In Stevenson's Footsteps
25 April 2026 — 5 May 2026
The Stevenson Trail, or GR70, is arguably the most popular hiking route in France. There’s probably a simple reason for this: everyone has their own good reason to hike it. It’s neither too tough nor too steep, fascinating for its history, its landscapes, and obviously carried by the founding account Robert Louis Stevenson wrote in 1879, accompanied by a little donkey. As for me, it’s the prospect of a long solo traverse of these rugged mountains and forests that excites me. The perfect opportunity for an introspective journey, in Stevenson’s footsteps.
Distance
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Elevation gain
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A quick glance behind the thick blue curtain of my hotel room sets the tone for the day: I’m walking! A beautiful rectangle of azure sky stands out beyond the tall ochre walls of the hotel, and suddenly my depression of yesterday seems ridiculous. I’m still amazed today at the effect the sun has on a hiker.
The eternal “porridge” is prepared and swallowed in a few minutes. The room is filled with the humidity released by my soaked belongings from yesterday. I air out, I pack; I can’t wait to leave. The hotel owner sees me arriving with a smile: “So, you’re going?”; I’m delighted to be able to tell him yes. Me? Give up? What a strange idea crossed my mind.
Despite the excesses, the night was good. For once, the weather forecast turned out to be correct and from the moment we woke up, it was raining. This rain would follow me all day, sometimes light, sometimes heavy and dense.
We have a hearty breakfast; everyone is in good spirits, despite the day ahead. Barely have the obligatory goodbyes been dispensed, we put on our ponchos, capes and other rain trousers, ready to face the outdoors.
I feel like I’m just a shadow in this lodge, having taken neither dinner nor breakfast; I have to slip among the guests through to the common room to go nibble on my supplies. A good sleep has put me in shape for this long day. Departure at 8:30 AM.
I thought I would stop today at Cassagnas. Good thing I booked a lodge in the next village, because this first morning of hiking is quite bland. We often follow the road, through undergrowth with blocked views. I can barely hear the distant roar of rally cars speeding through the Cévennes steep paths.
Is it The Curse of the Forest Cabins striking? I slept badly again. The stubborn pathogen inhabiting me has been acting up again. Yet, the night was beautiful, the moon almost full, and the holes in the ceiling formed just as many stars in my sky.
I take the time to make coffee in front of the fir trees that are on fire in the rising sun. I’m obviously covered in soot despite my thousand precautions last night.
Another night of heavy, dreamless sleep. However, this morning I genuinely feel more energetic, so much so that I allow myself a bowl of dishwater coffee, served by the owner. News travels fast on the GR. At breakfast: “I was sick the day before yesterday… -Oh yeah, you’re the one who drank from the pond?!”. Someone clearly spilled the beans.
I chat quite a while with two companions who were in the dormitory, then everyone goes about their business. My stuff is already ready, I hit the trail. My form is decidedly very good, I was able to eat, the thirty kilometers planned today shouldn’t be a problem.
I wake up in my boarding-house bed, feeling well. The after-effects of my little mishap are still there, but I can feel my body is rested. I have breakfast of bread and herbal tea, under the benevolent eye of the volunteers who run the lodge. They wish me good journey and good luck; I’ll need it, to recover.
The descent towards La Bastide is easy. Quick pharmacy stop and now I’m armed with Smecta and electrolytes to tackle my day! I also buy some applesauce, which is part of the very restricted list of foods I’m allowed. I still have a piece of that good sausage in my bag and I’m starting to miss it.
This lovely little bivouac had everything to be perfect, or at least a perfect nightmare. The pond water turned out tougher than my filter, which supposedly guarantees pure water. At midnight, I wake up with intense stomach cramps, I shake like a leaf, then I sweat profusely. It’s bad! I spend the next three hours in a feverish delirium, getting up to empty myself into the wild, then coming back to shiver in my sleeping bag, without even bothering to take off my shoes. The deer are quite astonished by the spectacle.
A strange bout of diarrhea kept me going all night, the fault of some brackish river water? It doesn’t stop me from getting up in a good mood and brewing some (real) coffee facing the barely risen sun.
The descent towards Pradelles is easy and I’m in excellent spirits. The village welcomes me under a beautiful sun and I take the opportunity to tour the old buildings. I find a book exchange box, which will be the new home of the Hussar that I finished yesterday.
A shining moon, stars scattered across the sky, blackbirds then owls… That’s the summary of a successful bivouac night. Except that it was very humid, because of the river, and everything is soaked this morning. No matter, I pack up; I’ll dry everything in the sun at noon.
The good fellow from last night, who was keen on old stones, like me, told me that you can follow the river a bit on the GR3 to discover the “first castle of the Loire”. He paints the picture, makes my mouth water with a wealth of superlatives and onomatopoeia. He succeeded in making me want to go, so I turn away from Stevenson to go see this famous castle, perched atop an old volcanic chimney.
A good restorative night and a continental breakfast later, and I’m on my feet to tackle the day. I buy a walnut bread to round out my supplies, before hitting the road towards Le Monastier.
Some say this stage is optional, because it doesn’t correspond to Stevenson’s route. That’s true, but it’s in the guidebook, and I’m a stickler for details.