Dance on the Volcano

A powerful, black cloud of smoke approaches relentlessly. Stinking sulfurous vapor reaches my nose, reminding me of the endless and seemingly hopeless battle against ravenous clothes moths that have taken over my wonderful, cozy, spring green sofa. Yellow puff clouds swirl around me, taking away every breath.

Now I also notice that the temperature has been rising continuously in recent moments, I feel hot and hotter.

The ground shakes, rocks, and wobbles, nearly throwing me out of my vibrant green Chucks.

Gray ash rain falls upon me.

Searching, I look for the hero and spot him as he hurriedly climbs onto the roof of the caravan, clutching the travel band protectively in his arm.

He shouts at me to do the same and offers me his hand with a wild look.

Only now do I perceive the loud noise. Just a few meters away, a glowing hot lava flow is sliding down the hill, heading straight for us!

Panicking, I try to reach Zappa's rescuing hand, but no matter how hard I try, my arms are too short, my legs buckle, I simply can't get to him!

Suddenly, something touches me on the shoulder, and as I think I’m about to be cooked by the steaming lava, I wake up from my afternoon nap.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and look into the hero's astonished eyes.

The rumbling comes from the espresso pot, and it smells deliciously of fresh coffee and not at all of sulfur.

We will soon climb the Puy Pariou to peer into its deep volcanic abyss.

A few years ago, we cleverly took a shortcut up to the rim of a black island crater in Fuerteventura. The path became steeper, the rocks looser, and in the end, we could only manage the last meters on all fours, on hands and knees. Zappa had an additional 10-kilogram camera on his shoulder, the precious analog Sinar, and I felt every moment that we might plunge into the deep abyss.

From these memories, the disturbing siesta dream likely emerged. Since then, we have diligently followed the official hiking signs. And if I don’t confuse these with markings for logging work, we will reach our destination.

So today, we also safely reach the summit of the volcano and are rewarded with a magnificent view into the crater, over the Puy de Dôme, and the countless other extinguished fire mountains of the Auvergne.

The Chaîne des Puys is a chain of about 80 volcanoes in the French Massif Central, stretching over a distance of 35 kilometers from north to south. Accordingly, the view from the 1200-meter-high Puy Pariou is impressive. Even though thick clouds are gathering, and a few drops are starting to fall on us. The journey was truly worthwhile.

As, by the way, was the climb on the Spanish Canary Island.

Zappa, on the way to Andalusia, insists on a detour to Puy Mary. With an altitude of 1783 meters, it is the highest mountain in Cantal. The extinct volcano has an unimaginable diameter of 80 kilometers, and around its summit, seven glacial valleys radiate star-like.

A few years ago, nearly our coffee mugs dropped from our hands when two fighter jets suddenly roared overhead at arm's length, making a deafening noise with their massive turbines.

The hero wants to go up once more.

We jovially and carefreely drive through the green landscape of Auvergne with the caravan in tow. Cows happily stand by the roadside, volcanoes shape the peaceful landscape, and the warm late summer sun shines from the azure sky.

The path is steep and winding. Suddenly, frantic red lights are blinking on the dashboard of the robber cave, signaling stop and a thermometer. In the last few meters before the Col de Serre, the Kangoo motor is as hot as a volcano.

With one last push, the car makes the final 400 meters to the parking lot at the Col de Serre. The hero turns the heating to full blast and opens the hood, a trick that had been successful three years ago. The heat also dissipates today, and the bright blinking ends as abruptly as it started. Phew! For now, we have relief.

However, further traveling to the still five kilometers distant volcano summit is currently out of the question.

But that wouldn't have worked anyway, as a sign indicates. From here, it's over for caravans and trailers.

Great disappointment, long faces, terribly sad looks, sulky pouts. Should our long and arduous detour have been in vain?

But no! The Kangoo motor has cooled down, we uncouple the caravan, leave it standing briefly in the parking lot among the thick luxury campers that surely took off with their second car from the motorhome garage, and roll upward with light minds.

Here we are greeted by Saturday afternoon excursion traffic. We quickly take our evidence photos and then swiftly head back to our rolling home.

As we couple up, an elderly couple approaches curiously, and the gentleman asks in perfect English if we need help. I try my best French and explain to him that we are merely hitching up the caravan to continue our journey. Soothed, he takes Madame's hand, and I hear him say in the most beautiful Swabian: 'Ha-noi, die hän koi Problem...'

Very impressive, this trilingualism.

However, it only briefly distracts me from pondering whether the Kangoo can truly manage the upcoming crossing of the Pyrenees.