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.

The leftovers from my binge yesterday make a nice picnic, but weigh a bit heavily on my back, which is starting to tire from all these accumulated kilometers. The rain lasted all night and only stopped at the very moment I woke up. Everything is wet; the market is setting up quietly; they’re quite happy not to be doing it in the rain.

All this precipitation has left its mark on this hilly landscape; water flows abundantly from every embankment, every fold of earth. It looks like the hills are vomiting their water. Unsurprisingly, the path is flooded. My shoes are still wet from yesterday so I indulge myself: both feet in.

This section is no longer passable with a donkey, as the guidebook states. The reason quickly becomes obvious: the path is winding, rocky, steep. Sometimes large boulders block the way and you have to use your hands to get past them.

But finally, once at the top, what a view! This little path winds quietly along an endless wooded ridge line and offers views of the Cévennes like I’ve never had before. And under the sun, too.

Lunch break at the highest point, next to the orientation tables. I take my time, because there’s no rush, when suddenly Gilles appears, with whom I spent the evening at the lodge two days ago. He’s a bit out of breath; for sure this stage has nothing to do with everything we’ve been through. It’s more technical and there’s a bit more elevation gain.

We set off together, chat a bit, then I eventually leave him behind; he doesn’t want to take risks on the descent. I had anticipated some rain in the afternoon and there it comes at one o’clock. That’s a good reason to hurry down to Alès.

Forgettable undergrowth, deprived neighborhoods, then near suburbs, city center, train station. You have to have hiked at least two or three days in the wilderness to know the violence of this return to reality. The smells, the noise, the people. I could have spent some time in Alès, but when I arrive, I only think of one thing: flee!

It’s so early, barely two in the afternoon, that I can immediately catch a train to Bordeaux. I don’t need to be asked twice; the road is long, more than six hours. As I stand on the platform of the small station, a storm breaks out in the distance. A last glance towards the Cévennes mountains; they are black, lost in clouds, some of which have already burst and are watering those vast hills again.

Stop at Nîmes; I take a burning sunbath. Then arrives this Intercités that I know only too well, the Marseille-Bordeaux. Is there a sadder ensemble than this old locomotive and its wagons with dust-black carpet? Fortunately, we’ll pass by Sète and I’ll think of Brassens; that will make me forget this damn little train.

Goodbye, Stevenson, and thank you!