Conical bing

IN a little place called Le Monastier, in a pleasant highland valley fifteen miles from Le Puy, I spent about a month of fine days.
Monastier is notable for the making of lace, for drunkenness, for freedom of language, and for unparalleled political dissension.

Breakfast at the gites is powdered coffee, warm bread and yoghurt - with some homemade jams. It's not an enjoyable affair.

I walk north through Alès to pick up the GR44 heading west and north. It's a long haul, through the city centre and then a couple of villages/suburbs. Eventually I find it and I'm in hills and woods almost immediately. The going is pretty easy for the most part - and the sun is shining.

There's a lack of direction almost straight away. It's clearly caused other people consternation too, because there are fences and signs plastered with arrows. Unfortunately, they're all piled in a heap, so there's no way of telling which one to follow. I take a guess - and it turns out to be the right one.

Then I find myself following markings that have been partially erased. Near Mathiau, I stop a local who shows me where I am on the map. Certainly not on the marked path, but going in the right general direction.

I pass through Le Martinet, crossing the river, and climb out on black paths through glorious, leaf strewn woodlands. I descend into, and climb out of, Rochessadoule, a village clinging to two cliffs. It's one of the best kept villages I've seen - definitely a candidate for some gruesome prize.

On the other side of the hill is Bessèges, which is another story. Grim, decrepit, awful. I buy a pizza-to-go, fill up on water and climb out of the abyss. As soon as I hit woodland, I eat half the pizza, and continue up.

I clear a space at the summit and put my tent up. Sitting on a rock, I watch the sun slide behind the hills. I like it here.