We arrive in the tiny mountain village of Éourres in the Hautes Alpes, shiny and showered and full of expectation. We have come to this remote corner of the French Alps, two hours north of Marseilles, to spend five days donkey trekking with our young children.
This region is a land of few people, with twisting white gorges and snow-capped mountains, and it’s well known for its hiking, mountain biking and Génépi liqueur.
Why have we chosen donkey trekking? My selfish notion was that, if our two small children were to ride a donkey, my husband and I could enjoy a real walk together. However, when we arrive at our first stop on the trek, Bamboul’âne, a farm campsite with guest room options, and are shown to our lodgings, we see cobwebs coating the corners of the bedroom and a bathroom still damp before us.
I realise I may have pushed the adventure side a bit far.
All night long, I look up alternative holiday options while hidden under the duvet. After a breakfast of apples and instant coffee, we meet Zenon the donkey. “She will look after you,” says our host. I smile at what I think is a joke, but it soon becomes clear that Zenon will look after us.
We learn how to tack her. We’re given our packed lunch and a map, and off we go. Four-year-old Hazel proudly leads Zenon down the road through the tiny village and into the hills. The trail weaves around a tree-covered hill. There’s barely a sound, just the odd bird and the wind, carrying the smells of pine and dry leaves. We slowly unwind. We eat our lunch of chorizo and chickpea salad, fresh breads, apple juice and yoghurt. All local, all delicious. I lean my head on the saddle pack, hat angled over my eyes and soak up the sun.
That night the bed isn’t so bad. At breakfast, the coffee is good with lashings of warm milk, and now it’s time for the real adventure to begin. We weigh the saddle bags, taking layers and waterproofs, but leaving any unnecessary extras behind. We groom Zenon, brush down the rug and place it on his back with the little wooden pack saddle, and adjust the straps.
Our trail leaves Éourres with its prayer flags, communal herbs and plaques bearing the words of poet Kahlil Gibran. We weave along the side of the valley moving downstream. Wandering along, lost in thought, I’m jarred back to reality by Zenon, who has stopped and is refusing to move. I pull, I cajole, then I look around. Where’s my son? Zenon looks at me as if dealing with an idiot. I call and Myles pops out from behind a bush. Zenon, satisfied, walks on.
We stop for lunch in a meadow. Zenon lies down. The children sit with him petting his neck. If this were a horse there’s no way I’d let them do this, but Zenon is calm and intelligent, and nothing like the skittish horses I’m used to.
Our trail weaves on in the warm sunshine. We follow blue cut-out signs of donkeys to our next home, where host Katia welcomes us with home-made apple juice and her own raisins. She’s surprised at my stumbling French, Google Translate having given her high expectations.
Katia is a ceramicist, and her partner, Xavier, is an artist. The children sleep in Katia’s granddaughters’ room. To Hazel’s delight, teddies line the shelves. We sleep on white sheets in what I suspect is the couple’s bedroom. It is spotless. There’s an air of considered calm.
We wake to blue skies and icy ground. This is a big day: 15km. I have asked many times if these distances are realistic for an eight-year-old to walk. “It’s no problem to French kids,” is the shoulder-shrugging response.
As we make our way out of the village, two dogs rush up against a wire fence barking long and loudly at us. Zenon stops and takes a long considered look at them, then lets out a reverberating donkey bray that sends them fleeing. In amused triumph, he calmly wanders on.
Our trail takes us past fields of lavender and views of far-off snowy peaks. We stop among a stand of oak trees and dig into another mouth-watering lunch.
The rain begins in earnest. Zenon brays pitifully in the field outside our yurt. I feel very guilty as we play cards by the warmth of the stove
As the afternoon progresses the trail begins to feel long, but we play games such as I Spy and “Who can kick a pine cone the longest?” and somehow it doesn’t matter. A cyclist appears round a corner, the only other person we have seen all day, and offers to take our picture.
One of us lets off a noise caused by all the beans we’ve been eating earlier. Zenon walks over and bumps them in the bottom.
Down steep narrow tracks with overhanging branches we scramble. Hazel has to reluctantly dismount and walk, but still, she keeps going. Eventually we arrive to our yurt at Ferme de l’Ubac. My legs ache. It has taken us almost nine hours, but within five minutes, the kids, noticing all the toys, are up and rushing around, playing pirate games in the playhouse.
Dinner is like a reunion of friends. Kathleen, Kim and their two teenage boys welcome us to their kitchen table. Together we laugh, chat and are treated to a spectacular meal. Most ingredients are grown by themselves or sourced locally.
Unfortunately outside is not so spectacular, as the rain begins in earnest. We are the first guests of the season: the next bookings aren’t for nearly a month. Zenon brays pitifully in the field outside our yurt. I feel very guilty as we listen to the lashing rain and play cards by the warmth of the stove.
The rain is relentless, still pouring at breakfast. We decide to take the day off and stay at L’Ubac. For Myles this is the highlight of his holiday, as he becomes a Paleo-explorer.
Kim is a fossil preparator. “Here hold this,” he says. I’m gobsmacked, a 200-million-year-old dinosaur bone lies in my hand. We search through piles of broken rocks looking for the promise of something inside. Then we sit down to work with Kim’s tools, cutting back the rock to find ammonites. Even Hazel gets to use airbrushing tools and uncover her own fossilised shells.
By morning the rain lets up and once more we load up Zenon, lift our packs and wave goodbye. This is to be the longest and most testing day yet. Above the clouds look ominous. We make slow but constant progress along muddy tracks. The clouds grow thicker. Then flakes of snow start to fall. Zenon is not impressed, neither is Hazel. We trudge on. Myles’s feet are wet so I change his socks and put his feet in airport plastic bags inside his runners. By 11am the snow is thick and I want to turn back.
We stop for a hot chocolate under the shelter of a tree. Then Myles, who at home would be reluctant to go on any sort of walk, pipes up: “I want to keep going.” So we keep going. We trudge slowly up through thick snow to more than 1,400m at the Col St Pierre. Hazel, sitting still on Zenon, is cold so we dress her in more and more layers and Myles tells her bizarre stories to cheer her up.
The snow is ankle-deep and at times we almost lose the path. Zenon’s owner texts me, worried as to our safety. At this stage I am seriously questioning my parenting. Eventually the snow lets up and through thick mist we hear the sound of cow bells and see a crack of blue sky. Slowly we make our way down to Éourres, our stinking clothes steaming in the warm sun.
I am so impressed by my children’s resilience. In total Myles walks more than 47km in four days, and Hazel rides and walks the same distance. We are all filled with a sense of adventurous achievement.
We say an emotional farewell to Zenon and head to Marseilles.
Hiking with a donkey is popular throughout France, and the level of difficulty and length of the trip can be tailored to any level of fitness. No previous equine knowledge is necessary. This adventure was organised through Bamboul’âne (bamboulane.com). La Ferme de L’Ubac is a great family campsite in which to base yourself to explore the area (ferme-de-lubac.fr). For other donkey hiking options in France see https://en.ane-et-rando.com
