FranceBeyond (including ProvenceBeyond). Links on the home page to specific Provence topics – villages, history, sport, etc. Good place to start your research.
ProvenceWeb – Alpes-Maritimes villages
Haut Pays de Nice (one-man site)
Portail Vésubien – plenty of information about the places in the Vésubie valley.
Alpes Maritimes Département ProvenceWeb.

There’s plenty online about wolves in the Mercantour and ProvenceBeyond has a short summary in English.

Villages on our route

Rimplas ProvenceBeyond.
St-Martin-Vésubie ProvenceBeyond.
St-Martin-Vésubie ProvenceWeb.
la Bollène-Vésubie ProvenceBeyond.
la Bollène-Vésubie Main village site.
la Bollène-Vésubie ProvenceWeb.
Moulinet ProvenceWeb
Sospel ProvenceWeb.
Sospel Tourist office
Castellar ProvenceWeb.
Menton ProvenceBeyond.
Menton ProvenceWeb.

Accommodation

Not all the hotels we stayed in have web sites. I’ve listed here the ones that do, and some other hotels we considered as alternatives. All the places we stayed were of a standard typical of French 2-star hotels, with the Auberge Provençale in Sospel being the best of them.

We stayed in —

l’Hôtel Crillon in Nice
le Relais St Louis in St-Martin-Vésubie (fax +33 4 93 03 37 07). Alternative: la Bonne Auberge (tel. +33 4 93 03 20 49) — a smarter-but-duller looking place which didn’t reply to my enquiry.
le Grand Hôtel du Parc in la Bollène-Vésubie
les Trois Vallées at the Col de Turini (tel. +33 4 93 91 57 42). The alternatives, le Ranch (tel. +33 4 93 91 57 23) and les Chamois (tel. +33 4 93 91 57 42) were both closed at the time. Despite our experiences there, the Trois Vallées would seem to be easily the best choice. There are also hotels at the Camp d’Argent ski centre.
Auberge Provençale in Sospel. Note it is a short uphill walk from the town centre. I also had a friendly reply from the Hôtel de France, which is in the town centre (and on the main road). Next door is the Hôtel des Étrangers.

The GR52a skirts the edge of the Mercantour National Park starting at Colmars (04 Alpes-de-Haute-Provence) in the valley of the Verdon, then heading east, south-east, and north-east to the Col de Tende (06 Alpes-Maritimes) in the corner of the French/Italian border. The FFRP Topoguide number 507 covers the GR5, GR52 and GR52a.

For our walk, total estimated time is calculated at 14 mins/km + 1.15mins/10m ascent, plus a rough allowance for any steep descent of about 15mins for 250m. It includes time for short stops. We were each carrying packs weighing about 10kg, and this timing worked quite well for us.

See below for details about our route-finding problems at le Bioulet.

Route-finding at le Bioulet (day 2)

The line of the GR52a shown on the IGN TOP25 map is accurate, but not all the buildings at le Bioulet are shown. As you approach le Bioulet, pass between two concrete pillars either side of the road. About 200m further, go up the private drive with “no entry” sign. There was no signpost nor a GR waymark at this point in April 2005. Continue in the same direction to reach a notice board / signpost (probably no. 285, but we didn’t confirm this). Here you should pick up the waymarks again. The GR52a heads purposefully uphill in a north-easterly then northerly direction, and as shown on the map turns sharply south when it reaches the stream.

Do NOT take a lower WAYMARKED path which follows a more level route parallel to the road, heading north. The waymarks were bright and new in April 2005. This path does not turn back at the stream, but crosses it and continues to follow the direction of the road back towards St Martin, but higher up the hillside. It possibly connects with the dotted track shown ending at the large conduit.

We made the mistake of not passing the “no entry” sign and searched around in the woods for the path, eventually picking up the fresh waymarks of what turned out to be the lower path. We followed this over the stream and on for another few hundred metres before abandoning it and returning to le Bioulet, where we intersected with the correct path. We did not go as far as the notice board / signpost but could see it below us at the point where we found the right way.

The fresh white-and-red waymarks on the wrong path were confusing. We suspect that an alternative line for the GR52a is being or has been developed, possibly using the dotted track ending at the conduit. At the time of writing (May 2005) there is no mention of this on the FFRP website’s mise à jour section.

First down

Route barée again

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

Change of direction on the GR52

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

View of Sospel from the terrace of the Auberge Provençale

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.

The old bridge in Sospel

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.

Arriving in Menton

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?”

