The Freedom Trail 2008 I
Dear Jonathan, Mossy, Rachel, Naomi, Eric. Richard, Ros, Jeremy, Brian, Roelof and Bruce,
Am back in full swing at work; aches and pains forgotten. But the unique experience all of you gave me will be long remembered. With group dynamics you dragged me from France to Spain. 2600 meters did not sound so bad.. Now that I have multiplied by 3.3 to get 8480 ft. I must ask how I had the cheek to think I would not slow all of you down, Thank you for the patience and kindness.
Mossy thanks for the offer to carry my bag up the snow field but it really was time for you to go play in the snow. I watched you with pleasure and envy. Bruce and Roelof had already taken much of my heavy stuff. The bag just looked full size. Thanks to you and Rachel for telling me what young people plan to do.
Ros sorry for usurping your bed and scrambling your things. You and Richard gave me the best reward by dropping back to walk and talk. Again thanks for the wine, advice and listening to my stories. Silk sheet bag was a real discovery.
Eric thanks for all the plans. I know you & Brian did the last walk with the slow group just to keep me company.. You are knowledgeable and fun traveling companions. Long may your enthusiasm continue.
Jeremy, the breadth of your interests and joy in teaching was/is a delight. I will now see gargoyles and stained glass windows through your eyes. You, Eric and Brian explore with the energy of Mossy’s years.
Roelof you are a professional at your job. You led us well. You measured and judged my truncated abilities precisely. You left me assured that I could do it, despite I bet many misgivings. I do hope we will walk together again, perhaps a little less demanding path next time. I will try to weight 2 stone (13 to 15 kg) less and train a bit harder ahead of time.
Jonathan, like it or not you now have a full time congregant at a distance. You make group dynamics also work with prayer and learning. Shacharit in public looking up at the rising sun behind the mountains filled one with awe. I have never met a Rabbi like you, and certainly not al the top of a mountain. Your energy of mind and body will last beyond even my advanced age. But I cannot promise to walk the mountains with you in my late 90s +. Going to try though.
With appreciation, Wynne
The Freedom Trail 2008 II
The walking has been wonderful and everyone has shown a super spirit. This is what community is all about! I am so grateful. I have to thank Jeremy Schonfeld in particular, because, when I mentioned the idea over tea one Shabbat, instead of telling me I was meshuggah, he said “I’ll come with you”. He did, bringing his immense erudition on all things Jewish to enrich our journey.
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The Pyrenees 2007, Le Petit Sentier
"It's six o'clock in the morning, for Christ's sake," he growled under the blanket, "let me sleep. I am on holiday!"
On the previous evening he had growled to me, "I will walk with you but don't think this trekking will change me."
He does not speak to me, he growls. That's my son.
Nick, my only child, is an emotionally highly strung 28 year-old working in the world of IT. He drinks, smokes and
parties hard as if there is no tomorrow. In his words he is living it up and just having fun. Just having fun with
those blood-shot eyes and constant yawning? During the day he is as exciting as the vampire in the daylight.
So he sleeps for another couple of hours, then slowly arises, inspects his sluggish abdomen in the hotel room mirror,
and then goes outside to have the first fag of the day.
10 June: Toulouse to Melles
We arrived in Toulouse-Matabiau at dawn with a plenty of time to connect with a provincial train to Luchon where I had
planned to buy Nick a walking stick and some warm gear for the high altitude.
"I don't need a walking stick!" was all I got from him when I told him few days ago. It was a total waste of time
telling him in advance as he was neither listening nor had clues to the gizmos of trekking. During the train journey
to Luchon, Nick would pop out of the carriage and have a quick puff on the platform while the train made a long stop.
You'd better get used to not smoking, because you can't smoke in the mountains - I warned him.
"Why not?" He asks.
"Because," I say, "No hiker smokes in the mountains and it is embarrassing to smoke at the gîte, you know."
"No one?" He challenges me. "Nope! No one." I reply.
"OK, we will make a bet. If I see anyone smokes then you give me ten Euros"
"It's a deal!"
It was Sunday; nothing would be open - I feared. But much to my relief, all the shops were open and the streets of
Bagnéres-de-Luchon, the ski and spa resort town, buzzed with people on the morning shopping stroll. Nick proactively
went into a supermarket and bought some food, two large bottles of water and a dozen rolls of toilet paper.
He then walked across the street into a sports shop and purchased a walking stick and a warm jumper (Banzai!) whilst
I stood outside guarding our luggage.
