Hiking The Cevennes National Park/Tarn Gorge - Southern France
- Thread starter s'étonner
- Start date
My original plan for this day had been to make it an easy walk of 15 or so km from Sainte-Enimie to La Malene. However, I soon realised that it would be much wiser to try to do my usual 30km distance, and reach the town of Les Vignes further down the gorge. This would mean that my final day of walking would be much more manageable. It would prove to be another one of those decisions that was sensible in the long run, but I would rue it later that day!
I began my walk by heading up the road into the pristine, picture-perfect Sainte Enimie, where I bought my lunch for later that day- the obligatory demi-baguette, saucisson, and cheese combo. A hearty lunch that I would devour in a manner of minutes! I supplemented this with some fantastically-juicy apricots (Paul got me onto these in Florac!). The fruit in this part of the world is just amazing.
Here are some photos of Sainte Enimie, which holds the status of being one of France's 'Les plus de beaux' villages. Villages of particular beauty.
Down the gorge:
As I began my journey up the steep, narrow streets to find the trailhead, I came across several other hikers, all with the most enormous rucksacks on their backs, looking as if they were already about to keel over! I walked a short way with one such man as we left the town. His rucksack was easily twice the size of mine and he was already huffing and puffing on the hill, going at a very slow pace. When I told him that I was camping, I don't think he believed me! He asked the weight of my bag and he seemed shocked to hear my answer. I didn't dare to ask him about his! To make matters worse, he told me he was taking one of the other walks that goes right up to the top of the gorge, with much steeper ascents than my own. Fair play to guy if he's happy to carry that kind of weight, I'm sure with the right conditioning, it's quite safe, but I wince when I see people who clearly look burdened with a huge rucksack. It's just not necessary. Rant over.
Looking back to Sainte-Enimie:
I was soon back on the familiar windy, rocky, constantly-undulating path, with some lovely views of the gorge.
The day's first abandoned building:
A rocky overhang above the Tarn:
A very wonky shot of myself, taken using the timer on my camera, which was precariously balanced on a rock:
It was on this day that I was passing along a bit of the trail that went over a large scree pile, when suddenly I found myself on the most dangerous and precarious of slopes, loose rock below my feet, a sheer drop down to the river on one side, and a path ahead that seemed very faint and unused compared to the previous few days walking. Very carefully, and fearing for my only pair of underwear, I clambered and crept my way past the drop to realise that I had unknowingly wandered off of the real trail, and onto my own disturbing, nightmarish little scenic route. I rejoined the proper path with a sigh of relief. Another lesson learned.
Here is one such scree slope:
Another wonky timer shot of myself:
I soon reached the pretty little village of Saint-Chely-du-Tarn, after a particularly steep and hurried descent down from the gorge. I immediately headed for the hotel cafe which was already open, to get a massive coffee. However, I was soon getting death stares from the waitress after I left some dirt on the floor from my shoes. I then incorrectly ordered my coffee, asking for a small instead of a large, and only correcting myself after she had already picked up a small cup. This seemed to really anger her. It was quite scary. I decided to leave a decent tip.
I sat outside to get away from her and took off my shoes and socks, ensuring that I was out of sight (and smell) of passers by! It was at this point that I noticed what was happening to my feet. They were beginning to blister in places despite being ok for the previous 4 days. I think it started during the last few km to Sainte-Enimie, when I really should have stopped to air my feet, but kept going, just wanting to get there. My socks were also pretty dirty and gritty, as I had neglected to rinse and dry them the last few days. I applied some compeed plasters to the hot spots and continued on. However, the plasters just came off. I eventually took to using the gaffa tape that I had wrapped around my walking poles before leaving home (for emergencies!) to basically gaffa tape the plasters to my feet. This worked very well.
Saint-Chely-du-Tarn from above, before the descent:
Old farm machinery inside the village:
Back up the gorge, looking ahead to the next section:
Looking back at the village, I realised that I had failed to notice the building which had a waterfall coming out of it. I was forced to admire it from afar:
I came across this abandoned building which had some writing carved into it above the doorway:
Occassionally, the trail would lead me down beside the river, and I would be passing through areas that must be flooded during the winter, when the river level was much higher. These sections were great in their own way because the ground was flat, soft and sandy, and it all looked quite samey, so I would happily tank it through them, digging my poles in and getting some distance down quickly whilst I had the chance.
Down by the river:
Back up again!
These flowers were everywhere:
As I must have mentioned previously, the paths that I was taking were once the only way to get up and down the gorge for the local population. The paths were old drove roads, used for many hundreds of years by famers to move their cattle. These people also used to live up the inhospitable environment of the gorge slopes. Hot and dry in the summer, and covered in snow in the winter. The abandoned habitations I passed by throughout my trip were once where they lived. Similarly, much of the ancient stonework laid by those who built these roads still survives today, and is a testament to the skill of those workers:
I would walk along thinking how much sweat and hard work must have gone into making those roads, and here was me all these years later, using them for recreation.
One of the larger scree slopes that I encountered:
I saw quite a few of these old crosses during the walk:
After more walking, I reached a tiny habitation called Hauterives at around lunchtime. The sun was really beating down at this point. Perched on the gorge slopes, this place is only accessible via the path I was on, or a cable car that went across the river.
The chimneys on the houses were made like this to stop snow coming down them in the winter, a problem that I found difficult to envisage in such relentless heat!
Although most of the old buildings were boarded up, I was delighted to come across a gite, which was currently being used by a group of French boy scouts, who were all sat outside playing some kind of card game. I ordered an ice cold Orangina. It tasted like the most refreshing thing in the entire world given the baking heat. I sat in the shade to eat my lunch. It was now the hottest part of the day, but I knew that I couldn't stay for long; I still had quite some distance to cover. I was still slightly toying with the idea of just stopping at La Malene when I reached it, just to let my feet and legs recover before the final day. I set off in the baking hot sun to get there.
Due to me wanting to conserve the tiny remaining bit of camera battery, I took no photos until I reached La Malene, suffice to say that the journey there was very hot, sweaty and rocky. When I did arrive, here was the view:
The cliff face on the right actually has black scorch marks on it from when the town was burnt down during the revolution. What caught my eye more though was the tempting beach and the lovely, cool, rushing water of the Tarn.
