Pyrenees

I awoke as the first grey light of dawn pushed through the thick clouds that still filled the valley.  Rain pattered discouragingly against the fly so I dozed, dreaming of sun filled days and hazy, distant mountains.  Confronting reality, most pressingly the reality that a swollen bladder cannot be contained indefinitely, I hauled myself out into the drizzle.

As I emerged, a bemused looking day walker surveyed our tent from the path across the stream.  He seemed slightly vexed and appeared to be wondering where we’d come from.  To have reached our camp already, he must have set off from Venasque at first light.  Generally, such an early start would have guaranteed that he had the hills to himself.

He appeared uncomfortable with the idea that we might have swindled him by spending the night there, beating him to this remote spot and stealing the solitude.  By carrying all our kit from the other side of the range, we had unashamedly cheated him of his early-riser’s right to be the first on the hill.

“Deal with it,” I chuckled silently, filling a pan and putting the stove on, making sure that the tea bags were in plain sight.  “I’m not just up the hill before you, I’m going to have a hot cup of tea too, right here in the Scotch mist.”

I tipped out last night’s dregs and dropped the tea bags into our mugs, whilst continuing my silent musings.  “We earned all this,” I reflected serenely, “yesterday evening battling the elements, while you sank comfortably into your sofa.”  I turned slowly, surveying the majestically remote setting in which I would savour my morning tea.  Yes, I had earned this.

“Ça va?” I smiled at him, raising a hand, but receiving no response.  “Buenos días! Good morning!” I tried, rapidly running out of languages.  He looked towards the sky, and then turned back to the trail, disappearing into the mist.  Had I completely ruined his day?

The drizzle eased off and we broke camp.  Initially, the path continued to pick its way across tiny streams, through a now familiar ‘pitch and putt’ landscape interspersed with broad crags.  But within an hour, the trail fed into a broad, flat valley with a single, wide, meandering river.  By now, the sun was making a laudable effort to break through the clouds, and the day was noticeably brighter, even though the sky remained grey.

We were now within easy reach of the road.  Beyond the river, a swarm of day walkers, in small groups scattered across the valley floor, were tucking into their lunch.  Others dithered on the edge of the river, watching us as we approached.  They seemed to be wondering how to cross the swollen torrent to explore the hidden lands from which we’d appeared.  We picked a crossing point and jumped confidently from rock to rock making it look easy, daring others to try.

But as we strutted cockily away, our bravado was abruptly deflated.  The path wound past a never ending succession of open picnic bags.  Large, freshly baked baguettes crammed to bursting point with delicious fillings (tomatoes, bacon, cheese, tuna, dressings, ham, lettuce…), fresh fruit, biscuits, cakes, chocolate bars, pasties, juice, soda…

We salivated our way past the provocatively displayed lunches to the head of a thundering waterfall, where we could not hear the sound of well fed day walkers chirping contentedly.  There we settled down with a handful of broken crackers and a tin of sardines.

But, as we picked spilt crumbs from the grass around us, the sun finally broke through the clouds and patches of blue sky opened up ahead.  The waterfall gleamed and the meadows took on that bright, fleshly washed appearance.  Our packs seemed lighter as we moved on, striding through a cacophony of cow bells towards the road-head at Port de Venasque.

An hour later, the trail terminated abruptly in a packed and dirty car park.  Seen through eyes accustomed to wilderness trails, its ugliness was stark.  But the popularity of this spot was to our advantage: the car park boasted a café.

It was just a timber shack on the edge of the car park but to us it had all the grandeur of the Coliseum or Taj Mahal.  We gazed entranced at the menu board.  Fresh food!  As much as we could eat, or at least as much as we could afford.  And such choice!  We ordered a monumental bacon baguette each.  “Pan con tomato?” we were asked.  “Si,” I replied, “Con queso?”, “Si, si!” I sucked my drooling lips.  “With anything and everything,” is what I would have said if I had known how.