This post relates to the end of the first section of the walk as I complete the section through the Basque Country.
- and the walk continues. I remain a solitary figure in a huge landscape.
I make a successful descent from the Pic d'Orhy as the weather deteriorates. I cross the Port de Larrau and via the Pic de Gastarrigagna at 1732m eventually reach the unstaffed Cabane Ardane.
This is effectively guarded by a couple of brutish shepherd's dogs, howling, and snapping at my ankles.
The shepherd is nowhere to be seen, and, tired after the adventures of the day, I ignore the standard wisdom of giving them a wide berth, as I swing a walking pole at them, and lob a couple of useful stones at them as they retreat.
I share the Cabane with a couple of clean cut French boys. They tell me a tale of the sky that afternoon. How it was full, thick with vultures. That a sickly sheep had become bones within the space of 20 minutes. Our collective mind naturally explores the likelihood of this happening to us, and I sense us scanning the sky with a certain nervousness.
And they worry about the mice scurrying around the hut too, and, in the morning, inform me that they 'didn't sleep a wink' on account of the scuttling of midnight feasts.
I've had an excellent night, undeterred by anything as harmless as mice, preferring to save my nerves for more important stuff, like exposure above glacial lakes on steep sided snow, or pulling up on precipitous holds as the darkness gathers, or even falling and twisting an ankle, and having nothing but walking poles to fend off a skyful of vultures.
I avoid the dogs in the morning by a simple ruse, and continue circumnavigating around the huge hills of Chardekagagna and the Pic de Bimbalette.
And then, almost without warning, I'm in a weird and wired landscape I'm in a pass between the Col de Uthu and the Col de Anaye. It's the wildest place I've ever been. Neither the sketchy Spanish mapping or Ton Joosten's guide have prepared me for this beautiful lunar terrain. Limestone sculptures jut from snow fields and ancient pines rise toward a hard blue sky. And the entire scene is surrounding by punchy peaks.
The day is winding on, I've had a couple of navigational setbacks, and have failed to find water recently. There has been a fiercesome thundery heat throughout the day and my stalwart 2 litre water bottle is as empty as a broken promise.
I become benighted here, in this larger than life landscape, and the soft rain that had previously and delicately washed the beach leaves in the lower parts of the valley becomes heavy, sharp sided and cold.
I have the night trapped in my ridiculously small tent amidst a fierce electrical storm. I dub the tent 'The Coffin', and feel as squeezed as a genie in a coke can. It feels as though there's an earthquake in the sky, and the rocks are seemingly fizzing with the energy of the lightning. It's hard to describe the terrible sense of entrapment in the coffin. Certainly it feels bad enough to consider exiting the tent to the preferance of the storm as the fearful weather seems easier to deal with than the claustrophobia.
I grit it out, and realise that the hail and steep sided rain is maybe a godsend, and assemble my billy and drinking cup outside to collect enough water to drink in the morning, although the constrictions of the space and the necessary unzipping of the tent soak the sleeping bag.
Naturally, or perhaps luckily, I survive the night, but these extremes of weather make me feel small, vulnerable, alive only via the benign good humour of the gods.
But now it's as if they're pleased to have a chance to demonstrate their good will, and the gods arrange for the day to dawn like a child's smile after a tantrum.
Its wonderfully clear, and there's an energy in the air as there is near a waterfall. I make tea, break camp, head off with renewed energy to Lescon. At one point, following an extremely sketchy trail of cairns I encounter one made of chocolate bars. Yes. A chocolate cairn. A cairn is a waymarker, usually constructed from a small piles of stones. I wonder if I'm hallucinating. I eventually suppose that some party must have left it for part of their party that has lagged behind. Maybe. Or maybe it's the benign gods, looking out for me. I dither, and then assume that this is probably the case, and help myself to a Peanut Brittle.
After a seemingly interminable stretch on snowfields, and a little slip on some sneakily slippy and steep snow I make it down to fresh water. Its the source of a river, the Marmitou. The sound of the water is exquisite. The taste exotic. I drink about five litres of the stuff straight, wondering how I've never appreciated it so roundly before and why I've ever bothered to drink beer.
I saunter down to Lescon, and safety, and check into a Gite d'etape, a bunk house with food. There's singing, food and company, and the fact that we don't have a lot of language in common is a minor detail, after this taste of solitude and frisson of danger.
Its wonderfully clear, and there's an energy in the air as there is near a waterfall. I make tea, break camp, head off with renewed energy to Lescon. At one point, following an extremely sketchy trail of cairns I encounter one made of chocolate bars. Yes. A chocolate cairn. A cairn is a waymarker, usually constructed from a small piles of stones. I wonder if I'm hallucinating. I eventually suppose that some party must have left it for part of their party that has lagged behind. Maybe. Or maybe it's the benign gods, looking out for me. I dither, and then assume that this is probably the case, and help myself to a Peanut Brittle.
After a seemingly interminable stretch on snowfields, and a little slip on some sneakily slippy and steep snow I make it down to fresh water. Its the source of a river, the Marmitou. The sound of the water is exquisite. The taste exotic. I drink about five litres of the stuff straight, wondering how I've never appreciated it so roundly before and why I've ever bothered to drink beer.
I saunter down to Lescon, and safety, and check into a Gite d'etape, a bunk house with food. There's singing, food and company, and the fact that we don't have a lot of language in common is a minor detail, after this taste of solitude and frisson of danger.
