Pyrenean Assault: Spain

An early start

"Half past five?"

"Half Past bloody Five! You cannot be serious!" spluttered Binder as Jungle was setting the alarm on her phone.

"Tomorrow's an easy day, but you heard what the Spaniards said in the Refuge over our meal - more thunder and lightning due tonight and tomorrow afternoon, with torrential rain, so we need to get off early"

"We could always have a day off? Perhaps let it pass and then carry on. After all said and done, they do have beers here. And Wine. And Good Food as well..." but Binder knew it was hopeless. Jungle had the bit between her teeth and tomorrow promised a supposedly easy high level section with sumptuous views and the expectation of treading Spanish soil.

Quite how the team found themselves on a road at the bottom of the valley, thumbing a lift, miles from Candanchu as the storm broke with incredible ferocity mid afternoon, puzzled Jungle. They had indeed set off at some ungodly hour of the European morning and had strolled on a beautiful grassy track with wonderful views to right and left. Jungle had recorded every single plant and snippet of wildlife that cared to wave a frond, petal or proboscis at her lens.

Spain creeping up on Jungle

"I think that perhaps we should have turned right, back at the top of the pass?" suggested Binder. "It's these maps. They don't show all the paths. In fact they don't show many of the paths at all and it's all in bloody French. That's just typical of the French. Me, me, me, me ME! And how come the paint splashes brought us here then?"

We had been following another GR Route - either 10 or 11, it matters not which one, for the Haute Route apparently doesn't have splashes all the time... "Now she tells me!"

Anyway, lunch had been fabulous with an airy perch for bread, cheeses & saucissons all washed down with more of those French Pasties.

The Spanish couple spoke absolutely no English at all as we sat, soaking their car's upholstery with gallons of Pyrenean rain. They appeared very concerned when we pointed at the small skiing village on the map over the border. "Candanchu?" they repeated several times, each time with more "are you absolutely, bloody well sure you want to go to that Godforsakenhellholeofaplace" intonation.

We did. And so they bravely took us up the long windy torrent that pretended to be a road, through the Pyrenean maelstrom, to deposit us at the Godforsakenhellholeofaplace called Candanchu. The place was straight out of a Spaghetti Western. A steaming deserted single street, with boarded and shuttered hotels. All the shops were shut. There was not a single dog to be seen. The only thing missing from the place was the tumbleweed.

As they drove off, horse's burial consumed us totally. Welcome to Spain.

Pyrenean Assault: Day 1

Another round of Pastis was ordered as the lightning crackled overhead and raindrops the size of old pennies splashed down onto the little mountain village. The perfume of wet, heavy woodland and red Pyrenean mud swirled about the cafe table as the team once more squeezed baguettes, cheeses, saucissons and pastis into already overloaded rucksacks.

Jungle assured Binder that it was but a stroll to the team's objective that day - the Refuge D'Arlet and waved about a map with a confident air of authority. Binder relented and slid once more into another glass of the good stuff as the monsoon struck relentlessly over the mountains above them. And so at past mid-day, the team set off for the short stroll into the teeth of the storm.

A local was sought out within a few minutes of setting out, who had never heard of the Haute Route, the Pyrenees or any Refuge hereabouts. But luck stayed with the team and before too long a second breakfast was being taken to dry out Binder's waterproof plimsolls after their unexpected dunking in the Torrent. This was the life; shirts socks and shorts, steaming in the sunshine tucking into bread and cheese. For the first time that day the team were confident of their location.

Also for the first time that day, Binder casually sneaked a peek at Jungle's map and a chill horror gripped his vitals: This short stroll included 1,500m of ascent and lots of wiggly switchback paths climbing up into the upper stratosphere. The temperature was definitely at the upper end of his boiling point thermometer and there were cows.

These were not your common or garden ordinary cows. Not the happy-clappy cows of Englandshire. These beasts had long, blood-spattered, pointy horns and a look in their eye that terrified those that held their gaze. They were the hoodies of the breed, swaggering menacingly across the path to the upper pastures.

