I walked into a restaurant here in Langogne at 3.30pm, when lunch was clearly over, and pled with the owner for some food. The lady looked at me, doubtful, and then suggested that she rustle up ‘a simple salad’. The volcanic soil of this territory is pulsing with life, and its bounty is divine. This lady’s wonderful ingredients, and her willingness to break from her other work and make me a salad, made a good day pulse even better. The heart of French welcome lies in small regional towns like Langogne

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Robert Louis Stevenson arrived here in 1887 in search of the Protestant ‘Camisards’ rebels who had forced Paris to recognise the rights of people of all religions. In fact, Le Puy and Monastier, where he bought his donkey and prepared his trip, were both deeply Catholic, or, as he subtly put it, ‘unfriendly’. It was not until the second part of his journey that he found people of his own faith. Today, donkeys are rare on the trail and people stop to talk with me all the time. When they hear I’m anglophone, they light up, hoping against hope that I’m Scottish. One man asked me, rather hopefully, if my name was Robert

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Le Chemin de Stevenson is part of a system of hiking trails called Grandes Randonnées (GR), or Long Hikes. It is 220kms long, and is also called the GR70. It, like most GRs, is marked clearly with signs such as these, which assure you you’re on the right path. You’ll also encounter an X drawn in red and white, indicating choices which would send you astray. This negation is an important clarifier, as it deepens confidence in the right answer. If only life were so simple…

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The Cévennes is epic up-country, where land and weather dominate man, lying as it does at the intersection of enormous warm and cold fronts. From Cévennes comes the French word ‘cévenole’, describing episodes of rapid storms and floods of violent proportion which are famous here, especially in autumn. Climate change has meant that this word is in increasing use across France

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Kaicha takes a break on the banks of the River Allier. Her fare is the ultimate local produce. She only eats what’s in season, and only eats what’s growing here. There is a reason the donkey has been the principal mode of transport for millennia, of far greater importance to civilisation than trains, cars and planes. It is because they are an expression of natural transport equilibrium. In a sense, every innovation in energy for transport aspires to be like the donkey

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The beauty of the donkey’s ears is best appreciated close up, ideally from above. They are ever-active, and telegraph the donkey’s state of mind. Donkeys’ ears have become a kind of parody in popular culture – portrayed as an icon of silliness or buffoonery. And yet, they are a super-power of which we can only dream

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We start the day with our morning ablutions. I hear mothers speak often of their sacred bathing rituals with their infants. I have felt a hint of this in the gentle moment when I brush down Kaisha’s glistening coat, and see her pleasure from the bristles’ touch. I then take out a hooked metal pick to assure that her hooves are clear. One by one, I bend down like a farrier, and she offers her hoof to to my hands almost immediately. But my favourite ritual is applying the insect repellent to the contours of her eyes, as though it were a magical mascara of comfort

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I bought this one-man tent in 2011 when I was cycling in Wyoming, and used it in Yellowstone and western Colorado. I have not needed it since, and opening it felt like uncovering a Time Capsule. When this tent came to my hands I was ‘en pleine aventure’, and had both of my parents in my life. 11 years later, the tent and adventure remain, but time has taken from me those who gave me life and whom I have loved most. Entering this tiny angled space, I felt my parents’ presence, as though Time tripped for the briefest moment

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