I should have known better. I should have realised it wasn't going to be that easy. People had said things like, "Sure, you can do Fontainebleau on foot," heavily accenting the possibility of it, "But I probably wouldn't.
"It's fine," I thought, "I've looked at the map, most places seem about 5km from each other, that's not much more than an hour's walk. And it's not like I'll be carrying all my stuff."
And so it was that I stepped off a fading RER train at Boutigny. In retrospect, the fact that I stepped off entirely alone would prove a warning sign. As would the absence of Boutigny from the large scale map of Fontainebleau forest that I clutched. Not because it was too small, of course, but because it was too far away.
The platform was empty and a listlessness hung over the forlorn car park. It was already midday, still and warm. Shouldering my backpack, I headed out into the village. The houses crowded along both sides of the one and only street, their high stone walls overhung with ivy and casting the road into welcome shade. The village petered out, the houses withdrawing from the road to be replaced by more modern looking homes with large fenced gardens, apple trees and neat lawns. A roundabout appeared on the edge of the village, the first road sign: Milly la Foret 8 km.
So that's why it's not on the map. In fact, its not just off the map, it's 8 km off the map, not, as I had presumed, a kilometre or so off the map. Here be dragons indeed.
The campsite was 6 km the other side of Milly. I arrived four hours later.
The walk wasn't too bad. The forest itself was beautiful, more varied than I was expecting. As I climbed up and over the first hill, deep mature oaks gave way to mixed birches and then coniferous trees higher up. Moss covered boulders bulged under the layers of pine needles, hinting at the promise of greater things to come. Birds were everywhere, so about half an hour into the walk, I dropped my binoculars, knocking one of the lenses out of alignment and rendering them usable only if you closed one eye.
I stopped in Milly and stocked up on pasta, a baguette, fruit and chocolate. Just enough to last me until the next day, when I'd return for more.
As I approached the campsite, my enthusiasm beginning to wane, I hit a deadend. I had misread the map and not noticed the two roads I'd wanted to take didn't actually meet up. A large PASSAGE INTERDIT sign barred my way. Employing the age old "What sign?" navigational technique, passed down from Grandmother to Grandson - "I didn't see a sign, did you dear?" - I hopped the fence. Fine, so I lumbered over it, slightly tearing my t-shirt, but hey, I was a bit tired and cranky, ok? There was no way in hell I was going to retrace my steps as it would have added a full hour to my journey and I couldn't face it. I followed a dwindling track through the forest, flanked on both sides by the fences of the large gardens of rich homes. My biggest fear was rousing the vicious looking guard dogs that everyone had to protect their patch of forest paradise from rogue boulderers.
I crept along the track as it faded into nothing. Swathes of bluebells lay in front, up over a hill. My plan was flawless, all I had to do was continue straight over the hill and I would hit the road I wanted. But I'd forgotten my compass so I couldn't be sure. The only slight, tiny flaw was if the other side of the hill turned out to be the back gardens of a long row of more rich houses, fenced and guarded by Rottweilers. The first was easily dealt with, the second perhaps less so, though I figured I could take on one with my cat-like reflexes if the worst came to the worst. If it were, say, old and a bit arthritic. Or dead.
In the end it was fine. I stumbled across a track that lead me between the houses and to safety. Unfortunately, without a compass, I'd become slightly disorientated and turned the wrong way when I hit the road (the reason being that I'd hit an entirely different road than the one I'd thought I'd reached). After a kilometre or so I realised my mistake and doubled back, bitterly cursing the crap cartographer that had made this IGN piece of shit map and the rubbish rucksack makers at Vango who'd made the god damn thing just so god damn heavy.
After I'd pitched the tent, spread my things out and had a look around, I took off my boots and settled down to cook up some pasta. Sadly, the gas cannister I'd carefully (and at exorbitant expense) bought in Portsmouth turned out not to fit the stove I'd got. Not at all. Not even if I jammed them together and sort tied them up with finger tape. The nearest camping shop was 20km, too far to walk, so this meant I'd have no hot dinner, no tea, nothing cooked for 5 days. It also meant, in the rather shorter term, that I'd have to eat my breakfast baguette and fruit for dinner.
After dinner I resolved to enjoy the evening light and find a little light bouldering. The climbing guide writers had other ideas. I was totally unable to even find the boulders and this in the most famous boulder strewn forest in the world. Things were not looking hot right now. The map marked the general climbing area but the guidebook was next to useless. No, in fact, it was just plain useless, making the Northumberland bouldering guide (heretofore the worst known climbing guide this side of Betelgeuse) look like a paragon of guideliness virtue and clarity. The only other person I could find, who seemed like a local, or at least was French, seemed to suggest that I was looking in entirely the wrong mountain range. The omens were not good.
The walk was pleasant though and I was agreeably tired as I headed back to hit the sleeping bag. I fell asleep quickly, having walked the best part of 25 km, most of it with all my stuff. It wasn't long before the gravest error of them all became apparent. My sleeping bag provide not only inadequate but in fact the last remaining example of the ill-fated sleeping-bag-heat-pump combo from those wacky inventors at Vango. It wasn't just too thin, I swear it was actually colder inside the bag than outside the tent. It was pathetique, puny, miserable and freezing. A pox on Tisos and their stupid £15 offers.
I eventually learnt how to deal with this - I had to go to bed with just the right combination of clothes so as not to be too hot initially, but too cold too quickly. As the night progressed, a pile of different clothes, kept close at hand next to my sleeping bag, were used; each layer added as the night grew incrementally colder (but too much at once or I'd get too hot) until, by four or five am, I was wearing two pairs of socks, trousers tucked into the outer layer of socks (this was a crucial discovery on the third night and made a huge difference, but it had to be the outer layer, tucking them into the inner pair curled up my toes too much), a t-shirt, hoody and fleece, gloves and finally my hat. I never did sleep though the night.
There was no breakfast either.