I made my way over the bridge to be greeted by of all things, euro dance music being pumped out of some speakers attached to the lampposts on the other side. There was a bit of youth and coolness about the place and the people here that stood in stark contrast to the rest of this region. I wasn't sure if I liked it! That didn't matter though as I hurriedly hobbled on my aching, tired legs down to the beach, threw down my trekking poles and rucksack beside a bemused elderly couple sitting by the river, and proceeded to remove my shoes, filthy socks, and finally, a grim collection of gaffa tape and old plasters from my feet, before placing them into the refreshing river Tarn. Pure. Heaven.
A few minutes later, a Dutch family pulled up on the bank with canoes and sat down next to me. The mother kindly took this photo of me, lying on the beach:
As I explained my journey to them, I got the familiar reaction "You're walking all that way??? ..... ON YOUR OWN?!?!". Unfortunately, I was just starting to re-gaffa my feet up when they decided to begin eating lunch. The ladies reaction upon seeing the process I was undertaking was "that's not funny!".
I decided I was best to leave them to their lunch. I headed back up onto the street to buy a coffee, before asking the cafe owner if he could fill up my water bottles. He kindly obliged.
I was now totally certain that I would continue to Les Vignes rather than staying in La Malene. It felt too early in the day to stop, despite my worsening feet, and I knew that I'd be thankful for covering the extra distance when it came to tomorrows final day of walking.
I left the town feeling like I was taking a lot on- the map showed that this stretch passed through no other towns or habitations. I just wish that I'd taken more time to look at what the map showed in the way of contour lines...
I wasn't far down the trail before my feet were really screaming at me to stop and give them some TLC. So I did just that; patching them up with more gaffa and plasters. I could tell they were not going to be pretty by the time I reached Les Vignes. I pushed on, heading up many a steep rocky ascent into the heart of the gorge. This felt like a very lonely stretch. Knowing that my dad (who had now arrived at the campsite down the gorge that would serve as my finish line the following day) was so close by; just a short car drive away, was playing on my mind. I now had a potential way out. Instead of just pushing on, it became easier and easier to dwell on the fact that I could have just called it quits in La Malene, and got a lift. It was playing on my mind. It was too late anyway- I was on the other side of the river now, with no road, and no bridge between La Malene and Les Vignes. I would have to get there on my own two, aching feet. With virtually no camera battery left to take photos, and feeling pretty fed up at times, my thoughts sank into each step, my head was down, and I was ploughing on.
There was however a positive to this situation- my dad had a camera with him that I could borrow. I turned on my phone (which I was keeping switched off as much as possible, should I need it for an emergency, and just to avoid the distraction), and gave my dad a ring. He agreed to meet me in Les Vignes so that he could drop the camera off. That was a real let off. I could take photos again. However, I made a mistake during this phone call when arranging a time to meet. Seeing the distance to Les Vignes was apparently 7k from where I was, I assumed it would not take long, however, it would end up being one of the most gruelling sections of my walk.
As I climbed, descended and climbed some more, checking my location with the map, I felt like I was going nowhere. And then the strangest sound from across the gorge. A massive convey of motorbikes were cruising down the road on the opposite side of the river, revving their engines, it went on for ages, at least 15 minutes. They were joined by sirens, and honking car horns. It felt strange. Here I was on this side of the river, in what felt like a sort of wilderness, cut off, and just over the river, all those people. It made me feel all the more isolated and focussed on ensuring that I did not have an accident. If it was going to happen, it would be now, when I was the most vulnerable.
Here are the few photos I have of this section:
I wondered if this platform was for bungee jumping!
It felt like the fun was over at this point, I did have some camera battery left at least, but I no longer wanted to stop and admire the terrain, take photos, and remember what I had learnt walking with Paul. I just wanted to get to Les Vignes! My head was down, it was one step after another. I cursed at myself and the terrain, climbing higher and higher.
Then I came across a break in the trees, a grassy ledge with the remains of a campfire on it. And this view:
It might not look that special to anyone else, but at the time, it was just what I needed! It took my breathe away (partly because I was knackered!). It felt like the view of the trip. The high point of the trip! The crest of the wave. I stopped and marvelled for maybe 10 or 15 minutes. In awe of the landscape once again! It was definitely time to get the camera out, which soon went flat, so I turned to my phone, determined to try to capture the moment. I can see why someone had had a campfire there (as naughty as that is!) it would make one hell of a place to spend a night.
After that, I felt like a lot of the frustrations that had been building up since leaving La Malene had been released. And I continued with a newfound sense of determination not just to get to Les Vignes, but to again embrace the challenge of the walk. This was why I was here.
Looking back, this really was the most stunning bit of the gorge in many ways. It certainly felt the most wild and intense.
I reached the top of a large climb and I could finally see Les Vignes off in the distance- it looked further away than I expected, but it also looked as though it was mostly down from where I was. I must have basically been at the top of the gorge. Powering along the top of the ridge, with a newfound pace about me, I turned a corner and nearly power-walked straight into a group of scouts, who were lying down on the tiny path, basically on top of each other with rucksacks everywhere. It was a bit of a shock for all of us and they moved out of my way as best they could as I climbed over them.
It was then one big, long, winding descent that gradually led me down towards Les Vignes.
The face of a man who has walked way, way, way too far!
The path became a lane, and I could almost taste victory:
Looking back down the gorge behind me:
Handily, the lane took me right down to what would be my final campsite of the trip. It was well into the evening by then, I can't remember exactly when, perhaps 7 or 8. It's all a blur of sweat and tiredness! But what I do remember is that I was due to meet my dad over the bridge in town shortly, and I still had to pitch my tent and hopefully have a shower before dark, all in time to go and buy some dinner, for I had no cous cous left! And to make matters worse, at the one time I really needed my phone to warn my dad that I was running late, there was zero signal anywhere!
Les Vignes:
Fortunately all went well. My dad not only met me with his camera but also a big bottle of some rather strong beer. This was perhaps not wise given that I had been expending loads of energy all day and was by now on a totally empty stomach! It was such a morale boost to see him though. It almost felt as if I'd already completed what I had set out to do. And there was no-one better to be with at that time than my dad. I felt very relaxed. And shortly after, very tipsy! I joked with him about making a finish line for me with toilet roll for the following day- a suggestion made to me by an English guy I got talking to at the airport in Nimes.
