Day Seven, La Monta (1661m) to Le Roux (1750m). 4.2 miles. 197m A, 108m D
It was Sunday, the day of rest, and applying the trekkers’ code of two hard days and an easy day we left the others to take the high road while we took the low road. Our ascent was a tad less than 30m as we walked a track by the river to Ristolas for coffee, of which there was none, and onwards to Abriès.
Arriving mid-morning we spent some time with the delightful lady who was running l’office de Tourism as she attempted to confirm our stay for the night, eventually with success. We strolled the town, there was a Sunday Market of sorts, more like a car-boot sale, spent some time in the small and charmingly expensive supermarché, then set about with due diligence seeking a decent coffee, with the right amount of sun or shade, not too many people, but not deserted, and room for our Ospreys to sit in safety. (It’s quirky that you end up building up the sort of fondness for that which weighs you don the most, and over the years I have always referred to my rucksack by it’s manufacturer).
We found such a place in the form of La Div’Aria Tapas et Vins, and coffee sort of dragged on through until the our stomachs started focussing on how really tasty those little healthy looking morsels that the folk on the next table looked. After a little negotiation between our stomachs and some advice from the young couple already eating, we settled on a range of fascinating sounding Tapas along with the requisite beer and wine, and the afternoon dragged on overwhelming us with relaxation. The soporific atmosphere deepened when the charming young owner turned up with a couple of boissons locales, one was the already mentioned larch needle liqeur, and the other juniper.
Eventually we thought we should perhaps make our way to our refuge. Studying the map we realised that whilst I had booked a place in Abriés it was actually in a satellite village a short way of town, and about 170m above it. However, the walk was pleasant enough, the traffic along the road was ‘Sunday afternoon dawdle’ sort of traffic, the river that ran by the road was equally inclined, and so were we, although our inclination was up rather than down.
The road did most of it’s climbing in the last three quarters of a mile, with the village hanging on the hillside above us. The scenery changed back from the formality and regimentation of the town and its suburbs, to the informality of the hills, with small ravines, scattered trees and open meadow with a herd of cows lowing their need of milking.
Our refuge was almost at the top of the village. To our amusement the booking diary did not have our names, simply Les Anglais! We were informed that dinner would be early as there was a documentary that evening. Dinner was for me the most memorable of the entire journey, ‘canard’ as only the French seem able to prepare it, avec haricots vert .
The documentary was a year in the life of a flock, from the lambing sheds in the valley, the transhumance to the alpine meadows, the vagaries of the weather and the death or injury caused by the increasing number of wolves. Having worked with sheep in my twenties I was fascinated, both by the film, but also by the shepherdess who attended; her introduction in the film was a low angle shot of a pair of calves that one of the ‘All Blacks’ would have been proud. She came to the evening in wonderfully garish clothes and fluorescent fingernails.