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.

The first part of the day, up to Bleymard, is punctuated by open stretches through rolling green hills and sparse deciduous undergrowth. The elevation gain starts to make itself known; it’s one of the first times I catch myself thinking that the climb is tough.

At Bleymard, I restock and meet one of the guys from this morning. We have lunch together, then he invites me for coffee; he finishes today, no time for more. We linger on the terrace in the sun for a long while; I really struggle to leave, the conversation is good.

Finally, after two in the afternoon, I decide; I still have the ascent of Mont Finiels, the highest point of Lozère, to tackle this afternoon. Quick visit to the town, which is magnificent, with old shops and ancient stone bourgeois houses.

The climb starts right away. It’s long but gentle; it goes up through the woods before opening onto the Mont Lozère ski resort, where nobody is rushing around despite the public holiday. They confirm there that a forest cabin indeed exists on the other slope and that it’s supplied by a spring. That’s what I wanted to hear; that will be my goal for the day.

The trail snakes through the dense pink heather, typical of the area, dotted here and there with large standing stones, waypoints of the traditional transhumance. Up there, a terrible, cold wind blows. I climb full of enthusiasm and energy, but still at the summit, I cover up, if only to take the time to admire the wonderful panorama, at 1699 meters altitude.

Quick descent through the pines, including a very short stretch on snow. So, they hadn’t lied to me; it was still snowing in April. Everything smells of resin and around a bend, I spot the lauze stone roof of the famous cabin.

It’s in rather mediocre condition, the kind that would let a river through in case of a storm. But the forecast night is clear, simply very cold. I settle in, wait until a somewhat late hour to improvise a wash and a laundry in the stream. When the cold comes, I make a small fire. Not out of necessity, but for pleasure; that’s even better.

The temperature drops, as expected, very quickly. I seal myself inside the place, which reminds me a bit of the cabin from Walden, the second book I’ve just started. The last embers finish burning in the hearth; the blackbirds and cuckoos never stop singing.