Day Three

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The next morning the sun sprang out from behind some distant ridge and, with the unheard cock crowing in another valley, dispelled all demons that might unsettle a lesser man.  Up and decamped I waved farewell to the silent reservoir and nodded to the empty cows.
Leaving La Bollosa and heading north west along a valley floor I had a pretty easy time of it and could have called it a rest day but for the  climb around the corner by the lake to drop onto Estany de Lanos, (Estany is Catalan for lake). Portella de la Grava the col was 2426 metres! The long lake along the valley floor with the free cabana nestled under the high ground by its north eastern edge was a sight to feast the eyes and dim the memories aching knees fought to reinforce.
It was too early in the day to think about settling down so, rested and watered, I headed along its southbank ending up through a confusion of signs running down the GR7 to Porte Puymorens.
Wait a minute, rewind..., the lake which twinkled with a thousand diamonds as a hot afternoon sun washed its persistent rays across its sapphire flanks, Scree falls looked like they were purposefully diving for her cool, fresh depths.  The hills that backed her to the north still bore the scars of mining days while dotted about her skirts little gems of tents mocked camouflage like un-sucked boiled sweets in prime reds, yellows and blues.  I stopped by a merry stream rushing to join the cool mother blue and filled my bottles, and filled my mouth, and throat and stomach with such fresh water it seemed to brighten my sight. My whole body and soul seemed to be joining the landscape, melting back into its simple ways.