Now we were ready to rendezvous with Roelof, our trekking manager from Bergtoppers who would deliver us to our first
night accommodation, L'auberge du Crabére in Melles and then he'd transport our luggage to the Bergtoppers' cabin in
Seix where our trekking journey ends.
"What do I need?' Nick asked Roalof as he re-organised his backpack at the auberge.
"You may only need two t-shirts." Roelof, a tall lanky Dutchman, replied. Nick did not protest. Out came his beloved
tee-shirts, and pants which reduced his backpack to the respectable weight of around 12 kilograms.
(Mine was about the same). Roelof then laid the map on an outdoor garden table and explained the trekking route and
accommodation arrangements he had made. Nick lit up a cigarette. Roelof glanced at Nick incredulously. - I'd bet he
had never seen a trekker smoke.
"Oh well, only one more left and that's it!" Nick said sensing our wary gaze. Now the snow-capped Pyrenees looming
its mighty presence and being immersed in its spirit, perhaps Nick may take this journey in his stride.
"It's awesome," he muttered under his breath looking at the white mountain peaks.
Do you want to read more?
Hotel de la Poste, Oust
The Hotel de la Poste is what we would call a real family hotel.
It has been owned and run by four generations of the same family and the fifth generation
(I estimate her to be about 6 years old at present) is clearly being trained to take over later on.
We dined in style on grandmother's plates, enjoyed the old world comfort of antique armchairs and were amused
by the veteran oak cupboards with squeaking doors in the bedroom.
However there were enough up-to-date facilities for us to feel comfortable and pampered.
The biggest surprise was the swimming pool, cool and clean, long enough to make swimming a few lengths worthwhile and
particularly welcome after a long day in the car getting to what is in fact the far end of France.
The room service was fault-free (someone even thought of adding cake to our afternoon tea-tray) and the beds -
most important - were large enough for two and, thank heaven, firm; so there was none of that awful sliding into
the middle! Saving the best to the end: the food.
It was superb.
My wife and I had taken half pension and not once in our eight days did we feel the need to alter the set menu.
The food was varied, with lots of local dishes, always well presented and really tasty. After a day in the lovely
hills of the Pyrenees I can't think of a nicer place 'to come home to' than the family Hotel de la Poste.
GR10: PYR'O'KNEES
YEAR III - 2007 - THE YEAR OF THE BEAR, OR WUSSIT?
Having previously heard of the debate whether to release brown bears back into the wild in the region and seen the oui/non aux ours painted on the roadside barriers we were well aware of the possibility of meeting them, however scarce. However it was day 3 before the first sighting of an imprint to the disbelief of the non-sighters which developed into a standing joke of the type 'Was that the mark of a very small Jack Russell bear? or of the Jack Daniels type more commonly found in hotel mini-bears'.
The first short day was steep, sultry and sweaty with a sudden heavy shower. Generally the weather was kind to us, holding off any rain until we were sitting in a refuge or bar. Rounding a slope we were startled by a herd of two hundred cows all moving up across our path and clonking their individual bells in a cacophony - those animals must be deaf and certainly the noise is a feature of most days and some nights. A curious compound of netting with 3 foot high shelters left us wondering for what they were built - poults of some kind, but no croak of pheasant nor oink of guinea fowl helps us discover.
The second day was a lengthy 8 hours with climbs aggregating 6,000 feet and a magnificent range of mountains around. Although tough the remainder of the week was a comfort in knowing that the hardest day was passed. The splash of spring flowers was a delight the entire week - yellow broom, red azalea, purple heather and the occasional clumps of blue gentian justified the walk in themselves even without the spectacle of the best-designed hills and valleys since the Norwegian fjords won an award.
Day three started in mists up to the point we reached a glorious upland pasture spread with white and yellow flowers including, to our surprise wild daffodils. Having debated for some time we concluded they could only have arrived there in the stomachs of lowland cows or had been planted by herds of wandering Dutchmen with excess bulbs from their home nurseries.
A stiff walk along the ridge brought us to the Refuge de Ruhle, a heavy-duty lager and a view from the terrace which ran from a high left top down to a small lac in afold of the hills, a larger lake in centre position behind a natural barriere and a valley falling away to the right. As evening approached the mists rolled back to obscure all these features and part reveal them again before supper.
We were accompanied for three days by French Cecille who put us to shame by carrying twice as much as us and walking just as fast, disdaining also such as bed and breakfast, warm showers and even on one occasion a mouse-proof cabane. She had started out from the Atlantic on 9 May and being now 10 days from the Med became steadily more cheerful by the day. Isolde the German postmistress was also marching the same way.
