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From Chasseradès to Bleymard in Lozère with Stevenson |
     
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From Chasseradès to Bleymard in Lozère with Stevenson |
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“From there, after crossing a hill, our road led us across a bare plateau until we reached Chasseradès at sunset.”
The company gathered that evening in the inn's kitchen consisted of all the workers employed in the topographical studies for one of the proposed railway lines. They were intelligent and pleasant to converse with, and we discussed the future of France over a warm wine until the late hour marked by the clock chased us to bed. There were four beds in the small room upstairs, and there were six of us to sleep there. But I had a bed to myself, and I persuaded my companions to leave the window open.
Hey, citizen, it’s five o’clock! Such was the cry that woke me in the morning (Saturday, September 28). The room was filled with a transparent steam that left me vaguely aware of the three other beds and the five different nightcaps on the pillows. But beyond the window, the dawn was painting a broad red stripe across the mountain tops, and the day was about to flood the plateau. The hour was suggestive, and there was a promise of calm weather that was perfectly fulfilled.
I was soon on my way with Modestine. The road continued for a while across the plateau and then descended through a steep village into the Chassezac valley. Its course glided among lush meadows, hidden from the world by its steep banks. The gorse was in bloom, and from there, a hamlet sent its smoke up to the sky.
Eventually, the path crossed the Chassezac on a bridge and, leaving this deep ravine, headed towards the crest of the Goulet. It carved its way through Lestampe (now L'Estampe) across plateaus, beech woods, and birch trees, and at every turn, revealed new delightful sights.
Even in the Chassezac ravine, my ear had been struck by a noise similar to that of a large bumblebee buzzing from several miles away, but as I continued to climb and get closer, it seemed to change tone. I finally realized that it was caused by a shepherd leading his flock to the sound of a horn.
The narrow street of Lestampes overflowed with sheep from one end to the other - black and white sheep bleating together like birds singing in spring, each accompanied by the pastoral bell hanging around its neck. It made for an impressive concert all in high notes.
A little higher up, I passed two men perched in a tree, armed with a pruning hook. One of them was humming a bourrée song. A little further on, as I was already entering beneath the birches, the crowing of roosters joyfully reached me, and at the same time, a flutist's voice extended, modulating a discreet and plaintive tune in one of the villages of the heights.
I imagined a rustic schoolmaster, with rosy cheeks and graying hair, playing the shepherd's pipe in his little garden in the clear autumn sun. These various melodies of unique charm filled my heart with an unusual expectation.
It seemed to me that once I had crossed the foothill I was climbing, I would descend into the earthly paradise. And I was not disappointed, as I was now being subjected to the rain, the hurricane, and the desolation of the place. Here ended the first part of my journey. And it was like a harmonious introduction to the other, which was even more beautiful.
There are degrees of luck just as there are in penalties, aside from the death penalty. And the benevolent spirits then led me into an adventure that I recount for the benefit of future donkey drivers. The road made such wide zigzags along the mountain's flank that I took a shortcut marked on the map and with the compass and ventured through stunted woods to catch up with the path a little higher up.
This was the occasion for a serious conflict with Modestine. She did not want to know anything about my shortcut. She turned to face me, walked backward, kicked, and, she whom I imagined to be mute, began to bray very loudly in a hoarse voice, like a rooster announcing the birth of dawn.
I prodded with a goad in one hand, and with the other, the ascent was so steep that I had to hold the beast. Half a dozen times my beast was two fingers away from tumbling on my head; a half-dozen times, out of pure weakness of spirit, I was on the verge of abandoning my plan and leading Modestine back to the bottom of the slope to follow the road.
But I regarded it as a challenge and stubbornly pressed on despite everything. I was surprised, as I reached the pathway again, by the sensation of raindrops falling on my hands, and several times I looked up, astonished, at the cloudless sky. It was simply the sweat running down my forehead.
At the top of the Goulet, there was no longer a marked path - only markers erected here and there to guide the herdsmen. The mossy ground was elastic and fragrant underfoot. I had only a few larks for company and only encountered an ox cart between Lestampe and Bleymard.
Before me opened a shallow valley, and behind, the chain of the Lozère mountains, partially wooded, with rather steep slopes, yet overall of a dry and sad configuration. Hardly a sign of cultivation. However, in the vicinity of Bleymard, the main road from Villefort to Mende crossed a series of meadows planted with tall poplars, and everywhere the sound of bells from sheep and herds echoed.” Travel with a donkey in the Cevennes by Robert Louis Stevenson.
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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