Le Chemin de Stevenson
The fortified castle above the Loire at Goudet
Le Chemin de Stevenson is the route followed by Robert Louis Stevenson in 1878 as he travelled with a donkey from Le Monastier-sur-Gazelle to Saint-Jean-du-Gard. The following year he published an account of his journey inTravels with a Donkey through the Cevennes.
The GR (Grande Randonnee) 70 is now a 252 km eleven-day walk, unless, as I did, you take a wrong turning and lose a day. Many walkers begin at Le Puy which is an easy 17 km stroll from Le Monastier-sur Gazelle where Stevenson began. Some continue on from Saint-Jean-du-Gard to Ales where there is a train connection, but this is a less interesting step.
On this walk, the scenery is the main attraction. It is a beautiful walk, easy until le Bleymard, after which you cross Mont Lozere and enter the Cevennes.
There is enough accommodation, including a glorious chambre d'hotes outside Le Bouchet-Saint-Nicholas, a lonely gite en pleine campagne with a magnificent view at Les Alpiers, and hotels of varying quality. But I was glad I had booked ahead. One couple had to make a trip off the path to find accommodation.
The GR (Grande Randonnee) 70 is now a 252 km eleven-day walk, unless, as I did, you take a wrong turning and lose a day. Many walkers begin at Le Puy which is an easy 17 km stroll from Le Monastier-sur Gazelle where Stevenson began. Some continue on from Saint-Jean-du-Gard to Ales where there is a train connection, but this is a less interesting step.
On this walk, the scenery is the main attraction. It is a beautiful walk, easy until le Bleymard, after which you cross Mont Lozere and enter the Cevennes.
There is enough accommodation, including a glorious chambre d'hotes outside Le Bouchet-Saint-Nicholas, a lonely gite en pleine campagne with a magnificent view at Les Alpiers, and hotels of varying quality. But I was glad I had booked ahead. One couple had to make a trip off the path to find accommodation.
View from the gite at Les Alpiers
I have vivid memories of this walk, and, as I've experienced before, misery and joy often alternated. Days of rain were followed by fine weather, and the despair of losing my way succeeded by the joy of rejoining companions.
I remember sitting at a cafe at Goudet on the banks of the Loire, where it was little more than a mountain stream, far from the mighty river down among the chateaux. I looked across the river at a volcanic plug, one of the many in the region, and high up to my right were the ruins of a fortified castle, certainly of great importance in the middle ages.
Between Pradelle and Cheylard L'Eveque in the middle of nowhere, in a little hamlet without shops or bar, I came upon a barn which had been converted into a theatre. I was moved by a quotation on the wall by Jean Vilar which said something to the effect of:
Thank God there are people who think that the theatre is as important as bread and wine. He who would deprive the public of Corneille, Moliere and Shakespeare displays a narrowness of spirit. Our mission is to make available to all, what was until now reserved for the elite.
Looking back at Le Pont-de-Montvert
After a rainy day and depressing night at the drab, institutional Club et Loisirs at La Bastide Puy Laurent, I walked a across gentle countryside in sunny weather and found myself the sole guest at the lonely gite at Les Alpiers. Sipping a beer and looking over the fireweed, birches and poplars to the hills in the distance, I felt that all was well with the world.
But the next day was wet and cold, and at Le Bleymard I took a wrong turn. Not realizing that the GR 70 was crossed by another grande randonnee, I followed the familiar red and white balizes in the wrong direction. I climbed uphill for a couple of hours before I sensed that something was wrong. Then, reluctant to turn back and lose the height I had gained, and misreading my map in the fog and sleet, I continued, thinking that I would reach my destination by another route. When I came down into a valley and arrived at a village, I found that I had walked 11 km in the wrong direction.
I would have to retrace my steps. Up and down again, and then trudging into Le Bleymard past the hotel, I heard a shout from the balcony. I had rejoined some fellow travellers. My spirits lifted.
But the next day was wet and cold, and at Le Bleymard I took a wrong turn. Not realizing that the GR 70 was crossed by another grande randonnee, I followed the familiar red and white balizes in the wrong direction. I climbed uphill for a couple of hours before I sensed that something was wrong. Then, reluctant to turn back and lose the height I had gained, and misreading my map in the fog and sleet, I continued, thinking that I would reach my destination by another route. When I came down into a valley and arrived at a village, I found that I had walked 11 km in the wrong direction.
I would have to retrace my steps. Up and down again, and then trudging into Le Bleymard past the hotel, I heard a shout from the balcony. I had rejoined some fellow travellers. My spirits lifted.
Near Les Trois Fayards in the Cévennes
The next morning I stuck close to a fellow walker with a GPS. We climbed about 800 metres, close to the summit at Finniels, but due to the fog, missed the view of the Cevennes which had reminded Stevenson of stout Cortez gazing down at the Pacific,
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
I spent the night in the beautiful village of Le Pont de Montvert, in a valley at the fork of two streams.
After a long climb out of the village, in glorious sunshine I crossed some moors covered in boulders, which reminded me of Aubrac on the Chemin du Puy, and continuing up and up, walked across the roof of the world past Les Trois Fayards and Signal de Bougies.
This day alone was worth the trip.
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
I spent the night in the beautiful village of Le Pont de Montvert, in a valley at the fork of two streams.
After a long climb out of the village, in glorious sunshine I crossed some moors covered in boulders, which reminded me of Aubrac on the Chemin du Puy, and continuing up and up, walked across the roof of the world past Les Trois Fayards and Signal de Bougies.
This day alone was worth the trip.
Saint-Jean-du-Gard
At the end of the walk I downed a beer at a street cafe in Saint-Jean-du-Gard and mused on village life in France.
Three old ladies sipped a tea at the next table. An old couple walked by with sticks, people popped in and out of shops, and a woman appeared at her balcony and disappeared.
This to me was the real France,or certainly the traditional France, far from Paris. A companion had expressed the same sentiment, but with racist overtones: "A Paris, on parle Arabe."
I suspected the government heavily subsidizes villages like this to keep them alive. I found evidence of this the next day when I took a bus to Nimes, 50 kms away, to catch the TGV. Only one euro for the fare.
It was at Saint-Jean-du-Gard that I first encountered the growing concern about bedbugs along the hiking trails. For a change, and to mark the end of my walk, I stayed at a more comfortable hotel, but the receptionist fell into a minor panic when he realized that I had been walking "le Stevenson". Apparently there had been "incidents" along the way. He put my pack in a plastic bag and gave it a thorough spraying with a bug killer. The bedbugs must have felt like the passengers arriving on an international flight at Sydney airport when the pest controllers rush onto the plane.
Three old ladies sipped a tea at the next table. An old couple walked by with sticks, people popped in and out of shops, and a woman appeared at her balcony and disappeared.
This to me was the real France,or certainly the traditional France, far from Paris. A companion had expressed the same sentiment, but with racist overtones: "A Paris, on parle Arabe."
I suspected the government heavily subsidizes villages like this to keep them alive. I found evidence of this the next day when I took a bus to Nimes, 50 kms away, to catch the TGV. Only one euro for the fare.
It was at Saint-Jean-du-Gard that I first encountered the growing concern about bedbugs along the hiking trails. For a change, and to mark the end of my walk, I stayed at a more comfortable hotel, but the receptionist fell into a minor panic when he realized that I had been walking "le Stevenson". Apparently there had been "incidents" along the way. He put my pack in a plastic bag and gave it a thorough spraying with a bug killer. The bedbugs must have felt like the passengers arriving on an international flight at Sydney airport when the pest controllers rush onto the plane.