Day 4 was a longish descent to Merens les Vals and stay at Ax where les Bains turned out to be no more than foot-deep pools of warm water but refreshing nonetheless in a town otherwise distinguished by its pretty place de mairie and an excellent dinner at the Hotel de France. Being on the main road to Andorra the town is a constant flow of shoppers making for the cut-tax shops a few miles up the road.
Day 5 headed us back up from Merens to the refuge at Besines via some fierce hillsides.
The route is generally well-marked with a red bar over a white although there have been interesting occasions when the blazon has either been part-painted out or placed on the trunk of a deciduous tree before the leaf has obscured it. On rare occasions the man with the red paint (M le Rouge) did not add his mark to that of M le Blanc but routing was not any problem with the exception of some dodgy map-reading which left us scrambling down a steep slope rather than taking the gentle descent just metres to the left.
The sky that night at the Refuge de Besines was a spectacular red and blue in a black frame and the next day's easy walk down the valley yielded another bear-print - but do they have four or five toes on each paw or different on front and back?
Day 7 moving out of Bouillouse, all four including Cecille. A bright still cool morning with no cloud but the constant clonking of Jersey type cattle after a Bergtoppers breakfast of bacon, eggs and tea followed by the auberge breakfast of bread, jam and coffee. No one reported a good night sleep due to short, lumpy or creaky beds except for he who had secured a double bed and consequently remained quiet for fear of being allocated the next most obvious discomfort, whenever that was to be.
A broad valley leads from the barriere clothed in yellow heather and low cypress at exactly the right height for scraping the knees. The area is well wooded and the walk takes us on a steady descent to Mont Louis, a fortified town still used by the army. The blazing sunshine is mixed with regret that the week is coming to an end. Long views from a forestry track beckon next year's stage and later as we approach Bolquere the tinkle of waterfalling and clonking of cows is replaced by the rasp and growl of motors.
The year-section ended with a fascinating rattle down the valley in le Petit Train Jaune to Villefranche de Conflent and an excellent dinner at the Princess, Vernet les Bains including pintade with an orange and lemon sauce - were these the mystery birds reared in the hills?
A longish drive back to Toulouse past Fitou and Courbiere and a generous presentation of Bergtoppers wine left only the planning for the festival of the Med-beach next year - will the band of walkers from years past turn up or will it be the town band that marches Arthur into the sea?
What happend in 2006 or 2005?
GR10: From Seix to Siguer
Another fantastic week trekking in the Pyrenees with friends has just been completed!
I was lucky enough to join a small group who were completing one more section of the GR10 walk
between the Atlantic (Hendaye) and the Mediterranean (Banyuls) over 8 years.
Accomplishing around 35 - 40 hours during the six days per year, we hiked in wonderful Pyrenean
mountain scenery between 600 meters - 2300 meters, enjoying staggering views, snow fields,
wild flowers strawberries, fresh mountain streams, glacial lakes and seeing wildlife including:
eagle, chamois, ptarmigan, snakes, frogs, lizards and many birds species.
The leafy beach forest and pine groves were a stark companion to the upland rocky tundra and
moors, crossed by glacial maturate cascades.
It was not all hard work, since Bergtoppers and Roelof ensured medicinally verifying cold beers
at the end of the day, and a variety of gite, refuge, hotel or auberge accommodation including
local delicious breakfast and dinner plus a very welcome and substantial packed lunch made by
Ireen.
Baggage was always at the destination accommodation so only a day back pack needed to be carried.
What more can you ask!!
GR10: From Hendaye to Banyuls
I began my journey on the GR10 trail from Hendaye on the Atlantic coast in June 2003 and I was
still walking in June 2006 trying to reach Banyuls-sur-Mer on the Mediterranean coast.
Yes, I was a very slow walker but then I had never been a healthy person or an athlete.
I was so lazy that I would drive to the corner shop to buy bread and milk instead of walking.
The first year I walked to Borce, getting lost countless times on the trail between the Basque
villages.
The following year in 2004 I walked to Fos losing both my toe nails as well as
getting lost many more times up on the high peaks.
Then last year, somewhere between Refuge
des Bésines and Refuge des Bouillouses while I was madly trying to find the GR10 waymarks in
thick snow, I injured my left knee and limped into the fortified town of Mont-Louis.
I could almost smell the sea and yet my goal remained elusive in 2005.
Well I am happy to say
that I finally reached Banyuls-sur- Mer on the 19th of June 2006!