Prêt à Manger

La-Bollène-Vésubie has a Post Office open every day, Monday to Saturday. From 1000 to 1130. There was one food shop, but it was closed when we went up into the village at 0915. Only one place was open: a small butchers tucked away below the main square, announcing Produits Régionaux. Not much good for food for lunch,
we thought. Then I saw a sign in the window – dépot de pain mercredi. I counted on my fingers. Wednesday! Yes! We went in and bought a baguette and a piece of cheese. At least we’d have something to eat. We wondered what the village did for bread the other days of the week.

Route barrée

Today was designed as an easy day. Uphill all the way, but only about 4 hours’ walking. The first part was very steep with the path rising in zigzags before reaching the point where the gradient eased and the route headed up the valley towards the Col de Turini, our objective for the day.

The GR and GRP footpaths in France are maintained by baliseurs bénévoles, volunteers who refresh the waymarks, report problems, and so on. Their summer season must start later than April, because fallen trees across the path were becoming a regular hazard. We’d first had the problem two days before on our way down to St-Martin-Vésubie. Today we had the best – or rather the worst – so far. A freshly-fallen mature pine was across the path. With a steep drop on the left and a ten foot wall of loose rock on the right it was impossible to go round. Climbing over was also impossible. The only solution was to go through the tangle of branches, which is exactly what we did!

If you can’t go round …

Snow business

Do you think there’ll be any snow up at the Col?”, I’d asked Jonathan earlier. We were sitting on a huge log, one of four left by the forestry workers at the side of the track, having lunch. We’d agreed there might be a few patches of old snow, but not much more. The next part of the track was a muddy mess – the foresters were felling timber, and their heavy machinery had enormous tyres with huge chains that had churned up the track. A group of them brewing up by their 4×4 gave us a courteous “Bonjour” as we passed. The sky had clouded over in the last hour, and as we hopped and squelched up the track trying to avoid the deepest mud a mist came down around us and light snow began to fall.

We came to a junction – signpost number 196. The mud continued down to the left on a track that joined the D70 road which loops in magnificent hairpins up to the Col de Turini from la Bollène. We’d had glimpses of it on the other side of the valley for most of the morning. Our way continued to climb eastwards, gently but steadily, but with no forestry vehicles working it was covered in several inches of soft snow. We slowed to a steady trudge. The light snow continued as we ground out the last kilometres, stopping every quarter of an hour or so for a break. The snow finally stopped only as the first buildings at the Col came in sight.

Tony in snow

At the Col de Turini

The menu said “Civet de Biche”. “I understand Civet”, I said (in French) to Jean-Paul, “but what is Biche?” Jean-Paul looked non-plussed. “It’s an animal”, he proffered. I asked if it was large or small, had four legs or two, but he had no further suggestions. It was the end of our third day, and we had reached the Hôtel les Trois Vallées at the Col de Turini. Although a thirty-something woman was around some of the time, the management and operation of the hotel seemed to have been left to Jean-Paul, who was about 13 years old. He had checked us in and shown us to our room almost without speaking, and now he was maître d’hôtel, waiter, and sommelier for our evening meal. We were the only guests.

It had been snowing again outside, and the Three Valleys was cold. The heating in our room was on, but the radiators in the bar and the small lounge – which were otherwise quite attractive areas – were cold. A half-hearted fire in an open grate had all but gone out. In the restaurant, a radiator by our table gave some warmth. It was a shame, because on all other counts the Trois Vallées seemed to be a nice place. The Col de Turini is well-known to car rally enthusiasts, and features in the Monte Carlo Rally. The walls in the bar and restaurant were covered with glossy photos of glossy cars and glossy people. (Actually, some of the people weren’t very glossy.) There was a picture of the car park full of red Ferraris. Many of the pictures had signature flourishes of presumably famous drivers, and inscriptions “to my friends at les Trois Vallées”.

The thirty-something woman, wearing a gilet body-warmer, had been pleasant enough for the few minutes at a time when we had seen her, but most of the time she was hidden in the back rooms of the hotel. Another woman, who we assumed was the owner or the owner’s wife, had shown us to our table and promptly disappeared never to reappear. Our meal, though, was good. A large bowl of hot vegetable soup followed by a salmon steak in a creamy herb sauce warmed us up, although the tarte au myrtilles which followed was rather heavy. Jean-Paul had opened our bottle of wine with skill.