After the beer, my dad departed in his car, wishing me well for my final days walk tomorrow, when I would see him once again. All's that was left to do was have a shower and buy some dinner at the restaurant, which sat overlooking the river and the bridge. I sat with my Aligot (a local specialty!) watching the sun set over the gorge and I finally began to reflect on how far I'd come. Not just that day, but over the past 5 days. The end of my journey suddenly felt all too near after all the months of planning and excitement. I'm not too ashamed to admit that some tears were almost shed over that Aligot! (It's kind of like a cheesy, extra stretchy mash potato).
Sunset over the gorge:
The other side of the bridge, my campsite was just off to the left out of shot:
I began my walk by heading up the road into the pristine, picture-perfect Sainte Enimie, where I bought my lunch for later that day- the obligatory demi-baguette, saucisson, and cheese combo. A hearty lunch that I would devour in a manner of minutes! I supplemented this with some fantastically-juicy apricots (Paul got me onto these in Florac!). The fruit in this part of the world is just amazing.
Here are some photos of Sainte Enimie, which holds the status of being one of France's 'Les plus de beaux' villages. Villages of particular beauty.
Down the gorge:
As I began my journey up the steep, narrow streets to find the trailhead, I came across several other hikers, all with the most enormous rucksacks on their backs, looking as if they were already about to keel over! I walked a short way with one such man as we left the town. His rucksack was easily twice the size of mine and he was already huffing and puffing on the hill, going at a very slow pace. When I told him that I was camping, I don't think he believed me! He asked the weight of my bag and he seemed shocked to hear my answer. I didn't dare to ask him about his! To make matters worse, he told me he was taking one of the other walks that goes right up to the top of the gorge, with much steeper ascents than my own. Fair play to guy if he's happy to carry that kind of weight, I'm sure with the right conditioning, it's quite safe, but I wince when I see people who clearly look burdened with a huge rucksack. It's just not necessary. Rant over.
Looking back to Sainte-Enimie:
I was soon back on the familiar windy, rocky, constantly-undulating path, with some lovely views of the gorge.
The day's first abandoned building:
A rocky overhang above the Tarn:
A very wonky shot of myself, taken using the timer on my camera, which was precariously balanced on a rock:
It was on this day that I was passing along a bit of the trail that went over a large scree pile, when suddenly I found myself on the most dangerous and precarious of slopes, loose rock below my feet, a sheer drop down to the river on one side, and a path ahead that seemed very faint and unused compared to the previous few days walking. Very carefully, and fearing for my only pair of underwear, I clambered and crept my way past the drop to realise that I had unknowingly wandered off of the real trail, and onto my own disturbing, nightmarish little scenic route. I rejoined the proper path with a sigh of relief. Another lesson learned.
Here is one such scree slope:
Another wonky timer shot of myself:
I soon reached the pretty little village of Saint-Chely-du-Tarn, after a particularly steep and hurried descent down from the gorge. I immediately headed for the hotel cafe which was already open, to get a massive coffee. However, I was soon getting death stares from the waitress after I left some dirt on the floor from my shoes. I then incorrectly ordered my coffee, asking for a small instead of a large, and only correcting myself after she had already picked up a small cup. This seemed to really anger her. It was quite scary. I decided to leave a decent tip.
I sat outside to get away from her and took off my shoes and socks, ensuring that I was out of sight (and smell) of passers by! It was at this point that I noticed what was happening to my feet. They were beginning to blister in places despite being ok for the previous 4 days. I think it started during the last few km to Sainte-Enimie, when I really should have stopped to air my feet, but kept going, just wanting to get there. My socks were also pretty dirty and gritty, as I had neglected to rinse and dry them the last few days. I applied some compeed plasters to the hot spots and continued on. However, the plasters just came off. I eventually took to using the gaffa tape that I had wrapped around my walking poles before leaving home (for emergencies!) to basically gaffa tape the plasters to my feet. This worked very well.
Saint-Chely-du-Tarn from above, before the descent:
Old farm machinery inside the village:
Back up the gorge, looking ahead to the next section:
Looking back at the village, I realised that I had failed to notice the building which had a waterfall coming out of it. I was forced to admire it from afar:
I came across this abandoned building which had some writing carved into it above the doorway:
Occassionally, the trail would lead me down beside the river, and I would be passing through areas that must be flooded during the winter, when the river level was much higher. These sections were great in their own way because the ground was flat, soft and sandy, and it all looked quite samey, so I would happily tank it through them, digging my poles in and getting some distance down quickly whilst I had the chance.
Down by the river:
Back up again!
These flowers were everywhere:
As I must have mentioned previously, the paths that I was taking were once the only way to get up and down the gorge for the local population. The paths were old drove roads, used for many hundreds of years by famers to move their cattle. These people also used to live up the inhospitable environment of the gorge slopes. Hot and dry in the summer, and covered in snow in the winter. The abandoned habitations I passed by throughout my trip were once where they lived. Similarly, much of the ancient stonework laid by those who built these roads still survives today, and is a testament to the skill of those workers:
I would walk along thinking how much sweat and hard work must have gone into making those roads, and here was me all these years later, using them for recreation.
One of the larger scree slopes that I encountered:
I saw quite a few of these old crosses during the walk:
After more walking, I reached a tiny habitation called Hauterives at around lunchtime. The sun was really beating down at this point. Perched on the gorge slopes, this place is only accessible via the path I was on, or a cable car that went across the river.
The chimneys on the houses were made like this to stop snow coming down them in the winter, a problem that I found difficult to envisage in such relentless heat!
Although most of the old buildings were boarded up, I was delighted to come across a gite, which was currently being used by a group of French boy scouts, who were all sat outside playing some kind of card game. I ordered an ice cold Orangina. It tasted like the most refreshing thing in the entire world given the baking heat. I sat in the shade to eat my lunch. It was now the hottest part of the day, but I knew that I couldn't stay for long; I still had quite some distance to cover. I was still slightly toying with the idea of just stopping at La Malene when I reached it, just to let my feet and legs recover before the final day. I set off in the baking hot sun to get there.
