The following morning, with the weather looking good, we had an early breakfast and filled our water bottles before setting out again for the train station in St. Etienne. Our plan was to get to Le Puy and start walking immediately. We wanted to buy some food in St. Etienne, but on the Sunday morning, nothing would open until 08:30, so we would have to wait until we got to Le Puy. The train to Le Puy is a small one, running on a single track, with just a few services each day. It left on time, with just a few passengers making the journey. The line is a scenic one, going though the hills and valleys of the Auvergne on its way to Le Puy. The weather was hard to determine. There seemed to be mist on the higher ground, though everything was dry.
And then we were in Le Puy. I have been there twice before on my Camino walks, so I led the way, down from the train station to the city centre. Then came the ascent to the cathedral. There is a road up the hill to the cathedral, but the steep slope forces it to wind around gradually gaining height. There are steps to make the journey shorter, at least in distance. Those steps make going up the hill to be the equivalent of climbing several flights of stairs, and we were both out of breath by the time we reached the courtyard entrance to the cathedral. The cathedral steps would become the standard by which we would judge the steepness of hills for the rest of the trip, and nothing else even came close. Once there in that courtyard, it was time for a photograph to mark the official start of our journey on the Chemin de Stevenson.
To get on the route proper, we had to go through the cathedral. There was a mass in progress, so we had no opportunity to look around or treat it as a tourist site. It was a case of just going through and down the steps to the front door. And as we left the cathedral, all of Le Puy was laid out in front of us.
Our first stop was at a small supermarket. In France, the smaller city centre supermarkets are allowed to open on Sunday mornings, though the larger megastores must remain closed. We bought cheese and sausages to have a picnic lunch along the way. And then we were heading out of town. First we went from busy streets to suburban roads before getting to quieter residential areas, and finally out into the countryside. It was really only there that it felt like our walk was truly under way. We went under the motorway before heading uphill to the plateau. When we reached the plateau at the top of the rise, we could see the mountains and valleys ahead through the hazy sunshine. Then there was a long downhill stretch to reach the village of Coulon. Many villages in this region seem to be hidden in valleys or in woodland, so that they only become visible when you are within a few hundred metres of the place. That is how it was with Coulon. And on reaching the village, we crossed the Loire, though that mighty river was really only a medium sized stream at that location.
It is a feature of rural France on Sundays that restaurants and bars tend to finish the lunch period early on Sundays, and so it was in Coulon. We were able to order beers, but no food. But we weren’t worried; we had our picnic lunch. Once the beers had slaked our thirt, we were on our way again, heading uphill. There is a shelter in the village of l’Holme, though we wanted somewhere that we could sit out in the early afternoon sunshine for our picnic, so we kept going. The trail rises gently after l’Holme, and we soon came to a spot where we could sit down and admire the view, looking back towards Coulon.
A few cars went up and down the rough track as we sat there. And then Jim came along. We greeted him, and he returned the greeting in English, asking us where we were from. It would become a standard question from many people on our way south. I gave the answer, which would also become standard, that Joff was English and living in Ireland, while I was Irish and living in Switzerland. Jim then asked where we thought he was from. Based on his accent, I said I thought he was Dutch. But it turned out that he was English, though living in the Netherlands for many years. He had also started out from Le Puy that day. But he wasn’t stopping for lunch where we were, and after a brief conversation went on. As we finished our picnic lunch, a car pulled up nearby, and a couple went into the fields nearby, carrying a wicker basket. It was to be our first encounter with mushroom pickers.
Once we went on again, the fields around us soon changed to forest. The way was easy to follow, and we soon came to the tiny village of Herm. The guidebooks say that there is a water refreshment point in Herm, but in the dry year of 2022, there was only a trickle of water. Jim was there when we go there. He had chosen Herm as his refreshment stop. We went on, up a rocky trail that wound its way until it came to Mont. This was the highest point of the day’s walk, not far short of 1000m above sea level. As we rounded the hill at Mont, we could hear noises from Monastier in the distance before we could actually see the village. The sound of sirens suggested either a major emergency or a great celebration. As we went around the hill and descended towards the village, the noise continued. With no other noises, and no sign of a conflagration in the village, we concluded that it must be a celebration. And so we reached the town, eager to find out what was going on.
It turned out that this was the annual fete for the village, with what seemed like the entire population out on the streets to celebrate. We were tired and dusty after the walk, so we went to the gite first. This was a private gite, with room for just six people, and I had secured room for the two of us. It was a three-storey building, with room for two people on each floor, and we had the second floor. After a wash, we watched the parade of floats go by past our window. And then it seemed like time for a beer. We quickly found a bar with the name Le Stevenson, which seemed appropriate. After all, it was in Monastier that he began the account of his journey. The two bar staff seemed like chalk and cheese: a lady seemed to wish everyone would go away, while the other, a man, seemed happy to serve everyone there. Not long after we arrived, however, they ran out of draught beer, which seemed to actually cheer up the lady.
Finding a restaurant in rural France on a Sunday evening can be an undertaking with no certainty of success. But we had been advised by the owner of the gite that a local restaurant called the Chevre & Chou would look after us. The name translates as Goat’s Cheese and Cabbage. But neither of these featured for us. My platter of ham with salad and roast potatoes, followed by a dessert of cooked pear with cream brought an excellent end to an excellent first day. It was time to turn in and be ready for the morrow. We hadn’t been sure if the noise of the fete would continue through the night, but we need not have been concerned. The village went quiet at a reasonable hour, and we were able to get a good rest.
Walkingman 