Yurt-dom

I sleep like a log and get up in a leisurely fashion. Out the door by nine, I walk to the edge of town, looking for a suitable spot to hitch from.

Montélimar is one of those towns that sprawls for miles, so I end up trudging beside the road for ages. Across the Rhône, into Ardèche, through Le Teil, to the far edge of Melas.

Once there, I put out my thumb and get an almost immediate lift to Joyeuse with an old guy going fishing in the mountains. He’s a retired stonemason, who worked on Vienne cathedral among others, and has trained more than 80 other stonemasons from all over the world.

From Joyeuse I get a lift from a local heading home. He takes me beyond his turning to a bar on a bridge, where it will be easier to get a ride. “Take that road to Sarabache” he says before he leaves. “Take the other on,” correct the clientele after he leaves. I drink a beer, exchange pleasantries with the owner Chi-Chi, who asks why I’m going to Sarabache. “Ah, you are a friend of Keet!”

The next guy is going swimming. He drops me off, then has second thoughts, and takes me to the next bridge. I haven’t even crossed the road before the next car arrives, and seeing my sign, stops immediately. He’s going to Sarabache, and (obviously) knows “Keef” - so takes me to his place.

Keith and I sit under the shady canopy outside his yurt, chatting, drinking beer, nibbling in food from my pack. As the sun dips, we feed the chooks and his flock of mini, mountain sheep. Then he rustles up an astounding ratatouille from his garden. Perfect.