22 – 23 April 2005

First down

My route plan showed this was going to be our hardest day – 800 metres of ascent, but a knee-wrecking 2000 metres of downhill. By now we were used to finding fallen trees blocking the path. The track down to Moulinet dropped steadily but not too steeply for over two hours, leaving the snow behind and taking us into warm sunshine and the Mediterranean vegetation of the valley. Instead of pine resin we now had the scents of rosemary, thyme and lavender.

The first place we saw in Moulinet made us laugh out loud. The window of a restaurant faced towards us up the street. In the window was a small blackboard with a hand-written message in chalk “Open March 2006”. A wait of 11 months had to win first prize in the “France Fermée” competition.

As it happened, there was somewhere in Moulinet to have lunch, but we didn’t see the Hôtel de la Poste until we were leaving. We did, though, find the small shop and tiny bar that were open, where we bought coffee and a fizzy drink, a baguette, chocolate and an orange.

Then up

The shortest way from Moulinet to Sospel goes into the Mercantour National Park, but the GR52a sticks to its principles and takes the long way round. We were taking the short way, a climb of 600 metres to link up with the GR52 (no relation), here running north-south through the heart of the National Park. A notice board at the park boundary told us all the things we couldn’t do: no dogs; no camping; no fires; no picking flowers, and more, each with its own little symbol. It didn’t mention what we could – and did – do: slog and sweat up endless steep zigzags in hot sunshine.

JT: This was certainly a slog; but what Dad has forgotten to mention here is that this section of the walk also contained the first of only two "almost level" sections of the entire trip. Sure, it lasted just a kilometre but, for once, neither set of leg muscles was called into action.

Cannon white and red

The junction with the GR52 was in a grassy clearing on the shoulder of a ridge. Large pieces of iron were scattered around, and being tired we were inclined to be critical of the vandals who had left such a mess in what was otherwise an attractive place. Then we realised that the chunks of iron were the remains of a large cannon, and I remembered the turbulent military history of this corner of France which had been fought over in every war since the time of Napoleon. An opportunist baliseur had used the cannon, but his or her work fell short of the FFRP’s strict quality controls.

Second down

And then there was the 1000-metre descent into Sospel: 6 kilometres at an average gradient of 1 in 6. Towards the end, big sweeping zigzags on what was now an approved mountain-bike track weren’t marked on my map, and we realised that although it made the gradient easier it was also adding unwelcome distance to a long day.

On the way we chatted about the fact that over the last four days we hadn’t met a single other walker, despite the generally supportive attitude of the French people and officialdom towards active outdoor leisure. We wondered how we should refer to ourselves and the walking we’d been doing. Randonneurs, certainly. Grands randonneurs, probably not. We recognised we’d been calling the white and red GR waymarks “splodges”, and in the end we decided splodgistes captured it.

Last up

Sospel was open, but we were almost too tired to care, especially when we saw our hotel perched 50 metres higher than the town centre. Jonathan spotted a road sign placing the Auberge Provençale 1.7 km up the road, but we took a chance on a direct footpath which brought us out just by the entrance. A few minutes later, and before we’d even seen our room, we were sprawled on the terrace under a sunshade with a cold beer, looking down on the town.

JT: Mmm…. beer

Small ville

Although it has cafés, restaurants, shops, bars and several hotels, Sospel is a small town at heart. The fact that there is an official road sign in the centre showing the way to the ironmonger’s shop is a give-away.

The conformity ingrained into the French character is showing. Every menu we’ve seen on this trip has had crottin de chèvre chaud as a starter.

Rest day

We had a day to spare, and decided to spend it around Sospel rather than on the coast. Mont Agaisen overlooks the town, and we walked up there in the morning, briefly nodding a last acquaintance to our old friend the GR52a. On the fortified summit there are old blockhouses and iron-clad bunkers. It’s also the take-off spot for the local hang-gliding club: four were preparing to take off, and we waited while two of them got on their way.

