The fearlessness and dexterity of 5 year olds on mountainsides should be an encouragement and to the well balanced individual it probably is, however when you're climbing them to balance yourself, the sight of a girl the same age as your underwear leaping about the crags like a ibex on laughing gas can unnerve you considerably.
Obviously I was disappointed for the young thing when her mother took someone's advice not to attempt the final 100 or so metres.
So slow was my progress that by the time I staggered up to the crater lake in the picture above, she was probably at home reading Don Quixote in bed. My own windmill took the shape of a rucksack whose weight seemed to be increasing exponentially with its distance from the earth. Whatever that last sentence means a change of plan needed to impose itself on the chaos of my unbridled operandi.
I hid my pack behind a dry-stone windbreak. Clutching a dry-bag with some chorizo, dry bread and water I edged up through the undisciplined rock towards the summit. The afternoon winds picked up and I tried not to look like the opposite of a white man might at a Klu Klux Klan meeting. (OK, but tread carefully-ed)
The view at the top suspended my apprehensions and I enjoyed my few vittals before having my photo taken with the Catalan flag marking 'ownership' of the rock.
Soy Catalan. |
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