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.

Quick packing of the camp and off! Today is a big day. The cold is biting and I hum a tune to warm myself up, and perhaps to give myself courage in this gloomy wood of immense fir trees, whose track, which I follow, is crossed by wild boar tracks.

Pretty soon, Finiels. Charming village, tiny, perched at the top of the valley. There’s a fresh water spring, not the time to deprive myself. I still need to muster some courage to get through the large herds of Aubrac cattle, as curious as they are timid. There are calves everywhere, some panic movements sometimes, but, in the end, everything goes well.

Steep descent to Pont-de-Montvert, which is in a way the aesthetic climax of this journey. Mountains of broom bushes in front and behind, clear water in the valley, and this little village wedged between these reliefs.

By miracle (Sister Sophie would say), a doctor sees me in a few minutes. He confirms everything, especially that nothing is serious, but gives me something to better handle the rest of the journey. Revived, I set out in search of some provisions, in the form of country sausage, Pélardon cheese and fresh baguette. The doctor said so, I can!

A little moment of happiness, I feel like I’m finally living what I legitimately expected from this journey. But with all these stops, it’s already quite late; I take off my fleece and get in battle order to tackle the Signal du Bougès, a long and steep ascent through the woods. It opens onto a barren summit where an apocalyptic wind blows, strong enough to make me stagger.

Walking on the edge of this windy ridge, I even come across a small refuge, very beautiful and better maintained than my cave.

Surprisingly, the trail then plunges into an immense fir forest and stretches endlessly around a small hill that you exhaust yourself circling in wide switchbacks. I meet a couple, they too are at their limit. Finally, a steep path towards Florac.

This weekend hosts the Rallye des Cévennes, which passes through here. The town is abuzz. Not me; I head straight to the refuge; tonight, I didn’t feel like sleeping outside, the wind is strong, the sky threatening and I’m exhausted. A little bunk bed in a stinky room shared with other hikers will make a perfect alternative.

The meal is a joyful mess, between the rally drivers dining there, some with their suits half down around their knees, and the hikers in Quechua fleeces. It’s lively, warm, I love that too.