Adam Thorpe's home for the past 25 years has been an old house in the Cévennes, a wild range of mountains in southern France. Prior to this, in an ancient millhouse in the oxbow of a Cévenol river, he wrote the novel that would become the Booker Prize-nominated Ulverton, now a Vintage Classic. In more recent writing Thorpe has explored the Cévennes, drawing on the legends, history and above all the people of this part of France for his inspiration. In his charming journal, Notes from the Cévennes, Thorpe takes up these themes, writing about his surroundings, the village and his house at the heart of it, as well as the contrasts of city life in nearby Nîmes. In particular he is interested in how the past leaves impressions – marks – on our landscape and on us. What do we find in the grass, earth and stone beneath our feet and in the objects around us? How do they tie us to our forebears? What traces have been left behind and what marks do we leave now? He finds a fossil imprinted in the single worked stone of his house's front doorstep, explores the attic once used as a silk factory and contemplates the stamp of a chance paw in a fragment of Roman roof-tile. Elsewhere, he ponders mutilated fleur-de-lys (French royalist symbols) in his study door and unwittingly uses the tomb-rail of two sisters buried in the garden as a gazebo. Then there are the personal fragments that make up a life and a family history: memories dredged up by 'dusty toys, dried-up poster paints, a painted clay lump in the bottom of a box.' Part celebration of both rustic and urban France, part memoir, Thorpe's humorous and precise prose shows a wonderful stylist at work, recalling classics such as Robert Louis Stevenson's Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes.

Leaving London's cosmopolitanism in 1990 for a new life in rural south-west France, Adam Thorpe settled with his family in an ancient part of the Cévennes, a rugged landscape between the mountains and the sea. Here, amongst memories of religious conflict and Nazi savagery, alongside escapees of the 1968 Paris revolts and villagers deeply committed to their inheritance, Thorpe now makes his life as a writer. In his memoir Thorpe describes an author's existence embedded within an almost unrecognisably rustic setting and an impoverished yet proud local community. At the heart of his amusing yet profound account is a deep affection for the natural environment and the people that surround him, as well as a genuine fear for what the future may hold for them both.

On 23 September 1878 Stevenson set out from Le Monastier in the Haut Loire, to tramp through the wild region of the Cevennes. His only companion was a small donkey to carry basic necessities, and a commodious "sleeping sack". In the next 12 days, at a pace dictated by the donkey and carrying most of the supplies himself, he travelled 120 miles across rivers, mountains and forests. His stylish and witty account was published in 1879.

'For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.' - RLS In September 1878, Robert Louis Stevenson travelled by donkey through the Cevennes region of France. For personal memory - and, as it happens, for literary posterity - the young Stevenson recorded copious notes on his journey as he travelled. Some of these witty and incisive impressions were subsequently published in Travels With A Donkey. The remainder, however, didn't find its way into print until the first publication of The Cevennes Journal in 1978, one hundred years later. This travelogue, which also includes several of Stevenson's previously unpublished sketches of the region, provides both a unique socio-historical document and an important piece of literature.

It must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would have us fancy, is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many ways of seeing landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of canting dilettanti, than from a railway train. But landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly humours-of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning, and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening's rest.