There was the Mountain Dog, guarding the unseen silent inhabitant of the hut high on the hillside with the gargantuan loose pig. There was the loose red mud of the region that caked and covered every conceivable inch of your legs, shorts, rucksack, arse and elbow.

Binder was a picture of misery as Jungle trotted further and further up into the death zone, a tiny little figure on the horizon as he wallowed in her wake as the sun slid down below the mountain tops.

Binder recalled all those promises of merry sing-songs and jugs of wine and flagons of beers, tasty soups and nourishing sustaining stews in the mountain huts, as Jungle melted from view, seemingly permanently, amongst the rock pinnacles and grassy transhumance pastures of the High Pyrenees. Where had his youthful vigour and effortless stride disappeared to? He was alone, stranded and exhausted. Abandoned by his Navigator. All hope was lost. He slumped amongst the meadow flowers. Was this all a bad dream? Had this all been a cruel hoax to tempt the unfortunate Binder on this madcap expedition?

He awoke from his sorry plight at the sound of a loud hiss in his right ear.

It was Jungle! And she was opening two cans of ice cold lager next to his head and rolling their sumptuous cooling bodies over his fevered brow.

Camp 1: Evening

Just over the top of the grassy hillock was the refuge and plates of steaming nourishing food. Cold beers were being poured, ready for his arrival. Camp One had been reached!

Toulousean Lassitude

It's stressful stuff; travelling. A rest day was ordered and taken in Toulouse, to recuperate from the rigours of the journey and the terrible heat lassitude brought on by travelling hundreds of miles south to the warmer climes. Toulousean Lassitude can be a terrible thing and can only be cured by the administration of pastry-crusted pie products from the far south western arm of our great country - Cornish Pasties.

Jungle's command of French was called into question by Binder at this point, when two large glasses of Pernod were produced by the attentive waiters. However, Binder admitted shamefacedly that the cure was indeed efficacious and so more were ordered at frequent intervals to stave off the lassitude. The team passed a very happy day in Toulouse.

Toulousean Pasties

The equipment for the expedition was tried and tested, having just been recalled from its foray north of the English Border on the TGO Challenge. The expedition members had accompanied the equipment and were supposedly fit as fleas...

That was some supposition as you will see from the next instalment.

Regime Change

There is a new regime in force at Mission Control: Up early for a bike ride or a walk or run around the Hemingford Round. I would not necessarily describe it as ghastly but at the moment let's just call it "interesting".

This regime change has been on the cards for a little while now and so Preparations Had To Be Made.

You just can't slip on any old pair of running shoes and jogging bottoms and get out there and break world records and so a Thorough Training Programme needed to be set out. It started off with a trip to the Pyrenees.

 "Jungle" the Navigator, in the Pyrenees.

Now, the Pyrenees are a range of big scary hills to the south of Great Britain in a little place called Europe - but to nail it down a bit tighter, they are sort of squeezed between France and Spain. Those two places jostled each other a bit and the hills were formed just to keep each other out of their respective countries. And it sort of works: Just wander over the border and they all speak totally differently. You would have thought that with the advent of the Euro they would all speak the Queen's English by now. But No. They chat away quite happily in their native tongues scarcely a few miles apart, either side of the border.

So - the Pyrenees are obviously working just as they should be.

So, being totally fluent in my own native tongue I thought we should introduce these natives, albeit fluent in the Euro, to Mother Nature's Natural Tongue: Estuary English.

The Expeditionary Force was carefully selected and comprised "Jungle" Worrall as Leader of the Assault and manfully supported by "Binder" Sloman. Jungle had been high before and it was felt could go higher still. She was fluent in the peculiar tongue of the natives to the north of the border. It was of little concern that at the time of selection she was having problems with finding North. Binder was a willing companion but had not been as high as Jungle. It was felt however that his experience of length might stand him in good stead.

The team set out at the back end of June, as Missionaries do, with an unconquerable zeal to convert the Border tribes.

Camp 1: Refuge D'Arlet