It was surprisingly easy that September day to entice Kenneth away from the other donkeys and into the van. The bucket of oats probably helped. But we liked to think that it was also because he recognised us.
Kenneth had been our companion on the Stevenson Trail four months previously; of the three donkeys we had used he was far and away our favourite. The first, Noisette, rivalled the uncooperative Modestine in Robert Louis Stevenson's Travels With A Donkey, and walked even slower than I did. Jeep didn't like dogs, and since Whiskey, an amiable blond labrador, was one of our party, this was a snag. Kenneth, on the other hand, soft-coated and dark-eared, had a pragmatic and accommodating nature, his only flaw being a tendency to race downhill.
This was our third visit to the Stevenson Trail, a 252km walk along the spine of the Cevennes from Le Monastier in Haute Loire to St Jean du Gard, following in the footsteps of Stevenson's 1878 journey. These days, the route is rather less rugged, punctuated with donkey B&Bs, where travellers and their mounts are given sustenance.
The spring before last, Molly, a long-time French resident, and I had made an exploratory trip, which had been farcically disastrous - recalcitrant donkey, forgotten waterproofs, out-of-date guidebook necessitating a lengthy detour along Tarmac roads, which made Whiskey's paws bleed so much we had to stop. We resolved to do it properly next time, so in May, we had walked 80km in four days from Le Monastier to Luc.
Our third visit was in the month when RLS had set out on his travels. Instead of mountains spread with spring flowers, the hedgerows were full of fruit - wild strawberries and raspberries: handy if we got lost again, at least. The next stage - from Luc to Mont Lozère - would be strictly French-speaking, Molly warned, as Véro and Dany, accompanying us, spoke no English. Over supper on the first night, I could catch one word in three. My spoken French was better: as I explained laboriously about a weekend in Paris, Véro broke in and Molly translated: "She's very impressed with your grasp of the past subjunctive."
Supper was at Le Brasserie du Musée in Pradelles, a medieval mountain-top village (1,150 metres up) which was the starting point of all our expeditions. Gilles Romand, owner of the restaurant, donkeys and five-star gîte d'etape where we stayed, was the reason we started here: practical, humorous and a good cook, he was indispensable to our plans. He drove us to the ruined Chateau de Luc, the only "notable feature" in Luc, according to Stevenson, with its "50 quintals of brand new Madonna" on the tower. After Gilles had explained, yet again, the rules of donkey management, we set off, the not-so-new Madonna's hand raised in benediction over our little procession.
Within minutes, we had taken the wrong turning (the guidebook was up-to-date, but it was me who was navigating) and retraced our steps to a pleasant stream. Time for lunch already, we thought. This became a pattern: we would overcome some minor vicissitude and felt this achievement merited a food break. Lucky we always had enough supplies to take many breaks.
Our destination was the Trappist monastery of Notre-Dame-des-Neiges, site of much philosophising and religious disputation by Stevenson. Had we been more organised, we might have lodged there, but we stayed instead in La Bastide Puylaurent, in the cream-coloured hotel with violet shutters opposite the station. Kenneth was put in the field with white horses round the corner. The owner, Michel, was intending to do some work to make this a recognised donkey stop, but as he lay on the great sofa much of the time watching television, that seemed an unlikely goal.
On our day trip to Notre Dame, buffeted by wind, Kenneth was unduly headstrong and required a four-person operation - before, behind and one each side of his head: "Modestine!" a villager chuckled in recognition. As we finally arrived, the clock was striking 12. Just in time for sexte, one of the offices punctuating the monks' day. We tethered Kenneth to a tree and followed the women scurrying from the maison de la retraite into the church.
For 15 minutes, we were immersed in a world that moved at an even slower pace than we were accustomed to on the trail. Rows of white-robed monks faced each other, singing psalms, as the brotherhood had done for centuries. As the service ended, five monks left and the rest were cast into attitudes of contemplation, immobile for several minutes until three tolls of the bell released them. And us: we adjourned to the large shop that stocked all manner of honey, wine and liqueurs, which is how the monastery makes its living, and filled Kenneth's panniers.
That evening, Michel roused himself to make raclette , a local speciality. It is an elaborate method of melting cheese, in electric frying pans plugged into table sockets, to pour over whatever vegetables and charcuterie are to hand, and accompanied by cold red wine in beer bottles. Maybe Michel was lonely. He livened up after supper, playing music and even jigging on his own in front of the fragrant wood fire.
