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The route detours for a while along a small country paved road towards Le Fuet, brushing past the serene Protestant center. 

If you’re not pressed for time, take a moment to explore this treasure. Just a few hundred meters away, along a path parallel to the route, you’ll find the Maison de la Tête de Moine, an unforgettable stop for enthusiasts of unique traditions and flavors. It was here that the canons of Bellelay created the famous “Tête de Moine” cheese, known for its unique enjoyment method: it’s shaved into delicate rosettes or petals, rather than simple slices, using a rotary knife called a “girolle.” For over 800 years, this cheese has captivated taste buds, its global reputation drawing both Swiss and international visitors eager to savor this gem of local heritage. 

For those curious about the secrets of this legacy, the Maison de la Tête de Moine opens its doors. This imposing building, erected in 1768, now houses a museum, an old-time cheese dairy, and an aged cellar that still echoes with the centuries of history it holds. It’s a vibrant place, a tribute to a history full of anecdotes, traditions, and unique craftsmanship, with an influence reaching markets on distant continents.

The site is also adorned with unique sculptures of masoned straw, celebrating the monks and surrounding alpine pastures. At the center, you’ll find a jovial-looking monk surrounded by Alpine horn players, frozen in a scene that seems to invite music to complete the local ambiance.  

Nearby, at a crossroads where new houses have risen in recent years, stands a renowned hotel-restaurant, offering travelers a warm, authentic place to rest. 

The name « Bellelay » itself, meaning « beautiful forest » in low Latin (« bella lagia »), resonates as a promise of grandeur and serenity. Founded in the early 12th century by the Premonstratensians, the abbey symbolized an era when monks, guided by Saint Norbert’s principles, sought to transform swamps into fertile land. Often burned down, yet always rebuilt, the abbey seen today, with its majestic baroque architecture, reflects the splendor of the late 17th century, at the brotherhood’s peak. Rich yet generous, the abbey welcomed pilgrims, offered bread to the needy, and cared for orphans. The spirit of the Reformation seems never to have reached here, as though the Jura preserved a form of spiritual independence.

In 1798, however, the French Revolution disrupted this peace: the clergy were expelled from the abbey, which changed hands several times, becoming a brewery, stable, warehouse, and glassworks in turn. Over the decades, the abbey found a new role as a psychiatric clinic, until this was transferred to Moutier. Since the late 1960s, the Abbey Church of Bellelay, now an open space for culture, has hosted concerts and exhibitions, thanks to the Abbey Foundation. 

Soon, a path branches off the route, as if escaping a world ruled by asphalt’s rigid grip. It’s a relief, as passing drivers, too impatient, speed along these straight lines as if testing the rules. In this landscape, the subtle signs feel like a lifeline. The modest yellow sign draws the eye, guiding toward the meadows where nature reclaims its rights. 

The land stretches here in a vast, damp plain, untamed and marshy. A large protective basin surrounds the area, a precious barrier to preserve this bit of land under environmental pressure. The path ventures into this fragile expanse, winding over modest wooden footbridges placed here as a pledge of respect for this unstable habitat. Underfoot, the boards give way almost imperceptibly, as if whispering the old stories of this mysterious plain. 

The path then exits this wild world—wild in the fullest sense of the word—reconnecting with the route pulsing with human activity. The contrast is striking, a sudden reminder of civilization. Nature recedes for a moment, giving way to asphalt and the hum of engines.  

Here, the path crosses the road, cautiously at first, then follows it just slightly off to the grassy edge. It’s a suspended moment, almost apart, where your gaze lingers more on the untamed fringes than the road itself. 

Then the undergrowth opens, offering access to an entirely different realm: the Sagne peat bog. This place is enchanting, like a natural sanctuary where time seems to stand still. A boardwalk unfolds like a guiding thread, protecting the landscape while inviting discovery. Feet stay dry, protected from the deep peat, while subtle signs along the way reveal the secrets of this rare and precious environment. Here, magic meets the wild. 

The air, thick with moisture, is filled with scents of wood and damp earth. A dense, almost tropical atmosphere settles around visitors; only the distant call of parrots would complete this illusion of exoticism. Every dewdrop, every blade of grass seems to honor life, a lushness so rare in these latitudes. 

Although the route is unpredictable and markers rare, it’s almost impossible to get lost here. The path follows the road, veering off occasionally but keeping a respectful distance. Spruces, like sentinels, stand along the path, creating a scene that feels like a Christmas setting. Beneath thick layers of moss, chanterelles likely thrive in season, adding their secret to the landscape. Next to them, tall maples mingle with conifers, spreading their leafy branches as if to soften the sharpness of the needles.  

The path gradually gains elevation, climbing through meadows under the road winding toward the Fuet Pass. Though present and invasive, the road seems less intrusive in this vibrant nature, and the walk, lulled by the meadows’ murmur, becomes almost meditative. 

Soon after, the path joins the pass road. Here, the incline is never steep. 

The path winds again, closely following the road that leads toward La Bottière. This is a key junction for hikers and pilgrims, with the option of a detour toward Moron Tower, a stone sentinel that seems to invite contemplation. At the pass, which is more a namesake than a true pass, one is struck by the peaceful simplicity of this place, as if suspended between earth and sky. 

