The town drowns in a thick steam early in the morning; a meeting between the icy freshness of the night and the boiling springs that run through the gutters.

As for me, I set off in this fog, on a winding road that leads out of the bowl. Provided, of course, that I have the legs for it. That’s not really my case, and I drag myself along a bit, especially since the biting cold numbs my muscles.

The climb never ends, for as soon as I reach the exit of Chaudes-Aigues, it starts up again even harder, toward the col d’Aubrac. Above a thousand meters, here I am again plunged into a thick, sticky cloud that forces me to take off my soaking wet glasses. The effort is long and thankless.

A change of musical gear today. I tell myself that the harsh sweetness of the Aubrac hills would lend itself well to a little Brahms retrospective (why not?). At the top of the pass, when I finally tip over onto the high plateaus, it is none other than the first movement of the Piano Concerto No. 2 that starts up and accompanies me on a beautiful descent, gentle and winding, toward the small village of Aubrac. The pleasure is intense and contrasts prodigiously with yesterday’s dull day.

A small well-deserved break and a visit to the church, sparse but charming. As far as the eye can see stretch immense pastures that one can feel have been tried by the harshness of the summer. Everything has burned and the large water reservoir that can be seen in the distance looks sorry.

Then a very long descent to Saint-Geniez-d’Olt, where unfortunately everything is closed on this Monday. So I have lunch in a supermarket parking lot. It’s not glamorous, but it doesn’t matter much to me; my thoughts take up enough space to make me forget this soulless place.

It would almost seem easy, afterward, to reach Peyreleau, in the Tarn gorges, where a lodging awaits me. That would be without counting on the many steep, leg-breaking hills, the kind that only the limestone plateaus of the Grands Causses know how to produce.

After many efforts, I finally overlook a wide valley at the bottom of which I catch sight of the village. The switchbacks are so tight that, despite my accumulated hours in the saddle, I don’t feel so proud.

Soon the Tarn, civilization. Well, almost, because everything is closed; “end of season!” I’m told. Luckily, my hosts are kind enough to prepare dinner for me; otherwise I would have had only the bottom of a bag of vegetable chips as my only meal. Decidedly, this trip reserves the most unexpected surprises for me.

Tomorrow, I will ride on my own tracks, since I should cross the route of the GR70, which I took last April.