Due to me wanting to conserve the tiny remaining bit of camera battery, I took no photos until I reached La Malene, suffice to say that the journey there was very hot, sweaty and rocky. When I did arrive, here was the view:
The cliff face on the right actually has black scorch marks on it from when the town was burnt down during the revolution. What caught my eye more though was the tempting beach and the lovely, cool, rushing water of the Tarn.
I made my way over the bridge to be greeted by of all things, euro dance music being pumped out of some speakers attached to the lampposts on the other side. There was a bit of youth and coolness about the place and the people here that stood in stark contrast to the rest of this region. I wasn't sure if I liked it! That didn't matter though as I hurriedly hobbled on my aching, tired legs down to the beach, threw down my trekking poles and rucksack beside a bemused elderly couple sitting by the river, and proceeded to remove my shoes, filthy socks, and finally, a grim collection of gaffa tape and old plasters from my feet, before placing them into the refreshing river Tarn. Pure. Heaven.
A few minutes later, a Dutch family pulled up on the bank with canoes and sat down next to me. The mother kindly took this photo of me, lying on the beach:
As I explained my journey to them, I got the familiar reaction "You're walking all that way??? ..... ON YOUR OWN?!?!". Unfortunately, I was just starting to re-gaffa my feet up when they decided to begin eating lunch. The ladies reaction upon seeing the process I was undertaking was "that's not funny!".
I decided I was best to leave them to their lunch. I headed back up onto the street to buy a coffee, before asking the cafe owner if he could fill up my water bottles. He kindly obliged.
I was now totally certain that I would continue to Les Vignes rather than staying in La Malene. It felt too early in the day to stop, despite my worsening feet, and I knew that I'd be thankful for covering the extra distance when it came to tomorrows final day of walking.
I left the town feeling like I was taking a lot on- the map showed that this stretch passed through no other towns or habitations. I just wish that I'd taken more time to look at what the map showed in the way of contour lines...
I wasn't far down the trail before my feet were really screaming at me to stop and give them some TLC. So I did just that; patching them up with more gaffa and plasters. I could tell they were not going to be pretty by the time I reached Les Vignes. I pushed on, heading up many a steep rocky ascent into the heart of the gorge. This felt like a very lonely stretch. Knowing that my dad (who had now arrived at the campsite down the gorge that would serve as my finish line the following day) was so close by; just a short car drive away, was playing on my mind. I now had a potential way out. Instead of just pushing on, it became easier and easier to dwell on the fact that I could have just called it quits in La Malene, and got a lift. It was playing on my mind. It was too late anyway- I was on the other side of the river now, with no road, and no bridge between La Malene and Les Vignes. I would have to get there on my own two, aching feet. With virtually no camera battery left to take photos, and feeling pretty fed up at times, my thoughts sank into each step, my head was down, and I was ploughing on.
There was however a positive to this situation- my dad had a camera with him that I could borrow. I turned on my phone (which I was keeping switched off as much as possible, should I need it for an emergency, and just to avoid the distraction), and gave my dad a ring. He agreed to meet me in Les Vignes so that he could drop the camera off. That was a real let off. I could take photos again. However, I made a mistake during this phone call when arranging a time to meet. Seeing the distance to Les Vignes was apparently 7k from where I was, I assumed it would not take long, however, it would end up being one of the most gruelling sections of my walk.
As I climbed, descended and climbed some more, checking my location with the map, I felt like I was going nowhere. And then the strangest sound from across the gorge. A massive convey of motorbikes were cruising down the road on the opposite side of the river, revving their engines, it went on for ages, at least 15 minutes. They were joined by sirens, and honking car horns. It felt strange. Here I was on this side of the river, in what felt like a sort of wilderness, cut off, and just over the river, all those people. It made me feel all the more isolated and focussed on ensuring that I did not have an accident. If it was going to happen, it would be now, when I was the most vulnerable.
Here are the few photos I have of this section:
I wondered if this platform was for bungee jumping!
It felt like the fun was over at this point, I did have some camera battery left at least, but I no longer wanted to stop and admire the terrain, take photos, and remember what I had learnt walking with Paul. I just wanted to get to Les Vignes! My head was down, it was one step after another. I cursed at myself and the terrain, climbing higher and higher.
Then I came across a break in the trees, a grassy ledge with the remains of a campfire on it. And this view:
It might not look that special to anyone else, but at the time, it was just what I needed! It took my breathe away (partly because I was knackered!). It felt like the view of the trip. The high point of the trip! The crest of the wave. I stopped and marvelled for maybe 10 or 15 minutes. In awe of the landscape once again! It was definitely time to get the camera out, which soon went flat, so I turned to my phone, determined to try to capture the moment. I can see why someone had had a campfire there (as naughty as that is!) it would make one hell of a place to spend a night.
After that, I felt like a lot of the frustrations that had been building up since leaving La Malene had been released. And I continued with a newfound sense of determination not just to get to Les Vignes, but to again embrace the challenge of the walk. This was why I was here.
Looking back, this really was the most stunning bit of the gorge in many ways. It certainly felt the most wild and intense.
I reached the top of a large climb and I could finally see Les Vignes off in the distance- it looked further away than I expected, but it also looked as though it was mostly down from where I was. I must have basically been at the top of the gorge. Powering along the top of the ridge, with a newfound pace about me, I turned a corner and nearly power-walked straight into a group of scouts, who were lying down on the tiny path, basically on top of each other with rucksacks everywhere. It was a bit of a shock for all of us and they moved out of my way as best they could as I climbed over them.
It was then one big, long, winding descent that gradually led me down towards Les Vignes.
The face of a man who has walked way, way, way too far!
The path became a lane, and I could almost taste victory:
Looking back down the gorge behind me:
Handily, the lane took me right down to what would be my final campsite of the trip. It was well into the evening by then, I can't remember exactly when, perhaps 7 or 8. It's all a blur of sweat and tiredness! But what I do remember is that I was due to meet my dad over the bridge in town shortly, and I still had to pitch my tent and hopefully have a shower before dark, all in time to go and buy some dinner, for I had no cous cous left! And to make matters worse, at the one time I really needed my phone to warn my dad that I was running late, there was zero signal anywhere!
