There is only so much eating, drinking and sunshine lassitude that Jungle can bear, before the urge to drive further into the wilderness becomes all consuming. She donned her plimsolls once more and headed determinedly south.
Binder raced to catch her up, in time to steer her in a northerly direction towards the Col du Somport. An easy stroll followed up to the deserted cafes and hotels of Astun. He called a halt at a cafe that threatened to open as the sun started to burn down onto his thinning pate.
The next section was a bit of a blur for poor old Binder. A vertiginous clamber up to a turquoise lake in the hot morning sunshine with just one walking pole for support as high altitude gear failure had affected his second pole. He was a pathetic sight as he trudged wearily behind the refreshed, rejuvenated Jungle.
You will note from the above photograph, that at this point Jungle was carrying the map. How we found our way to the border, heaven only knows but she scampered off at regular intervals sans pack to scout the route.
We crossed over the border back into the bosom of La Belle France in glorious weather. Apart from the time taken for the team's record photographs to be taken at this portentous moment, no Lassitude was allowed and so, lunchless, poor Binder was whipped onwards.
Mercifully for Binder, the next section was downhill into France and his aching limbs were grateful for the respite.
After the glorious downhill amble amongst beautiful alpine meadows with pretty little flowers and nibbled springy turf, there was a short and sharp little ascent over a rocky col and then down to one of the most wonderful spots Binder had ever encountered in his illustrious mountain stravaiging; Refuge d'Ayous.
Beers were taken to stabilise Binders dangerously low alcohol count, as Jungle once more tried to establish the mysterious whereabouts of "North".
It's a magical spot. Binder & Jungle retired, giggling, to their quarters in Wanda after taking the expedition's record photographs and mandatory bottle of red.