Le Couard 1998m

I am often reminded of places I have never been. The tiny winding road up from Digne-les-Bains to Archail was nothing like Provence. I thought of Colorado, or the Black Hills of Dakota, as we hairpinned our way up through a desert of black shale beds and pine forest, with not a vineyard in sight. Had I watched too many Westerns as a boy? Archail itself was a typical tiny alpine French village. We parked in the village square. Water trickled out into a covered pool. The cafe was someones living room and terrace. The church dominated. But the view now reminded me of the Canadian Rockies, another place I have never been. Pine forests rose up to soaring rocky peaks edged and laced in snow against a blue sky. Hard to believe it was Provence, at Easter.

Caroline Abbot and I had spent a couple of nights in Monieux in the Luberon. The wildness and haunting silence of this area had enchanted us. We drank too much wine and explored the Gorges de la Nesque with huge sandwiches of olive bread, more olives than bread, and watched the village dogs walk themselves, doing a leisurely circuit of the village each morning and then again each evening. I'm sure some even wore berets.

Getting from Monieux to Digne-les-Bains was for us, although only a couple of hours, our 'year in Provence'. We needed petrol desperately and the first petrol station was closed with no explanations. I manouvered my car in to a tiny garage in the centre of town only to find that the pump wouldn't work. Mechanical failure. The garagist tried his utmost, which consisted of taking the front off the pump, peering inside, swearing, and then hitting it very hard with a greasy fist the size of a football. Eventually all gave up. We went to the postoffice: no petrol there, but I stared in disbelief as Caroline joined the long queue to buy stamps. I was itching to climb a mountain. Postcards sent, it was Caroline's turn to stare in disbelief as I demanded the way to the petrol station from the village idiot, sat in the centre of the village wearing huge beret with a pipe to match. He had actually been a double in a cartoon version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. He indicated the route with absolute clarity.

Only, when we tried it with the car, it turned out to be a one way street, in the other direction! It was after lunch therefore when we eventually arrived in the Provencal Alps, below the two peaks of the Cucuyon and the Couard. The sign pointing out of Archail indicated the rocky higher peak, the Couard, three hours, which turned out to be about right.

Our guidebook, 'Walking in Provence' had led us here, but where a second sign indicated the Couard to the right, the guide indicated straight up. I went straight up and eventually came to a full stop in front of huge crags. We had to descend through thick forest and over huge drifts of neve to find the path, an unlikely zigzag up a rocky crag next to a waterfall. We emerged onto the grassy col between the peaks to a public shelter with an unusual corral next to it, in case the public arrived on horseback or with their donkeys.

A descending climber shouted across to us. His French had the sharp twang of the Midi and I couldn't catch at first what he said. But when he repeated it I gathered that there was a lot of deep snow and that, to paraphrase his rather choice French expressions, if I tried the ascent I would find it quite tiring and would never again be able to have children. Since I have five already this sounded like remarkably good news. I told him we would try it anyway, and he heartily wished us luck with a gesture of his hand, or something like that.

The snow was deep, but we persevered and zigzagged up through thinning forest to the final rocky slopes. Huge cliffs dropped away to the North. A sense of space and sky dominated. The view to the West was of a maze of rocky crests way below us, to the East, snow slopes and even higher peaks of the Alps shone in sunshine and cloud. On the summit Caroline's camera had run out of film so we sat silently enjoying the view. A glider joined us, drifting to and fro on the updrafts, before vanishing to the South. Or was it to the north?

We descended quickly, for another long drive, to pick up a hitch-hiker whose motorbike had broken down, but that's another story, another day, another mountain walk in the paradise which for me is the South of France at Easter.

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Le Couard 1998m

Mike Readshaw