Each year I walked 20 days
so I suppose it took me about 60 days to complete the 900 kilometre journey.
It was not a bad effort for an escargot and a complete trek dummy, don't you think?
The GR10 trail is just like life and will test you to the very end. But just like
in life the most amazing thing happens when you are least expecting it…
Do you want to read more?
The story of the week when the Bergtoppers were founded
July 2003 the Bergtoppers where founded while having dinner in a typical mountain restaurant.
We had just finished a wonderful hike week that existed of a two days hike, a restday and a three days hike.
Although the three days hike where replaced by two days and 1 day hiking.
This hiking week took place in the French Pyrenees while we were sleeping in the neighborhood of Seix.
The first day we climbed 300 meters, via the GR10, and then we rested for some hours watching the Tour the France.
After that we climbed another 200 meters and slept in an unwarded cabin.
The next day we descended via the GR10d to the river Salat where we also had lunch.
After that we climbed another 600 meter and of course this wasn't a problem for anyone……...
The next day was a resting day. The gentlemen went to Lourdes to watch the holly city.
You can see that they liked it.
Peter and Jan hand in hand (left to right).
We started the third hiking day with a transfer to the river Riberot. From there we hiked
to the refuge Estagnous via the Transfrontalier. For some of us it was a bit difficult but after
some hours we reached the refuge. Some wanted to go on to Mount Valier, but unfortunately the weather was not good enough.
With some beer the problems of this "little hike" disappeared soon.
Next day we decided te descend via the two lakes. We started to descent to the first lake
(Etang Rond) and from there we climbed to the second lake (Etang Long). The tracks are very
narrow and sometimes there are ropes to hold on to you. It was exciting…….
The view was also magnificent. We even hiked for some minutes above the rainbow!
Here is a photo of the rest of the Bergtoppers.
Jan, Roelof, Sjaak, Nico en Bruin (from left to right).
This day ended very late in the afternoon but in time for the planned BBQ.
And the planned BBQ was also a very big success! So big that we decided to change the last hiking day…..
We decided to do 2 little hikes in stead of one big one. Also very nice!
This week we ended with a nice dinner in a local restaurant. After dinner we were driven home by the hostess and her father.
During dinner we came up with the name of our organization: Bergtoppers (MountainPeaks).
If you are interested after reading this story and you also want to have a very nice
hiking week click on the next button.
11 June: Melles to Refuge de l'Etang d'Araing
"It's a beautiful day!" After a quick shower I went back to the room where Nick was still asleep. The mound under the
blanket stirred and the body emerged.
"What time is it?" He asked trying to reach for his BlackBerry. It was just after seven. Standing outside the
auberge, Nick inhaled the cocktail of fresh mountain air and nicotine smoke deeply into his lungs then discarded the
cigarette butt with a quick flick of his fingers.
"That's it! It was the last one," he picked up his backpack and walking stick. At 8.30 am we left the auberge for the
direction of refuge de l'Etang d'Araing. It was going to be one of the most strenuous days requiring a 1461 metre
climb up to 2170 metres.
"Pace yourself!" I shouted from a few steps behind Nick who was striding up along the sealed road on the shady
mountainside. "Don't walk more than 200 metres without finding another red and white GR sign!" I shouted while
falling further behind him. What a painful mother I could be! To his credit, Nick was silent and seemed to be
listening to me. He occasionally stopped and turned back to me pointing to the sign with 'his' walking stick and
continued on rambling at his pace. Soon we reached the base of the endless climb and hours of climbing followed.
"I don't mind the climb, but this is too relentless!" Nick made a surprise admission as he surveyed the area with the
map and compass.
"We can have a lunch stop at the cabane d'Uls, if you want. It's not far from here." He was taking on the leadership
- A small transformation in progress. After much struggling (by me) we finally reached the top of col d'Auréan and
looked down on the tiny outline of a cabin next to the dark étang (lake).
"Oh good, we can off-load some of the rubbish at the refuge." Nick said, trying to take in the view at the same time.
"No, you can't." I gave him the bad news. "You must carry your own rubbish with you to the town where there is a
rubbish bin."
"Hum…" Nick pondered for a little then came up with a bright idea.
"They should pay someone to carry the rubbish down. Someone will do it for the money."
"That's not a point," I said, "the point is when you make a mess, 'you' clean it" and that "not everything can be
bought with money, you know." Nick did not respond and that meant he was chewing on my comments.
After dinner we discussed about the next day's plan and I described Eylie where I had stayed a couple years back.
