As we reached our destination in the heart of the Cévennes, the road narrowed to a track more fit for a mule than a family saloon. This was entirely appropriate as we were about to embark on a four day trek with a donkey, plus our three children - Johanna aged eight, Alastair six, and one-year-old Kate - and their friend Lydwine, aged 14. On arrival, we were shown our first night's sleeping quarters in a gîte, a beautiful stone building at the far end of the village and newly transformed from a ruin. The village itself was semi-deserted and perched on a hillside, literally at the end of the tarmac road. Our supper was brought to us by Antoine and Gabrielle, owners of the donkey farm a mile or so back down the road. This young couple raise donkeys, hire them out and run the gîte for trekkers and walkers. They had also helped us plan, by phone and by letter, our itinerary for the next few days. In the high soft light of the mountains we tucked in to roast chicken and ratatouille made from home grown produce, followed by the most delicious goat's cheese and washed down with a pitcher of local red wine.

The following morning we were given swift instructions on how to look after Griotte, our beautiful dark brown donkey with beguiling eyes. We knew that Griotte usually meant a type of cherry. We were shown how to put on her harness, a contraption which included a wooden frame instead of a saddle. It was placed over a blanket on her back and helped to position huge twin basket panniers, hand made in a single piece, slung across her back to hold our luggage. We were taught how to pack the panniers, the most important aim being to achieve an equal weight distribution. We were given donkey nuts for Griotte's supper, and finally a cushion was placed in the wooden frame to make riding her more comfortable for the children. A donkey can carry up to 40 kilos, which in our case meant spare clothes for six, a picnic lunch, plus later, one tired child.

When walking with a pack donkey, the main party should walk in front of the animal, with one person behind it wielding a stick. The key is "never pull, always push". With this dictum fresh in our minds we set off on our adventure. Rob was at the front carrying Kate in the back pack (plenty of jokes about a second donkey). Lydwine was leading Griotte ridden by Alastair, and Johanna and I stayed at the back with a suitable stick for whacking Griotte if necessary. In fact, throughout the trip our donkey never showed any signs of stubbornness or laziness and was sweet natured, obedient and loveable. Quite unlike Robert Louis Stevenson's Modestine.

We had four marvellous days of walking through the wild mountainous Cévennes following the routes suggested by Antoine and Gabrielle. The paths were often steep and not always easy. The walking was very strenuous for the kids and another time I would choose a less mountainous part of France if we still had young children. Griotte was remarkably agile and sure footed, successfully negotiating her way along steep narrow paths and escarpments which were sometimes quite precipitous. We often followed the "drailles", ancient mule tracks which are still used for the transhumance of animals, when sheep are brought down from their Summer to Winter pastures. On other occasions we followed ridge paths offering us spectacular views of the Mount Aigoual, the highest peak in the Cévennes at 1500 metres. We didn't just walk all day however. Picnic stops would turn into long sessions of hide and seek and sometimes we found a stream and would bathe and paddle until the children were ready to move on.

Every evening we reached a different gîte, usually somewhere totally isolated, and we were always greeted warmly and served absolutely delicious home-cooked meals. Griotte was tethered in a grassy patch and well tended by the children who brushed and watered her conscientiously, and spent happy hours just talking to her. We were also provided with breakfast and a picnic lunch every day and, as we often walked a whole day without seeing a village, this was a necessity as well as another gastronomic delight. Having three meals a day provided for us, as well as accommodation for five people came to about 150 francs per person per day excluding the cost of the donkey. In fact it was incredibly good value for money, as the food was both superb and plentiful. You can, however, choose a cheaper option by camping and buying your own food, thereby only spending about 200 francs a day to hire the donkey.

Travelling with Griotte added a new dimension to our holiday. Walking was transformed for the children from being a rather tedious, dull activity to an exciting adventure. Whilst walking they would get to know her, talk to her, sing to her and all this took their minds off their weary feet. They would feed her treats at picnic times and seemed always more concerned for her welfare than their own when the going got tough. In fact we all fell in love with her and were loath to leave on the final day. Sometimes, however, there was a fight as to whose turn it was to ride Griotte. Perhaps next time we'll hire two donkeys.

If you are interested in a holiday with a donkey there are about twenty centres throughout France who can help you. The address to write to for more information is:

Federation Nationale Ane et Randonnées
"Ladeveze"
46090 COURS
France
Tel: +33-(0)5 65 31 42 79
Fax: +33-(0)5 65 31 44 54

All the owners of the donkey centres should be able to reply to letters of enquiry in English.

