Leaving the campsite early, as clouds drifted down the valley, the first section of walk reminded me of how wonderful walking across flat ground was. Along the valley bottom, hay had recently been gathered in from small fields. Meadowsweet, knapweed and similar flowers bloomed beside the path. A group of low, stone walled, stone roofed houses formed the little settlement of Le Collet. Like other houses in the area, various designs were used to keep the snow out of the chimneys. After this village, the climbing began...
Back and fore, left and right, the path crept up the huge mountainside, in an unending effort of muscle, lifting my body and its heavy rucksack upward by pushing one leg down after another, like an ant trying to climb a skyscraper. A group of old stone buildings, some with collapsed roofs, peered out of the mist, an excuse to stop and examine their construction. Apart from the logs used to support the heavy, flat, flags of schist forming the roof, the reminder of the buildings seemed to have been built of stone collected off the hillside, roughly shaped and carefully placed without the use of cement.
At the end of the long ascent, a farm track led me along the mountain, embedded in white cloud. There was a simple, small chapel (locked), the third of its type I had seen today. It was dedicated to Saint Antoine, patron saint of mules and mule drivers. Appropriate as mules may have been used to transport goods up and down the mountain before pick ups and 4 X 4's were invented. A similar chapel at Le Collet was dedicated to Mary Magdalene, patron saint of prostitutes and perfumiers.
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| Chapel of Saint Antoine. |
At the Refuge de Vollonbrun I stopped for a late breakfast. One of the smaller refuges, the coffee, apple juice, muesli, bread and apricot jam was delivered with a smile. A little after the refuge, the path slowly lost height to enter a coniferous forest, before turning back uphill. There were a couple of large mounds, made of detritus from the trees and covered in crawling ants. I moved away quickly before the ants on the path decided to crawl up my legs.
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| Anthill. |
To gain a sense of progress I counted the number of switchbacks on my GPS before I would reach the top. There were ten, five hairpin turns to the left and five to the right, from where I started counting. By turn five I was beginning to leave the trees. Rock scree and outcrops faced me as I stood in a small meadow. The winding path continued to the right and in time I was at the top of this section among rocks, grasses and flowers.
The cloud had now cleared and I had a view down the valley to a village far below me. Thinking I would have a signal I checked my mail and had another go at booking a bivouac spot, dinner and breakfast for tomorrow night. I was unsuccessful. Everywhere was full. After dropping a note to my wife (as I correctly surmised there would be no signal at the refuge tonight) I continued. Following more gentle terrain the path rose again to cross over the top of a steep sided valley. At a large car park, full of cars, there was a dramatic change in the numbers of people around. Until this point I had met few hikers, but on the good quality path I now followed, people of all kinds were out, mainly returning to their vehicles from a walk towards the refuge where I am staying. This last section of my route ran along side a short ravine, where a stream ran between cliffs, above was a lake and then an area of undulating grass pasture. Beside the track, plaques had information about birds, animals and plants. Little quizzes (such as the "poo quiz") added interest.
The refuge is a larger building than many, stone built to match local farm buildings. A road leads to it and you can even catch a bus to the nearby town. Beyond it grey mountains reach upward into ethereal clouds, snow collecting in patches and gulleys on their sides. After dinner there was an event, a comedy act. Two men dressed only in towels around their waist, mimed to music and engaged in fast paced repartee. As it was in French I only caught one word in twenty, not enough to make much sense of it, however it seemed on the general subject of masculinity and femininity, ending with a song stating "Je suis un homme". The older part of the audience found it funny, although I was unsure what the party of young school children made of it. These youngsters are camping, no bivouacing, at the refuge with me. I chatted for a while with a couple from the Lake District, the only other British people at the full refuge, then headed to bed, soon asleep despite the chattering of the school party.
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