....At the top of the path a fairly wide
road appeared to lead motorists towards the high mountains alongside its
predecessor, an old mule-track which ran parallel to the road between fences
and hedgerows for half a mile or so. It became increasingly muddy then boggy
and I squelched along looking for stepping-stones, greeting the inquisitive
cattle and goats in the sloping field to one side and marvelling at their
resistance and the persistence of the squat trees and shrubs in the face of the
harsh weather they must endure in winter. As I neared the top of the hill and
could already spy a cluster of farm buildings ahead I snagged my left
trouser-leg on something and felt a biting pain cut through to my calf. Looking
down I saw a length of rusty barbed wire tangled up among the rocks and pebbles
scattered in the muddy puddles. One end of it was firmly embedded in my leg and
on examination had taken a couple of small chunks of flesh out.
RUSTY BARBED WIRE! MUD AND COWSHIT!! TETANUS!!!
I doused it with alcohol, which I had brought
with me from England in a small plastic bottle for just such an eventuality or
for general deep cleaning, and struggled on. The farm was empty – no doubt
everyone was out in the fields or gone to the supermarket – but one other house
stood next to it which was occupied by a retired docker from Toulon and his
wrinkled wife. They were busy watering the lawn when I limped through their
gate and invited me to have a seat and a cigarette with them for a moment but
seemed quite at a loss to know what to do next other than offer me an aspirin.
I unpacked most of my rucksack to dig out some plasters, Savlon, bandages etc.,
which I applied rigorously as they looked on with some amusement. Obviously
they had never heard of tetanus. I didn’t know whether this would reduce my
chances of getting tetanus either, but at least it would avoid any other
infection. I would just have to keep an eye on it for the next few weeks.
After getting over the initial
shock and experimenting with carrying my reloaded rucksack again I resolved to
set off and cover the final ten kilometres, which should be an easy stroll
through forest on a well-marked path followed by a few km. on or next to a
road, mostly on fairly level ground as I am already above 1300 m with only
another 250 m to climb. The first half was pretty straightforward, but at some
point I must have turned left when I should have gone right because about an
hour later here I am standing at a junction after walking a long way downhill
next to a sign pointing back the way I’ve just come and saying: Mont Gerbier 14. My calf is sore and my spirits are low. It’s going to be too
late to meet up with my erstwhile travelling companions and get a lift down
towards Le Puy and the railway station. Surprisingly there is reception for my
French mobile phone, however, and I manage to contact the Tourist Office at Les
Estables. Someone tells me there is nowhere to stay near where I am but there
are plenty of places in Les Estables, so I decide to hitch a ride up over the
pass to get there.
******************
Sandrine was
driving home after a particularly difficult appointment. The old man had been
disgusting – his foul breath and rotten tooth-stumps, the deformed cheek even
worse than her own facial scarring: Frank had said the other day it was hardly
noticeable at all now. His strange voice like gravel rattling round in a
cement-mixer. And then that place he lived in, way up in the hills, talk about
remote. He said he had loads of people to stay but she didn’t believe it. She
thought he was just a lonely old man whose wife had died or run off and left
him, and he was pretending to run some kind of hostel for hikers and cyclists
by putting a few bunkbeds up in a couple of spare rooms. But God, what’d it be
like in the winter? He said he’d been cut off for 3 days in February. And he
was old – at least 70 – what if she went up there one time and he was dead and
no-one had been up there for weeks? Didn’t bear thinking about. Then she
remembered the last time she’d been on this road: “I’d just slowed down at this
junction on the twisting mountain road to turn right up the hill past that
cliff where you can see for miles from the top and there are marmots up there... and people go there with binoculars and fancy cameras to take pictures of eagles
and stuff... and just as I was about to put my foot down this guy was standing
there looking into the car with his thumb out. Funny-looking guy with long hair
and a hat made him look like a scarecrow. And a stick, that was it, a long kind
of staff like a shepherd or a magician. I wonder, come to think of it, if he
was anything to do with the signpost I’ve noticed at that junction that
advertised a herbalist and witch at the next village. No, I really did, no kidding! Weird, I know! Anyway I’d stopped
to see what he wanted and he started babbling about how he was going to Les
Estables and was I going there?; then he climbed into the car and I started off.
He started telling me how he’d got lost on a path in the mountains with no
signs and ended up on a road with no name and he didn’t know where he was going
and it all sounded like a Bob Dylan song so I put my foot on the brake and said
“OK, GET OUT NOW!” and put on a fierce face like they showed me once in kung fu
classes. So he opened the door and was getting his stuff together kind of humbly
ready to leave me to it when I thought “What the hell” and said “Oh it’s OK.
Don’t you feel afraid, being out here in the middle of nowhere all alone?”
“No”, he said with a look of total surprise, “although maybe I should after
what happened here two hundred years ago”. Now the tables were turned and it
was me who was on the back foot and I felt a shiver, you know? “Why, what?”
Then he told me this whole story which he swore was true about how a surveyor
went to Les Estables just up the road here in 17something. He looked so
outlandish to the local peasants with his tools and instruments that they took
him for an evil magician and beat him to death with cudgels.”
Frank smiles at me
patronisingly in my head. “As if”, says he. “In a civilised country? That was
just before the Revolution. Not that long ago.” “Yeah but have you ever been up
there? I know it’s a Nordic ski resort now, but some of the people… have you
seen the signpost at that junction about the witch?” “Whatever.”
Sandrine had carried on driving deep in
thought while the stranger told her how he was walking the length of the Loire
but had taken a wrong turning right at the end and would no longer be able to
finish the journey today. He said he had been offered a lift down from the top
of the mountain at the source of the river to a place where he could catch a
train but had missed the rendezvous so would have to find a place to stay the
night in Les Estables before continuing in the morning. He said he had already walked
about forty kilometres today and was dog tired, so she’d begun to soften
towards him and advised him that there were several guest-houses in the village
and she was sure he would find a good place to stay. Reaching the top of the
pass and driving in golden evening light across the plateau with the roadside
verges covered in alpine flowers she had suddenly felt at ease. There was no
need to panic, she could relax. The trying day was over, there was no need for
shame.
She’d dropped the foreigner
outside a small hotel and driven on to her next appointment.