Penny Bussell, September 1993

Leaving the Wahiba sands in the Sultanate of Oman was slightly less dramatic than arriving there the day before. The women and children walked from the campsite to the main track. None of the women wanted to drive, honest! After digging out each vehicle a couple of times within thirty feet of the campsite, we drove them back to the track. Low gear, high revs and don't stop unless you really can't see what's over the ridge were my instructions. It's the closest thing to flying a car I've ever done, although "car" is hardly the word, given that a Mitsubishi Pajero with a six-cylinder three-litre engine, four-wheel drive and air-conditioning is a far cry from the Renault 4 we used to drive.

Once out of the sands we drove back up the tarmac road for about half an hour to the town of Ibra. We reflated the tyres as soon as we could, filled up with petrol (except me who forgot) and put the cars in a prominent position to attract the attention of Tony, Joanne and (another) Rob who we'd arranged to meet there. They found us in the local cafe/restaurant drinking freshly crushed fruit juice. Soon, after a family picnic lunch in the shade of a tree, two cars left for Muscat. Anne took Penny and the kids back in the Pajero, Philip and Pascale left with their kids Alexine and Magali.

Then began my first adventure of 1993 on the first day of the year. Jerry drove me in the (borrowed) Daihatsu "gulf stream" Rocky, and Tony drove Joanne and Rob in his Nissan Patrol fitted with "desert dueller" tyres. (No, I've never been obsessed with cars before). We quickly left the tarmac road and started on a "graded road" which is a bulldozed, sometimes levelled, dirt track. Jerry had notes from three months before so I could navigate and we measured the distances between significant landmarks. It was better to be in front, the second car had to drive in a cloud of dust.

The scenery got wilder and wilder and the track got less believable. After thirty five miles we started to climb the mountain on a track that swooped and banked and rose like the flight path of a helicopter in a dogfight. I had to hold on with both hands. Occasionally we would pass rudimentary dwellings made of stone with date palm fronds for roofing, some goats about, but few people. A permanent village was visible across a valley. Mainly, it was high and precipitous rock, dry, sandy, and with colours ranging from white calcium through pink and orange to black volcanic outcrops. We were climbing to a mountain plateau at about seven thousand feet altitude.

Another fifteen miles, and on the plateau we came to a number of old tombs in the shape of giant beehives, built five thousand years ago on high meandering ridges. Jerry left the track to climb onto such a ridge where we could camp next to a good example of one - twelve feet in diameter, about twenty feet high and with a small passageway at ground level to let the spirits out and the curious in. From partial ruins, it seems the circular walls were built twice, making them extra thick. The slate-like stones fit together perfectly making a smooth curve that contrasts with the fractured, irregular landscape. We had brought wood and made a fire to cook our supper.

With an alarm set for five in the morning, we got up in the dark, breakfasted, and broke camp at six with the sun. Another half an hour's drive and the track finished at a village made of crude rock shelters and caves in the hillside. We then had a two hour walk which I enjoyed enormously, the first proper walking I'd done in Oman, despite the nearly three weeks we'd been there. We climbed out of the steep sided bed of a dry stream, crossed a couple of ridges, and descended to a sandy plain. There was occasional thorny scrub which sheltered animal droppings, and there were myriad paths criss-crossing the plateau, but precious little to navigate by. We were walking into the sun as a ghostly mist came up to the plateau from the direction of the sea. Jerry announced that we were supposed to head for a single tree on the skyline, now invisible. Walking in a desert, at altitude, in a thin mist, is really spooky.

We got to the first hole in the ground after one and a half hours, which was good going. The second hole was the one we wanted, about fifteen feet by thirty feet, uneven, and which ever way you looked at it, the edges were all overhanging a deep black space. I had the 650 ft rope in my rucksack, which left not much room for anything else. Jerry rigged up the belay, laid the rope over a couple of rucksacks on the rock edges to prevent damage to it and threw the rest down. I didn't hear it hit anything. I volunteered to go first and Jerry, Tony and I prepared racks to abseil on. Joanne and Rob were cavers and used descenders.

