An Autumn Weekend in Wharfedale (Wensleydale...)

With an invitation to a party, I put on my best party frock and zoomed up the M1 to about as far north as is decent for a Home Counties chap, to stay in a rather splendid hotel in Leyburn in the Yorkshire Dales. Martin Banfield was celebrating his completion of Another Pyrenean Adventure, his newly published book of his GR11 walk in the summer, with a dozen or so of his friends.

Leyburn is in Wharfedale, possibly the most beautiful of all the Yorkshire Dales. The following photos are from the walk on Saturday. Should you suddenly be seized by an urge to see a larger version of any of the pictures, you need only to click on them, and they will blow up to an exceedingly accommodating size.

The day started with a cloud inversion filling the dale, which was slowly burnt away to be replaced with gorgeous sunshine, followed by the mist returning late afternoon to add more interest to the photographs. 

You will note that there are only rear views of the various participants; their identities will remain a mystery, rather like those of the Bilderberg Group. I suppose if you hunt around the blogosphere it is possible to fathom a few from the list of attendees. One chap, however, does deserve a special mention. I have followed his exploits on his blog over many years, yet had never met the gentleman. However, on this rather grand occasion I had the pleasure of sharing a room with Conrad, who writes Conrad Walks . He is an absolute gentleman and tremendous fun to boot. I thoroughly recommend you pop over to his place and discover Conrad's world of adventure.   

On various other places in the dazzling world of social media that I'm sure you all frequent, I have captioned the crumbling edifice seen in the picture below variously as Bolton Abbey, Bolton Castle and Fylingdales. Apparently none is correct. Fortunately I wasn't map reading. The sheep don't care either way.

And now, rather like Nicholas Parsons, we approach the sunset hours; The landscape hues fade away, to be replaced by the blazing colours of the heavens.

A huge 'thank you' to Martin & Sue for the invitation and a sparkling round of applause to the party members who made the weekend so much fun.

Pyrenean Assault: Descent to Lassitude

Today’s route – straight ahead, first down and then up and over the skyline…

Today’s walk was laid out before us from the col high above Pombie yesterday evening. The “up and over the skyline” bit was again Higher than yesterday’s High, but by now the expedition was firing on all four and “up for it.” The Guidebook Fibber had promised a bit of an exposed trundle on the other side of the skyline, which worried old Binder, but Jungle assured Binder that she would hold his hand and as long as he kept his eyes tightly shut and had a few pastis sharpeners beforehand, everything would be “Quite all right, dear thing.” “Besides, the old rusty chain that he would be clinging to very rarely snapped these days...”

With these merry thoughts buzzing about his bonce, Binder trotted off happily down the hill towards the valley bottom. Binder liked bottoms. They were reassuring snuggely places. It was actually quite late when we set off. Binder had enjoyed his lie-in. It was strange to find Jungle’s alarm clock under the twenty layers of clothing well past the time it had gone off so silently.

Now, it shouldn’t be possible to be mis-placed on your way down to the next valley bottom, but our team found themselves inadvertently facing a pretty little stream crossing on the way down. It was no bother though and Jungle navigated her way across by walking on water in her plimsolls. Binder admired her crossing style from the far bank.

Jungle, misplaced.

You see, the thing with the Pyrenees is that places are actually not that far apart and so everything looks to be an “Easy Day, then.” The Horrible Reality is that even going down hill, things are a Very Long Way Away and it does take more time than you realise. It’s not like a quick nip around the Hemingford Round (which takes 82 minutes if you are sharpish about it). No – This place is actually Quite Big. It also has Weather. And the Capitals are Very Important Here. This Weather, on the French side of the Pyrenees, sneaks up on you, over your shoulder and bites your bottom, Very Hard Indeed.

Now, some people like having their bottoms bitten very hard, perhaps because they are “Ard” themselves. But poor old Binder is an old softy, and likes warm sunshine and cooling zephyrs. He doesn’t like lightning crashing overhead between the rocky ridges with hailstones the size of small family cars battering his fizzog. The idea of being electrocuted by a rusty old chain the other side of the skyline whilst being pummelled to death by Falling Ford Fiestas does not appeal to Binder.

