Eñaut gone - refugio de Vallfererra - Augusti

http://www.justgiving.com/gesarmor4peakspyrenees

http://www.justgiving.com/gesarmor4peakspyrenees

I was reminded of the old sayings about Siberia, though my age has knocked the corners off that memory (there's always someone who remembers it exactly! A right brainer, as the newspeak has it), anyway "In Siberia ten degrees is not a frost; a thousand miles is no distance:...er I can't remember the rest, but you get the picture.  Perception adapts to the new topography and...oh yes "...a double vodka is no drink".  I had to be more careful! Stuck in the rain out on the mountain, I was like this as a child, notably coming out of a Tarzan matinee, and later Superman, easily tricked into an optimism inappropriate to reality let's just say.

You can see from this little clip that I was fine on arrival at the cabana,  Eñaut betrayed a soupçon of concern when I emerged out of the clear gloom, (yes even the gloom is clear in the mountains!) he introduced me to Gemma and Carla (with the soup), Tom the Paddy with an Oxford accent and Ian the dour Scot whose dour had faded and been replaced with Pyrenean verve. They busied themselves around their bunks, while I stood soaking up the ambiance of this wheel-less gypsy caravan perched on a muñon (little hill and Eñaut's surname),high in the Pyrenees.  Held to the ground, ready to resist the worst, by steel guy-ropes an inch thick.   I made a chorizo sandwich and offered it around but all were mellowed after there various repasts.  I had walked up three Snowdons today and down one, down in the warm summer rain over rocks, shale and boulders like massive chunks of buffed up fudge, razor edged and sullen.  Another peak was in the bag, Eñaut's wine peed out of his leather 'bota' bag straight down my throat and brought dreams I never remembered of nameless people in no places.  Simple, sleep.

The morning sun lifted itself languidly over the southern peaks,  We were the first out, washed in the stream and away down the path sketched out by the ubiquitous red and white marker.  Marmotas were sending there high pitched calls out to meet their own echoes while the sound of cow bells muffled by the pines tumbled up the valley. We said  goodbye: he thanked me for my moral support and I apologised for holding him back.

On my way down to this river, where I filled my bottle I asked some soap smelling, clean shaven, day trekkers if they'd seen him "40 minutes away" buiding up a fine head of steam!  He'd told me that he was thinking of giving up, going home and restarting after dental work.   Maybe having me around while he talked himself through it all, gave him the answer he wanted: The empty chair?  This from an e-mail he sent me yesterday: "The day I left you, I completed the 43 km to Estaon, where I had the greatest and the best dinner of my life !" 

I knew that feeling all right.  I sat on a rock by the fork in the path where I'd gone north and he'd bounded west,  I was close to Pic d'Estats, well, about five kilometres,  five hours away from the peak.  I sat on the rock with the sun on my face thinking about how enriching the last few days had been.  A herd of cows jangled into earshot, behind me I heard them moving like a beast with forty-eight legs, I stayed still and didn't look at them, looking is a challenge, and sure enough they brushed past me like I wasn't there, one cow pushed her nose onto my bag (chocolate?) but they seemed to be following some pattern of behaviour and they didn't see me as a threat. How could they!

Refugio de Vallferrera

There were a few people milling around in and around the refugio.  A strange mixture of tired people re-fuelling silently, and younger spirited sorts wanting answers to every thing: How much is this? What time does...?  Where's a bin? oops never ask that,  "You brought the rubbish, you take it away!" was always the harsh rejoinder to seemingly harmless inquisition.
Augusti, an engaging Catalan shepherd, was the guardian of this refuge.  He wore a mullet with the aplomb of a German rock-star. One minute he was in the refugio next minute out of it, but wherever he was not far away was a little sheep dog that was so bonded to Augusti, and so oblivious of other human beings that I wondered at the method of puppy training used: welding needs heat!