Vendettas, nuraghi and the marches: Goat tracks and lavender dreams

We have been to the mountains today. Heading south to Nice we took a route through the High Alps of France. Not one to pay tolls, Pete relies on the sat nav to plot him a scenic route through the mountains. This day it did just that, in spades. For the morning we had gentle slopes, by the afternoon the sat nav had turned adventurous and soon had us on a minor road heading over one of the highest cols in all of Europe which grew as narrow as a farm track.

Somewhat like our Andorra drive last year this route took in rather stunning scenery -- if one had been inclined to take one's eyes off the road to look. For half the afternoon we twisted and turned on a goat track, climbing higher and yet higher. About half way up we met a car. Now, French mountain roads are not known for their occupational health and safety measures. Here we are on a thin strip of bitumen on the drop side of a sheer cliff, over 2000 metres up, and a car wants to pass on our inner side. He is safe, I am thinking. He has the mountain on his side. We had the drop side. And there were no barriers: not even a thin chain or a line of small brick, let alone a stick denoting the treacherous crumbly edge beneath us. Nothing.

Now, Peter is well known for going out of his way, extraordinary lengths, to assist people. This time was no different. He wanted to help the people in this car pass us, come hell or high water. So, he hung the motorhome over the cliff edge. We had two tyres on the bitumen and two on the slope over the edge. Most of the tyre dangling, I swear. I had no space to get out to take a photo, but the thought crossed my mind. And I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to.

The passenger in the other car got out her side as she saw our vehicle in their way. She fell into a steep runoff gutter carved under the cut away cliff, righted herself, then attempted to direct her husband into the space Peter had created for them, avoiding the axel-breaking gutter. One broken side-mirror and five crushing minutes later, the little car tooted his escape from the clutches of our motorhome on one side and a mountain on the other, and headed downhill while we headed on up. And up. And up.

About three quarters the way up, the track became even narrower. No cars could possibly have passed us here. I was secretly wondering if the route we'd taken was one way, and that we'd missed that important sign somewhere further downhill. At about the same time, Pete said into the deathly quiet: 'This is not smart.' Which, of course, scarcely needed to be articulated. Hardly worthwhile for those who have changed their minds to go looking for a roundabout on this thread of a road. So up we continued to go.

We stopped in a wee parking space on our descent and Pete took a break unknotting his taut shoulder muscles before we headed downhill where we spent the night blanketed warmly against the chill blowing off the icy caps at a lovely little spot called L'Atelier du Blue Lavendre: a smallholding tucked away in Haute Provence hills where a delightful couple spend their lives making pretty and professional crafts using local products: lavender, miel (honey), and nuts. She blended a pot pouri sachet and made a present to Bec. We slept like logs, to the comforting scent of lavender.

oooOOOooo