Another bright and sunny day seemed to be in store for us. As had become our custom, we were walking before nine o’clock, crossing the wide-awake Mimente. Our early morning kilometres took us south and uphill through the Fontmort Forest. 

And we very soon came into contact with the group of randonneurs from Lyon. We fell in step with Thierry, who told us about the Grande Randonnée (GR) routes in France. He was an insider and told us how the whole system functions – this gargantuan system of long distance walks relies upon the hard hours put in by volunteers. For instance, Thierry is in a team who check their local paths, particularly the red and white way markers. Their work is audited and carefully checked – the red and white lines have to follow precise dimensions! In addition, Thierry writes directions for certain sections of walks – for the internet and guide books. He works in a team of four – if any of the other three fail to understand the directions written by the fourth, then it’s back to rewriting and editing. Only when the whole gang of four fully comprehend the instructions will it be sent on to the publishers. I’ve long felt that without the red tape holding its hexagon together, France would slide into the Bay of Biscay. But on the other hand, this was bloomin’ marvellous! An organised system of long-distance walks administered and maintained by enthusiasts!

Having climbed to the ridge, our line of walking took a left turn to the east. It was a fresh, clear day, and we could enjoy what we had missed on those five days of rain. The terrain of the southern Cévennes rolled away to the south: ridges, peaks, valleys. And Thierry introduced us to many of his walking group including a lady who had reached a birthday on the previous day. So Julia and I sang her our English version of “Happy Birthday” and subsequently, there was animated discussion about birth signs. The most numerous group were the Taureans: Julia, Thierry, the lady to whom we had just sung, and the president of the group. The latter was gregarious, given to playing the clown, but he warmly welcomed us into his flock of randonneurs! Our first impressions of the group at the centre of the dining room on the previous evening couldn’t have been more off-kilter!

Our trajectory, as the day wore on, swivelled subtlety to the south-east, opening up vistas to the north and east. We were also on the descent through woodland. When we stopped for our sandwich, we were not far from our destination for the day. We sat on the trunk of a fallen tree overlooking a meadow in which a few horses and a donkey were frolicking. Beyond were buildings – the first sign of habitation we had seen since leaving Cassagnas. This was Le Serre de La Can, a modern holiday village; not that there was much sign of life so early in the season. A couple of kilometres of steep descent lead us to a little lane which took us to St Germain de Calberte. And despite its isolation, it seemed to be a serious village! On the way in, we passed a boulangerie and a general store!

And St Germain seemed to boast that rare rural commodity- children! On this Saturday afternoon, the centre of the village had been given over to a produce and craft market organised by the village school’s parent/teacher association. The children paraded around dressed up as insects, clashing tin pan lids, a truly celebratory din. The sun shone; we had a beer; we wandered around the stalls. A lady kindly gave me a tiny ceramic tortoise in honour of my infamous walking velocity. 

We were staying in the centre of the village opposite the church. “Au Figuiers des Cévennes” looked stolidly old-fashioned, and walking into the café/bar reinforced this sense of a long-established hostelry. But despite its traditional accoutrements it was bright and vibrant … and seemed to be run by young people. One of them lead us through a labyrinth of passages and a narrow stairwell to our room – spacious and comfortable. Our Scottish walking companions, Jane and Roger, had been allocated a day off on the previous day, but this meant that on this day, they had to walk from Florac to St Germain. – knocking on 23 miles by our reckoning. I wagered that it would be after five o’clock before we saw them; Julia said that they would arrive by four. We picked our way back out of the hotel labyrinth at ten to four to visit the grocery store and have a look around the village. And there they were! – at a forecourt table, nonchalantly sipping a beer! Well, well – they must have wings on their ankles.

The evening meal was very special: the restaurant was below street level and its low vaulted ceilings made it feel like a smugglers’ den. It was busy: many fellow walkers. The menu – a fish and chip supper! And it seemed to be very popular with the French. Mind you, the cod was meltinyourmouth superb. A reminder perhaps that we were edging closer to the sea – the Mediterranean Sea.