Twin peaks

Welcome to Twin Peaks. My name is Margaret Lanterman. I live in Twin Peaks. I am known as the Log Lady. There is a story behind that. There are many stories in Twin Peaks - some of them are sad, some funny. Some of them are stories of madness, of violence. Some are ordinary. Yet they all have about them a sense of mystery - the mystery of life. Sometimes, the mystery of death. The mystery of the woods. The woods surrounding Twin Peaks. To introduce this story, let me just say it encompasses the all - it is beyond the "fire", though few would know that meaning. It is a story of many, but begins with one - and I knew her. The one leading to the many is Laura Palmer. Laura is the one.

I breakfast at the épicerie - coffee and croissant. My first lift is from a carpenter who moved down from Alsace after coming on holiday to Gard a few times. He's a carpenter that refits old houses, something that many of his competitors don't like to do, because old houses don't have right angles or vertical walls. He tells me that this is the first time that he's run out of rainwater to water his garden.

In Vigan, I go to one of the four chemists. I buy ibuprofen and a French version of Deep Heat. My ankle feels fine - and will feel even finer.

Harold, a French African, who has been living in the region for a year, is on his way to Ganges. He's looking for a transport company to employ him as a trainee HGV driver. We talk mostly about whisky - I teach him what "blended" means, and he tells me about a popular whisky called "Label 5". He's surprised that ice is not a traditional accompaniment to whisky in Scotland.

A lady gives me a lift from the bottom of the Ganges hill to the top. She has friends in the north of Scotland and would like to visit to see the Borealis.

Then I get a lift with a young man whose third child was born this week. He now has a son and two daughters. He's also a carpenter. The company he works for builds modular houses out of structural steel and he's the man that fits them out. At the moment they've got a big job on for the local Buddhist temple. After that they'll be doing a security screening building for the Montpellier council. Check 'em out: www.ateliergest.com

And finally, a couple of lovely, aging ex-travellers (or similar), complete with dogs and illegible knuckle tattoes, take me to Sauve. They enquire into my sore ankle, listening to my diagnosis and offering advice.

Somewhere along the way I've left my poncho in someone's car. It doesn't look like it'll rain, but you never can tell.

It's after 11 and it's time to walk. I'm very protective of my ankle, deploying my stick as never before. By lunchtime, I'm at Durfort, where I have the "menu express" at the cafe Essentiel. The green salad is a green salad. The grilled chorizo is accompanied by courgettes, peppers and green beans, all grilled/fried in oil. It's a far cry from the food at La Tude on Tuesday, even if they do throw in a quarter litre of red.

I walk on to Monoblet, where I'm intending to camp. Only, when I get there, the campsite is half an hour downhill, in the wrong direction. So, I continue on another 11km to Anduze, where there is a "Gite d'étape" - basically a hostel. It's an easy walk, mainly on roads, but with some interesting paths through woods. I phone ahead, and arrive, earlier than expected, before eight.

Sebastien, for it is he, shows me to a room. "This is not the dormitory" say I. "No" he replies, "but you can have it for the same price." Works for me.

Shower. Laundry. Head out to the Central Bar, where Ricard, vin rouge, and salade fromagière await. Salut.