Day 13 Murol to Condat. Changes.

Climbing out of Murol looking back at the castle in the valley.
A long and winding track goes up and up, with boards here and there giving geology lessons. Here the subject is this lava, looks like road grit but is soft and crumbly. Surprising any is left given the way it erodes, the last eruption of these volcanoes was 4,000 BC.
At the top a fanciful calvary.
but a cold damp wind starts to blow and storm clouds appear to the west.
With the sun in a clear sky to the east and the storm blowing in from the west, rainbows keep forming and dissolving.
This is Lake Pavin, a circular lake in a volcano crater, taken during a brief interval in the now pouring rain.
This is a crescent-shaped lake in another crater, wind v cold.
I crept to the edge of a precipice to take this.
Battling over the open pastures against the wind now just spitting rain, with occasional bursts of sun.

I had so little desire to stop that I arrived at my destination early, a deeply unpre-possessing village called Godivelle. I was going to stay at a hostel here, bunk beds. But I was 2 hours early, all was locked up and there was nowhere to buy food. So I emailed my cancellation and made another booking in a place called Condat, 20km away, downhill, on a road!

But popped in to the tiny 12c church at Godivelle first,.
Glorious wide views of the receding storm as I zoomed down between the open fields, lots of brown and white cows.

The hotel looked shut-up, I could see signs and furniture stacked-up through glass doors. There was a sign on a door hand-written, “This property is for sale and is no longer open. For accommodation phone …”

Well, I had already paid for the night on Booking.com. So I phoned, after my explanation the voice on the other end said “D’accord” and silence.

I was sheltering from the wind in a doorway with the phone to my ear when the door behind me opened, a smiling woman said “Hello, welcome” in English. She had a room ready and let me park the bike in a big disused fireplace in the entrance hall.

She said there was a pizzeria in the town or she could cook something. I said I’d go to the pizzeria, which seemed to disappoint her, so I agreed to stay for dinner and have chilli con carne and salad.

Once in the room I discovered that there was hot water and had a hot bath to warm up.

The dining room was neatly laid out with a dozen tables, houseplants and flower vases, there was one place laid.

My hostess was a gentle smiling person, eager to please and proud of her dining room and her cooking. I wondered what the story was behind the failed hotel. Perhaps I’ll find out more in the morning.

Amongst books on a table was a lovely one of photographs from the 1950’s and extracts from stories by Henri Pourrat, famous author and collector of folk tales from the area.