Travels with a Donkey

No, not Don Quixote, yet.

I needed something quick to read, something I could dash off in a day or two, to satisfy the need to be immersed in something with a beginning and an end – an antidote, I suppose, to the sense that what I’m living in has no beginning and definitely no end – and that is not about specifics of politics or pandemic or ecclesiastical drama, but simply about drama – and more importantly and to the point, narrative. Endless, pervasive and invasive narrative-building and maintenance, entered on, in no particular order: crisis-seeking, building hate, affirming hate, fawning, idolatry, heretic-hunting, WrongThink elimination, hypocrisy, and memory-holing.

All of it framed in a constant, assumed we…..

Most of it, of course, being as fictional as Don Quixote. But perhaps there’s actually more truth in Don Quixote than what passes for the news and analysis that courses over my screens day and night.

A beginning. And an end. That’s what I needed. So, to Robert Louis Stevenson and Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes.

So here’s the text. And here’s the background.

Recovering on the French Riviera from a respiratory ailment, Stevenson spent 12 days walking 120 miles from the town of Le Monastier to Saint-Jean-du-Gard in the Cévennes mountain range, accompanied only by his donkey, Modestine. A classic of travel literature, Travels gives a humorous account of Modestine’s idiosyncrasies and the mutual adjustments of author and donkey. The account is enlivened by Stevenson’s fresh, vivid descriptions of the landscape and its inhabitants, his detailed record of his travel preparations, and his depiction of his visit to a Trappist monastery.

When you think of Stevenson, perhaps you only think of Treasure Island and such. But don’t pigeonhole him. He was a graceful, appealing writer of far more than children’s adventure stories. I found this a model of travel writing – the challenge of which is to make it personal enough to give the reader more than a travelogue, and a narrative with which to identify, but to not let the personality of the traveler overwhelm – in other words – don’t make it all about you.

And while, of course, Stevenson (and Modestine) are at the heart of this, and much of the appeal lies in Stevenson’s account of his difficulties and challenges, he strikes the balance we need in order to maintain our interest in some human drama, but not leave us thinking that the main purpose of this narrative is to know more about him.

It’s amusing and evocative. Stevenson encounters not only Catholics, as indicated above, but also Protestants in an area rooted in historical self-awareness of Huguenot rebellion – so of course this leads to the Scots spiritual generalist to contemplate the shape and meaning of religious differences.

There were many affecting passages, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll leave you just one, that shows what lies deep in the heart of even the doubter:

When I awoke again (Sunday, 29th September), many of the stars had disappeared; only the stronger companions of the night still burned visibly overhead; and away towards the east I saw a faint haze of light upon the horizon, such as had been the Milky Way when I was last awake.  Day was at hand.  I lit my lantern, and by its glow-worm light put on my boots and gaiters; then I broke up some bread for Modestine, filled my can at the water-tap, and lit my spirit-lamp to boil myself some chocolate.  The blue darkness lay long in the glade where I had so sweetly slumbered; but soon there was a broad streak of orange melting into gold along the mountain-tops of Vivarais.  A solemn glee possessed my mind at this gradual and lovely coming in of day.  I heard the runnel with delight; I looked round me for something beautiful and unexpected; but the still black pine-trees, the hollow glade, the munching ass, remained unchanged in figure.  Nothing had altered but the light, and that, indeed, shed over all a spirit of life and of breathing peace, and moved me to a strange exhilaration.

I drank my water-chocolate, which was hot if it was not rich, and strolled here and there, and up and down about the glade.  While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct out of the quarter of the morning.  It was cold, and set me sneezing.  The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its passage; and I could see the thin distant spires of pine along the edge of the hill rock slightly to and fro against the golden east.  Ten minutes after, the sunlight spread at a gallop along the hillside, scattering shadows and sparkles, and the day had come completely.

I hastened to prepare my pack, and tackle the steep ascent that lay before me; but I had something on my mind.  It was only a fancy; yet a fancy will sometimes be importunate.  I had been most hospitably received and punctually served in my green caravanserai.  The room was airy, the water excellent, and the dawn had called me to a moment.  I say nothing of the tapestries or the inimitable ceiling, nor yet of the view which I commanded from the windows; but I felt I was in some one’s debt for all this liberal entertainment.  And so it pleased me, in a half-laughing way, to leave pieces of money on the turf as I went along, until I had left enough for my night’s lodging.  I trust they did not fall to some rich and churlish drover.

Here’s an outline of his route – it’s a popular tourist/literary pilgrimage route even today.