Gite d'etape @ Hospitalet pres-l'Andorre

http://www.justgiving.com/gesarmor4peakspyrenees

So I left lakes, mountains, clouds, fresh air, marmotas, trout and wild garlic aside for a day at the behest of my back, whose chant, at first inaudible, grew steadily to such a pitch that I could barely hear the butterfly's wing tips flapping together, or dew forming, or mushrooms growing: "This rucksack is too heavy!" Mellifluous it wasn't but to the point, and my back deserved no less attention than any other part of me. I would go to Pas de la Casa and send some stuff home.

My trail ended at a road: a broad swathe of tarmacadam painted into the hillside before me, on it all sorts of crazy vehicles groaned up and down.  Ducking left under a hedgerow I sought a quieter way into the village Porte Puymorens. There, as everywhere in France, the official language is French, but with the Andorran border a couple of miles one way and the Spanish one a couple of miles the other ( including a Spanish enclave around Llivia!), the doors squeaked in Catalan the dogs barked in Catalan and the pression poured in Catalan.  Oh whatever revelation awaited me at the top of mountains- and there were a few! There was always 1664 or Estrella or other demi-god at the bottom of them.  Mine stood before me on an iron table outside a characterful a French bar as you could wish for.

http://www.gitelhospitalite.com/
After a requisite amount of misinformation from a variety of self interested sources led me back to the barman as a possible locum travel agent, I discovered, quite to my surprise, that there was a railway station some 250 metres down the road and the next train to Hospitalet was in 30 minutes!
I blinked coming into the station and missed seeing the town centre.  After alighting from the train with eyes wide open I nearly missed it again, not that I had great expectations, but the pressure of patterns tilted me towards the wrong assumptions! I soon found the Gite which was run by a lovely lady called Liliane and her husband Christian Loustau.
I met an affable veterinarian from Warrington there with his sweet girlfriend, a teacher from Chester.
"We're going to eat at the only restaurant open at the big hotel at the end of the road" they told me. Well, I planned to join them there, but by the time I'd ditched my sack and clothes by my bed, found my folding, and had run my fingers through my hair, the beastly restaurant manager announced in a fluster that there was to be no more service that night (at least that is what I thought he'd said!).  This poor lonely 52 year old man stood for a moment trying to distinguish among the clientèle his animal lover (and the vet), hoping they would see him and wave him through the barrier of a business model that didn't hold any reverence for profit.
They may have been there or not I couldn't remember what they looked like, I turned, trying not to let on to my stomach that nothing enriching was coming, and sloped out of the hotel.
Back at the Gite I walked into a kitchen and there they were, also unworthy of a place at the last supper.  We enjoyed sharing plates of pasta with goblets of red wine and swapping stories about the trail.  I retired relishing the good company and attempted to sort out the excess gear that was going home soon.. Mr sandman's slick professionalism overtook me, however, and I awoke to a new and beautiful day.