Vaison-la-Romaine, where I spent the last night, puts an end to the lowlands I’ve had to cross, the easternmost side of the Roussilion. Thence, and heading to the rising sun, the ground gets slowly higher in altitude, starts rippling again in hills, and the landscape becomes once more interesting. We’re in the region they the High Alps, in France.
And what a young mountain chain this is, the Alps! It tells in the pronounced V of the valleys and the no less pronounced A of the peaks, both forming sheer slopes, as you can see in this photograph.
Steep valleys and peaks in the Alps.
But not only that: it also shows in the rapid erosion, which is presently in full process of filing off the drops and levelling the inclines, the mercyless elements removing the ground off the forest for dumping it onto the rushing creeks. For instance, no further than one or two more decades (a geological blink) will live the trees in this picture, when they no longer have where to put their roots.
Shows the fast erosion.
In the Alps, the traveler’s eyes don’t get tired of intently watching around. May the body be fatigued and the mind -or perhaps the spirit- lost in existential gloom, but the sight is always awaken, attentive, insatiably swallowing the landscapes.
The evening has come and the atmosphere gets cooler. Down below was left the heat of the Rhône; here the air is fresh and cold, and even some chimeney is still smoking, though at the very gate of summer. The border with Itally is nigh, but I want to sleep tonight in France yet, leaving the surprises -good or bad- for the morrow, with my senses fully awaken.
So, I need to look for accomodation; but, being so fond of by-roads, I’m not sure if I’ll find any lodgings along this lost detour I’ve taken to Briançon. Wait, yes: after almost I’ve gone by the tiny village of Arvieux, I realize I’ve seen a notice to my right, Chambres d’hôte. I jam on the brakes and turn around. “Do you have rooms?” Yes, they’re actually dorms, but there’s nobody. The landlady, very nice, asks me what time do I want to have dinner? We set it at seven and, meanwhile, I take a long walk in the mountain. From above I look back and see the village at my feet, barely a fistful of houses.
Arvieux, in the High Alps. France.
When I come back they’re already waiting for me, she and her husband. She introduces me to the fellow, who is a big, strong and ugly guy, as men ought to be. He smiles at me and stretches his large hand for shaking. He’s cooking the dinner for me because she’s leaving for home. In a few minutes the last sunrays will die that hit onto the terrace’s tables, yet I chose to have dinner outside, with my jacket on. He’s not a good cook, this cheerful and attentive big boy, but he manages to bake a delicious dessert for me, a kind of blackberry cake in a hot clay cup.
We talk a little. “Do you get many customers around here?”, I ask. He says, not this time of the day. So, when I finish my dinner he closes down and leaves. I’m totally alone in the house. Darkness takes yet a long while in falling on me -as we’re in the longest days of the year- but silence is already complete in this lost village of the French Alps.