The most frightening bit was leaving the rock to become suspended on the rope. On the descent, the trick is to feed the rope through slowly but continuously. After thirty or forty feet my eyes already adjusted to the gloom and I began to be aware of the vast subterranean cavern. I could see walls curving away and then the bottom, without features, a long way away. A moment of vertigo came with the knowledge that it was four hundred feet to the bottom. It took me a very long ten minutes of continual descent, and at the end I was surprised how strenuous it had been. The rack was hot.

Joanne was the next down and seemed to take an age. At the beginning of her descent she was just a dot high up on the dangling rope. I went for a walk. I had landed on a slope scattered with the small bones of goats who must have lost their way and taken a long, long fall from ground level. There was a forceful impression of stillness. Nothing moved, not even the air, and there were no flies or other living thing. There was a goat carcass testament to a recent fall.

I scrambled down the slope, which was just a pile of rubble which had fallen into the cave from the roof over the years. I walked for about twenty minutes to get to the far end of the cave, and looking back, the long suspended rope was hair-like, thin and insubstantial. Light entered the cave from two large holes in the roof and one or two smaller tunnels. It was quite light enough to move around and explore. At the base of the slopes it was sandy and flat, giving the impression that every so often water ran around the base to keep it that way. However, there was no sign of an exit tunnel which would have excited the cavers.

I wandered back to the rope to meet Joanne, who was exhausted. Her rigged-up harness had not been comfortable, and she needed to get her circulation going again in one leg. If I remember right, Tony was coming down next and then it would be time for me to go back up. We wanted to keep at least two people at the top in case of emergencies. In fact, it wasn't clear whether everyone would make it down and up the rope in the day - a minimum of six hours would be necessary - so Jerry had volunteered to be last, since he had been here before. I went for another walk but could easily hear and talk to Joanne and Tony all the time; the cave was a chamber of echoes.

Going up was something else again. I had practised the vertical crab-like movements necessary to climb the rope, on Jerry's balcony the night before. I knew the importance of a nice tight harness with the jumar held close to the chest. But that was still mostly theory, now to be tested. First of all, four hundred feet of rope stretches a lot. So I was attempting to keep my balance, standing on the rocky slope and doing the heave-ho movements and going nowhere, for ages, although the rope was slowly passing through the jumar. Eventually I left the ground, but oh so slowly, and so far to go. With no breeze, and the exertion of jumaring, I was quickly slippery with sweat, which ran off me for the entire ascent. It seemed to last for ever, and I was breathless with the effort, not at all fit. I tried to find a rhythm, ten times knees to chest followed by a stretch of arms and legs for the next reach, but I couldn't always get to ten before panting. After seeming hours, I could make out the roof better than the floor, but it was dreadfully slow. Coming up into the fissured hole, fresh air was fantastic and the bright light made it impossible to see below any more. Stupidly, it felt safer when I couldn't see the distance below me.

We timed each other's descents and ascents and I was not fast. Forty eternal minutes was my time, and the others were more or less similar, usually a bit better, until Jerry. It was great to be out in the sunlight, exhilarated from the experience. I stripped off to dry in the sun, though the air was cool, and eat chocolate, drink some water and rest. I got some photographs but the contrasts between bright ground and black cave entrance were difficult to allow for. This time I really did have a few hours to dawdle and day dream as the other Rob went down and Joanne and Tony eventually came up. The rule, of course, was never more than one person on the rope at one time. Towards the end of the day, Jerry decided we just had time for him to do the descent. He went down slowly, professionally, since a too-rapid descent would burn and perhaps melt the rope. But he came up like a bat out of hell in about twenty minutes, lathered but still with reserves of energy. Oh well, I had better go back to the gym when I got back to Strasbourg.

The walk back over the plateau was beautiful. We spread out, each at our pace and with our own thoughts, until we reached the hilly edge of the plain and the steep narrow dry stream beds that led back to the cars. It wasn't obvious what direction to take. Several kids came to meet us with curiosity and requests for presents, from the dwellings near the cars. We hadn't much to give, and friendly turned to unfriendly pestering and some stones were thrown as we left. The drive down was spectacular and jolting but we had to keep an eye on the petrol - my fault it was low. It was dark by the time we hit the valley, and navigating was more art than science. Jerry's main fear was hitting a camel, their long legs mean they can come right through the windscreen. Anyway, we made it. And back to Muscat for a shower, food, a beer and a good night's sleep. What a way to start the year.

Rob Stansfield, January 1993