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.

The sight is astounding, it’s magnificent in the rising sun and suddenly it’s my turn to let out “ohs” and “ahs”, it’s so beautiful! However, I refrain from visiting, too long.

Heading back up via a small PR path towards my route, what had to happen happened: I get lost and end up on the GR400 for a few kilometers. I realize it fortunately not too late and cut across fields to catch back up with my path. I would have missed Ussel. And done ten kilometers more than planned.

Quick and somewhat bland lunch at Bouchet-Saint-Nicolas, before heading straight back to Landos. I’m a bit behind schedule. The walking is very easy, across those large grassy plateaus. When the wind starts blowing, it reminds me of Iceland, except here, dandelions have grown on the volcanic scoria.

I finally dry my sleeping bag at Landos, under a blazing sun, it goes quickly. But I don’t linger; I plan to reach the village of Arquejols, which has a small and very expensive campsite.

When I arrive, it’s closed, just like yesterday. There are people around and no doubt it would be possible to negotiate a spot. But… It’s so expensive! I rebel a bit against the exploitation of the trail. For that, I continue, knowing full well there’s nothing until Pradelles, thirteen kilometers away.

In a field, I ask a farmer for hospitality, who kindly sends me packing; “you’ll find a spot on the heights!”. Oh yeah, but what heights! I scramble with my flask filled at the village, on a dusty trail, hoping to find a patch of flat grass.

It only materializes after much effort, in the form of a few square meters of soft moss, between four fir trees. It’s perfect.

I settle in front of my monumental view of the valley and go about my hiker’s ritual, including blister treatment.

Tomorrow, I’ll take a break in Langogne, I’m running low on electricity, my battery having decided to give up the ghost. It’ll be an opportunity to recharge the electronics.

I fall asleep to the sound of Holstein cows munching, grazing a few steps away.