Les Vignes:
Fortunately all went well. My dad not only met me with his camera but also a big bottle of some rather strong beer. This was perhaps not wise given that I had been expending loads of energy all day and was by now on a totally empty stomach! It was such a morale boost to see him though. It almost felt as if I'd already completed what I had set out to do. And there was no-one better to be with at that time than my dad. I felt very relaxed. And shortly after, very tipsy! I joked with him about making a finish line for me with toilet roll for the following day- a suggestion made to me by an English guy I got talking to at the airport in Nimes.
After the beer, my dad departed in his car, wishing me well for my final days walk tomorrow, when I would see him once again. All's that was left to do was have a shower and buy some dinner at the restaurant, which sat overlooking the river and the bridge. I sat with my Aligot (a local specialty!) watching the sun set over the gorge and I finally began to reflect on how far I'd come. Not just that day, but over the past 5 days. The end of my journey suddenly felt all too near after all the months of planning and excitement. I'm not too ashamed to admit that some tears were almost shed over that Aligot! (It's kind of like a cheesy, extra stretchy mash potato).
Sunset over the gorge:
The other side of the bridge, my campsite was just off to the left out of shot:
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Thanks guys.
I'd been hoping to try Aligot at some point on the trip so it was great to finally have some as my final dinner, sitting right beside the Tarn! I may have to look for a recipe.
I'd been hoping to try Aligot at some point on the trip so it was great to finally have some as my final dinner, sitting right beside the Tarn! I may have to look for a recipe.
Elen Sentier
Bushcrafter (boy, I've got a lot to say!)
The blue flowers are harebells, love them. Here's Delia's aligot recipe 
. Thoroughly inspiring, thank you for such a grand report ... i just bought the IGN map but I am nervous about those screes, think I'll go down them on my backside and only do half the miles per day you did! Oh and totally agree about minimalist carrying!
. Thoroughly inspiring, thank you for such a grand report ... i just bought the IGN map but I am nervous about those screes, think I'll go down them on my backside and only do half the miles per day you did! Oh and totally agree about minimalist carrying!
Elen, the screes really aren't too bad- the path is usually very well established across them, providing a flat walking surface. You just need to make sure that you're a bit more cautious. You never have to go down any either, just across.
The only truly dangerous one was the one that I accidentally wandered onto thinking that it was the path!
The only truly dangerous one was the one that I accidentally wandered onto thinking that it was the path!
Also, doing half the miles would be a great idea- I never got much of a chance to explore the villages because I either had to keep going, or I was too tired from walking all day to do anything but rest!
Elen Sentier
Bushcrafter (boy, I've got a lot to say!)
That's what I thought . It seems a long old stretch and a couple of steep pulls from Les Vignes down to Le Rozier where I was going to stop, although it does look very pretty. About 9 miles too which is a stretch for me. I might consider buying lots of food and carrying extra water so I can wildcamp a night on the way if I run out of steam.
. It seems a long old stretch and a couple of steep pulls from Les Vignes down to Le Rozier where I was going to stop, although it does look very pretty. About 9 miles too which is a stretch for me. I might consider buying lots of food and carrying extra water so I can wildcamp a night on the way if I run out of steam.
Elen Sentier
Bushcrafter (boy, I've got a lot to say!)
... s'étonner ,I like the way you write, felt like we were on the walk with you.
+1 to that, I feel as if I'm there too.
And I hope I get to go too, Earthgirl
Ok so it's about time I added the final entry to this trip report. I got distracted by work and other commitments. I've also been putting it off because I that found reminiscing about this trip was getting me down. I sometimes feel like I retrace this hike every day in my head. I'll suddenly remember a new memory, and it's like I'm there again. Life back in Leicester just isn't as exciting!
I have had more time to reflect on this trip in the past few months though. I made many mistakes. The biggest of which was that I took on a big challenge. And I only just made it to the end. Whilst I did do a lot of walking in the weeks leading up to my trip, my body was only just able to cope with the distance I had to cover. This combined with the 30+ degree heat and the undulating terrain meant that I spent much of my walk with my head down, concerned about making it to my next destination in time, and in a condition that enabled me to be able to continue! I still haven't planned what I'm going to do next summer, but I'm going to make sure that wherever I go, I leave myself much more time to appreciate my surroundings. I will try to train for longer, and harder and take on less distance so that I'm not worrying too much. Having said that, it was an adventure, and I was able to test myself physically and mentally, which is what I had originally set out to do. I will never forget this trip. It was definitely the best thing I have ever done and I hope that it is the first of many.
Anyway, on with the report!
My last entry left me at Les Vignes. The gorge had nearly broken me physically and mentally the day before! But then it presented me with the most amazing views as a reward. Waking up the next morning, I felt like following my dads advice and just enjoying the final day of the walk, as it had flown by all too quickly. I awoke to the roaring sound of the Tarn rushing over the weir next to my campsite. Walking around was absolute agony. My blisters were really tender and I literally had to hobble about to get my tent down and set off on my way.
The view from my tent. Bad photo, but you can just about make out the weir between the fence!
Boiling water for my breakfast coffee:
About to dismantle the final pitch of the hike:
All packed and ready to go:
I set off at a slow hobble down the gorge. Whilst not the longest days walk of the trip, I would pass through no other villages until I reached Le Rozier, at the end of the gorge, and the end of the trail I was on. From there, I would have to follow the road beside the river to reach the campsite where my dad was waiting for me, as there was no trail.
I took lots of photos on this day as it meant I could walk slower! I also wanted to capture as much as I could.
The path on this section featured some of the most interesting rock formations. Lots of overhangs.
I tried to get some close-ups of some of the flora I was seeing, but I was still getting used to the macro setting on my dads camera!
Waymarker:
My good friend the Tarn, whom I had walked with for over 3 days:
Snack break/map reading time. With no villages to pass through, I had to look out for less obvious landmarks to determine my exact location. Contour lines on the map, and tunnels in the road over the other side of the river helped a lot.
More interesting flora:
The woodland I encountered during the morning on this section was so calm and peaceful. Just what I needed after the previous days of slogging it up near the top of the gorge on all the scree in the baking sun. As I carried on, my blisters began to harden, and I could walk more comfortably. Occasionally though, I would sense my energy levels sapping, and I'd eat some of my snack mix of haribo and fruit/nuts, washed down with lots of water!
