clairedavieswriter

Today was another opportunity to play that old Auvergne party game “How Green is your Valley” and its essential companion, “How Steep are your Hills”. For fun, we also had a go at “How Hot is your Afternoon “.

The correct answer to the first was: very green indeed.

Fortunately for me, the answer to the second was ‘mostly manageable’, but remind me never to do the journey in reverse: this little beauty of a 7km descent lasted 13 brake-testing, hand-cramping, sweat-cooling minutes. If there are any truly masochistic col-baggers out there, forget Mt Ventoux, this one’s for you.

The answer to the third question was: over 30 degrees in the shade. And there wasn’t much shade. Even Bernard dived for cover when we found some:

We spent the morning climbing our way steadily to the top of another plateau – the views were extraordinary:

This one came with a romantic touch:

Along the way we came across technology old and new:

Today, it was hard to believe it could ever be cold, but the signs suggested otherwise:

The reward for the precipitous descent I mentioned earlier was the pretty little town of Lavoûte Chilhac, clustered around a shepherd’s hook bend in the river:

I saw two-foot long salmon lazing in the shade beneath the bridge, but a local in the bar told me they were now rare, and fishing was banned. Efforts are being made to reintroduce them, by releasing fry (if that’s the right word) upstream.

The same man also told me that this stretch of the river, from Langeac to Brioude, is known as the Midi of the Auvergne, because it gets so hot in the summer. And in May, it seems.

Our friend Guillaume had been having a good day. The short stretch of track he suggested this morning had been pulverised by tractor tyres, so was no trouble for Bernard’s Schwalbes.

But Guillaume just can’t help himself. With less than 10k to go, he threw in one of his genius short cuts. The first bit was better than it looked, and did usefully cut a corner.

But this was beyond a joke (yes it’s the bit between the fence and the tree). Having attempted the first 50 metres, Bernard and I took matters into our own hands and found a route that involved tarmac. Word of the day, which Guillaume would do well to learn: goudron.

We reached our destination with plenty of time to get the washing done. Those with sharp eyes may spot my room. Once again, I’m the only guest, although as I write, three locals are at the bar discussing (or possibly arguing about, it’s hard to tell) the price of tractors. It’s an outrage, apparently.