Yurt chez Keith

He—for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it—was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.

Coffee, bread and jam for breakfast - not early - and then off on my final leg, to Keith's. It's grey and cold and looks like it might rain. I walk fast to keep warm.

First I climb a vehicle track before going onto a path that leads me to the summit. This pattern is repeated several times. There's one really long descent through pines. There's at least two heavy showers. And there's the exquisite Belvedere de Lichens, with wooden viewing platforms looking out over a wild Ardeche vista.

At Sarrabasche, I have to rely on Google's satellite image to find Keith's yurt. We drink coffee and chat away. It has been ten years since I last visited him and Jeannie up the hill.

He heads off to teach a singing class and I cook lentils, tomato purée and various vegetables to a rich sauce. Later, when he returns, we cook up spaghetti, add walnut pesto and olives, and tuck into a wholesome, mainly homegrown, dinner.

Keith hasn't drunk since soon after Jeannie and he split up, so there is no Ricard, vin rouge, or bière. It's a lovely evening, ending with Keith heading off to his "bedroom" yurt, while I unroll my sleeping mat and bag on the floor of the "kitchen" yurt.