Revolution and Milk Coffee

Evil tongues claim that our travel plans are solely based on ongoing flea markets. Well, a grain of truth can be found by every blind chicken, but today we decide to trace the footsteps of the past. We are heading to the Cevennes.

Our first joint tours of France often led us to the Gardon. Not far from the little village of Mialet, we had a wonderful spot by the river, right in the rugged mountains of the small limestone massif in the French Central Massif.

And barely do we leave the bustling hustle at the Heregibtsallesplatz and the chaotic traffic at countless roundabouts in Alès behind us, we dive into the gentle, relaxed calm that already permeates the first altitudes of the green hills and the jagged rocks and steep slopes.

Actually, we are not really surprised that the access to our cozy spot from the past is blocked by a barrier. However, it does outrage me a bit that we are also hindered in stopping at the parking lot by a height restriction.
Sometimes there was indeed more tinsel in the past.

It's midday and I need my siesta, so we simply stop with our trailer between the two no-parking signs for the picnic.

Meanwhile, nothing can wake me up anymore. No coughing, no sneezing, no lightning, no thunder, no downpour, not even the most annoying dog barking, donkey braying, or rooster crowing can tear me from my sleep. I simply throw in one of my prescription pills and the dreams of all the roads of this colorful world are secured.

And the arrival of the Municipal Police during my midday rest doesn't wake me either.
The Hero later reports that he became somewhat uneasy and wavered between the decision to wake me from my coma or to bribe the officers with baguette, cheese, and vin rouge.

But the law enforcement officers couldn't care less about our illegally parked vehicle. A quick detour over the bridge, which still doesn’t have a railing (but the parking lot has a height restriction...), some coffee at the bar on the other bank, and then it's time to deal with real crimes.
Apparently, a wild camping couple is causing a stir at nicely located Par4Night spots.

The small towns in the Cevennes are wonderfully relaxed, the landscape is shaped by steep gorges and remote plateaus. It’s no wonder that here, tumult, resistance, and rebellion have always been in order. Reformation and Huguenots, Camisards in the 18th century, and the Resistance during World War II against the German occupation found refuge in the hidden valleys. Even today, the region is marked by a Protestant tradition and alternative culture and unconventional ways of life.

We then find a peaceful spot in the town of Saint-Jean-du-Gard. Please don’t forget the measuring tape if you want to park your mobile at the free parking lot.

For our part, after some consideration, we decided that the Mistral might be inappropriate for the complicated regulations and chose a more remote location away from the action. Although we secretly doubt that Monsieur Police-Municipal has a measuring stick in his pocket during his daily rounds.

In the morning, we are rewarded with a photo of the departure of the whistling, puffing Cevennes steam locomotive.

We stroll through the small weekly market and enjoy the coffee in the PMU bar, which really tastes like café au lait.
In doing so, we have the opportunity to observe the very alternative culture that has remained in the town across all age boundaries.

At a spacious table, a large group of white and long-haired 68'ers sits with wine, beer, and pastis. They puff on their self-rolled cigarettes, discuss God, the world, and France, and plan the next general strike.

The young man with the scrappy guitar does his best to entertain the audience; 'Country roads' is certainly not to be missed.

In the squares behind us, young revolutionary girls with long dreads and colorful overalls get their coffee brought to them, the smoke ring from their joint wafts enticingly over to us. Suddenly, all four squeak and jump from their seats. A cheeky jackdaw from the crow family has dropped quite a substantial lump onto their table while flying by. From this, we see that even among nature-loving Cevennes people, revolution must be practiced a little.

The relaxed atmosphere in the market square transfers to us, and we have arrived on vacation, treating ourselves to the delightful hot beverage and enjoying the warm sun rays on our faces.
But we have more in store, so we fill the water cans and continue our journey.

I am excited about the idea of exploring the footsteps of Robert Louis Stevenson, but we are still missing the hoofed animal for perfection. The father of Treasure Island wandered through the Cevennes accompanied by a stubborn donkey and described his experiences in a classic that must not be missing in any Office de Tourisme in the region.

The hiking trail GR 70 follows the footsteps of the Scot from Le-Puy-en-Velay to St.-Jean-du-Gard, is well signposted, and I am seriously considering tackling the approximately 250 km long hike with several thousand meters of elevation gain with a peaceful gray animal. But first, I unfortunately need to be repaired...

Our tour through the Cevennes and along the Corniche high road ends in Florac. This little town is inseparably connected for the Hero with the memory of the best pizza of his life. It has been so long ago that I can't remember what I ate. But I still remember that we enjoyed the atmosphere in a lively, romantic, idyllic place with southern French flair under the wide-spreading plane trees and marveled at huge trout in the mill ditch derived from the Tarnon.

Unfortunately, not much is left of that. The plane trees still exist, but the town seems deserted. The old houses are hardly inhabited anymore, and the substance is crumbling.

Before the gates of the city, a glossy visitor center welcomes tourists from all over the world, and the majority of the residents build modern houses according to the latest energy-saving regulations, which are not feasible in the dilapidated downtown architecture.

But an initiative of engaged, enterprising, passionate people has emerged and is trying to keep the crumbling identity of the place alive and lovable. They are always looking for selfless, dreamy, and active collaborators. We are thinking about it...
But first, I unfortunately need to be repaired.

Our path now diverges from Stevenson’s trails; we head towards Mont Lozére and the Ardèche Mountains, where there are more cows than people and the stars shine brighter than anywhere else.