The homicidal sheepdog that launched itself at me from behind a grassy hillock, had the look of a demented hearth rug but the fangs of a leopard. No self-respecting Border collie would have taken such a creature as a serious competitor in the herding business. But French sheep are different, at least those in the unfenced wilderness of the Aubrac plateau in the Massif Central are. More goat than sheep, they evidently regarded the ferocious dog as a minder that allowed them to graze full-time while it saw off wolves, bears and other predators, including a pink-faced randonneur trying to decide whether the map had put a volcano in the wrong place or he was indeed lost. I leapt backwards, apparently far enough to satisfy the rug that I was no longer a threat.
Those teeth were the most dispiriting spectacle of my walk through the Auvergne. The most inspiriting was a vast view of velvet-green volcanoes curving out from the base of the Puy de Sancy when I was about halfway to its 6,000 feet summit. But the real pleasure of wilderness walking goes deeper. Mostly it comes from the meditative stillness of moving through the countryside at no more than three miles an hour, a speed that empties the mind of all its clutter and is certainly the maximum intended for humanity by God. But its essence is distilled into the moment of bliss and terror when you realise you are totally lost. Everything then depends on how well heart, brain and foot work together. The exhilaration remains long after the fright has gone.
On this reckoning, the mountainous country of the Auvergne is a jewel beyond price. Although there are tracks through it — one is the well-trodden pilgrim route to Compostela, and the stunningly beautiful but frustratingly well-planned Cévennes National Park covers much of the area — it is vast and empty enough to meet the fundamental criterion of wilderness walking.
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