GR®70 From Pradelles (Haute-Loire) to La Bastide-Puylaurent (Lozère)
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GR®70 From Pradelles (Haute-Loire) to La Bastide-Puylaurent (Lozère) |
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On the morning of the third day, we discover a gray and cold sky, only two degrees, the few drops from the sky whose tears seem hesitant appear thick, the snow doesn't seem far away. This is our awakening as we climb the streets of Pradelles towards the café.
Fortunately accompanied by Mr. Romand, Laurent, Denis, and I go to retrieve Popov and Keneth; kindly, they respond to their master's call, while the companions with whom they spent the night—a full black donkey and Popov's "twin brother"—would also like to follow. Alone, it is uncertain whether we would have taken the right donkey, as their coats have the same fawn hue, and the black mark going down towards the front legs has just a small difference in length. Keneth has a grayer tint, but the same mark indicates a close link to the Provençal breed in his blood.
Walking down between the stone houses with the two donkeys at the end of the halters, amidst the smell of a bakery, brings me back to village life some decades ago; now, the deserted alleys, despite their excellent maintenance, sadly display an impressive number of "For Sale" signs. We lead the donkeys better and faster, curiously creating a minimal disruption to the traffic under the gîte; in this tiny, outlying street, the donkeys tied to rings that the walls have kept from the time when animal traction was common hinder the access of employees from a medical-social establishment or related hiring just at the time of departure for this other day of wandering. Denis experiments with the art of guiding our four-legged companions while we enjoy one last interior glance at the village as we pass under its porches.
Langogne is not far away, a descending path leads quietly there before joining the national road at the bridge where the departments of Haute-Loire, Ardèche, and Lozère meet, where we enter. Mende, its prefecture, is one of the smallest in France, but its wild and deserted landscapes, neighboring Aveyron, speak to the independent hearts, and my brother and I have been greatly guided by them towards this journey.
For the moment, the situation is rather strange, with our donkeys on the sidewalk, we move between the cars and the shop windows; here they are "parked" in front of a supermarket for a while to do some shopping, a curious anachronism. This boulevard, however, has known another age with ramparts instead of asphalt. And while waiting for Pierre in search of an original version, as a former English teacher, in the bookstore, and other lost members of the group in cafés or bakeries, the sidewalks receive some unexpected marks from the passage of the donkeys! Fortunately, there are no unpleasant spectators.
We leave the relatively quiet tumult of the city, which is also endured indifferently by Keneth and Popov, via a lovely old narrow and arched bridge. A bit of asphalt still leads us towards the paths and the last crops. The sky is gray over the fields; the Scots pines add to the picture their dark green tops and their salmon-colored trunks. They are becoming increasingly numerous.
In Saint-Flour-de-Mercoire, Saint Roch watches over the crossroads near the community oven and the washhouse. The church hides away. After permission, the leads are secured to a lost catapult in a nice green meadow, a remnant of local festivities. We find refuge under the roof of the washhouse for a picnic.In this small village, there is a theater association that has not failed to interest our actor friend; a note on the door and the traces of the iron-shod hooves belonging to his large gray donkey confirm his presence before us. The Belgians are also here, having arrived by car for a stretch on foot, and Pierre, the photographer, overtakes us and waits for a few snapshots as the walk resumes.
Fouzillic and Fouzillac have marked Stevenson's journey as places of confusion and inhospitability. Today too, the fog floods the heath between pines and gorse, the path gets lost among the tall grasses and swamps, drawing closer the souls troubled by Stevenson’s atmosphere in his wandering.
The approach to Cheylard-l'Évêque is accelerated by the rain. The Refuge du Moure, where we quickly take refuge, welcomes us tonight while the donkeys reunite with Capucine in an enclosure with high stone walls. The hostess is friendly, and the dining room, decorated with wood, is warm with jars of jams and homemade products on shelves, a bar in one corner, and photographs of Antarctica on the walls.Pierre, the photographer, dines with us and a few brave souls, not too exhausted, hasten the end of the meal to go see the revised and corrected "Journey of Stevenson" as a theater piece; we have indeed reached a genuine stopping place of the Scottish writer, and therefore, the actor we met plays here tonight.The performance of the solitary actor and the audiovisual techniques of his companions is interesting, especially appreciated in the setting of this small village lost in the rain; the focused reading of the original work will lead us the next day to some exchanges of viewpoints and perceptions. A shared drink offered by the municipality concludes the evening and sets our steps into the damp night towards the donkeys' enclosure, happy to see us. A true relationship is created a little more each day. And gently, we slip into the darkened rooms.
