OLD SCHOOL REUNION

Despite its position in the Indian Ocean, sandwiched between Madagascar and Mauritius, the Dpartement de Runion is as much a part of France as Paris or Nice. Here at the end of an 11-hour domestic flight old men play boules, small children carry baguettes home for lunch, the markets groan with the weight of fresh fruit, tuna and spices and, just to remind you that you are in the Indian Ocean, large branches laden with ripe lychees may land on your head.

If you can imagine a cross between Tarzan and David Bellamy then you have some idea of the enthusiasm that Patrick Noel puts into his Garden of Perfumes and Spices at the south end of the island. Although not a watering can or a spade is in sight this man swings from tree to tree with such enthusiasm that his 200-year-old garden comes alive. It was just as he was telling me about his work with Kew Gardens that those ripe lychees fell on my head.

With Patrick you can eat the garden during the two-hour tour, particularly those lychees and mangoes. Then smell the pepper and the vanilla, dive into the geraniums, whose essence is a major export, and learn how Runion was a transit post for the plants of the world. With 26 microclimates, this place has been home to commercial crops of tea, coffee, sugar, the Victorian pineapple and, of course, that famous vanilla which stopped over on its way from Mexico.

"But for the real Runion, that's where you should be," says Patrick, pointing to the interior.

"Some of the best primary forest in the world."

As I followed his arm my head bent back more and more, for on an island the size of Majorca, the mountains he was pointing to rise above 9,000ft.

The altimeter in the cockpit showed 7,000 of those feet as we flew so close to the tall tree ferns that they bent in the wash from the rotor blades. I know that when you're in paradise the noise of helicopters can be intrusive but the shopping list was long. To see the three huge natural amphitheatres or cirques formed from the shells of extinct volcanoes I could take advantage of the 1,000 kms of marked hiking trails or spend 125 on a 45-minute flight of a lifetime.

It was a shock when suddenly the ground fell away to disclose the black interior of the Piton de la Fournaise - one of the world's most active volcanoes - streaked with the yellow of sulphur and the red of iron. Intrepid hikers were stepping with care across the thin lava crust and the lava flows, which only recently have been pushing out towards the sea, and have stopped by the back door of the local church. Its rather appropriate, name - Notre Dame des Lavas.

Five minutes later we offered a prayer ourselves as those rotor blades seemed almost to touch the sides of the narrow Devil's Gate which, inaccessible by car or on foot, hides the entrance to the Iron Room. Think of it as a shower. The only difference here is that the walls are of sheer rock, two thousand feet high, and the water is of the power variety as more than 50 waterfalls cascaded over our helicopter and into the abyss.

CARMEN Rossett doesn't like the noise of hovering visitors so we walked to her g"te through the forest of Bebour where, never touched by man, the tall tree ferns and tamarind trees fill the valleys. The highest point, Le Piton de Neige, still had its covering of early morning snow.

Memo to readers - yes, this is still in the middle of the Indian Ocean and, importantly for hikers, despite being in the tropics, there are no snakes.

Carmen's G"te de Belouve hangs on the edge of the cirque with the clouds scudding far below. B and B costs 10 but for 7.50 we ate a forest feast of deep fried nasturtiums, sorrel quiche, pork with banana leaves and the obligatory and inclusive local wine. Outside, through the mist, the fuchsia bushes covered the mountainsides in a sea of gaudy pink and red and a young girl sold fresh pods of vanilla. I don't know whether this was France or heaven but I'm going back for a reunion.

Copyright 2000
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