Dear friends and family,
Thanks for reading me!
For future posts please go to http://rebeccaonapath.blogspot.co.uk
25 October 2015
20 September 2015
Gran Paradiso
How many thousand kilometres have I walked with this man...
Let's say 10km a week, over a period of nearly 20 years... So maybe 10,000? And how many of those must have been in the Alps. You might think we would be searching for a different type of scenery for a week's holiday. But the Alps are vast. And the better we know them, the more nuanced our appreciation of the differences, region to region, has been.
Gran Paradiso National Park is a short drive, for Juan, over the St Bernard pass and via the elegant town of Aosta. Following on from our Dolomites week in July we were once again surprised to find an Italian geo-political quirk: Aosta valley was part of the kingdom of Savoy until 1861 and has some similarities with the Tyrol – Italianisation under the fascist regime in the 1920s. But in Aosta valley there was a greater willingness to embrace Italian nationality and, although French is widely spoken (our airbnb hostess told us that she still speaks the patois she grew up with, which is the same languedoc spoken in Provence), and much of the signing is bi-lingual, it feels Italian. Chic shops sell classy charcuterie and the sweet smell of chocolate wafts from the many confiseria.
As we strolled through Aosta it was curious to think that the population – to us so obviously Italian with their lime-green-pink-black trainers, or tight-fitting shiny suits – has been Italian for less than a century. But, looking at a map, one could wonder how on earth this corner of the Alps could ever have been ruled from France, with passes into the French Vanoise (where we have walked on several occasions) open only four months of the year.
We had planned the week as a two-day trek walking east along the long-distance Alta Via 2, from Chardonnay to Cogne, followed by 4 days based in Cogne. Leaving the car at Cogne, and getting to Chardonnay for the start of the walk, was a tad complicated – 3 buses with lengthy waits in between. Communication with the bus drivers was rudimentary – in pidgin French. But all went well, and the last stretch of the journey was spectacular, up a crazy switchback road with birds-eye views over the many tiny hamlets, their stone tiles reminiscent of Vanoise architecture, only a stone’s throw away.
It was dusk as we arrived at our hotel at Chardonnay, a funky building with dated decor. Supper was basic, an exercise in how many carbs you could pack onto one meal: gnocchi and bread followed (for Juan) by beef and chips. Afterwards, as we waddled around the village trying to digest, the rain predicted for the first day of our walk had already arrived.
At breakfast the following morning the bread we had rejected for supper resurfaced. Ah well, waste not, want not. We left the hotel in steady rain, a novel experience, as, during our years in France, we have become fair-weather walkers. With no waterproof trousers and – in my case – very inadequate footwear we were ill equipped for the conditions. After 2 hours we were drenched.
Never was a rifugio more welcome than Dondena. Heaven was drying out beside a wood-burning stove. And then – despite the forecast – seeing the clouds part and sun reappear.
An hour or so later we arrived at Miserin rifugio, photogenically situated adjacent to the lake of the same name, and – bizarrely – a massive church, Notre Dame de la Niège, built on the site of a medieval miracle statue.
The rifugio was memorable for its shower (yes, luxury) cubicles with transparent walls! Luckily my neighbour was a familiar Spaniard.
Back outside, it was just warm enough to enjoy a beer on the decking, and stroll around the lake, before rain returned.
As we waited for supper Juan humiliated me at Scrabble, less phased than me by the preponderance of "i"s and "a"s in the Italian version. Supper was good but an impossible calorie load: a huge plate of cheesy pasta followed by sausage stew and fried potatoes. We could barely peck at the latter.
The next morning we walked against the flow of runners competing in the “Tor des Géants”, the 340km, 24,000m+ ascent endurance trail. During a week runners run up and over a series of punishing mountain passes, overnighting and eating in large tents erected in the participating villages. Strongly male-dominated, most of the runners we passed looked pretty wrecked. It's hard to imagine the level of fitness one would need to make this anything other than a hellish act of stoicism. We learned that two French iron men were leading the way... And that many others had been slowed by the snow that had fallen over one of the passes near the beginning of the route at Courmayeur.
We walked over the Fenêtre de Champorcher and started the 1200m descent. First stop was the rifugio at Sogno di Berdzé, where we tanked up with cake and capucchino.
Until this point the scenery hadn't been very different from our regular stamping ground, the austere and majestic Oisans. But as we descended the Vallon de Urtier, entering Gran Paradiso N.P., the treeless rock-strewn pastures were replaced by steep-sloped larch forest, massive boulders, granite slabs, cliffs and waterfalls, fast-flowing rivers, views of glaciers. Gorgeous.