Near the end of our meal, around 8.15, the front door of the hotel rattled. A couple of travellers were trying to get in, but the door was already locked for the evening. Jean-Paul first pretended he hadn’t seen them, then gestured that the hotel was closed. The would-be guests, though, had seen us eating and wouldn’t be turned away. After a quick discussion out of our sight the door was unlocked and the couple let in. They were shown a room, decided to stay, and came down for dinner just as we were finishing. We wished them a polite “Bonsoir”, and headed back to our heated bedroom.

The incongruity of the Trois Vallées continued the next morning. Our breakfast was the best we were to have during our trip. As well as the standard croissant and small quantity of bread and jam, there was yoghurt, fruit, ham, cheese, and a pain au chocolat each. Normal service was resumed a short time later, as Jean-Paul checked us out in silence apart from a final “Bonne journée”. Who we were, where we had come from, and where we were going was obviously a matter of complete indifference. Maybe if we’d arrived by Ferrari it would have been different.

Tracks

At the Col de Turini

It was still below freezing when we set off through winter holiday picture postcard scenery – a bright crisp day with pine trees, a clear blue sky above and brilliant white snow underfoot. With no footprints to follow we needed a little careful navigation to make sure we were on the right track, but we soon picked up the white and red splodges that had kept us company for the past few days.

Half an hour later we were at the unremarkable highest point of our walk. The GR52a by-passes the crest of the ridge rising south-west from the Col, and my altimeter showed 1735m as the broad track eased from an uphill to a downhill gradient. We were below the Cime de la Calmette, invisible on the ridge above us. Another 5 minutes and we came into the open as the path joined the ridge. Footprints in the snow – two humans and a dog – joined our track from the path coming down from the Cime. We stopped by the signpost and took in the view.

In the distance our first sight of the sea, a deeper blue than the sky, showed the Côte d’Azur living up to its name. Between us and the sea a chaotic jumble of hills and steep-sided wooded valleys hid our next two objectives – Moulinet, which we hoped to make by lunchtime, and Sospel, our next overnight stop. Behind us, snow-topped mountains rose up to the ski resorts of Isola and Auron.

JT: From here, it almost looked like a pleasant stroll down to the coast. Ha!

View Towards Coast

The tracks of the two people and their dog kept us company for a while, finally taking a different path at a junction. Then a hare’s tracks followed our route for over a kilometre. Other tracks – birds and animals – crossed the path. I recognised deer and, I thought, fox. And one set of particularly large dog-like tracks: wolves have returned to this region – was this one of them?

Introduction

The soft green glow from the backlight of my watch showed me the time – 1.16 in the morning. I’d been in bed since before ten, and just woken for a moment. As I turned over and drifted back to sleep, an Important Thought came to me: the trouble with this walking holiday in the Alpes-Maritimes was that there weren’t any level bits!

But to go back to the beginning . . .

Jonathan and I had been talking about a week’s walking holiday in April somewhere in continental Europe. It had to be somewhere neither too hot nor too cold, with good food, reasonably priced hotels with en-suite rooms, hilly enough to be interesting but not too mountainous, and not plagued with mosquitos. The south of France seemed to fit the bill. I suggested the Cévennes, but Jonathan preferred the Alpes-Maritimes, on the grounds that it asn’t so remote and rural, and we could visit the local bars after our evening meal.

JT: Ah, yes, the naïveté of the long-distance walker.

I got the maps and worked out a possible route. “How do you fancy starting in the mountains and walking down to the coast? It’ll mean about four thousand metres of uphill.”

JT: The logic of this temporarily escaped me.

The Start

I’d found the timetable for the bus from Nice to St-Sauveur-sur-Tinée on the internet. I’d even e-mailed the bus company to confirm the details were up to date. “Definitely”, they said. “It leaves the main bus terminal in Nice at 0915 every day as long as the ski resorts are open.” A check with the Isola 2000 web-site showed the resort was open to the end of April. Probably.

Without the bus we’d be stumped. It was going to take us into the hills to the start of our walk back to the coast at Menton. If it wasn’t running we might be able to get a train some of the way, and hope for a taxi for the rest, but we’d never get to the start before mid-day at the earliest, if at all, and we had a 6-hour walk to get to the hotel we’d booked for that evening. A visit to the bus terminus the evening before had been fruitless – the information window was closed.

We got to the terminus at 0845 and went straight to the ticket office. Two tickets to St-Sauveur-sur-Tinée, one way? No problem. Relief! Just time to dash to the supermarket to buy bread, cheese, and sausage for lunch. The bus, with only a few passengers on board, left on time.

