Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes : Large Print

In a little place called Le Monastier, in a pleasant highland valley fifteen miles from Le Puy, Ispent about a month of fine days.

Monastier is notable for the making of lace, fordrunkenness, for freedom of language, and for unparalleled political dissension.

There areadherents of each of the four French parties-Legitimists, Orleanists, Imperialists, andRepublicans-in this little mountain-town; and they all hate, loathe, decry, and calumniateeach other.

Except for business purposes, or to give each other the lie in a tavern brawl,they have laid aside even the civility of speech. 'Tis a mere mountain Poland. In the midstof this Babylon I found myself a rallying-point; every one was anxious to be kind andhelpful to the stranger.

This was not merely from the natural hospitality of mountainpeople, nor even from the surprise with which I was regarded as a man living of his ownfree will in Le Monastier, when he might just as well have lived anywhere else in this bigworld; it arose a good deal from my projected excursion southward through theCevennes.

A traveller of my sort was a thing hitherto unheard of in that district.

I waslooked upon with contempt, like a man who should project a journey to the moon, but yetwith a respectful interest, like one setting forth for the inclement Pole.

All were ready tohelp in my preparations; a crowd of sympathisers supported me at the critical moment of abargain; not a step was taken but was heralded by glasses round and celebrated by adinner or a breakfast.It was already hard upon October before I was ready to set forth, and at the high altitudesover which my road lay there was no Indian summer to be looked for.

I was determined, ifnot to camp out, at least to have the means of camping out in my possession; for there isnothing more harassing to an easy mind than the necessity of reaching shelter by dusk, andthe hospitality of a village inn is not always to be reckoned sure by those who trudge onfoot.

A tent, above all for a solitary traveller, is troublesome to pitch, and troublesome tostrike again; and even on the march it forms a conspicuous feature in your baggage.

Asleeping-sack, on the other hand, is always ready-you have only to get into it; it serves adouble purpose-a bed by night, a portmanteau by day; and it does not advertise yourintention of camping out to every curious passer-by.

This is a huge point. If a camp is notsecret, it is but a troubled resting-place; you become a public character; the convivial rusticvisits your bedside after an early supper; and you must sleep with one eye open, and be upbefore the day.

I decided on a sleeping-sack; and after repeated visits to Le Puy, and a dealof high living for myself and my advisers, a sleeping-sack was designed, constructed, andtriumphantly brought home.