"There is a shop in the village called Sentien six kilometres from Eylie" I told Nick. I fancied the packet of fruits
biscuits that we ate during the day. It was delicious and a good energy source when you are on the move. But Nick had
a different fancy.
"Only six Ks?" his eyes lit up like a couple of light bulbs. Oh! Rats. I should never have mentioned the shop.
"I can easily walk 6 Ks. Sweet! I can buy a packet of cigarettes!"
What was I thinking?
12 June: Refuge de l'Etang d'Araing to Eylie-d'en-Haut
"Listen to your body," I shouted as I huffed and puffed from behind. - It was my advice of the day. Once we cleared
serre d'Araing it was a long strenuous hike downhill. The healthy colour returned to Nick's previously dull complexion
and his constant yawning was replaced by the constant sneezing and blowing of his nose. We were both suffering from an
allergic reaction to the mountain air and nature. We sneezed all the way down the mountain and reached Eylie just
after midday. Wasting no time Nick hurried on a 12 kilometre return journey to Sentien but returned without a packet
of cigarettes.
"What happened?" I asked, amused.
"I had a puff and it tasted awful, so I threw it away."
13 June: Eylie-d'en-Haut to Cabane de Bassett
As I had been on this part of GR10 once before, I was not paying much attention. I just followed Nick who followed
the red and white marks all the way up to 1900 metres. The view was magnificent with water cascading down from the
mountain peaks on the opposite side making mighty white splashes in the sunlight.
"This is so beautiful, but can't remember coming here before," I said.
"Let's check the map." I called out. But the map inside Nick's backpack pocket was moving up the mountain path and
quickly getting away from me. Nick had totally taken over the navigator's role and would not hand me over the map.
Our altimeter registered 2000 metres and it appeared certain the summit was near. But the mountain peaks still
soared above our heads and the exposed rocky ridge sizzled under our feet.
"I will pay all the money in the world to be under that waterfall!" Nick exclaimed, - his tee-shirt turning into a
salt mine. We eventually arrived at a sparking lake surrounded by yet higher mountains with large patches of snow on
its pinnacles. It was like Shangri-la, hidden in the bowl of the mountains where the sheep grazed on the carpet of
soft lime-green grass, and melting snow trailed down the side of the mountains into the lake. The red and white GR
marks on the lofty rock wall seemed to vanish into the piercing blue sky.
There was a berger's cabin by the lake and three shepherds having lunch inside.
"Where are we?" I asked the shepherds showing them the map. Thank God, the oldest one spoke fluent English! "We are
looking for GR10 trail - Is that it?" I pointed to the signs on the rock ridge.
"No, over that mountain is Spain"
"Comment?"
"Oui, Spain"
The shepherds first took us to the water's edge where the icy water springing out from the source beneath the lake and
filled up our empty water bottles then showed us the way, the three hour walk on a narrow path that contoured
'forever' along the steep ridge of the mountains, that eventually took us somewhere between abri de Berger en Pierre
and col de l'Arech. Once back on the right track, Nick powered on whilst I only just managed to stagger. We reached
cabane pastorale de l'Arech just before the thick mist covered the mountain and its prairies. The cabin was run
down but sitting by the warm growing fire that Nick made for me - I was the happiest mother in the whole world.
14 June: Cabane pastorale de l'Arech to Pla de la Lau
Once we had climbed up to Clot du Lac at 1821 metres it was all downhill, and by midday, we were at the grassy bank of
a wide and deep flowing river that cut through the mountain valley.
"Look over there!" I cried out, pointing to a mighty white splash looming across the river, "What a beautiful
waterfall! And you do not have to pay all the money in the world to stand under it…" Nick's wish was granted.
After a nice splash and drying in the sun, we put up the tent that Ireen, Madame Roelof delivered that afternoon.
Ireen also delivered whole lots of other goodies: a gas burner, pots and pans, dinner, breakfast, and picnic for the
next day - the Bergtoppers are efficient people.
Nick lay on the wooden bridge over the flowing river and watched the moving clouds in the fading light. He and the
nature began to melt into one.
"I will walk with you but don't think this trekking will change me"… his 'will' had no chance under the magic spell
of the Universe.
I awoke with the torrential rain pounding on the tent and that awful wet feeling. Tup tup tup… the drops of rain fell
onto my sleeping bag. The tent was leaking! I switched on the torch and saw Nick fast asleep cocooned in the thick
warm sleeping bag.
'It's three o'clock in the morning, for Christ's sake!' Like mother like son, I swore. But the leak was not from the
faulty tent; it was the rain dripping from the little windows near the roof! The only way to stop flooding inside was
to go out in the rain and close the windows!