The scale of the landscape was different, too – the peaks, at 3000+m, higher than "our" Alps, but without the assistance of the cable-car network you find in Switzerland. So our descent was hard work. At one point we thought we'd hit the valley floor but it turned out to be a hanging valley, still 400m above our destination, Lillaz.
From Lillaz we hitched the last 3km to Cogne, a delightful village well established with the well-heeled middle aged. Window boxes adorn huge turn-of-the century hotels, with well tended gardens giving grandiose views down the valley. The sun loungers give a clue as to how tourists must spend their time in the high season. With virtually no ski infrastructure, and no mountain-bike trails or white-water opportunities, this isn't the place for those seeking an adrenalin rush. But, as an idyllic base for walking and high-level bivvy and rifugio sleep outs, where agriculture gives an authentic feel, and where there are endless gastronomic eating, Cogne is hard to rival.
We had taken advantage of a "4 for the price of 3" deal, and booked at the Madonnina hotel. The clientele was entirely Italian, mostly in the sixties, with one younger group – the women trotting around the dining room in 3-inch stilettos.
Snooty though I am about schmoozing it, I think I may be converted to the 3-star experience, in particular the pleasures of the hydro-massage-hammam at the end of a long walk. (Even if, to quote Juan, we wouldn't have positively chosen the couple with whom we shared the outdoor jacuzzi.) And as for the breakfast... for four days we indulged in yoghurt-seeds-stewed-fruit, scrambled-eggs-local-bacon and the full range of Italian pasticceria... eating until we could eat no more, and skipping lunch.
From the hotel we did day walks of various lengths, depending on the amount of rain.
Valmontey village to the top of Valnontey valley, via the ruined hamlet of Money, with Glacier Grand and Glacier de la Tribulation ahead
Lillaz waterfalls
Lago de Loie – in conditions so wet that we didn't even manage a photo of the lake!
After four days of Simon & Garfunkel covers, Brahms lullabies and Tina Turner it was time to move – to the spartan refuge conditions we are used to. We walked up to Rifugio Vittorio Sella, and from there to Col Rousse, impressing ourselves with how manageable the 1500+m ascent seemed. Along the way we saw more marmots than we’ve seen all summer, and numerous view of chamois and bouquetin. From the col we had fabulous views of Gran Paradiso peak, and the glaciers all around Valnontey valley.
We dropped down to the rifugio for the night. It was huge (sleeps 200 – those were the days, when refuges could attract such numbers) and old fashioned: squat toilets and no showers, but a friendly guardienne and a great evening meal: minestrone soup, wild boar stew with fried potatoes, and apple strudel.
The following morning – the last day of the holiday – the sky was clear and blue for our walk back down to Valnontey. How it "should" have been, but we were happy to have seen the mountains in all weathers – the rain, after all, the reason for those sumptuous snow-dusted peaks.
Down in the valley we were in time for a strange annual spectacle: “La bataille des Reines”, which takes place in a different village each month. The event plays on the natural bellicose instincts of certain Alpine breeds, such as the Valle d'Aosta pie noire, which by fighting, determine the hierarchy within the herd. Apparently the cows don’t damage themselves, it’s more heavy-duty pushing than goring. But who would have believed girls could be so bolshy…
So thank you, feet and thank you, toes, for allowing me to enjoy so much astounding scenery. And thank you, Juan for this week, and the countless good times we’ve had in the mountains together. This blog is not the place to describe why this was more than the end of a holiday, and of summer. Or why I must, with a heavy heart, say "over and out for now".
Let's say 10km a week, over a period of nearly 20 years... So maybe 10,000? And how many of those must have been in the Alps. You might think we would be searching for a different type of scenery for a week's holiday. But the Alps are vast. And the better we know them, the more nuanced our appreciation of the differences, region to region, has been.
Gran Paradiso National Park is a short drive, for Juan, over the St Bernard pass and via the elegant town of Aosta. Following on from our Dolomites week in July we were once again surprised to find an Italian geo-political quirk: Aosta valley was part of the kingdom of Savoy until 1861 and has some similarities with the Tyrol – Italianisation under the fascist regime in the 1920s. But in Aosta valley there was a greater willingness to embrace Italian nationality and, although French is widely spoken (our airbnb hostess told us that she still speaks the patois she grew up with, which is the same languedoc spoken in Provence), and much of the signing is bi-lingual, it feels Italian. Chic shops sell classy charcuterie and the sweet smell of chocolate wafts from the many confiseria.