There was a lot of oak. A nice reminder of woods back at home:
Some arty shots:
I couldn't work out what this stuff was. Some kind of spider web???
A memorable stone way maker situated in a woodland clearing down by the river:
Signs of a large rockfall that must have occurred some time ago. I think I read about this somewhere before my trip, and how it almost blocked the river:
The sun rays coming down through this stuff looked magical!
You can see why the Cevennes contains a massive percentage of France's total species of plant life. It is teeming with life. A great example of how awesome nature is. And good to see how well protected and valued it is. I cannot recall seeing any litter on my entire walk.
The gorge continued to deliver spectacular views at each break in the trees:
A rocky descent down to the river. Not knowing exactly where I was on my map, nor caring too much, I began to wonder if I was nearing Le Rozier. I didn't want the trail to end yet!
Alas, back up again:
What I encountered instead was a quaint collection of small stone buildings.
And a simple wooden sign:
For the last three days, I had startled many a lizard next to the path. Nearly always hearing them scuttling away before I even knew they were there. But on this day, I was finally rewarded with some great photos of the little guys. They seemed to enjoy relaxing inside the abandoned houses that I came across.
As I slowed down, and took more time to absorb the beauty of the details around me, nature too seemed to open up and reveal itself more. Some butterflies playfully danced and fluttered between some flowers next to the path, almost posing for me!
The track then began to climb up the gorge, the sun rising with it as afternoon drew closer:
Out of focus but I still like it!
I was quite high up now, and the gorge was not going out with a whimper, the rock formations above me were more stunning than ever:
I eventually came across one of several large abandoned habitations. The people who once lived here left many, many years ago, and now the lizards have taken up residency.
I love how the sun bakes the wood dry in this region:
There were also signs of bats in this building when I peered in through what was left of the door. I decided to leave quietly, after capturing some pictures of a little fellow relaxing in the doorway.
The thin window at the top of the building hints at the harsh cold faced by the inhabitants of this region during the winter, and/or perhaps the need for shade during the summer!
More pretty flowers:
The untameable terrain of the Tarn Gorge. Like the trees, houses perch and cling on where they can. I think what I find most engrossing about this part of the world is the sense that nature is in charge. The landscape is dominant over everything. Those not willing to cope with the harsh terrain have gone elsewhere rather than reshape it beyond recognition. Makes a nice change!
Back down near the river, a large rock faces rises up next to the path:
Looking down one of the last stretches of the gorge. At Le Rozier, the Tarn Gorge is joined by the Jonte Gorge, and the terrain widens into more of a valley. It is in that section that I would finish my hike.
The rock formations and caves above are home to many birds of prey including vultures. Before the passing of time and the steady erosion of the Tarn -which has left them situated hundreds of metres up- many would have been home for prehistoric man.
A sign indicating amongst other things, the distance from Les Vignes, -my place of departure that morning- and the distance to Le Rozier.
Back up nearer the top, I reached one of those junctions that it is important not to mess up on. Had I taken a wrong turn, I would have joined a trail that took an undesirable steep, winding climb way up the gorge, eventually reaching the massive plateau at the top. Definitely NOT where I wanted to go at that stage. Luckily, signs like these made such a mistake difficult to make:
Passing a German couple coming the other way- the only people I saw on the trail that day- I rounded a bend to see another long abandoned set of buildings in the distance:
Getting closer...
Looking back:
It seemed that someone was still making efforts to maintain these old structures.
This little hollow in the wall next to the doorway intrigued me- somewhere to place a lamp?
Some kind of old silo style circular hut, presumably for storage:
Very practical wooden guttering!
Timeless landscape:
What a view these houses had.
As I began the final stretch towards Le Rozier, the gorge stunned me with some of its most amazing views up above.
On this descent, I entered an area with geology like no other that I had seen in the gorge. There was dark sandy rock that appeared to me as being very volcanic. The flora was also like nothing else.
The final descent:
Conitnued in part 2 .
I have had more time to reflect on this trip in the past few months though. I made many mistakes. The biggest of which was that I took on a big challenge. And I only just made it to the end. Whilst I did do a lot of walking in the weeks leading up to my trip, my body was only just able to cope with the distance I had to cover. This combined with the 30+ degree heat and the undulating terrain meant that I spent much of my walk with my head down, concerned about making it to my next destination in time, and in a condition that enabled me to be able to continue! I still haven't planned what I'm going to do next summer, but I'm going to make sure that wherever I go, I leave myself much more time to appreciate my surroundings. I will try to train for longer, and harder and take on less distance so that I'm not worrying too much. Having said that, it was an adventure, and I was able to test myself physically and mentally, which is what I had originally set out to do. I will never forget this trip. It was definitely the best thing I have ever done and I hope that it is the first of many.
Anyway, on with the report!
My last entry left me at Les Vignes. The gorge had nearly broken me physically and mentally the day before! But then it presented me with the most amazing views as a reward. Waking up the next morning, I felt like following my dads advice and just enjoying the final day of the walk, as it had flown by all too quickly. I awoke to the roaring sound of the Tarn rushing over the weir next to my campsite. Walking around was absolute agony. My blisters were really tender and I literally had to hobble about to get my tent down and set off on my way.
The view from my tent. Bad photo, but you can just about make out the weir between the fence!
Boiling water for my breakfast coffee:
About to dismantle the final pitch of the hike:
All packed and ready to go:
I set off at a slow hobble down the gorge. Whilst not the longest days walk of the trip, I would pass through no other villages until I reached Le Rozier, at the end of the gorge, and the end of the trail I was on. From there, I would have to follow the road beside the river to reach the campsite where my dad was waiting for me, as there was no trail.
I took lots of photos on this day as it meant I could walk slower! I also wanted to capture as much as I could.
The path on this section featured some of the most interesting rock formations. Lots of overhangs.
I tried to get some close-ups of some of the flora I was seeing, but I was still getting used to the macro setting on my dads camera!
Waymarker:
My good friend the Tarn, whom I had walked with for over 3 days:
Snack break/map reading time. With no villages to pass through, I had to look out for less obvious landmarks to determine my exact location. Contour lines on the map, and tunnels in the road over the other side of the river helped a lot.
