After a breakfast of bread, jam, coffee, orange juice and cold crêpes, I left the convivial refuge saying my "au revoirs" to those with whom I had sat with at dinner and the hospitable lady in charge. Although there was the inevitable climb, the track was good and as Bousieyas was quite high at 1883 metres, reaching the first pass (Col de la Colombière) at 2237 metres was not too difficult. The main obstacle was a pack of three, white sheep dogs. I guess they were defending sheep somewhere nearby in the forest. At first they did not look too threatening, despite the spikes on the collar of the dog I took to be the leader of the pack. I continued along the track slowly, avoiding eye contact, but the dog of the spiked collar came for a closer look. The signs say to stand still, so I did. He then nipped my thigh through my trousers. Unnecessary I thought and moved slowly forward, with the aim of leaving their territory. I did not fancy my chances in an argument between myself and three big dogs. A hundred metres or so further on a couple of walkers were coming down the trail. He sniffed them but that was all. The distraction stopped him following me and after a little while I pulled down my trousers to confirm he had not drawn blood. Why had he nipped me and not the other couple? Maybe because I was wearing trousers and they were in shorts? Did he wonder what trousers tasted like? What if all the signs telling you what to do if you met a sheepdog were there because many people were being injured? As wolves have recolonised the French Alps it is perhaps inevitable that fierce dogs are used to defend the free roaming herds of sheep, although I would prefer that the sheep and their dogs were kept behind the temporary electric fences they often stretch out over the mountainside.
After the pass it was generally downhill on a gravelly track to St Dalmas le Selvage. On this southerly slope the grass grew long and beside the path wild lavender was growing. A sign I was approaching the Mediterranean (and the end of my walk). In St Dalmas le Selvage itself I stopped for a Coke and brownie with ice cream at a restaurant among the old buildings. Shortly after three of the hikers I had been passing on the trail for the last three days sat on a table near me. My French was insufficient to converse with them and they had no English, however we waved. After St Dalmas it was another uphill pull to the Col d'Anelle. After this pass the path contoured for a while before a steep descent into St Etienne de Tinée.
Splitting two long days in my guidebook into three, I have pitched my tent at St Étienne's campsite. It overlooks a pool where families were enjoying a sunny Sunday to sunbath and splash about in the water. Nearby was a short walk beside the river to where a stream was depositing calcareous tufa on pendulous lobes hanging down from above, over a river below. I strolled into the town's centre through narrow streets lined with tall, old houses with shuttered windows, very French. I liked its slightly shabby elegance, passing people sitting on their doorsteps, having a quiet smoke. Not a tourist town, although one that welcomed visitors. In the central square there was a small band playing in a marquee. I bought a beer from a temporary stall. The barman told me it was an festival held by the town every year, a festival for St Étienne de Tinée. I listened to the singer as I drank, and then the accordion player played "Roll out the Barrel". From the notices on the church it seems I missed the "Procession of the Penitents" earlier in the day, and that I would miss the raffle for a sheep next Sunday.
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| St Étienne de Tinée. |
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