As we dropped further down into the valley, the air got thicker and thicker and there was a buzziness about the mountains. The air was actually a funny colour. The forecast, read at the refuge in the morning, wasn’t encouraging. Thunderstorms for the next few days with hailstones the size of small family cars and electrical storms that would take out New York’s entire nuclear industry in one flash.

Finally, over luncheon at the bottom of the valley, Jungle came up with a route diversion. The expedition would have a siesta for the few days of thunderstorms and resume when the monsoons had blown themselves out.

It was a Eureka Moment for Binder.

A few hours later, after a wondrously successful hitch from a French Couple, who insisted on stopping halfway, at Gabas, to buy the team a very famous beer or two, the expedition found itself at Advanced Base Camp in Laruns. It would have been rude to use our own supplies and so fresh supplies were purchased and consumed from the natives of that fine little village. Later that evening there was a real belter of a storm, barely feet above our cafe table. The team stood their ground in magnificent British Style.

Jungle, testing the Native Supplies.

Pyrenean Assault: The Meat

Today’s clamber: Higher still

The team had been high the day before. As the day dawned, it dawned on poor old Binder that today was to be higher still.

The Pic du Midi Ossau was today’s objective. We were not to actually summit the beast; oh no, but we were to work our way round to the south of the blighter and scramble over the col just to the right of the beast in the photograph above, at a height that Fen Boys would develop nosebleeds and dizzy spells and be scrambling to the medical pack for the pastis. Then it was to be a tumble down to the refuge at Pombie.

Straightforward stuff, according to the the guidebook written by the previous Englishman to visit this faraway land. It has to be said that Binder thought the Previous Englishman to be a liar and a charlatan as he obviously had never dared scale the heights that Binder & Jungle were currently attempting. Routes described by the loon to be an “easy day” of a four to five hours were taking the team a good eight hours. Of course he had probably not taken into account the need for the team’s scientific studies and recordings of every single flower, petal and beetle that Jungle came across or the right and proper lunchtime repasts with Post Luncheon Lassitude; but what sort of guide would not do so? A Cad and a Bounder!

Jungle, beneath Refuge D’Ayous

So, with today’s objective squarely in his sights, Binder set to the task and immediately opted for the GR10; the easy route down into the valley before the lung bursting ascent that would surely follow. As far as he could ascertain, the GR10 is the rather tasty little amble on the French side of the border. The GR11 on the other hand is on the other side of the border – which would make it in Spain.

Binder had had quite enough of Spain, thank you very much. Apart from the delightful Spaniards who had abandoned them in Candanchu, Binder believed that the Spanish locals hereabouts quite deliberately spoke in their own tongue! An unpardonable sin to the tongue-tied British Binder. Surely, the natives could make an effort?

The stroll down the pastures to the very, very bottom of the valley (so low down that even FenBoy Binder began to feel at home) was an easy affair and was made all the more enjoyable for Binder who took frequent stops to admire the French hoardes’ herculean efforts to struggle up from the valley bottom to the refuge that Jungle and Binder had so recently vacated.

French Hoardes on the descent.

The flies! The flies were terrible in the bottom of the sylvan paradise at the very bottom of the hill, and so our Dynamic Duo fled up the hill in search of a breeze. Poor Jungle suffered appallingly from the tsetse, mosquito, the Pyrenean Horse fly and the Pyrenean Cattle Fly. All the flies from Hell swarmed about poor Jungle’s nether regions resulting in a miserable luncheon while Binder snoozed happily in the dappled shade afforded by the luxuriant canopy and afterglow of pastis, taken for medicinal reasons.

Binder took the early afternoon haul up to the upper pastures in his leisurely stride for the first time on the expedition. Fitness was at last ‘kicking in’. Poor Jungle was delirious from the mauling of her nether regions and so even more frequent rest stops were required than usual, which suited old Binder just nicely!

Peaky Jungle below Pic du Midi Ossau

At last, Binder came into his own! He was High and going Higher and after a brief stroll up a well trodden path, they were into the gargantuan boulder field followed by a snow filled gulley. Binder manfully cut steps into the nevee with the edges of his GoreTex plimsolls, up towards the col until solid ground was once more obtained. His job was done! Binder came over all faint, what with the thin air and all and the paucity of lunch and the Heavy Responsibility he had Shouldered so Manfully.

Jungle regained command and Jelly Baby and Pastis Iron Rations were brought to bear upon the situation to revive poor Binder. The summit of the pass was duly reached and a metaphorical British Flag Planted thereupon.