Introducing the GR52a

We walked back along the road for a couple of hundred metres, then stopped to pose for photographs by the first signpost on our walk.

Jonathan at the Start

The GR52a, one of the national Sentiers de Grande Randonnée of France, skirts around the outside of the Mercantour national park in a generally east – west direction from Colmars in the valley of the Verdon to the Col de Tende in the corner of the French/Italian border. It was to be our companion for most of the next 5 days’ walking. Here it happens to coincide with the GR5, a Big Daddy long distance path which crosses France from North to South. With one or two exceptions, the white and red waymarks would be helping us with our route-finding.

On my new maps of the region I’d noticed an innovation. Small numbered rectangles indicated signposts, allegedly each numbered to correspond with the number on the map, or vice versa. I had been sceptical, but my doubts were misplaced. From this first signpost, number 167, to the last, with only one exception, the signposting system proved to be reliable and accurate.

We left the road and set off up a driveable track. A few metres further a white and red waymark directed us off the track onto a narrow path which climbed steeply up the hillside. It was a foretaste of things to come.

JT: Yep, a foretaste of the need to gulp copious amounts of water and remove all outer layers of clothing. Nothing like a gentle warm-up to ease ourselves into the kilometres that lay ahead; and this was nothing like a gentle warm-up.

Fermé

Seven and a half kilometres later, after 720 metres up and 190 metres down, our path became a sea of sandy mud. The village of la Roche was expanding, and the GR52a had been obliterated by construction work for what looked like a new factory and warehouse. It was hot, and although we had water the thought of a cold drink was very appealing. Navigating by instinct through the mud we picked up the path again, but then detoured to go into the village centre. Everywhere was shut except the tourist office. They weren’t sure where we might find a shop or café open. Rejoining the GR52a at the edge of la Roche we walked on in full sunshine on a back road for another 3km and 250m ascent to St Dalmas. St Dalmas was bigger than la Roche, but there too everywhere was closed. Through a caravan site, past the Colonie de Vacances, and into a wood. Here the path steepened as it headed for the next point on the map, la Colmiane. By now we were both going slowly and definitely needed a break and a rink.

JT: This is being generous – the truth is that I was going slowly. The walk to St Dalmas had not looked too arduous on paper, but a combination of heat and rucksack was conspiring to reduce me to a sweaty snail’s pace. The belief that Saint Dalmas himself, patron saint of perspiring walkers, would see fit to provide a small café in the village that bore his name was all that was keeping me going. D’oh.

The Col St Martin at la Colmiane is a ski centre 1500 metres above sea level. Only the last vestiges of snow remained – it was clear the winter season was over. A wooden building offered mountain bike hire 7 days out of 7, but no refreshments. Across the car park, cheerful signs outside a row of bars and restaurants offered soft drinks, beer, pizza, plats du jour. All of them were closed. We sat down on a log at the side of the road, ate a biscuit each, and drank our last water. We were leaving the GR52a to take a short-cut, but St-Martin-Vésubie and our hotel for the night were still the best part of an hour away at the end of a steep 550 metre descent through the forest.

We were luckier than we realised as we arrived in St-Martin. Opposite our hotel was a Spar supermarket, and it was open! Later, when I went into the centre of the small town to explore, I found a second supermarket, shops, bars and several restaurants all either open or intending to open for the evening trade. The only other place we came to with services as good was Sospel, three days later. Apart from these two, virtually everywhere else we passed through was closed. Along with the white and red waymarks and the incessant ups and downs, “fermé” became a theme of our walk.

St Martin Vésubie Square

No entry

The next day a short climb out of the town got us back on the GR52a, which here follows a gently rising vehicle track following the valley of the Vésubie south, looping in and out of the gullies which cut into the steep hillside. Sunshine alternated with shade. This track ends after about 5km at a cluster of farm buildings called le Bioulet, where we expected to find signpost number 285. We continued past the buildings on a grassy path which petered out a hundred metres further on: there was no sign of a signpost. We back-tracked to the end of a drive with a no-entry sign and Sauf Ayants Droit (Except Authorised Access), and looked at the map. It showed the GR52a turning back on itself at this point and heading up the hillside through the trees, but there was no sign of a path.

If you’re reading this because you plan to follow in our footsteps, I’ve described in more detail here what happens to the path and how you can avoid wasting time first finding, then following, the wrong waymarked path. Otherwise, enough to say that an hour later, scratched by bushes and by scrambling over fallen trees, and having edged our way precariously along a narrow eroded path above a 30 metre drop, we were back at le Bioulet and setting off on the right route.