As we strolled through Aosta it was curious to think that the population – to us so obviously Italian with their lime-green-pink-black trainers, or tight-fitting shiny suits – has been Italian for less than a century. But, looking at a map, one could wonder how on earth this corner of the Alps could ever have been ruled from France, with passes into the French Vanoise (where we have walked on several occasions) open only four months of the year.
We had planned the week as a two-day trek walking east along the long-distance Alta Via 2, from Chardonnay to Cogne, followed by 4 days based in Cogne. Leaving the car at Cogne, and getting to Chardonnay for the start of the walk, was a tad complicated – 3 buses with lengthy waits in between. Communication with the bus drivers was rudimentary – in pidgin French. But all went well, and the last stretch of the journey was spectacular, up a crazy switchback road with birds-eye views over the many tiny hamlets, their stone tiles reminiscent of Vanoise architecture, only a stone’s throw away.
It was dusk as we arrived at our hotel at Chardonnay, a funky building with dated decor. Supper was basic, an exercise in how many carbs you could pack onto one meal: gnocchi and bread followed (for Juan) by beef and chips. Afterwards, as we waddled around the village trying to digest, the rain predicted for the first day of our walk had already arrived.
At breakfast the following morning the bread we had rejected for supper resurfaced. Ah well, waste not, want not. We left the hotel in steady rain, a novel experience, as, during our years in France, we have become fair-weather walkers. With no waterproof trousers and – in my case – very inadequate footwear we were ill equipped for the conditions. After 2 hours we were drenched.
Never was a rifugio more welcome than Dondena. Heaven was drying out beside a wood-burning stove. And then – despite the forecast – seeing the clouds part and sun reappear.
An hour or so later we arrived at Miserin rifugio, photogenically situated adjacent to the lake of the same name, and – bizarrely – a massive church, Notre Dame de la Niège, built on the site of a medieval miracle statue.
The rifugio was memorable for its shower (yes, luxury) cubicles with transparent walls! Luckily my neighbour was a familiar Spaniard.
Back outside, it was just warm enough to enjoy a beer on the decking, and stroll around the lake, before rain returned.
As we waited for supper Juan humiliated me at Scrabble, less phased than me by the preponderance of "i"s and "a"s in the Italian version. Supper was good but an impossible calorie load: a huge plate of cheesy pasta followed by sausage stew and fried potatoes. We could barely peck at the latter.
The next morning we walked against the flow of runners competing in the “Tor des Géants”, the 340km, 24,000m+ ascent endurance trail. During a week runners run up and over a series of punishing mountain passes, overnighting and eating in large tents erected in the participating villages. Strongly male-dominated, most of the runners we passed looked pretty wrecked. It's hard to imagine the level of fitness one would need to make this anything other than a hellish act of stoicism. We learned that two French iron men were leading the way... And that many others had been slowed by the snow that had fallen over one of the passes near the beginning of the route at Courmayeur.
We walked over the Fenêtre de Champorcher and started the 1200m descent. First stop was the rifugio at Sogno di Berdzé, where we tanked up with cake and capucchino.
Until this point the scenery hadn't been very different from our regular stamping ground, the austere and majestic Oisans. But as we descended the Vallon de Urtier, entering Gran Paradiso N.P., the treeless rock-strewn pastures were replaced by steep-sloped larch forest, massive boulders, granite slabs, cliffs and waterfalls, fast-flowing rivers, views of glaciers. Gorgeous.
The scale of the landscape was different, too – the peaks, at 3000+m, higher than "our" Alps, but without the assistance of the cable-car network you find in Switzerland. So our descent was hard work. At one point we thought we'd hit the valley floor but it turned out to be a hanging valley, still 400m above our destination, Lillaz.
From Lillaz we hitched the last 3km to Cogne, a delightful village well established with the well-heeled middle aged. Window boxes adorn huge turn-of-the century hotels, with well tended gardens giving grandiose views down the valley. The sun loungers give a clue as to how tourists must spend their time in the high season. With virtually no ski infrastructure, and no mountain-bike trails or white-water opportunities, this isn't the place for those seeking an adrenalin rush. But, as an idyllic base for walking and high-level bivvy and rifugio sleep outs, where agriculture gives an authentic feel, and where there are endless gastronomic eating, Cogne is hard to rival.
