Two whole floors to ourselves, a covered balcony displaying the sunset, and lovely hosts. They waved us off the next day along a glorious route that none of our guide books referred to. After a longer than normal and hard to navigate route the day before, this option of a shorter way was just what we needed.
The high wheat stalks hugged us from both sides of the road as the wind encouraged them to wave goodbye to us, on a very quiet country road. Then we caught the train – or may have if they were still running. As temperatures climbed dramatically, it was wonderful to be shaded by the trees and shrubs that flanked the old track.
Now a walking and bike track, there were relatively few others for a Sunday, but maybe they looked at the barometer first. An early 19th century stone bridge like an archway to an old city marked an entrance to this not highly elevated line. Moss covered cut stone waiting for an improbable resurrection lay askew of each other.
Then a 200 metre long tunnel that promised to light up for us, did not, so something at last to use our torches for. Immediately on exiting, the ground fell away dramatically on one side creating a deep sharp valley or ravine, while a cliff wall framed the other. And, we could hear a small river moving below.
Had lunch in what seemed a disused space where the chairs were rotting and rusty around 3 very tired tables, alongside a small locked shed and a rose bush. It might have belonged to the residents of a disused railway station, but no-one saw us or maybe cared. Behind us the deep ravine came to a halt and sidled off down the main road.
A neatly carved rocky hill marked the next section of line, its 10 meter walls coloured by that green moss indicative of many sun free spaces. More cute stations, now homes where people live rather than platforms for them to wait, passed us by. And finally a huge bridge carries us across the ravine river.
A small mountain-like-hill marked the entrance to our home on the railway line, as small mountains envelop us close to the river that slices through the town. It is now storm time (like being in the tropics) with dark noisy clouds and sharp lightning entertaining us through our French windows, about 2 or 3 sleeps from Pontarlier.
