A funny thing happened on the way to Queyras

East of the Rhone, I am venturing towards the Alps.
But which way to go? which valley to take? historians differ as to which way Hannibal actually went, and which pass he finally took to cross into Italy, the Durance or the Drome valleys? and the possible passes number at least 4, which I think lends alot of weight to the mystery and only draws Hannibalophyles like myself deeper into the search for Hannibals pass.
Ive decided to take a non conventional route to my chosen pass of col du Clapier, one of the possible Hannibal passes.

So,the direct route would be to march along the Durance, as far as Briancon, up to col de Montgenevre over the pass to Clavier and thus arrive in Italy.
But that would be making it easy for myself, wouldn't it?
For some strange reason known only to the gods of mountain walkers or maybe saint Christopher I decided to take the road less travelled, or, replace the word road with "mountain trail'
several days ago I left the mountain village of Savines la lac, passed up through Embrun and took the backroad overlooking the thunderous Durance which drounded out the sound of motorcyclists on the motorway in the middle distance.
I arrived in the small town of Guillestre to find they were hosting the start of the Tour de l'Avenir bycicle race,France has a love affair with the humble bycicle and the French competative nature leads them to host bycicle races at the drop of a hat.This was the fourth or fifth major bike race in this little town this year alone, the tour de France passes through at 95 kilometers an hour, annually, therefor all roads in and out of the town were closed until all the riders were under way, one after the other, about 2 minutes apart, and there were about 50 riders which left me in a town with one pub and an hour and 40 minutes to use idly.
The choice was obvious, 3 beers later I was merrily back on the path.
On the outskirts of town an old man was tending his garden, he called out to me and invited me in to his home for a coffee, how could I refuse?
Moments later we were in the kitchen on the first floor of his alpine cottage, where he reheated a pot of already brewed coffee on the gas stove, we chatted, simply, to the extent of my french, he lived alone, as was obvious, the house had the feel of an elderly bachelor about it, someone comfortable with his surroundings and unused to visitors.
A cold vat of congealed vegetables stood alone on the the woodfired range by the adjacent wall, waiting to be reheaded for the evening supper and several jars of homemade preserved fruit occupied most of the kitchen table.
He was amazed with the story of my walk, alas he no longer had the legs himself for such an undertaking. In fact in all his 70 odd years he had never left Guillestre, he demonstrated his inability to walk a great distance by duly undoing is belt, dropping his pants to his ankles to display the condition of his 70 year old knees as he smiled all the while.
So there I am, sitting in this kitchen in a cottage in the alps drinking coffee while this old man stood 3 feet away with his army fatigues around his ankles one hand on his hip the other cupping his balls, wearing a big honest smile.
From there the conversation became a little cloudy for me, there were several references to a "chicken" or something to that effect, or maybe the siren in my head was too loud, I saw his lips move but heard nothing, I looked into my cup as I drained the coffee, hoping that when I looked up his pants would be back on, no such luck, he stood there smiling, occasionally clasping his knees then grabbig the top of his underpants, hoiking them up so it looked like he was holding a bag of nectarines, again there was a reference to a chicken? I think?
"Claude" I said,"thank you for your hospitality, but I must get back on the road if im to make Chateau Queyras by nightfall"
He raised his trousers, did up his belt, drank his coffee and bade me farewell.
He walked me to the door and thanked me for visiting as if I were an old friend.
We shook hands and I was on the trail once more on the mountain path which overlooked the small road to Queyras below.
I didn't make it to Chateau Queyras that night, after 30 odd kilometers I pitched my tent in a field near Bramousse, deep in the Queyras gorge and slept, as best as one could after that afternoons matinee.