In the distance I could see only the plain, because indeed it is a high plateau, where fresh cut fields exposed the shy pale blades of grass and the grey tarmac ribbon curled gently along the contours. A surprising wind clipped me sidelong from time to time, propelling me across the lanes like a drunkard. Flocks of Harleys overshot me and then pulled over to roll cigarettes, slip off studded jackets and shake golden tresses out of helmets like they do in the movies.
Following the tradition of the tortoise and the hare, I chugged on and got there first.
Mont Gerbier de Jonc is one of the 450 extinct volcanoes on the Massif Central, an enormous and remote area which covers 15% of France. The peak rises to an altitude of 1,551 m and from its base are three springs that are the source of the Loire, France's longest river which snakes along for 1,012km before it reaches the Bay of Biscay.
At the time it seemed like such a bother to get re-togged up into walking clothes, which of course, now I regret. Nevertheless, I did hover round the base and stuff myself silly on wild raspberries, strawberries and myrtilles.
Across the road, was the unlikely emergence of the source. I had driven several hours to arrive at the birth place of this great river that I have crossed so many times as it widens near Nantes. I have swum in her tributaries, slept beside her listening to frogs and hedgehogs, watched the night lights: stars, cafes, street lights and fireworks dance on her surface, so this felt an important deepening of our relationship.
The water flowed through an oak pipe into a trough that was built into the porch of an old stone farm building.
Now the building is a shop and visitor centre selling everything you could possibly make with mrytilles. Little human traffic jams built up on either side of the door as family groups, cyclists, seasoned walkers with thick socks and badges, filled up their bottles, blocking the entrance to the shop.
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