More interesting flora:
The woodland I encountered during the morning on this section was so calm and peaceful. Just what I needed after the previous days of slogging it up near the top of the gorge on all the scree in the baking sun. As I carried on, my blisters began to harden, and I could walk more comfortably. Occasionally though, I would sense my energy levels sapping, and I'd eat some of my snack mix of haribo and fruit/nuts, washed down with lots of water!
There was a lot of oak. A nice reminder of woods back at home:
Some arty shots:
I couldn't work out what this stuff was. Some kind of spider web???
A memorable stone way maker situated in a woodland clearing down by the river:
Signs of a large rockfall that must have occurred some time ago. I think I read about this somewhere before my trip, and how it almost blocked the river:
The sun rays coming down through this stuff looked magical!
You can see why the Cevennes contains a massive percentage of France's total species of plant life. It is teeming with life. A great example of how awesome nature is. And good to see how well protected and valued it is. I cannot recall seeing any litter on my entire walk.
The gorge continued to deliver spectacular views at each break in the trees:
A rocky descent down to the river. Not knowing exactly where I was on my map, nor caring too much, I began to wonder if I was nearing Le Rozier. I didn't want the trail to end yet!
Alas, back up again:
What I encountered instead was a quaint collection of small stone buildings.
And a simple wooden sign:
For the last three days, I had startled many a lizard next to the path. Nearly always hearing them scuttling away before I even knew they were there. But on this day, I was finally rewarded with some great photos of the little guys. They seemed to enjoy relaxing inside the abandoned houses that I came across.
As I slowed down, and took more time to absorb the beauty of the details around me, nature too seemed to open up and reveal itself more. Some butterflies playfully danced and fluttered between some flowers next to the path, almost posing for me!
The track then began to climb up the gorge, the sun rising with it as afternoon drew closer:
Out of focus but I still like it!
I was quite high up now, and the gorge was not going out with a whimper, the rock formations above me were more stunning than ever:
I eventually came across one of several large abandoned habitations. The people who once lived here left many, many years ago, and now the lizards have taken up residency.
I love how the sun bakes the wood dry in this region:
There were also signs of bats in this building when I peered in through what was left of the door. I decided to leave quietly, after capturing some pictures of a little fellow relaxing in the doorway.
The thin window at the top of the building hints at the harsh cold faced by the inhabitants of this region during the winter, and/or perhaps the need for shade during the summer!
More pretty flowers:
The untameable terrain of the Tarn Gorge. Like the trees, houses perch and cling on where they can. I think what I find most engrossing about this part of the world is the sense that nature is in charge. The landscape is dominant over everything. Those not willing to cope with the harsh terrain have gone elsewhere rather than reshape it beyond recognition. Makes a nice change!
Back down near the river, a large rock faces rises up next to the path:
Looking down one of the last stretches of the gorge. At Le Rozier, the Tarn Gorge is joined by the Jonte Gorge, and the terrain widens into more of a valley. It is in that section that I would finish my hike.
The rock formations and caves above are home to many birds of prey including vultures. Before the passing of time and the steady erosion of the Tarn -which has left them situated hundreds of metres up- many would have been home for prehistoric man.
A sign indicating amongst other things, the distance from Les Vignes, -my place of departure that morning- and the distance to Le Rozier.
Back up nearer the top, I reached one of those junctions that it is important not to mess up on. Had I taken a wrong turn, I would have joined a trail that took an undesirable steep, winding climb way up the gorge, eventually reaching the massive plateau at the top. Definitely NOT where I wanted to go at that stage. Luckily, signs like these made such a mistake difficult to make:
Passing a German couple coming the other way- the only people I saw on the trail that day- I rounded a bend to see another long abandoned set of buildings in the distance:
Getting closer...
Looking back:
It seemed that someone was still making efforts to maintain these old structures.
This little hollow in the wall next to the doorway intrigued me- somewhere to place a lamp?
Some kind of old silo style circular hut, presumably for storage:
Very practical wooden guttering!
Timeless landscape:
What a view these houses had.
As I began the final stretch towards Le Rozier, the gorge stunned me with some of its most amazing views up above.
On this descent, I entered an area with geology like no other that I had seen in the gorge. There was dark sandy rock that appeared to me as being very volcanic. The flora was also like nothing else.
The final descent:
Conitnued in part 2 .
Le Rozier was now below me. Here I could see down onto a particularly posh looking house. Not something I had seen much of on this trip.
My first sight of the bridge at Le Rozier:
The foot of the trail, where a tree has begun to claim this sign:
Le Rozier:
The last sign for the path that I encountered. Not particularly monumental considering it was apparently the end of the trail!
It was now well into the heat of the day, and having walked alone for the entirety of it, I seized the opportunity to find some shade and refreshment. By now I was feeling exhausted. My sorry state became more apparent when encountering the barman at a gite inside the town, and asking for ice cream. I received looks of pity, and they brought me lots of cold water, refilling my glass without me even asking. Sitting outside the bar at a table, I remember shifting my chair to follow the shade provided by a parasol as it moved with the sun. The heat was insane. I then got talking to an elderly english couple, but I was too tired to say much. I was caught between needing to rest but wanting to just get on with the final few km's of road walking so I could finish. After a short while longer, I pressed on through the town, crossing over to the other side of the river via a road bridge and beginning down the road. There would be no shade. I was absolutely knackered and basically running on empty.
Hobbling down the road, I was passed by several rude French cyclists coming in the opposite direction, in all of their fancy gear. They always ignore you when you say hello! Then I felt my achilles/calf muscles begin to give up the ghost, along with the tips of my walking poles, which were being melted and chewed up by the road surface. I passed the entrance to a campsite, with lots of children laughing with each other by the road side. I was just ploughing on, longing for the end now! I rounded a corner and spotted the Chateau of Peyrelade high up on the cliffs. A sight I've known since I was a boy. Below that is the campsite where I was going to finish!
Rounding a bend I looked up to see the part of the gorge that I know like an old friend. I've spent many a summer day staring up at the familiar rock formations there, towering above the campsite that my family started taking me too when I was about 7 or 8 years old.
