As usual, we were up early making sure that our baggage was ready for collection by eight o’clock. We were also sat at breakfast before the other eighteen other guests as we had to be ready for our driver who was taking us back into Pont Montvert.
It was dark and drizzly as the young man, who drove us out to Le Merlet the evening before, pulled up. We learned a little more about him on this return journey: he had studied microbiology, at least partly in Quebec City, and he had ambitions to go to the UK to further his studies. We asked him to take us on through Pont de Montvert to a point just over three kilometres south of the village on the D20 road. He was happy to oblige but this meant driving through Pont de Montvert itself, and we understood why we had been picked up at the petrol station on the previous evening: the streets were very narrow – not really designed for motorised transport. Meeting a car coming the other way required some delicate manoeuvring! Before nine o’clock, we were out of the car and on the GR70 heading south and away from the tarmac of the D20.
We climbed in a persistent drizzle – this was now our fifth consecutive day of the wet stuff during which there had not been a hint of sunshine. This climb was steep, reaching a ridge running east-west – La Crête de Bougès. We turned right and moved westwards. Up here the rain was being driven by a northerly, the precipitation moving towards the horizontal and becoming sleet. And it wasn’t long before it was snowing – not hard and not for very long, but it was snowing. We passed a clearing in which the Cammisards used to meet in the early years of the seventeenth century. At this altitude, they would have been unlikely to meet the eyes of the king or those of his army. They must have been a hardy bunch.
Not much further along this ridgeway track, after we had passed the day’s highest point – Le Signal du Bougès at 1,421m- we came upon a hunters’/hikers’ lodge. We dived into this wooden hut (named La Cabane de Bonnal) with some enthusiasm – and were met by the bemused expressions of seven or eight young men! It turned out that they were learning survival skills for the great outdoors; and they had chosen this option rather than spending time in a warm institution for young offenders! Their three tutors/minders could be seen outside, huddled against the cold and having a rest from their energetic charges. The lads seemed genuinely interested in us, asking about our home city, about the RLS Way and our little adventure. There was a map on the wall and they traced our route with fingers. Of course, they were fascinated by Julia: a British woman with perfect French! We had a much-needed hot drink before continuing east, dropping to the Col du Sapet where the D20 crosses La Crête de Bougès.
From here the going was much easier; flat on a wide path – not tarmac but firm, presumably for the use of lorries moving timber. It was, to be quite frank, a bit boring. It went on for 5-6 kilometres, the road hewn out of the north side of the ridge meant that we were deprived of views to the south. What we could see to the north was limited by forestry and the weather! The snow had reverted to drizzle and the clouds were low enough to create banks of mist.
We reached a point where the GR70 turned right and a second grande randonnée, 68, turned left. Both go to Florac; GR70 loops north to pass through the village of Bédouès; the GR68 takes a more direct route. We turned left – so much for loyalty!
Not that the GR68 was a gravy train. It kicked off by climbing south – it seemed counterintuitive to me as Florac is down in a river valley! But sure enough, we began to descend westwards, gently at first but becoming more precipitous. In addition, the steady drizzle had picked up to produce a downpour. The rocky path beneath or feet became a babbling rivulet. By the time we reached the road into town, the RN906, we were greatly relieved that we hadn’t tweaked an ankle or worse. We crossed the river Tarnon as we entered Florac believing that our day was wrapped up.
But Florac is a long, thin town which follows its valley. We entered from the north; our hotel was at the south end. We trudged the final 700 metres of our day through the sodden town; every passing vehicle, unless it kindly slowed down to little more than our pace, splashed up at us.
Our destination, L’Hotel des Gorges du Tarn, was very much worth the effort. There was a warm welcome at reception, a garage at the back with a boiler room in which to hang our Le Bleymard capes, and a comfortable bedroom. The evening meal was also a couple of notches above the average with a filo-pastry concoction of tomato and cheese followed by volaille (literally poultry but probably chicken) in a marvellous ginger sauce.
We retired to bed, troubled by our five consecutive days of rain. Five days without a hint of sunshine. We were tired; we were getting rusty from the inside. If the morrow was once more grey and wet, we promised ourselves that we’d take a taxi to an airport and find a way to Manchester or Birmingham. Or even Liverpool! Oui! Nous en avions assez!!