Although the Alpes-Maritime are about as far from Brittany as you can get in France, the little restaurant serving Breton gallettes and crèpes made a good lunch place.

One more GR

We’d already decided that the route I’d originally planned from Sospel to the coast at Menton on the GR52 was more than we wanted to do for our last day. Instead, we’d arranged a taxi to take us to the Col de Castillon, and would walk from there to the sea. Our route went due south from the Col (a unique stretch of three almost level kilometres!), then joined the GR51 through the village of Monti and up to Castellar, where a great ochre-coloured church stands on the top of a bluff overlooking the valley down to the coast.

JT: Some of us, who shall remain nameless, had already suggested in the planning stages of this trip that the final day as originally intended looked a bit arduous. But we wouldn’t want to bring that up now.

We reached Castellar about mid-day. The weather had changed, with intermittent light rain and drizzle in the air. As we walked through the village we spotted a small Casino supermarket that was open, and a Bar/Tabac, also open but empty. In the main square in front of the church a small hotel-restaurant, l’Hôtel des Alpes, painted blue and cream, had an attractive covered terrace. It was closed. In a way we were pleased: it would have somehow seemed wrong if our last day had been so different from the others.

JT: Yes, in a way.

We ate the last of our sausage and bread in the bus shelter out of the drizzle, then walked back through the village. It was just before 1230, and the Casino was still open. Jonathan went in to buy chocolate and a drink. The Bar/Tabac was also still open. It lived up to its name – there was no room for tables in the narrow room, but a row of men occupied the length of the bar and a cloud of smoke drifted out of the open doorway.

Under path

The GR51 continued east to meet the GR52, but we headed south straight for the coast. An English couple who’d been staying at the hotel in Sospel were also heading for Menton, but by a different route. They had directions provided by their tour company, and had warned us that the path might be “a bit tricky” where it crossed the Corniche du Soleil autoroute. They were right. The waymarks were clear, but we couldn’t believe that what had been a pleasant open track suddenly twisted and turned down a series of concrete steps and eroded gullies overgrown with thick brambles. Fighting our way through after having checked all the other alternatives, we crossed under the motorway through a concrete tunnel covered in spray-painted graffiti. Back to civilisation!

The sea, the sea

Our arrival in Menton was maybe a slight anticlimax, especially as I’d slipped on the wet concrete road about a kilometre from the end and had to stop to treat a bleeding wrist. We negotiated the slippery cobbles down past the church which overlooks the Plage des Sablettes, crossed the road to the promenade, and looked at the sea. We agreed neither of us felt we needed to go and stand in it.

Invisible men

We hadn’t expected a welcome committee in Menton, but we didn’t expect to be invisible. Normally, two men with quite large rucksacks walking through a town centre attract some attention, if only curiosity. People tend to avoid you, partly because you look scruffy, and partly because they don’t want you to bump into them with your bulky gear. But here it was as if we didn’t exist – not only did no-one look at us, they just kept walking as if we weren’t there. We found ourselves forced into doorways or into the road to avoid people who didn’t even seem to see us. It was very strange. We decided we just weren’t Menton’s sort of people.

We did, though, celebrate with a couple of beers and a crèpe each in a nice crèperie in the old part of the town, where we were served with courtesy despite the obvious problem of finding somewhere out of the way to put our rucksacks.

Fin

And so that was the end of the walk. We took the train to Nice, checked into the same hotel we’d stayed in before setting off, bought a few small presents, had a very large beer served by a patronising young waiter in a bar in the touristy part of Nice’s old town, followed by an excellent meal at le Tire Bouchon (also in the old town). Then it was Sunday morning, and a mad dash on foot around Nice trying to find a way of getting to the airport while the buses were disrupted by road closures for the Nice half-marathon, finally taking a taxi from the rail station which got us to the airport with just enough time to check in.

And then . . .

“I quite fancy that area around eastern France, the Swiss Jura and the Black Forest next year”, said Jonathan. “There might even be some bars open in the evening. What d’you think?”