The town of Die lies in the Drome River valley between Glandasse and Beaufayn mountains.

The day begins with a test walk – into town for breakfast pain – the chewiest baguette to spread with lavender honey. Die (pronounced "dee") is a village of perfect size – a bookstore with art supplies and hiking maps, boulangerie, laundry, wine, café, bar, real estate, jewelry, veterinarian. Everything’s in place – fuschias in window boxes, cherry tarts, a snow-fed fountain at every corner. When the real walk begins we’re climbing through the pine forests in the shadow of a giant rock-wall – the 2000 metre Plateau de Glandasse. It spreads like a long, flat plate at the top of a sheer, vertical cliff; almost treeless, forbidding to all except the Alpine Ibex – one of the rarest inhabitants of the Alps and almost extinct until the creation of the National parks. Today there are over 500, living high above the treeline in all but the coldest part of the year. Both the males and females have long, curved horns – on the oldest males the horns can grow to be a metre long. Rich is thinking: How does one get up there? Can one? If there is a way, wouldn’t it be an awfully steep climb? Meanwhile, sweating and huffing, we reach the midpoint, a vista overlooking a shallow valley of green grass cups, and in a dip, the Abbey de Valcroissant. It’s a gite nestled between the peaks, gleaming in the midmorning sunshine. Americans cross our path – first a man and later his wife, who’s had too much sun. Everywhere in France, especially on the hiking trails, the French and foreigners alike chirp "Bonjour!" in the most polite of old-world expressions – literally, "Good day", and always with heartfelt sincerity. So we’re chirping, and breathing heavily, and high on the endorphins. She says flatly, "Hi". They’re heading back to the abbey, which is accessible by road. At the 1123 metre Col de Menil, today’s summit, we can look down into the surrounding valleys, including the village Die and our campground. Our return route follows the Foret Domanial, a deep forest of evergreens, dappling sun, a playground for thousands of butterflies that congregate in the bright spots, blending in with the monkshood and toadstools. After 5 kilometres of downhill switchbacks we empty into a field of harvested lavender, still overpowering with perfume, plump with bumblebees and shrubs impersonating blueberry bushes. The berries are sour, ooze a clear liquid, but stain my shorts with a bloody red. Further along there’s retribution in a wall of fat blackberries, and I’m transported, despite the lavender, the rocky peaks, the dilapidated stone farmhouses, to my bony-kneed childhood picking at Crescent Beach. It’s easy to slip into the fantasy of hobo self-sufficiency when the berry bursts in your mouth as you make your way along the path. Finally, following the underground riverbed of the Ravine de Bonne Combe where the water comes up for air only intermittently, our path winds around to the outskirts of Die. We trod the last of our thirteen kilometres with thoughts of the campground’s municipal swimming pool.

Seville