Jungle with Refuge Pombie far below

The Loon in the Guidebook suggested it was but a thirty five minute stroll down to the Refuge. Binder was apprehensive. This was to be the shady side of the mountain and the expedition had already encountered vast tracts of snow. It had also started to drizzle, with the promise of more Pyrenean Thunderstorms. Jungle looked as though she had been chewing wasps in the last record photograph and things were Looking Bleak in Binder’s Skull Cinema.

Torrid flickering images of thunder, lightning bolts, and tumbles down impossible snowfields, culminating in a dashing against pointy boulders all flashed through Binder’s skull cinema as the team set off down the steep path towards Pombie.

And then, just around the the first corner appeared an impossibly steep snowfield, with a thin trail of stale bootmarks threading its way straight down the middle. At the bottom was a huge field of big horribly pointy boulders.

Binder’s second walking pole was still suffering from Altitude Lassitude and so as such, he found himself disadvantaged. Jungle leapt to the rescue with the promise of being “lead” descender. She set off at a steady plod, testing each footstep inching her way down the yawning slope.

And then, she sat down!

Binder could not believe what he was witnessing. Jungle’s poles were set to one side and very, very slowly she reached forward and cupped something precious in her left hand. Picking up her pair of poles in her right, she inched her way down the precipitous slope on her bottom and her heels. By now the rain was coming down and the top of the snow was turning to a mushy layer over the underlying ice. Things were not looking good to poor old Binder.

Then the rescued crane-fly picked itself up from Jungle’s palm and fluttered off to who knows where to die it’s inevitable horrible lonely death. Leaving us, at last to get on with a chance of saving our own miserable wet skins.

We made it eventually to the haven of the refuge, where Binder happily tucked into a restorative bottle of red after pitching Wanda on the last available tent spot.

A splendid day!

Pyrenean Assault: North to France

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.

Jungle takes on a hearty breakfast before the climb

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.

Jungle, stripped for "Ascent Mode", pointing North.

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.

Jungle, returning from Scouting Expedition.

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.

France catches up on Jungle. The Border. 

Mercifully for Binder, the next section was downhill into France and his aching limbs were grateful for the respite.

Downhill into France

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.

Pic du Midi Ossau from 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".

Donning Compass Needle clothing, Jungle attempts to establish "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.

Evening cloud inversion, Pic du Midi Ossau

Pyrenean Assault: Deeper into Spain

Jungle's supplies were low.

"Candanchu": Just hearing it spoken sent shivers down her spine. Their room was in a damp basement in the refuge. The rainstorm thrashed the mountainsides above the abandoned ski-resort. The team had been on another foray into the village to track down urgent supplies for Jungle, but all to no avail. We had retreated to the bat-cave, soaked by yet another titanic storm and availed ourselves of the last of the Pasties, diluted for economy's sake with a little water.

There was nothing for it but to retreat into the ritual humiliation of Binder, with another hand of Crib followed by yet more humiliation at Rummy.

Upstairs, the unseen guardians prepared the dead livestock that until a few moments ago had been pecking and scratching happily in the gravel to the back of the refuge: A dreadful silence following it's last "squawk!"

A bottle of red was ordered and swiftly despatched as Binder slid further and further back in the rankings held in Jungle's little exercise book. Every game and hand was diligently recorded in the expedition's log book. Every glass of wine that slipped effortlessly down his throat was another tick under Jungle's column of victories.

The team was exhausted and triumphantly for Binder, after the second bottle of wine, Jungle was persuaded that supplies might be found deeper into Spain at the little town of Canfranc. A day off from the murderous punishment of the Haute Route!

The next morning the dynamic duo were plunging, nay, hurtling southwards, down a Spanish valley, the lone occupants of a rattley autobus; Jungle convinced that the driver was an imbecile as we should have been heading "north". Everyone knows that this far south the sun would be in the northern half of the sky... Empty bags were taken to be filled to the brim with provisions and more pasties. Binder was grinning happily as civilisation, good food, pretty women and rough Riojas beckoned.

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

Fizz.... Wheeep.... Crackle ....... Pop.... I am back!

Sorry about the radio silence there....

I have been out and about and thought I would just give a little taster of where I have been.

(You can click on the picture to make it bigger)