OK, serious European walkers might tell me that reaching a height of 700m is nothing, but try telling my calf muscles that. Set out on the one serious bit of exercise I plan for the trip – route 1 from the mairie in Anost, with the high point being the little hamlet of Les Miens. The guide reckons the walk is 12km, but I can’t believe it isn’t further – perhaps that’s on the map, but by the time you do the downs, and the ups, and the downs and the ups….. The estimate was four hours, and it took me 3.5.

It was a walk greatly boosted by an unexpected companion; this lovely collie had said “hello” in the village and when I started to head out he came with me. Around about this remarkably remote bus stop I thought he’d turn back before long, but he clearly knew what I was doing and had decided it was time for him to take a good walk, so that was what he did.

I was worried about sheep, and he took an interest in the one flock of those we saw, but it was no more than a serious look, and I hadn’t even thought about chickens, but he studiously ignored several free range flocks of those.

He ran ahead the whole way, continually looking back to make sure I was coming, and always responding to a whistle when he took the wrong fork in the path. And when we got to the hamlet of Mont Cemit, which seemed to specialise in seriously savage dogs, including several chained right on the main street, he took the very sensible option of scurrying through with ears and tail down, saying very clearly “just passing through, not looking for trouble”.

There was nothing particularly spectacular in the way of sites – a smattering of history, from hay cart to a tree with history.

And there were lots of wooden crosses, usually with dates on them – not sure if they are memorials, or just village expressions of piety. (Some have quite recent dates.)

What this region does seem to specialise in are lovely clear little mountain streams, like this one. Haven’t tried the water, but it certainly looks clean enough.

When we got back to Anost the collie took me to his home (the town farm), where I met his owner, who didn’t seem surprised about his activities….

Then I got back home to another friendly local – I’ve been formally adopted by this one, who’s basically moved in whenever I’m here … possibly encouraged by a loud and expressive love of milk.

Greetings from the little bourg of Anost – pronounced An-O – in the Morvan National Park in Burgundy, where this is a temporary home in the forest (well one of eight little homes in the forest, but if you shoot at the right angle it looks like solitude, and at this time of year virtually is, except for the people a couple of places down with a large golden retriever, which is not getting on terribly well with ma nouvelle copain … who has adopted me for the duration, I suspect. (Might have something to do with my usefulness as a milk supplier. And guess I’ll have to learn the French for “cat food”.)

Anost is pretty well the last village at the head of the valley, advertising itself as a walking and cycling resort, although also curiously a logging centre. (Well they do mostly seem to be logging the non-native conifers, and it is all arranged in small fields, so you don’t get huge bare patches.)

The tradition that the region celebrates is the ox-drivers – rebuilt in the central square is the traditional structure in which the oxes were shod (not had their “paws” done, as the English translation says, although I suppose you have to give them marks for trying.)
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Which capital has more generals – Paris or London? I suspect Paris would win that contest easily, but perhaps I just tend to notice them more there.

This tower in central Paris has been under scaffolding for as long as I can remember. But to judge from the part now peaking out of the top, it is going to be mighty spectacular when finally unveiled.
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I’m spending a few days in Paris, trying if not entirely succeeding in getting away from it all (well when I’m not writing letters/reports etc). But I did get to stroll along “Path of plants” from the Bastille to the Bois de Vincennes (built on an old railway line – raised through the central part so you get a great different angle on Paris) on a lovely sunny winter’s day.

At the “forest” (well it is really more like Hyde Park), I got to expand my French vocabulary with the posters indicating the names of the (generally not so wild) animal life. I was taken by the names for house martin and swifts (Hirondelle de fenetre and Hirondelle de cheminee respectively – an eminently practical if I suspect, not entirely accurate division). And I learnt that anguille means eel – possibly a useful fact for the next time I feel the urge to order the “I wonder what that is?” object on the menu.