We had taken advantage of a "4 for the price of 3" deal, and booked at the Madonnina hotel. The clientele was entirely Italian, mostly in the sixties, with one younger group – the women trotting around the dining room in 3-inch stilettos.
Snooty though I am about schmoozing it, I think I may be converted to the 3-star experience, in particular the pleasures of the hydro-massage-hammam at the end of a long walk. (Even if, to quote Juan, we wouldn't have positively chosen the couple with whom we shared the outdoor jacuzzi.) And as for the breakfast... for four days we indulged in yoghurt-seeds-stewed-fruit, scrambled-eggs-local-bacon and the full range of Italian pasticceria... eating until we could eat no more, and skipping lunch.
From the hotel we did day walks of various lengths, depending on the amount of rain.
Valmontey village to the top of Valnontey valley, via the ruined hamlet of Money, with Glacier Grand and Glacier de la Tribulation ahead
Lillaz waterfalls
Lago de Loie – in conditions so wet that we didn't even manage a photo of the lake!
After four days of Simon & Garfunkel covers, Brahms lullabies and Tina Turner it was time to move – to the spartan refuge conditions we are used to. We walked up to Rifugio Vittorio Sella, and from there to Col Rousse, impressing ourselves with how manageable the 1500+m ascent seemed. Along the way we saw more marmots than we’ve seen all summer, and numerous view of chamois and bouquetin. From the col we had fabulous views of Gran Paradiso peak, and the glaciers all around Valnontey valley.
We dropped down to the rifugio for the night. It was huge (sleeps 200 – those were the days, when refuges could attract such numbers) and old fashioned: squat toilets and no showers, but a friendly guardienne and a great evening meal: minestrone soup, wild boar stew with fried potatoes, and apple strudel.
The following morning – the last day of the holiday – the sky was clear and blue for our walk back down to Valnontey. How it "should" have been, but we were happy to have seen the mountains in all weathers – the rain, after all, the reason for those sumptuous snow-dusted peaks.
Down in the valley we were in time for a strange annual spectacle: “La bataille des Reines”, which takes place in a different village each month. The event plays on the natural bellicose instincts of certain Alpine breeds, such as the Valle d'Aosta pie noire, which by fighting, determine the hierarchy within the herd. Apparently the cows don’t damage themselves, it’s more heavy-duty pushing than goring. But who would have believed girls could be so bolshy…
So thank you, feet and thank you, toes, for allowing me to enjoy so much astounding scenery. And thank you, Juan for this week, and the countless good times we’ve had in the mountains together. This blog is not the place to describe why this was more than the end of a holiday, and of summer. Or why I must, with a heavy heart, say "over and out for now".
03 September 2015
the angry pilgrim
I have been invaded by a pilgrim. On the main road, hacking back – as I repeatedly do – the honeysuckle that has a habit of strangling the hedge shrubs, I was hailed by a tall, balding guy in his early sixties hauling a 2-wheeled trolley to which was attached a rucksack. I checked him up and down: shorts, T-shirt, walking boots – he looked like a hiker; wheeling his life's possessions – a hobo?
"Do you know any gîte d'étapes round here?" he asked. Now this was weird. Gîte d'étape equals low-budget traveller looking for accommodation in the mountains. Shouldn't he have known that this is gîte desert. There are none within a 20km radius of here.
"Where are you heading for?" I asked.
"Jerusalem".
Whoa. "So is Jerusalem that way?" – I indicated the direction he was heading in, to Vizille. Some walk. "Where did you spend last night?" He showed me his map, on which he had highlighted all the gîtes. He had crossed the Chartreuse, pulling his trolley up and down the muddy footpaths, discovering its limitations. He had then made a massive deviation to avoid a similar experience in Belledonne massif. So had ended up at Vaulnaveys unplanned, with no accommodation info. It seemed a hilariously under-researched project.
I wondered how far I could put myself out.
"Would you like me to drive you up to Laffrey – there are more options up on the plateau?"
"Non non. I must walk all the way." Fair enough. "But you don't, by any chance, have a garage I could sleep in?"
I thought of our cement-dusty garage and couldn't really see it.
"Well yes. But not exactly. I do airbnb" (he hadn't heard of it). "You can stay in the house, if you like. My name's Rebecca."
"Bernard."
