Tremendous treks around France

I MADE it through embarkation, I think, without being noticed. There were no accusatory shouts, no sudden lurches into nightmares of public shame and humiliation. "Call yourself a green?!" And once on the plane, of course, it was simply a matter of keeping my head down. There was only my wife Sophie to deal with, hissing across at me, "We shouldn't be here. Think of the polar bears - all drowning."

Help! Is every flight going to be like this from now on, I wonder? Green-guilt trips. Four-year-old Maddy, gazing down at the Gulf, tries to spot bears - Pooh, Paddington, Lars - all drowning, not waving. Daddy did it. I crouch lower in my seat.

At Nice airport, however, a line of private jets salve the burning fires of green-guilt. Those super-rich super-polluters, global warming is all their fault. And look at all those sparkling yachts. Do those tycoons ever shout: "Turn that gold tap off! Save the planet!" How absurd they are?

I dragged Sophie and Maddy away from the car-hire office to the bus stop. Gandhi was right. Consume only what is necessary. Tread lightly. The flight is all in the past, we're pure green from now on. No hire car. Old habits of holiday hedonism be damned.

We took the bus into the mountains, the Alpes Maritimes. In our bag were sheets and towels to save on hotel-washing. We would spurn their free soaps and shampoos. Unfortunately Maddy rather let the side down by saying, very excitedly and loudly, "I've never been on a bus before!"

But what a bus it is. The road through the Gorge de Daluis creeps along a rocky ledge, hundreds of metres above the waters of the river Var, to the small town of Guillaumes.

There we meet Christine Keiffer who runs a trekking agency in the spectacular Mercantour national park, 800 square miles of sparsely inhabited mountain terrain on the French-Italian border. She introduces us to our vehicle for the week, a 15-year-old Provencal donkey named Gideon. The beast's green credentials are impeccable: while Maddy hugs him, he's even trying to eat a plastic chair.

"Are donkeys like horses?" I ask, doubtfully. I have never liked either kind of animal, ever since a disastrous expedition in the Sudan some years ago when I fell off a stationary animal in front of a large crowd of onlookers. But Christine is certain that her donkeys are different. "They are like people," she says, "Lazy, greedy - and intelligent."

Christine briefs us on how to load, handle and ride Gideon. "Show him you're boss," she says, "And don't let him eat while you're walking." Then our route for the days ahead is explained. Every day, we will walk along marked paths through the mountains, spending the nights in various auberges and retreats.

Dinners, wine and packed lunches are all provided. There is a detailed map, a guidebook to donkey-management, and an emergency phone number, so we set out.

The first uphill section teaches us our first lesson. Gideon is the boss. He ambles along at his own pace, eating whatever takes his fancy.

The days passed. We steadily climbed towards the higher Alpine pastures. One afternoon, I left the others at our rustic mountain lodge and scrambled up a further 800 metres into the high peaks. Chamois clattered away across the scree slopes and marmots frowned from a distance. Far away I could see the snow-capped peaks of Italy.

It had been a long march, climbing to over 2,000m in the hot sun and then descending steadily with Gideon insisting on more and more snack breaks.

In a moment of exasperation I broke a dry stick on his backside. Then we came to a spot where the path did a tight hairpin over a deep chasm. I went to have a look and so did Gideon. His head appeared next to mine, then his shoulder. The side of the pack saddle smacked me square between the shoulder-blades. Gideon turned and the last thing I saw as I pitched forwards was his mild brown eye, regarding me with infinite wisdom. "That's for the stick," he seemed to say.

The tree that clung a few feet below the edge saved me. That and the stop knot on the end of Gideon's head rope. I swung around, grabbing wildly, and got a branch.

I clawed and crawled my way back to safety. It occurred to me to beat Gideon within an inch of his life. Instead I sat down and drank some spring water.

The crickets sang. Far below, the mountain torrent splashed. The sky was blue. We had not been inside a vehicle or a shop for days, not even handled money. I lay back on a patch of grass Gideon had yet to eat, feeling peculiarly exhilarated and glad to be alive. We were treading lightly and enjoying it too.

One-week self-guided donkey treks with Itinerance contact +33 4 93 05 56 01, for further details.