Outside, in the dark hollow of the night, the storm raged. The shadows of the trees danced on the ground as the
lightning lit up the sky. Looking like a drowning rat, I quickly closed the windows and scurried back into the tent
where Nick slept peacefully.
15 June : Pla de la Lau to Refuge Estagnous
The morning came, as if the rain storm passed through the dream in my sleep. In the light of dawn, just before six
o'clock, Nick was up, dressed, and standing by the wooden bench watching the water in the pan boiling.
"Mum, do you want a cup of tea?"
Yes please, I replied rubbing my eyes - am I still dreaming?
The sky was mostly in various shades of grey, and faint blue in the North, but no rain. It was the day we would climb
Mont-Valier, the highlight of our journey.
We were getting fitter and faster, aided by the chilly mountain air and the wet rocky ground which made it hard to sit
down and rest, so we were up in the mist-veiled summit by midafternoon.
The Refuge Estagnous perched on the mountain ridge overlooking the inky blue lake below. The refuge guarde, in his
mid-thirties wearing a blindingly white chef's apron came to greet us at the entrance. He quickly went back into the
kitchen then out of the kitchen, like Jack in the Box, explained how the shower worked, showed us our dorm and made
sure we make our bed before we leave the refuge, and then told us that there would be seven people staying the night
and the dinner would be served at seven. Then he quickly went back into the kitchen again. We could see him pacing up
and down the kitchen smoking a cigarette!
Huh! - Nick looked at me victoriously. There goes my ten Euros.
After a couple of hours nap, we went to the dining room. The room was filled with delicious aromas drifting from the
kitchen and the fire crackled in the fireplace. The refuge guarde was extremely efficient, to the point of perfection.
There were middle-aged and young French couples, Nick and I sat around the table and chatted while waiting for the
seventh trekker to arrive.
Suddenly the front door flung open. With the gust of chilly wind, a shadowy figure entered the room. He arranged his
rucksack and boots neatly on the wall near the entrance and then came up to the table and sat between Nick and me;
his chiselled profile almost hidden in the half fallen hood of his khaki jacket. … Something really familiar about
this guy…
"So, tell us about your walk on GR10, Hiroko. Did you walk all the way to Banyuls?" The lady at the table asked me. I began the story of my epic journey condensed into five minutes. The mystery man popped his head out from the hood and said,
"I met you in Bidarray."
"Jean-Claude from Toulouse?" I asked, astonished.
"Oui" He replied.
"Wow! I can't believe seeing you here."
Jean-Claude began telling everyone about our first chance meeting at the Barberaena Hotel restaurant in Bidarray some
five years ago. Nick looked at me suspiciously as if I had 'pre-arranged' the meeting with Jean-Claude, but who could
blame him? It was totally bizarre! How often do you bump into a total stranger from the antipodes twice in your life
time, especially on the mist-covered mountain top, some 2300 metres above sea level?
16 June : Refuge Estagnous to Bergtoppers' cabin
Roeelof told us that it would be a quicker way to rejoin GR10 if we took a track leading from behind the refuge.
We climbed Col de Pécouch, 2462 metres, and from there my beloved Mont-Valier shimmered in the orange hue of the
rising sun. The descent was torturous and treacherous with walking on rock surface, and rock avalanches.
The walking path snaked and contoured around the lakes and mountain side.
"I don't know why we have to walk around the mountains, it would be so much faster on the straight line," said Nick
pointed to the direct path below.
"Yes, but the GR10 trail is like life," I enlighten him like the Dalai Lama, "it is not how fast you get there, but
how you get there without missing interesting things along the way."
I did not expect Nick's response. But he responded.
"Yeah, that makes the GR10 walk interesting."
17 June : The final day
"Please pick us up in Couflens at six o'clock," we asked Ireen when she dropped us off at Carriéres de d'Estours at
11.00 am. Nick was by then in top physical condition; there was no doubt in his mind that he could walk the distance
in seven hours or even less.
When we passed the cabane d'Aula, the weather turned ugly. The icy rain pelted down with the stormy wind. The wind
was so frightful that at one stage I thought it would blow me away high up in the sky like a kite.
At the rim of the emerald green étang on the grassy hill side, shielded from the wind, we decided to stop for lunch.
