Day Nine. Les Fonts de Cervières (2025m) to Souliers (1844m)6miles 713m A, 919m D
The six mile walk on this day was a fairly uneventful climb to the Col de Péas at 2629m. A short sharp climb out of the flat valley bottom passing a long waterfall tumbling in steps down a shallow gorge, we emerged into a hanging valley with glaciated rocky outcrops and scattered moraine. The climb at the end seemed not particularly arduous, although perhaps that was because we were so much fitter.
Checking for trolls
We caught up with Lawrence and Stephane and stayed with them on the descent from the col. Then came the time for our parting. We had touched each others lives and Louise and I felt the richer for it. They were taking a different route, leaving the GR58 to us.
We walked on alone, but not for long. A double group of walkers; separated by distance, sex, and volume of conversation. The men walked quietly, some fifty metres in front of the women, who nattered with a decibel level sufficient to silence the entire marmot population for miles around, and with no apparent pause for breath. We put on a spurt of enthusiasm and left them behind. Blessedly they were not headed for the same refuge, unless they had talked and walked off the end of the planet and left the world in peace.
Following a long and gentle traverse we dropped down into the village of Souliers, and our refuge was immediately there to hand – marvellous! Madame Patron was taking lunch on the verandah, she welcomed us, waved us to a table and asked if we minded waiting until she had finished.
The chapel and village at Souliers with the mountains above Ceillac in the distance.
We did not mind. The wait was not long, and the omelette, the wine and the view to the distant peaks were superb. We sat and sat, Favourite Wife read and absorbed the view, and read. I made notes, absorbed the view, and read the rather ‘off-the wall’ book about the patches of snow that hung around all summer in the UK, a gift from Favourite Wife on the first day.
Our afternoon ‘pleasantries’ were rudely interrupted by the onset of a thunderstorm that had failed to read the timetable. It brought heavy rain, flung at an acute angle by gusting winds, it mistreated the washing hung out to dry, and drove the less than hardy to take shelter inside. Les Anglais remained under their sunshade and admired the way the squall did it’s upmost to dissemble the contents of the verandah.
Luncheon had been good, and so was supper. Afterwards we took an amble through the tiny village before heading for bed.
That night we were ‘en dortoire’, but oddly enough it was OK, every other mattress was divided by a ‘waist upwards’ divider, and the sense of privacy was amazing.