I Climbed a French Mountain Today

I have the scars and exhaustion to prove that today I scrambled up a coastal French hill to St. Agnes, at 650 metres above sea level the highest such village.  The shrubbery short cut cut my bare legs on centimetre-long spikes sticking from the trunks and branches.  The mass of switchbacks up stone staircases made me respect their builders and their past climbers, of which I am now one.