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Hike with Robert-Louis Stevenson in Pradelles |
     
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Hike with Robert-Louis Stevenson in Pradelles |
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“It was bitterly cold and icy, and apart from a cavalcade of ladies on horseback and a couple of rural postmen, the road was marked by a deadly solitude all the way to Pradelles.”
I barely remember one incident. A lively foal, wearing a bell around its neck, dashed towards us in a rush across the entire stretch of the meadows, like a being about to accomplish great feats. Then, suddenly, changing its mind, its young recruit's heart turned, and it galloped away just as it had come, its bell jingling in the wind. For a long time afterward, I saw its noble posture as it stopped, and I heard the sound of the bell. When I reached the main road, the song of the telegraph wires seemed to continue the same music.
Pradelles is located on the slope overlooking the Allier, surrounded by lush meadows. Grass was being mown all around, giving the area, that stormy autumn morning, an unusual smell of hay. On the opposite bank of the Allier, the site continued to rise for miles to the horizon, a late-season landscape that was faded and yellowed, marked by the black spots of pine forests and white roads winding among the hills, the clouds casting a uniformly purplish shadow, sad and somewhat threatening, exaggerating heights and distances and giving even more relief to the winding paths of the main road.
The perspective was quite desolate but stimulating for a tourist. For I now found myself at the edge of Velay, and everything I could see was situated in another region of the wild, mountainous, uncultivated Gévaudan, recently cleared out of fear of wolves.
Wolves, alas! like bandits, seem to retreat before the march of travelers. One can stroll through all our comfortable Europe without encountering an adventure worthy of the name. But here, wherever one might have been, one found oneself on the borders of hope. It was, indeed, the land of the always memorable Beast, the Napoleon Bonaparte of wolves. What a fate it had! It lived ten months in free quarters in Gévaudan and Vivarais, devouring women and children "and shepherdesses famous for their beauty." It pursued armed horsemen.
We saw it, in broad daylight, chasing a post chaise and a rider along the Royal cobblestones, and both the chaise and the rider fled before it at full gallop. It made the headlines like a public criminal and a bounty of ten thousand francs was placed on its head. And yet, when it was killed and sent to Versailles, well! it was just an ordinary wolf and not one of the largest, “although I could go from pole to pole,” sang Alexander Pope.
The little corporal shook Europe; if all wolves had resembled this one, they would have changed the history of humanity. Elie Berthet made him the hero of a novel that I read and have no desire to reread.
I hurried my snack and resisted the innkeeper's desire who urged me to visit Notre-Dame de Pradelles, "which performed many miracles, although it was made of wood," and, less than three quarters of an hour later, I was prodding Modestine down the steep descent leading to Langogne on Allier.
On both sides of the road, in vast dusty fields, farmers were busy preparing for the upcoming spring. Every fifty meters, a team of heavy oxen, with drooping lips, patiently pulled a plow.
I saw one of these powerful and placid servants of the soil take a sudden interest in Modestine and myself. The furrow he was digging led to a corner of the road. His head was securely fastened to the yoke like that of the caryatids under a heavy cornice, but he fixed his large honest eyes on us and followed us with a thoughtful gaze until his master forced him to turn the plow and began to work up the field.
From all these plowshares that opened the soil,
from bovine footsteps, from every farmer who, here or there, broke the
dry clods of earth with a hoe, the wind carried a light dust far away,
comparable to thick smoke. It was a lively, busy, delicate rural picture,
and as I continued to descend, the high lands of Gévaudan kept rising
before me in the sky.
From "Journey with a Donkey in the
Cevennes"
***
Once upon a time, in the lush valleys surrounding Pradelles, there was a young cowherd named Martin. His days followed one another, rhythmically marked by the songs of the birds and the whisper of the wind in the gorse. Martin dreamed of distant adventures, unknown lands, and thrilling stories, but his life was here, among the cows and the hills of his homeland.
On a foggy morning, while Martin was guiding his flock to the pastures, a silhouette accompanied by a donkey emerged on the path. It was a sharp-eyed man, carrying a bulky bag and a walking stick. It was Robert-Louis Stevenson, the traveling writer, who had just left Pradelles heading towards Langogne.
Intrigued, Martin approached, and the two men exchanged a few words. Stevenson, with his verve and enthusiasm, told the young herder about his travels, his writings, and his relentless quest for freedom. Martin, captivated, soaked in his words, seeing in this man the embodiment of his own dreams.
Stevenson, noticing the sparkle in the young man's eyes, offered him a notebook. "Write," he said. "Write your dreams, your thoughts, and one day, make them your journey." Martin took the notebook, a treasure more precious than gold, and promised to follow this advice.
Years passed, and Martin's notebook filled with stories and drawings. He became not only a cowherd but also a guardian of dreams. And when the time came, he also set out on the paths, a walking stick in hand and a bag of dreams on his back, following in the footsteps of Stevenson and so many others before him.
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.
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