Leaving the blue shuttered Gîte de Roya behind, somewhat regretfully, the path slipped by the church, dropping down to cross a stream on a wooden bridge, and began a climb up through the forest. Following a stream, it gained height and entered a narrow valley bounded by low cliffs. The path was rocky but my knee did not complain. In time, trees were replaced by grass as the ground levelled out. I entered a green valley. Marmots whistled around me. Ahead, high above me, was a semi circle, a cove of limestone cliffs. Although tempting to think them the main pass, I knew it was too soon.
My route swung to the left of the cliffs as it clawed itself above them. Beyond was another green valley, and beyond that grey mountain slopes rose to the sky. In the bottom of the broad valley, tiny against the vast scale of the landscape, was an old fashioned bell tent. Nearby, in a temporary field created by electric fencing, was a donkey, presumably the one who brought the tent up. It looked up at me as if to say "What now"?
Inevitably more climbing was needed to reach a pass, the Col de Crousette. Rather than the usual steep descent beyond this pass, the trail turned left, a thin thread heading upward over stony slopes. Its target was a "stèle", a stump of a column, a memorial to some long forgotten soldier, the black letters falling out. The surrounding stones harbored little grass and no flowers. Even as I dropped down to greener levels, the flowers that brought me so much joy earlier in my trip had now gone to seed. In this dry land, only an occasional thistle was in flower, and patches of lavender by sheltered paths, which provided bees with nectar. Curious towers of, according to my guidebook, dolomitic limestone, sprouted from stony scree.
Having been loosing height for some kilometres there was an inevitable struggle uphill through loose rock and cliffs forming the "Portes de Longon". Only(!) 200 metres a passing hiker told me. Wooden sleepers created steps to assist hikers like me, behind which loose limestone scree had collected. At the top a green valley opened out, and a more gentle path led me over cow pasture to the Refuge de Longon. There I was greeted by the Swiss people I met the previous night at the Gîte de Roya. I ordered an Orangina and Tarte Tatin to refresh myself. Despite it being a small refuge the sanitary arrangements were excellent with a number of clean, modern WCs and showers.
I was fortunate I arrived when I did, as my arrival was followed by a hailstorm accompanied by thunder. The hailstones were large. Three of the white sheepdogs attached to the refuge sheltered under a picnic table. Although the storm had cooled the air, once the precipitation had stopped, we were able to gather outside for a welcome drink. An alcoholic concoction that I did not establish the constituents of. At dinner I sat with my Swiss companions of the previous night, although now the preliminaries were out of the way (i.e. were you walking the GR5, where are you headed tonight etc.) it was difficult to maintain a conversation. I find it difficult anyway, and my lack of French and their difficulties with English did not help. I worried that one of them was excessively thin, and being a vegetarian did not help as dinner was chicken on the bone with rice.
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