Mystical Crosses

In front of our mobile home, a thickly bundled, multi-headed crew in soaking wet protective suits has set up camp. Their heads are covered with bulky helmets with face guards reminiscent of yeoman knights, and their ears hide giant Mickey Mouse ears. Seven pairs of eyes stare at us through fogged protective glasses.

No, they are not aliens. The fearless municipal green care brigade has gathered for landscape maintenance. Armed with roaring hedge trimmers, screeching lawnmowers, and ear-splitting brush cutters, dripping with moisture yet fearing no stormy bad weather day, they now have to mow this picnic area.
And Château Mistral is in their way.

I rub my eyes to face the unavoidable: communicating in a foreign language without caffeine. But the team with the brush cutter sends their eloquent, polyglot, multilingual colleague for negotiation: 'We arbaitöön, ten minitz, parking à 100 mètres, gutt.' The communication in an adventurous mishmash of German, English, and French works out; we vacate the area immediately and thus our wonderfully quiet sleeping place.

I stay in the caravan, wave goodbye to the strong guys, and let myself be shaken until the next spot. Here, only the nightingale is trilling its song, and a cheeky field mouse takes advantage of the rainy hour of rest and ventures out of hiding, for the loud men have uncovered plenty of the finest grain food.

The riddle of the 'Cross Pattées' leads us to the 'Massif de la Serre', a small mountain range of granite in Franche-Comté. Tourism is still very sparse here, and therefore it seems the idea was conceived to open an undiscovered niche.
At many town entrances, signs have been erected to pique curiosity about these special crosses, of which there are a total of 43 in this small low mountain range. In German, they are referred to as claws- , Templar- or Hanseatic crosses; we mainly know it as the Iron Cross, with the typical widening beam ends.

The weather still does not invite a paddling tour, so we set off to discover the various crosses and thereby small, hidden, sleepy villages.
The reason for there being such a respectable number of these confessions of faith remains a riddle of our ancestors in the northern Jura. However, we can assume that enough granite was found in the area for their production.

The small experience trail through the mixed forests of the 'Massif de la Serre', where all picnic areas have been freshly mowed today, leads us to a hermit's cave where the last hermit is said to have lived until 1694. Mysterious light falls through the sandstone arches, overgrown with green moss and dense ferns. The sun is just peeking through the thick, gray clouds and transports us into a magical moment. A charming, mysterious, even occult place, which would serve as a setting for any fantasy thriller.

 Through a narrow blackberry path, we reach small breaks from which millstones were painstakingly extracted through endless, hard, laborious muscle work from the sediment. And probably also the granite from which the many holy claw crosses are hewn from one piece to ensure that the path to paradise does not become stony.

In the afternoon we drive to Pin, another Cité caractère, where we are the only tourists. According to the village signs, bathing is prohibited all around. We find at least six impressive cast-iron wells and wash houses in the little streets, which along with the magnificent Château once represented the pride of the village.

But all are bone dry, with only trickles dripping from one or the other fountain. Did they turn off the water to prevent unnecessary bathing, or had the eternal splashing been banned because the cool water is exhausted? And is nothing really being washed here anymore? We will probably never find out.

At the Fontaine de Pierre, we settle down for a siesta, after all it is already Midi again. With a view of a massive cherry tree, from which countless bright red, ripe, irresistibly sweet fruits shine at us - unreachable through a meter-high, insurmountable barbed wire fence and a large dog area filled with various, countless, concentrated landmines. No entry - VER-BO-TEN - In-TER-DIT! What an unspeakable torture! No, even the best Alsatian strawberries cannot console!