The path follows the road for about a hundred meters until a new fork appears. Here, the two Via Jura routes diverge, and choosing your path carefully is essential. Via 91 heads toward Tramelan, while Via 80—your route—takes the direction of Tavannes. Here you sense the region’s complexity, where paths multiply and intersect, often confusing foreign visitors and even seasoned pilgrims venturing into these winding lands. 

Once more, the path lingers in the meadows along a chaotic trail that skirts the bustling road. Each step feels hesitant, sensing the tension between the calm of the fields and the road’s agitation. 

Just a few meters further, a new fork appears, allowing you to climb back up toward Moron Tower. However, your route, Via Jura 80, stays straight, determined, slipping under the road into the meadows. A gate crossed to hold back cattle, and a new world opens—a place that feels like a welcome into the wildness of the land.  

Finally, the path approaches the road one last time before disappearing into the forest toward the village of Le Fuet. 

It begins as a narrow path, winding ever more intensely under limestone cliffs. The nature here is wild, nearly untamed, and you advance cautiously, as though every step were watched by the ancient spirits of the woods. The atmosphere grows heavy, an exhilarating solitude enveloping the surroundings.

Further down, the path seems to momentarily disappear, swallowed by the bushes and wild grasses flourishing in fascinating disorder. 

Then, the descent resumes with vigor, through dense forest and thickets. The trees, increasingly large and majestic, dominate the path, until suddenly, through a break in the foliage, the village of Le Fuet appears below, almost surreal, like a promise. 

At the bottom of the steep descent through the meadows, the path eventually reaches the first houses of the village, nestled like a secret in the slope’s hollow. 

Le Fuet clings to the mountainside, a modest yet proud village, with its newer church whose steeple timidly pierces the sky, a small school with weathered shutters, and a bell tower that seems to watch over the souls of the place. From here, you can also climb the path leading to the famous Moron Tower, but for now, the direction is Tavannes, an hour’s walk away. Here, in the heart of the Jura, horses reign supreme, imposing their nobility even in the meadows, where they sometimes seem to overshadow the cows. This land is renowned for its robust, proud horse breeds. 

Leaving the village, a paved road gently descends into a small plain where the Trame stream meanders. Behind the oat fields, the Jura hills unfold, offering a panorama ruled by wild beauty, a living tableau that seems to defy time. 

In the valley’s depth, the Trame flows discreetly, a thin ribbon of water lost in the marshlands, winding quietly but with a nearly soothing gentleness. 

A path quickly heads into the underbrush, entering the cool shade of spruces and beeches, where nature reclaims its domain, enveloping the traveler in silence and mystery. There, beyond the trees, an imposing recycling complex and a gravel pit come into view, human structures that stand in stark contrast to the peacefulness of the surroundings. 

To avoid them, the path cleverly branches through the forest, bypassing the installations with discretion, like a sage intent on preserving the serenity of nature. 

Upon exiting, a small paved road unfolds on the other side, like an invitation to continue the journey. 

It then merges with the main road leading to Tavannes, lined with a narrow strip of grass, a last breath of green before the more formal path.   

At times, a wild path flirts with the road, diving into the tall grass, playing hide and seek with the pavement before disappearing again into the vegetation. 

Then it returns to the heart of the forest, dense and mysterious, as if offering a final refuge in rich nature. 

A few steps away, a picnic area has been set up under the soothing cover of the trees, offering hikers a charming, shaded resting spot. 

A little farther, the path leaves the forest’s shade and stretches across the meadows, winding along a ridge that overlooks the town of Tavannes, offering a breathtaking view of the scattered rooftops below.   

Below, the paved road and the railway slide alongside each other like parallel ribbons, heading toward Tavannes, a reminder that, despite the mountains’ tranquility, modernity is never far away. 

Farther down, a dirt road winds down the hill, skirting lush green meadows that dominate the landscape, with occasional wooden fences and sparse crops breaking the green monotony. 

The Via Jura then reaches the heights of the town, on a small, peaceful plateau from which one can survey the surroundings—a natural vantage point inviting contemplation of the landscape. 

It then slopes gently down to join the Birse River, which here discreetly flows underground, hidden from view but ever-present in local history.

The route then heads toward the station, nearing the town center. Tavannes, with its current 3,500 inhabitants, remembers a more prosperous time when its population exceeded 4,000 in the 1960s, bearing witness to more flourishing days.  

Over time, the factory grew, and other workshops bearing the Tavannes Watch name emerged in Switzerland. However, financial challenges and patent restrictions accelerated the company’s decline. In 1948, the “Tavannes” name was replaced with “Cyma” on dials, yet loyal customers still demanded their Tavannes watches. The decline quickened, followed by successive acquisitions until the factory closed. Today, only a small parts-turning operation for watch components remains, a far cry from the glory days.

It would be wrong, however, to think that the watch industry is dead in the Jura Arc. This sector remains vital for the region, still providing a quarter of local jobs, along with many cross-border workers. For example, near the old Sandoz factory, Roventa continues the watchmaking tradition with its own watch production.  

The village of Tavannes, once agricultural, transformed with the rise of the watch industry. The farms in the center disappeared, replaced by more modern buildings, sometimes designed by renowned architects, including Le Corbusier. The grand hotels, some now closed, still bear witness to that prosperous era.

On a small hill, the 17th-century reformed church dominates the town, like a steadfast guardian above the main street, still striving to recall the glorious hours of its industrial and watchmaking past.