The next day dawned loudly - Michel, full of energy (he was closing up for two days to go to the city) was playing a brass band reveille - and mistily. A cloud appeared to be sitting in the station car park. We climbed into the pine forest and deeper into the cloud. We had to make do with the minutiae of life on the verge: spiders' webs, for example, festooned among the broom, each thread strung with beads of moisture.
We watched a spider, golden with pearly sheen and a shield-like design on its back, until Whiskey, curious at our focused attention, blundered in, breaking the web and carrying the spider on his coat until we restored it to home turf to start the rebuilding process.
We lunched at a picnic table, huddled in hats and scarves, but as we descended the fog lifted, and we could see valleys, mountains, and hedges heavy with blackberries. We, and Kenneth, gorged ourselves. And so we arrived at Hotel les Sources at Chasserades on a glorious sunlit evening in good humour. Kenneth was quartered in a grassy enclosure under rowan trees bright with berries, and we in interconnecting rooms with antique wooden beds and hot showers.
At the time when Stevenson was in Chasserades, the "company in the inn... were all men employed in survey for one of the projected railways". We could see the fruits of their labours - a great viaduct stalking across the valley. The next day, our magisterial cavalcade passed cemetery and church - past staring bystanders and a St Bernard, yesterday loudly aggressive, today his jaw dropping in respectful astonishment at the sight of the donkey - followed a pretty path down under the giant arches and then up again, alongside the railway where we paused to watch a train making its cautious way across the viaduct. So much to look at: rosehips in hedges, fields of autumn crocus, trees turning gold and red. We pointed them out to each other, full of the joys of September.
Beyond the hamlet of L'Étampe, we stopped for lunch, pleased with our progress and the demeanour of the donkey. We then looked at the map - we had taken two hours to cover 2km. The rest of the day was a bit of a blur as we sought to make up lost time through the Goulet forest and passed the tumbled remains of the deserted village of Serreméjan on a grassy lane.
Once, as we stopped on a secluded forest path to reassemble the donkey's pack (which had slipped because we'd forgotten, again, to tighten his girth after 20 minutes), we met our first two walkers. They looked fresh and bright. Later, I realised that this was not only because they did not have a donkey; they had no rucksacks, either. At the hotel, we saw their bags, labelled Sherpa Expeditions. Molly said this was cheating.
After we found the source of the river Lot, the going got easier as we followed it downhill, except for a brief runaway by Kenneth, who was upset by a cyclist clad in lurid Lycra. It was not even dusk as we made our way through Les Alpiers - old crooked buildings with onions drying on walls and satellite dishes - where we met another walker, an English teacher impressed by the quality of Véro's and Dany's French, convinced as he was that we must all be British because we were on the Stevenson Trail.
The next day, September 22, was the date when Stevenson began his travels with a donkey and coincidentally the day when we abandoned ours. Rather to our relief, the weather was abysmal. Though the rain later eased, to allow us to amble round Le Bleymard, and to gather damsons from a heavily laden tree, we didn't change our minds. Stevenson might well have sniffed at our lack of resolve, but Mont Lozère could wait for another year.
· Travels With Donkeys And A Dog, by Hilary Macaskill, will be published in 2003.
Way to go
Getting there: Nearest train station Langogne. A return ticket from London via Paris or Lille costs £141 through Rail Europe (08705 848848, Rail Europe).
Where to stay: An accommodation list is available from Association Sur le Chemin de Robert Louis Stevenson, 48220 Pont-de-Montvert (+4 66 45 86 31, Association Sur le Chemin de Robert Louis Stevenson). Activities: Donkeys can be hired from Gilles Romand, Écuries du Musée, 43420 Pradelles (+4 71 00 88 88, email: gilles.romand@wanadoo.fr). Association Sur Le Chemin de Robert Louis Stevenson has a list of donkey hirers.
Recommended reading: Le Chemin de Stevenson, published by Fédération Française de la Randonée Pédestre, 14 rue Ricquet, 74019 Paris (+1 44 89 93 93). Travels With A Donkey by Robert Louis Stevenson, published by Konemann UK ISBN: 3895084603, is available at Amazon.
Country code: 00 33. Time difference: + 1hr. Train time: London-Langogne 10hrs 45mins. £1 = 1.54 euros.