JT: Yes, what japes!

Bad weather alternative

Light rain started just as we stopped for lunch at the day’s high point, an airy ridge at 1360m altitude. As we worked our way down the steep zigzags towards Berthemont-les-Bains, thunder and lightning preceded heavier continuous rain, and by the time we reached a road it was clear it wasn’t going to stop for some time. We took it in turns for one of us to shelter under the narrow roof of an information board while the other changed into waterproofs in the telephone box alongside.

JT: Once again, the Brits abroad proving to be a class act with their phone-box changing room antics.

We debated our options. It was after 1.00, we’d lost an hour at le Bioulet, it was raining heavily, and we weren’t yet halfway through our day – there were still 11km to go, with 380m of uphill and 620m descent. The next part of the route headed up through gloomy wet forest.

There’s not much at Berthemont-les-Bains: just the old thermal spa building, and a hotel. The spa was obviously fermé, but we thought the hotel just out of sight up the road – might be open, as we’d seen a car coming down from there. If it was open, we might be able to get a coffee, see if the rain eased off, and if not, see if they could find us a taxi to take us somewhere nearer our next overnight stop at la-Bollène-Vésubie.

The door was open and we went in, dripping on the carpet. Two men were shaking hands: one was leaving. We asked about coffee. “Non”, was the answer. The hotel was fermé. How about a taxi? A look of complete disbelief gave us the unspoken reply – this was rural France, and there wouldn’t be even a thought of a taxi, well, anywhere. But the spoken answer was more encouraging. Where were we going? “I can give you a lift”, said the one who was leaving. He looked a bit like Ronan Pensec, a French racing cyclist of the 1980’s and 90’s.

White van down

Sitting on the floor in the back of the van I braced myself as it swung from one side to the other as Ronan negotiated a series of tight hairpin bends on the road down to the valley, at the same time lighting a cigarette and talking on his mobile phone. I had nobly offered Jonathan, with his long legs, the front seat. “You’re not worried I’ll crash?” Ronan asked as he backed to have a second try at a particularly tight bend he hadn’t quite made at the first go. “No, it’s fine”, said Jonathan, clutching the door handle but trying to appear relaxed and to follow the map to see where we were going.

JT: I was also wondering at what point I’d have to take the wheel myself … there seemed little doubt that Ronan would have a second mobile on his person that was bound to ring at an inopportune time.

Ronan didn’t know where la-Bollène-Vésubie was, but seemed happy to take us in the general direction. I was getting worried about the amount of height we were losing as we carried on downwards, and had visions of us being dropped off much nearer our destination but with 1000 metres of uphill to get there. At one point Jonathan half turned round. “I think I’ve sorted out what we can do. It’s too far to expect him to take us all the way, but I think we can manage if we can get to the turn-off just past Roquebillière.”

Ronan pulled into the side as Jonathan indicated the turn, taking three more calls on his mobile before we could finally say our thanks and goodbyes. We offerred to pay him for his trouble, but as we’d expected it was politely refused. He wished us “Bonne route”, turned the van round, and drove off back up the valley. A nice man.

Jonathan showed me the map. We’d have to do three kilometres on the road, but then we’d rejoin our old friend the GR52a for the last couple of kilometres. The amount of ascent wasn’t much, and it had stopped raining.

A grand hotel

La Bollène Vésubie

We knew what to expect, and we were right: la-Bollène-Vésubie was closed. I’d booked us a room at Le Grand Hôtel du Parc [website now defunct] but there was no sign of it (or to it) in the village centre. The only sign of life was a man sweeping the terrace of the Bar/Tabac (fermé), so I asked for directions to the hotel. He paused, then explained it was down the road “about three or four bends”. As we’d just got to the village up a steep path, the prospect of going back down didn’t thrill us, especially as we weren’t convinced we’d been well directed. We followed the road as it swung down in a series of hairpins, stopping at every bend to see if we could spot the hotel below us. After the fourth bend Jonathan took a path we had kept crossing which seemed to take a more direct route from the village. I followed the road round the bend and back. Jonathan was waiting on the road, and as I came into sight he waved and pointed. The hotel was here.

Le Grand Hôtel du Parc was a nice hotel which had seen better days. It was clean and comfortable, but looking rather run down. The large grounds – presumably the Parc – needed the attention of a gardener, or at least a lawn mower. But the welcome was friendly, we had a pleasant room, and later a good meal. We decided there was no point walking back into the village that evening.