Scratch marks from the past.

The last time I came to the Cévennes before this memorable visit was straight after the Tour de France last year. Kath came out to meet me in Nice (not bothering with the actual time trial, but just making it in time for take away pizzas with the crew after work), and the next day we drove up into the mountains to get away from the din.

We stayed with two tremendous people, Marc and Sandra, who have a couple of guest rooms in a wonderfully improvised farmstead by a lake near La Grand Combe. This is not tourist country, and Marc and Sandra are not used to tourists from overseas, like us. The vast majority of people who arrive to stay a few nights and chew the fat with them, while swiping away mosquitos are French; travellers from the rest of this big, varied land.

On our first morning with them, we walked up into the hills, to exercise their 2 donkeys and 3 goats, allowing them to graze on all the myriad green leaves of the Cévennes (and yes, I have now read Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes, and no I didn’t greatly enjoy it). We walked to a waterfall, and swam in the cold water beneath. It was pretty close to heaven. I even allowed Marc to make me a makeshift leaf crown and place it on my head, so blissed out was I.