"Writing and travel broaden your ass if not your mind and I like to write standing up."
Ernest Hemingway
Ernest Hemingway
The lengths Eñaut would go to for a pint!
The bus didn't leave for another 10 minutes. There was only me on it. I thought about this climbing walk coming to an end. I thought about how many beautiful images I had stored up in my head, and how much use I could make of them when I got back to the sometimes grey, sometimes rainy Manchester.
Being on a bus felt strange, it was going to take me to Benasque where I assumed the modern European transport system would whisk me off to Lourdes, plane and England so quickly that I would suffer the cultural equivalent of the bends.
I felt for the perplexing pouches under my eyes, that had formed overnight, they had gone. I learnt later that it was caused by the rapid descent yesterday (Thanks Hazel). The bus moved off and I enjoyed the view out of the window. As we wound round the bumpy mountain-hugging road the man behind the wheel told me that I might want to get off at the junction ahead as he was going to Benasque d'Hospitelet first (a border point near France). I looked at my map and saw that where he dropped me was still on the GR11 and I could follow that into Benasque.
The path wove through roads and camp-sites, forests and reservoirs, bridges and meadows. I stopped by a river and lit my stove for a last 'wild' cup of tea, burning up the last of my alcohol, having a last moment of quiet before reaching the town. Beautiful blue wild flowers welcomed me into Benasque. The girls in the tourist office were very helpful but the bus timetable suggested travelling to Lleida, to pick up a coach to Toulouse and it was all going to take days! They suggested the agencia viaje (travel agent) where I was able to charge my phone in the back of a computer, but the agent had no suggestions for getting to France that didn't involve going to Barcelona first, he pointed to the tourist office. Back there I explored the option of walking into France, a phone call was made to the manageress' friend; some hours between points were relayed; it was settled, I'd get back on the bus I'd got off that morning and go to Hospitalet de Benasque and walk over to Abri de la Hospice de France. Those of you whose IQ is greater than their shoe size might be wandering why I didn't figure that out for myself! Well I did, but wild horses weren't going to stop me coming in to Benasque for a jamon y queso bocadillo, beer, fresh fruit and coffee! Not to mention recharging my phone. A Frenchman on the mountain had told me I could get a bus from here! And I certainly would have. The decision to walk wasn't a disappointment, though it might have been 2 weeks earlier.
Back on top just before the French border.
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| One foot in France |
Walking up to the border at Portillon de Benasque I met a farmer taking his cows down, he pointed the way out to me with his gnarled stick. His dogs meandered about sniffing things including the cows who phlegmatically lumbered down the well worn path like grannies. The way was marked clearly but the HRP bore off near here and I liked talking to strangers.
Before I met Hurve (ooervay) who took the picture of me with one foot in France, I'd managed to scramble up Pic de Sauvegarde (2738m) 'because it was there'.
Hurve was a mountain runner, as slim as a biscuit, something over six foot and neatly turned out. I followed him up to the col a touch worried, not knowing how steep the gradient would be, that I may have to chalk up my fingers and do a little crevice work.
Luckily there was no verticals and we arrived at Refuge de Venasque after negotiating a path we shared with a flock of homesick sheep. After all the peering down chasms I'd done I didn't want to suffer the ignominy of being head-butted into a tarn by a hormonal French ewe!
The Refuge was very inviting and I stopped there just to have a coffee with Hurve. It had been such a long day: waking up with swollen eyes; a bumpy bus ride; a calm walk into town; the joy of food and celebration of beer, another bus ride, more climbing, saying hello to France and rain; goodbye to sunshine and Spain.
After leaving the refuge I descended into thicker cloud and the rain increased. It didn't alter my mood though, it was just the weather.
Down an uncertain path, back and forth across a river, sheep bleating, their bells' dissonance, fatigue creeping through me, it couldn't be much further, could it?
It was, and though tired when I reached the Hospice de France, I looked through its windows and saw few people spread around a formica based canteen, no log fire, no clashing of froth topped flagons, no serving wenches, no, it was only 5 miles to Bagnere I'd carry on.
Walking along that road was not the same glorious experience that mountains offer and my feet soon alchemied into lead, my rucksack now wet was and felt heavier and my hat was now so sodden that it allowed through the odd drop of rain to cool my neck.
Eventually not far from Bagnere I came to a car park at the back of which was a Gite of some description.
I walked in through the open door from the dark and called out "allo". I nearly said it twice but presumed the joke wouldn't travel and I didn't feel very funny. A woman's voice was talking into a telephone in the first room and so I pushed the door open softly. The lady had finished on the phone and looked at the big, dark, wet, hatted stranger as he struggled through his fatigue to remember what language to speak in. "Bonsoir" I offered and then: "do you ave a rrroom for tonight". Of course she didn't, it was home to any amount of children on summer camp, so while she hunted for the panic button I made myself scare, chuckling to myself on my way back to the humourless highway, into the spray of tankers and the insecurity of an unbooked hotel room.
Another mile and I came to a camp site. The office was shut so I picked a spot and pitched my tent. Made a sandwich, drank water and lay down listening to the sound of happy teenagers until very quickly the sandman cometh...
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