Day Five. Saint Véran (2020m) to Refuge d’ Agnel 2580m) 8 miles 13km, 1072m A, 512m D
‘Tentation á la autobus’. We cheated, I still cannot believe it, we cheated. A real scene from The Fall. Hitherto Favourite Wife discovered that there was a bus running up the valley to the ancient Chapelle de Clausis, (linked to the days of mining) and I succumbed, I knew I shouldn’t, and regretted it grumpily the whole journey. So we missed the walk up the valley from one of the very nicest (and quirkiest) stays on this walk, and as I peered gloomily from the bus window every interesting looking spot was even more interesting – cos I couldn’t get at it!
The bus dropped us and trundled off back down the valley.
We remain bemused that although there were two buses running to the chapel, providing a service every fifteen minutes during the day, all week, yet the chapel was only open on a Wednesday! I mean, honestly, couldn’t the driver have been paid an extra few Euros to trundle up and unlock it at the start of the day, and lock at the end? C’est la vie!
The setting was stunning, with the chapel set on a hill well above the tree line, and set well apart from the surrounding mountains. The approach was bedecked in a bevy of wild flowers, with mauve being the dominant colour. The chapel is popular focal point for walkers, tourists and cyclists, of whom there were far too many for me!
The Chapelle de Clausis set on the hillside surrounded by mountains.
As we headed North-west away from chapel, marmots were in full mid-morning mode, some stretched out lazing in the morning sun and others were full-on verbal. A few were on late breakfast. Although a source of meat in times gone by, there are reports of a couple of Mongolians recently catching Bubonic Plague from eating the kidneys of one, but not I hasten to add dear reader, in the alps.
The Col de Chamoussière, with Monte Viso 3861m
Crossing the Col de Chamoussière at 2884m revealed an altogether starker landscape, snow patches and in the distance, Monte Viso 3861m. For the next few days this mountain was always with us, there in the distance, whether peeking over a nearer range of hills, or as fleeting glimpses through the cloud that seemed tied to it by invisible threads. At 3841m it is the highest peak in the region, with it’s own weather system, linked one suspects, to the all year snowfields that battle for survival in this ever-warming planet.
The early part of the descent to Refuge Agnel, steeper and more treacherous beyond.
Crossing this rather broad col, with patches of snow melting into pools of water before heading for the coast, vegetation was in quite short supply, but that which survived in nook and cranny, or on short-cropped grass was stunningly beautiful, saxifrage, gentian, viola, campion and many many more.
As we zig-zagged down the rather treacherous path on the north side of the col we marvelled at the view to the West that became more exposed as we walked. The valley stretched away below us, leading our eyes to the peaks of the Écrins National Park in the distance, with its glacier enwrapped peaks. High clouds drifted lazily from the east, giving no hint of the rainstorm that followed later.
The peaks of the Écrins National Park in the distance
The Refuge d’ Agnel (2580m) came as a bit of a surprise, I’d failed to absorb the fact that it had a road running past up to the border, beyond which lay pizza, salami, and all things Italian. I had it in my mind that the refuge was in the middle of no-where, instead there were visitors with ‘no right to be there’ by nature of having driven rather than walked.
By succumbing to la temptation á la autobus we almost besmirched ourselves with the same brush as the day-trippers, and consequently arrived early. Our punishment was to sit outside and await the hostel opening, but avec un bier it was not excessively tough.
Un bier, un thé à la menthe, et les Carter.
The middle aged patron/chef and his wife were also rather unexpected, he wore trousers, an apron, bristly moustache, and that was it, Madame was in a skin-tight mini- dress and high wedges, tripping unsteadily between the clodhoppers of the multicultural trekkers.
Avert your eyes and let us chat a little weather.
The modus operendi of the alpine trekker is best guided by the development, usually from mid-afternoon, of thunderstorm cells, which may or may not burst over your particular little part of the planet. Early start and early finish are the wise choice, most days the clouds built up, but the rain didn’t come, other times we sat and watched as the mountains were obliterated for maybe twenty minutes to re-appear all the more sharply focussed in the clear air following.
Favourite wife did some washing in a very nippy spring fed trough and then read her book. I wandered off with my camera, marvelled at the variety of the small waterfalls, alpine flowers and insects, stalked marmots and failed to photograph them. And then the rain swept in, I rescued the washing from the line.
Sempervivum in flower, with Refuge d’ Agnel beyond.
Yet again supper was at the same table as Laurence and Stephane, along with the cheeriest German I had ever met, with whom and his wife, we spent the evening playing board games and laughing. That night we had paid a little extra for a space to ourselves, and slept like babies.