A truly complete breakfast with everything anyone might wish for in self-service launches the day with energy, especially since the rain has stopped, allowing us to discover the village of Cheylard-l'Évêque today. The hardest part this morning is separating our donkeys from Capucine. They are willing to come, the problem is that she also wants to, her master not being there yet. She will enjoy the dry bread we have recovered as usual from our hosts. However, the load in order, the chapel overlooking the village remains behind above the treetops lining the path. This building, like the name of the village, is due to the ancient presence of the holiday residence of the bishops of Mende.
The itinerary goes through pine forests, all-green valleys along the streams, and higher paths overlooking the wooded domes, with few houses. The group has split; the vanguard moves quickly while looking for mushrooms, while behind, we are three who are "trudging" at the pace of the donkeys. Moreover, we cross their "cousins," the horses, magnificent in their freedom between heaths and forests; a fence encloses them, so I wonder, watching the animals observing each other, if it isn’t the donkeys, despite their load, who are the happiest, constrained, more or less by our hands, but moving forward in an open space.
A shelter by the edge of a lake has motivated the others to wait for us; it is not that warm. Exchanges occur among the leaders, and it’s off to the castle of Luc. Laurent, transported that day in the technicians' van of the small theater troupe due to a tendinitis, arrives to meet us, a happy sign of the midday goal. In the midst of the ruins, a cool wind blows despite the sun, and everyone sets off in their direction, curiously exploring traces of the past while interested in the protective walls.
Finally, at the foot of the Virgin fixed on the donjon, the troops find their satisfaction, as do Keneth and Popov, especially as they become more knowledgeable and confident; we leave them in freedom, the first attempt now repeated every noon. Christophe, the solitary actor, joins the steps of the last among us for the descent to the village, an opportunity to extend the dialogue from the previous day and to revive Stevenson amid different perspectives in the reading of his journey. Unfortunately, we will not see each other again this time, as the author having made a stop in Luc, the theater troupe stops there while we leave for La Bastide-Puylaurent that very evening via the abbey of Notre-Dame des Neiges.
In Luc, a barn catches the attention of Pierre, Denis, and me, separately, and will be imprinted on the rolls of our respective cameras without prior consultation. Its appearance through the arrangement of its stones attracts the eyes, which confirm its old age by the date on the door, predating 1700. And here we are all three again behind, without donkeys as an excuse!
The first part of the afternoon is the opposite of the morning; between road and train, the journey seems closer to civilization and is certainly more frequented. Nevertheless, large abandoned colony buildings, at least we hope so, as their "barracks" appearance is somewhat frightening, testify to a retreat of human life even here at the edge of the communication routes.In any case, for us, distancing ourselves from them is best, and we ascend under the sun on the mountain that overlooks the abbey Notre Dame des Neiges. The lost markers lead us along our own path, closer to Stevenson, who went this way without a strictly dictated route.
The view is wide towards La Bastide-Puylaurent and Mont Lozère, but the roofs of the monastery hide their tranquility behind the tall conifers until the last moment because we arrive from behind. Our herbivorous companions will feast after permission by eating the ash leaves that two monks are just trimming; I savor the calm of the place in the shade near them while some visit according to their tastes—the bookstore, the church, or the bar! It’s because these monks mature their own vintage here, from their vineyards in Gard (Bellegarde).
Denis, not feeling well, moves forward alone while the others regroup for the last stretch of the day; it seems long, long. A hiker comes towards us; it’s Pierre, the photographer; he plans to sleep like Stevenson with the monks, but that’s not possible, as the reception is now intended for retreaters only.
In La Bastide-Puylaurent, despite a previous scouting, I hesitate to find the guesthouse L'Etoile, and then, finally, here we are at Philippe Papadimitriou's place, this "friend" mentioned many times by Christian, an esteemed and appreciated member of our association. Is he as I had imagined? Yes and no, rather no, certainly not disappointing; and me, am I like on the phone?!
Our host has an atypical background, and his whole house reflects that. From the fireplace to the piano in one corner, to the porcini mushrooms picked that day, cooked with garlic and herbs, to the shared meal and then the Belgian beers, all the ingredients are there for a lively discussion between Denis and him; “what if we revamped rural life?”Pierre reads by the fire, some have gone to bed and we, in what world are we between past and present, terroir and universality while the evening stretches in this lovely little corner of Lozère connected to the world by a traveling host passionate about the internet. by Catherine Revel
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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