we stock up our backpacks for supper. Having left our morning cheese untouched, we pair it with a small basket of fine charcuterie. The sullen butcher sells us his wares with obvious reluctance. It is entirely impossible to wring a single recommendation or address out of him. He is a sausage merchant, he grumbles, not a tourist office. Despite its undeniable architectural charm, Langogne struggles to hold onto its visitors. Trapped in this dreary hollow, the locals seem inexplicably disgruntled. Office workers spill out into the streets, hurrying home; it is time for slippers and hot soup.
I wander through the town centre, searching for an "Exit" sign. The local cinema, like everywhere else, is showing American movies. Garish posters, giant handguns, and actors' names printed in oversized letters. Beneath the displays, teenagers straddle their mopeds, each offering their own loud commentary. I Hate Actors—ironically, that is the title of one of the films. Just like anywhere else, the peasant farmers have been replaced by stressed-out executives. The quaint 19th-century town, so proudly touted on the shiny welcome signs at the city limits, feels like a distant memory.
Right up until the Industrial Revolution, Langogne was a highly prosperous town. Cattle and sheep were bred here, and the locals lived—as some still do—off livestock farming. When industrialisation hit, the town fought a bitter, increasingly unequal battle against southern hubs like Nîmes and Alès. Bit by bit, the bustling commercial activities and grand cattle fairs faded into the past. The local mines shut down, leaving Langogne to cling desperately to its dwindling income.
Today, the town survives on tourism. Ironically, its failed industrial revolution has been a tremendous boon for local nature, preserving its trees and rivers. Pollution levels here are minuscule, bordering on non-existent. The waters are crystal clear—a fact Noée, having tasted them, can readily confirm. But the summer season is over now; we are the last nomadic wanderers of the year, and no one is particularly eager to guide us. No one is trying to make us stay. Tonight, once again, we will sleep in the open grass and count the clouds...
Just before fleeing the town, I purchase The Beast of Gévaudan, a Great Enigma of History by Abbé Félix Buffière. I linger for quite some time in the bookshop. Volumes about the infamous "Red Inn" and its gruesome accounts take up several metres of shelving. The bookseller pitches the stories enthusiastically, but I hesitate. Do I really want to terrify myself tonight in the dark forest with only a flashlight? It feels just like childhood, when we used to scare ourselves silly for fun... In The Owl's Bible, a collection of myths and legends from an era of punishing winters, Henri Gougaud offers a delightfully macabre take on the bloody inn. In "The Inn of La Guette," the killer is described as "a dishevelled, filthy ogress who murders her guests, aided by her two sons, who are as vicious as the Devil's own cats."
I had barely given it a thought back in Pradelles while listening to the hunchback, but now the story comes rushing back to me. Along with it come other local tales: "The Ghost Wolves of Cronthal" and "The Seven Witches." I drop my backpack and settle down by the fire, breathing in the rich scent of cinnamon and mulled wine. It feels as though I am somewhere between Gévaudan and the Carpathians. These are the very folktales and wild legends that once made me lose my mind. I used to read them all alone, and for a long time, Transylvania was my secret sanctuary. At least there, people left me in peace. By Eric Poindron, excerpt from "Beautiful Stars: With Stevenson in the Cévennes", Gulliver collection, edited by Michel Le Bris, Flammarion.
The Mountain Shepherd and the Hikers
In a tiny hamlet nestled between Pradelles and Langogne lived a young man named Lucien. He was the herdsman for his family's cows, a role he fulfilled with immense passion and dedication. Every single morning, long before the sun crested the horizon, Lucien would leave his old stone cottage. Gripping his trusty shepherd's crook, he would call out to the cows in a soothing voice, and they would dutifully gather around him. His dog, Gaston, would then lead the herd toward the lush, green pastures, where the grass was sweet and the streams whispered ancient secrets. Lucien cherished these quiet, solitary moments with his animals. He would tell them stories, almost as if he could read their calm, peaceful eyes. He spoke to them about the starry night skies, the turning of the seasons, and the weary hikers trekking along the Stevenson Trail. The cows always seemed to listen intently, their large, brown eyes reflecting the deep wisdom of the mountains.
One day, as Lucien was guiding the herd toward a sunlit meadow, he spotted a group of silhouettes in the distance. They were hikers, heavily laden with backpacks and leaning on walking sticks as they followed the Stevenson Trail. They looked exhausted but deeply happy, their faces lit up by the sheer beauty of the landscape. Lucien greeted them with a warm smile. "Hello there!" he called out. "You're walking the Stevenson Trail, aren't you?" The hikers nodded. One of them, a woman with greying hair, smiled back at him. "Yes, we've been walking for days now, across the mountains and down through the valleys. It's absolutely breathtaking here!" Lucien nodded in agreement. "The cows love these hills, too," he said. "They know every hidden path and quiet corner. They are the true guardians of these mountains' secrets." The hikers chuckled. "And what about you, young man? What is your secret?" a bearded hiker asked. Lucien hesitated for a moment before smiling. "My secret is that I talk to the cows," he confessed. "They tell me their stories, and I listen. Together, we watch over this land."
The hikers exchanged knowing glances. "Well then, tell us a story," the greying woman urged. And so, Lucien began to weave a tale. He spoke of the stars that stood guard over the shepherds in the dead of night, of ancient local legends, and of the terrifying Beast of Gévaudan that had once stalked these very peaks. The hikers listened, utterly spellbound, while the cows grazed peacefully nearby. From that day forward, Lucien became the unofficial storyteller of the mountains. Hikers would frequently pause near his farm to listen to his folklore and share a warm meal. The cows seemed to approve entirely, the gentle chiming of their bells harmonising perfectly with the young shepherd's tales. And so, caught between the steady footsteps of passing wanderers and the gentle gaze of his herd, Lucien found his rightful place in the majestic landscapes stretching between Haute-Loire and Lozère—a place where myth and reality seamlessly entwine. In doing so, the young herdsman and mountain storyteller forged a lasting bond between the hikers of the Stevenson Trail and the ancient, enduring secrets of the Lozère mountains.