Looking back
My dad had ingeniously given me a walky talky the previous evening in Les Vignes, along with his camera. So that when I neared the campsite, I could contact him without relying on mobile phone signal, which is often non-existent there. I finally managed to get through to him, explaining I was near. Rather than simply walk into the campsite entrance to meet him, I had decided to cross to the opposite side of the river in Le Rozier, in order to wade back across the river, and onto the campsite beach in order to reach my dad in epic fashion! It seemed like a good idea when I'd been planning the trip but by now I was so exhausted that I could barely stand up! The heat had gotten the better of me and in my haste to get to the river opposite the campsite, I'd forgotten to keep drinking water. My dad said he was wading over to meet me but I grew impatient, wanting to get into lovely, cold, refreshing Tarn and end this thing. To get to the river, I had to bushwhack down an extremely steep bank from the roadside, through some of the sharpest thorniest bushes you can imagine. The scratches hurt all the more when you're covered in sweat and dirt! I made it down to the river though where my dad was waiting. He was trying to pick out a shallow place to for us to cross to avoid getting too wet, but I just ploughed into the glorious Tarn. It felt amazing! Reaching the other side, I was met with strange looks by the sunbathers in their swimming costumes. I don't think they'd seen a filthy sweaty hiker before! I staggered and stumbled with my dad up to our pitch, which sits overlooking the river. At Nimes airport, I had met an English photographer and told him about my trip. He had jokingly suggested that my dad make a finish line for me out of toilet roll. I had mentioned the remark to my dad the previous evening in Les Vignes, and he decided that it was a good idea. So here is the final photo of my trip:
It really was the best experience I've ever had. It was so surreal at the end, sitting down next to the big tents on our pitch, with a fridge in the vestibule full of food, all these people sitting around on their holidays. Even though I'd only been living out of a rucksack for just under a week. It felt strange having all this stuff everywhere, and not having to get up and walk really far all day. It was a bit of a shock to the system. I can't really explain it. I can't even imagine what it must be like for those who embark on a long expedition in true wilderness, in truly extreme circumstances, with true solitude. This was nothing. The next day, my girlfriend flew in to join us, and we spent the week relaxing at the campsite in the sun before we had to come home. It was just what my body needed to recuperate after the previous week! I spent the first few days hobbling around, but my blisters and aches soon healed! Wine, beer and cheese helped.
Thank you to anyone who managed to read this stream of rambly nonsense!
My first sight of the bridge at Le Rozier:
The foot of the trail, where a tree has begun to claim this sign:
Le Rozier:
The last sign for the path that I encountered. Not particularly monumental considering it was apparently the end of the trail!
It was now well into the heat of the day, and having walked alone for the entirety of it, I seized the opportunity to find some shade and refreshment. By now I was feeling exhausted. My sorry state became more apparent when encountering the barman at a gite inside the town, and asking for ice cream. I received looks of pity, and they brought me lots of cold water, refilling my glass without me even asking. Sitting outside the bar at a table, I remember shifting my chair to follow the shade provided by a parasol as it moved with the sun. The heat was insane. I then got talking to an elderly english couple, but I was too tired to say much. I was caught between needing to rest but wanting to just get on with the final few km's of road walking so I could finish. After a short while longer, I pressed on through the town, crossing over to the other side of the river via a road bridge and beginning down the road. There would be no shade. I was absolutely knackered and basically running on empty.
Hobbling down the road, I was passed by several rude French cyclists coming in the opposite direction, in all of their fancy gear. They always ignore you when you say hello! Then I felt my achilles/calf muscles begin to give up the ghost, along with the tips of my walking poles, which were being melted and chewed up by the road surface. I passed the entrance to a campsite, with lots of children laughing with each other by the road side. I was just ploughing on, longing for the end now! I rounded a corner and spotted the Chateau of Peyrelade high up on the cliffs. A sight I've known since I was a boy. Below that is the campsite where I was going to finish!
Rounding a bend I looked up to see the part of the gorge that I know like an old friend. I've spent many a summer day staring up at the familiar rock formations there, towering above the campsite that my family started taking me too when I was about 7 or 8 years old.
Looking back
My dad had ingeniously given me a walky talky the previous evening in Les Vignes, along with his camera. So that when I neared the campsite, I could contact him without relying on mobile phone signal, which is often non-existent there. I finally managed to get through to him, explaining I was near. Rather than simply walk into the campsite entrance to meet him, I had decided to cross to the opposite side of the river in Le Rozier, in order to wade back across the river, and onto the campsite beach in order to reach my dad in epic fashion! It seemed like a good idea when I'd been planning the trip but by now I was so exhausted that I could barely stand up! The heat had gotten the better of me and in my haste to get to the river opposite the campsite, I'd forgotten to keep drinking water. My dad said he was wading over to meet me but I grew impatient, wanting to get into lovely, cold, refreshing Tarn and end this thing. To get to the river, I had to bushwhack down an extremely steep bank from the roadside, through some of the sharpest thorniest bushes you can imagine. The scratches hurt all the more when you're covered in sweat and dirt! I made it down to the river though where my dad was waiting. He was trying to pick out a shallow place to for us to cross to avoid getting too wet, but I just ploughed into the glorious Tarn. It felt amazing! Reaching the other side, I was met with strange looks by the sunbathers in their swimming costumes. I don't think they'd seen a filthy sweaty hiker before! I staggered and stumbled with my dad up to our pitch, which sits overlooking the river. At Nimes airport, I had met an English photographer and told him about my trip. He had jokingly suggested that my dad make a finish line for me out of toilet roll. I had mentioned the remark to my dad the previous evening in Les Vignes, and he decided that it was a good idea. So here is the final photo of my trip:
It really was the best experience I've ever had. It was so surreal at the end, sitting down next to the big tents on our pitch, with a fridge in the vestibule full of food, all these people sitting around on their holidays. Even though I'd only been living out of a rucksack for just under a week. It felt strange having all this stuff everywhere, and not having to get up and walk really far all day. It was a bit of a shock to the system. I can't really explain it. I can't even imagine what it must be like for those who embark on a long expedition in true wilderness, in truly extreme circumstances, with true solitude. This was nothing. The next day, my girlfriend flew in to join us, and we spent the week relaxing at the campsite in the sun before we had to come home. It was just what my body needed to recuperate after the previous week! I spent the first few days hobbling around, but my blisters and aches soon healed! Wine, beer and cheese helped.
Thank you to anyone who managed to read this stream of rambly nonsense!