I liked the idea of providing shelter to a fellow walker and searcher. The reality is a little less romantic. No need to tell him to make himself at home. He had barely got foot inside the door when he was asking for a coffee, where he could wash his clothes, where he could hang them up, the wifi code... All entirely reasonable. But then he started yacking loudly on the phone. I couldn't concentrate, or listen to the radio – or do anything, really. And the man smells real bad!
But I get him to help me stuff the car with greenery and we do a quick trip to the tip.
Back at the house he is insistent on me stamping his carnet of places stayed at. And then accepts what was intended as a joke – my sticky, brown, marmite thumbprint, adjacent to which, "Rebecca, Vaulnaveys-le-Bas". The significance of this admin becomes clearer later on.
And am wondering which high-carb delicacy I can serve up for supper, and how I'm going to cope with his presence for the next 12 hours!
Later:
I drove us to Intermarché to scoop up some supplies, deciding on a heart-attack-inducing tartiflette + salad. It went down a treat. Between us we ate a whole reblechon. Nothing to be proud of.
Bernard is an ex-military man who's done service all over France's former colonies. His motivation for the pilgrimage is to give thanks to God for sparing him in his many battles. Unlike his mates, he still had four limbs when he retired from the army.
He had an interesting story about how contact with an orphanage in Cambodia led to him adopting a baby, now his 22-year-old daughter. Bernard ranted about how the république française is nothing more than a murderous warmonger. Well, he should know... I didn't ask him how a career spent killing people could square with his Christian conscience. Or what the psychological scars were.
He is convinced that France should reinstate its king (currently presiding over Spain, such is the Bourbon destiny). So I have met my first full-blown French monarchist. I mean truly: the man is seriously hopeful that it can be achieved. Why? Because the king is god-appointed (his T-shirt is emblazoned with the logo, "dieu et roi"). What...?!
6am:
The pilgrim is knocking on my bedroom door. I am already awake – his fairy footstep not conducive to sleep.
"J'ai un gros problème". Why am I not surprised. "I've lost my carnet – I think it must be at the supermarket."
"And?"
"You must take me there." How about: Rebecca, I'm sorry to be waking you up at this ungodly hour, but could you possibly...
"Without it I'll have to abandon the whole pilgrimage."
"Well, you've plenty of time to walk to Vizille – Intermarché doesn't open until 8.30am." I'm not feeling very Christian. I want Bernard to take a running jump.
"Very kind", he retorts, sarcastically. Clearly, neither is he.
"If I'm there early I'll be able to search the bins before they're taken away."
"Right. Ok."
We throw his muddy trolley into the car and, as we drive to Vizille, I try to put a positive spin on events: God doesn't need a filled carnet. The need for proof is just an ego thing. He knows this but rants the while. I turn towards Intermarché and he then remembers the boulangerie where we also stopped yesterday. And lo, the lord giveth. He had indeed left the carnet there, and it is now back in his hands.
A bloody miracle. I am delighted and give him a hug. "Rebecca, vous êtes top", he says.
Today's route is 43km, a boring slog along the Romanche valley between Vizille and Bourg d'Oisans, fetching up at Rivier d'Allemond. All on busy main roads. He'll be glad I shortened his route by 5km.
Phew. If this is what airbnb is like, I think I might give it a miss next time!
"Do you know any gîte d'étapes round here?" he asked. Now this was weird. Gîte d'étape equals low-budget traveller looking for accommodation in the mountains. Shouldn't he have known that this is gîte desert. There are none within a 20km radius of here.
"Where are you heading for?" I asked.
"Jerusalem".
Whoa. "So is Jerusalem that way?" – I indicated the direction he was heading in, to Vizille. Some walk. "Where did you spend last night?" He showed me his map, on which he had highlighted all the gîtes. He had crossed the Chartreuse, pulling his trolley up and down the muddy footpaths, discovering its limitations. He had then made a massive deviation to avoid a similar experience in Belledonne massif. So had ended up at Vaulnaveys unplanned, with no accommodation info. It seemed a hilariously under-researched project.
I wondered how far I could put myself out.
"Would you like me to drive you up to Laffrey – there are more options up on the plateau?"
"Non non. I must walk all the way." Fair enough. "But you don't, by any chance, have a garage I could sleep in?"
I thought of our cement-dusty garage and couldn't really see it.
"Well yes. But not exactly. I do airbnb" (he hadn't heard of it). "You can stay in the house, if you like. My name's Rebecca."
"Bernard."