The sun shone briefly. Nick opened his backpack and handed me a piece of baguette, Spanish salamis and assortment of
cheeses that he had bought at the supermarket in Seix before we left for the last journey this morning. As we sat
munching away our lunch, the rain started to fall again. We did not move, just covered our heads with the hood of our
jackets and kept on eating in the pouring rain. Nick and I no longer needed to talk: we knew each other better than
at any other time in our lives. So we lingered on, and savoured the moment for a little while longer.
Down below, in the backdrop of the Pyrenees, we saw the black and white border collies sprinting up the sweeping green
hill rounding up the sheep in the sunshine…
Hiroko Clarke
Sydney Australia, 2007
15 June 2006 Chalet des Cortalets to Mines de Batére
I returned to Chalet des Cortalets at mid-day after conquering the full 2784 metres of mystic
Canigou and only sweet Marie was left to greet me. The French hikers had gone back to their
home town near Paris and I had no idea which way René and Christa had gone. I assumed the
young couple were heading home to Switzerland.
All these people are hikers that I had met
along the way and shared the fabulous dinner table on the previous evening.
I packed my picnic
lunch that the Chalet prepared for me and farewelled Marie, a young girl from Quebec City who
was getting a lift to Perpignan. It was just after 1-pm, a little late start for a four and
half hour journey to Mines de Batére, but the track out of the Chalet was a wide unsealed road
accessible to normal vehicles and it was mostly down hill; I did not anticipate any difficulties
other than my usual snail's pace. So I prodded on.
I saw no one since I left the Chalet, not a single car passed on the dry gravel road that wound
along the mountain side. It began to bug me. I stopped and had a pee at the side of the road
deliberately. It's the trick I play in the Pyrenees when I want to see another human being
- which normally works! As soon as I squat down, someone pops out from nowhere… But not today
, not even a field mouse came out. It seemed all France went into afternoon hibernation.
The fatigue set in and I was making a very slow progress. Sprinting up and down Canigou in the
morning began to take its toll on my body. Two hours into my supposedly 4.5 hour journey,
I was at Ras del Prat-Cabrera eating lunch and I still had 10 kilometres to Mines de Batére
with one mountain pass to climb.
The GR trail abandoned the gravel road and veered off onto a beaten track and from there it
was once again me, the simmering sun, skies, thickets of wild brambles, whispering trees of
the forest and, of course, more mountains. There was a large, round, grassy clearing in the
middle of the deep forest. The filtered sunbeams flickered down onto the ground that was
partly covered in the brown fallen leaves. I saw a shaggy white dog in the distance.
'Swish-swash' 'Swish-swash' the leaves on the ground rustled under my feet. The dog's head
quickly turned towards my direction and it immediately ran towards me. The yapping echoed
among the trees. I saw a man somewhere between 45 and 50 years of age, standing at the edge
of clearing under the canopy of thick green foliage. He commanded his dog to halt.
The dog obeyed and wagged its tail.
"Don't worry, she is gentle" he assured me.
The man was lean and rugged like Canigou. A Chestnut coloured horse and a snow white horse
on the long leash trod on the grassy ground. The sunbeams fell on their manes like the falling
star dust. And the star dust swirled in the soft breeze. The man and his dog, horses, the
whispering leaves and heavenly tranquillity of the deep forest; all these things made up one
life. It's the spirit of being that replenishes my soul in the mountains…
It is like air to my
lungs.
I walked for a further three hours; down the gullies and the mountain ridges, cursing
many ups and downs that the guide book did not mention. I scrambled up to the top of col de
la Cirére where I finally saw the signpost pointing to Batére. As I made a descent over the
green undulating meadow among the sheep and cows dodging their huge wet dungs, I saw a run
down gîte d'etape on the wayside. It was in total ruin with no roof...
My heart sank.
I would love to have a nice shower and change of clothes! -was my simple wish.
Down the path into the entrance to the village I saw another derelict house that displayed
the gîte sign. The house was desolate and appeared abandoned. My heart sank for the second
time. The air temperature dropped and the sky was fading to milky grey. The dusk sets in
rapidly in the shadow of the mountains. Another gîte with a brand new Peugeot parked outside
but the house was locked-up and "Interdit" signs posted everywhere. Yet again there was no
sign of human habitat.
I began to think Batére is a ghost town, no people, no shops and no
gîte! What am I going to do? Where should I sleep tonight?
My watch said just after 7-pm.
I walked on the sealed road winding down the hill valley for another 500 metres and when
I turned around the final hairpin, I saw a restaurant.
'Bet it is closed, too' I did not get
fooled this time. But then I saw a dark slim figure quickly moving towards me. It was René
smiling from ear to ear; raising up his arms open wide ready to greet me…
he was on the road
waiting for me! I had no idea René and Christa would be here. They just popped out from the
genie's bottle.
