This is a photo I took some years ago in St Remy where transhumance was being celebrated. Transhumance is the process of moving sheep and other livestock from low ground to high in the summer months and back down for winter. Back in time, it was done on foot and hoof. I’m just explaining this as yesterday, I decided to take a walk along the Chemin (path) de la Transhumance in the nearby village of Eyragues. It’s probably a tourist thing, although I haven’t seen any other tourists in these parts yet.

I begin in the village square where, as the placard suggests, you can send in your Valentine messages and have them plastered all over the wall if they’re unusual enough. Could be tricky if your message is to someone who already has a significant other. Anyway, I had a map which omitted to provide street names and had a minimum of instructions, obviously in French. What could go wrong.

I reach the first roundabout which has this very interesting old cross that looks a bit like a prop from The Wicker Man. A particularly confusing (to me) aspect of French directions, often employed when discussing roundabouts, is the use of the word ‘droit’ which means ‘right’. Unless it means ‘straight on’.

I choose the second right because I could see a cemetery on the other side of the road. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I love a French cemetery if only for the history which encourages one to do a spot of research. This one has a splendid monument to the soldiers from Morocco, Tunisia and Algeria.

On leaving, I spot this stone which I optimistically take to be a way-marker; not that it was particularly helpful as I wasn’t sure which way I was going. Not to worry here comes a fellow pushing a pram and minding his own business. ‘Bonjour Pierre et excusez-moi’ … He was really nice. Couldn’t make head nor tail of the ‘map’ and didn’t know where the Transhumance Path was, or why I might want to walk it. ‘Are you English’, he asks, and before I can answer, ‘yes of course you are’ he continues. Small child in pram rolls its eyes.

Just then, another fellow hoping to make haste with the day’s business, makes the mistake of stopping his van at the junction. ‘Hey Serge’, shouts Pierre, ‘come and help us’. Serge abandons his van and crosses the possible Chemin de la Transumance. We exchange bonjours and Pierre shares the ‘map’: a plethora of raised eyebrows. Serge says it’s a long way but I could do this, do that, do the other. They are pleased to escape.

It goes on and on but I suddenly reach what seems to be Point 3 on the wretched instructions. This is both good and bad. Good because I’ve reached somewhere identifiable; bad because there are 14 points on the map and I’ve been going for hours. However, another thing mentioned on the instructions is the ‘reservoir d’eau’. Now I don’t know about you, but to me this translates as the water reservoir which could be worth a view and a snap. Oh look, here comes Ginette and before she realises what’s happening, I’ve accosted her with a cheery bonjour. Credit where credit’s due, you can’t accuse me of not trying to improve my French conversation as and when. I’m not absolutely convinced, but I’m sure she’s saying the reservoir is painted and broken. What I do understand is when she says there are far more interesting paths back in the village. She points me in a direction and she’s off before we can discuss the fallout from Brexit.

I don’t know what tree this is but it’s the only thing (including me) with any sense of life in it. The way is unremittingly steep and it suddenly occurs to me that the Chemin de la Transumance would, by virtue of its existence, be climbing into the mountains. On and on and on it goes into loneliness and desolation. Eventually, I reach the beginning of the foothills.

There in the furthest reaches of Provence are the mountains of the Alpilles where the bloody sheep will feast on thyme and other herbs.

And there – OMG – is the water reservoir, painted, broken and lost in translation. I’ve had enough of this jaunt. My legs tell me I’ve walked miles into the wilderness and I’ve had enough. I turn tail and stagger back down the hill towards the village.

And you’d think that should be an end to it but as I’m heading back to the cemetery, I look up at the sound of birdsong and in a tree I see – actually, what is that?

Well, I’m going to tell you what I didn’t know at the time. It’s the most ginormous nest of the Asian Hornet which is the deadliest in the world. I take a couple of snaps and here comes Florence, a tiny ancient being who’s struggling up the hill from the village. Reader, you know how it goes: ‘Bonjour, any idea what that is?’ The French, especially the older ones, are so polite that they wouldn’t ignore you. Nonetheless, Florence immediately wraps her bright red cashmere scarf around her face in the manner of one who’s forgotten her mask whilst robbing the Deadwood Stage. ‘OMG’, she exclaims, ‘I come along here every day and I’ve never noticed it. You must go to the Mairie (town hall) toute de suite and report it. It’s your duty. It’s deadly.

I’ve had just about enough of this walk but Florence has instilled in me a worrying sense of civic duty. I crawl into the Town Hall and find a man upstairs and explain my predicament. I show him my photos at which point he literally jumps in the air exclaiming ‘ooh la la’. (Yes, they really do say that.) Then he remembers where he is and quickly retrieves his mask before instructing me to inform les pompiers (fire brigade) because this is very dangerous for the village. At this point, I tell Monsieur that I was only going for a walk along the Chemin de la Transhumance, that I’m on holiday, staying with a friend because of renovations to my home in England, and that I feel I’ve done as much as is humanly possible of the only living tourist in Provence. Like all the others, he’s very kind and wishes me ‘bon vacances’. Hopefully, someone else will sort this out (and write a decent map).