I liked the idea of providing shelter to a fellow walker and searcher. The reality is a little less romantic. No need to tell him to make himself at home. He had barely got foot inside the door when he was asking for a coffee, where he could wash his clothes, where he could hang them up, the wifi code... All entirely reasonable. But then he started yacking loudly on the phone. I couldn't concentrate, or listen to the radio – or do anything, really. And the man smells real bad!
But I get him to help me stuff the car with greenery and we do a quick trip to the tip.
Back at the house he is insistent on me stamping his carnet of places stayed at. And then accepts what was intended as a joke – my sticky, brown, marmite thumbprint, adjacent to which, "Rebecca, Vaulnaveys-le-Bas". The significance of this admin becomes clearer later on.
So I now have a view of his underpants, lined up on his string between the birch and the hedge.
He has brushed his shoes, cursing the while. And has now settled down on the terrace, shouting down the phone – banking admin, then booking his accommodation for the following night – muttering to himself, swearing non-stop. "Oh là là là là... c'est pas possible. Les gens..."And am wondering which high-carb delicacy I can serve up for supper, and how I'm going to cope with his presence for the next 12 hours!
Later:
I drove us to Intermarché to scoop up some supplies, deciding on a heart-attack-inducing tartiflette + salad. It went down a treat. Between us we ate a whole reblechon. Nothing to be proud of.
Bernard is an ex-military man who's done service all over France's former colonies. His motivation for the pilgrimage is to give thanks to God for sparing him in his many battles. Unlike his mates, he still had four limbs when he retired from the army.
He had an interesting story about how contact with an orphanage in Cambodia led to him adopting a baby, now his 22-year-old daughter. Bernard ranted about how the république française is nothing more than a murderous warmonger. Well, he should know... I didn't ask him how a career spent killing people could square with his Christian conscience. Or what the psychological scars were.
He is convinced that France should reinstate its king (currently presiding over Spain, such is the Bourbon destiny). So I have met my first full-blown French monarchist. I mean truly: the man is seriously hopeful that it can be achieved. Why? Because the king is god-appointed (his T-shirt is emblazoned with the logo, "dieu et roi"). What...?!
6am:
The pilgrim is knocking on my bedroom door. I am already awake – his fairy footstep not conducive to sleep.
"J'ai un gros problème". Why am I not surprised. "I've lost my carnet – I think it must be at the supermarket."
"And?"
"You must take me there." How about: Rebecca, I'm sorry to be waking you up at this ungodly hour, but could you possibly...
"Without it I'll have to abandon the whole pilgrimage."
"Well, you've plenty of time to walk to Vizille – Intermarché doesn't open until 8.30am." I'm not feeling very Christian. I want Bernard to take a running jump.
"Very kind", he retorts, sarcastically. Clearly, neither is he.
"If I'm there early I'll be able to search the bins before they're taken away."
"Right. Ok."
We throw his muddy trolley into the car and, as we drive to Vizille, I try to put a positive spin on events: God doesn't need a filled carnet. The need for proof is just an ego thing. He knows this but rants the while. I turn towards Intermarché and he then remembers the boulangerie where we also stopped yesterday. And lo, the lord giveth. He had indeed left the carnet there, and it is now back in his hands.
A bloody miracle. I am delighted and give him a hug. "Rebecca, vous êtes top", he says.
Today's route is 43km, a boring slog along the Romanche valley between Vizille and Bourg d'Oisans, fetching up at Rivier d'Allemond. All on busy main roads. He'll be glad I shortened his route by 5km.
Phew. If this is what airbnb is like, I think I might give it a miss next time!
31 August 2015
Champsaur camping weekend
The night at Lac Fourchu was preceded by two nights "official" camping with Juan near Chabottes in the Champsaur area just south of the Ecrins (see map). It was a compromise between my perennial love of sleeping out under the stars, and Juan's desire for a hot shower at the end of a sweaty walk: a quiet, end-of-season-empty campsite, it was middle ground.
We were last in the Champsaur a couple of years ago and don't know it very well - it's just beyond what we would do as a day trip. But the broad valleys, and less-steep mountains create endless possibilities. We picked a nearby hill, Le Cuchon, just north of the very wild Rouanne valley. And it was a dream of a walk...
In the evening we drove to the nearby village of Ancelle for a very good montagnard supper (lamb - what else).
In the evening we drove to the nearby village of Ancelle for a very good montagnard supper (lamb - what else).
And the following morning drove back to Vaulnaveys. The perfect weekend.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)