"So did you climb Canigou?" René was dying to know.
"Oui! bien sûr!" I was so proud of my own achievement.
"I will show you the photos that I took on the summit of Canigou"
"Well done! Thought you could do it!"
René had those magnetic smiling eyes that hide wisdom
of the mountains. But of course he can not hide them too long. Look how quickly he captured
people's hearts and gain the trust of the wise old French hikers. The refuge was under a
serious renovation, bits and pieces of wood and building materials scattered all over the
place. The kitchen and bar were chaotic with large packing boxes, some unopened and some half
open. Annie, madam of the refuge, told us that she bought the refuge a month ago.
It had a very bad reputation; many people by-passed Batére - She explains puffing the
cigarette. I had a nice shower, changed into clean warm clothes - yes, my wish has been
granted - and strolled out to the yard where Marco (the workman who had been helping Annie
with the renovation) was barbecuing vegetables.
Mushrooms, capsicums, aubergines and
courgettes sizzled on the hot plate over the naked flame whilst René, Annie and Christa made
a large make-shift table out of off cuts of timbers. The mixed barbecue vegetables, fresh
garlic paste, crusty bread, a large bowl of salad and a cask red wine (in France?) on the
table, and then Marco and his builder friend carried the red hot sheet of slate straight from
the fire and placed it in the middle of the make shift table where we all sat around.
Thin slices of duck and pork (like bacons) sizzled and spat fat on the 'Hot Rock BBQ'.
René was enjoying the great atmosphere and meal. Christa and I were totally lost in glory
- not a word came out of our mouth that was overfilled with delicious food. Who needs words
when you know what others are thinking? Annie still puffed her cigarette like the caterpillar
in Alice in Wonderland and the builders drank beer and began eating duck without cooking on the
hot plate. It was a carefree family dinner that I would always remember for the rest of my
life.
The lightning flashed in the distance and we talked about tomorrow's weather.
Eating and chatting continued well into the night until we could no longer stand upright.
"Why the Pyrenees?" "Why do you walk the Pyrenees, Hiroko?"
How many people had asked me this question?
Now you have the answers. It is the people, friendship, and it is the love for the mountains
that we kindred spirits share. The most amazing thing happens when you are least expecting it.
It happened at the night in Batére, the graveyard of gîtes.
Hiroko Clarke 2006
PYR'O'KNEES YEAR II - 2006
WEDNESDAY DI
Seix up valley - short walk - stay in Capercaillie pub - Dutch couple
THURSDAY DII
Same pub
Long walk from Moulin Lauga (electricity house) to Couflens Up 1300 meters and dwon 1300 meters. Telephone for Roelof for an early puckup but no answer
FRIDAY DIII
Large old school house (gite in Bidous) - bbq by Roelof & Irene - storm
SATURDAY DIV
Aulus les Bains - big beer lunch - hotel with creaky corridors - notice in room 'In view of the nefarious activities in the room each will be inspected before checkout'
SUNDAY DV
Mounicou - misty, lost voice - Eng/Equ the pub without beer
Hotel Hivert in Vicdessos where you forgot your sweater, the dutch lost their match and I spoiled some red wine.
MONDAY DVI
Steep ascent modern Heineken pub - sunken garden
TUESDAY DVII
Tarascon sur Ariege - caves Niaux - French win semi and hornblast town - scenic thunderstorm - the gulping lavatory.
PYR'O'KNEES YEAR I - 2005
DI WEDNESDAY
Bagniers de Luchon to Artigues - met Roelof at station who had been on same train and wondered who had prayed we were not his clients - 3 hours uphill 'Gites au Mouches' excellent dinner with proprietors
DII THURSDAY
Long uphill to meet same shepherds 2k ft up trimming sheeps nails - missed opportunity to clip Victor's troublesome big toenail. Lunch beside lake and long downhill after crossing snowline to Fos.
DIII FRIDAY
To Dihiloux Refuges beside fantastic lake - Victoe's snores dominate.
The owner came after that we were arrived with beer on his dunkey.
DIV SATURDAY
Homeoplasmine on Victoes' toe - gite beside stream, dinner on terrace under plastic.
DV SUNDAY
Walk up through woods then panic to reach pub by closing time - the lost hours
DVI MONDAY
Lost in wood, smart hotel, Arthur slep elsewhere
DVII TUESDAY
Arthur, Simon and Roelof long walk; Victor, Andrew circular shortie from/to Seix
