A Pyrenean adventure. The GR10, my 5th trek for Macmillan Cancer Support. 2004

Having now got a taste for a real adventure I planned another trek with Exodus, (who had proved a reliable guiding company to use).  This was to be the GR 10, a 200 mile trek across the central region of the Pyrenees in south western France. The mountains form a natural boarder with Spain and are home to some stunning 3,000 metre peaks, the highest of them being Pico del Aneto (3,404m).  The Pyrenees are much older than the Alps, mostly made up of granite but with foothills of softer limestone. The French Pyrenees are as green and lush as those of Snowdonia. While if one takes a walk over the Spanish boarder it is possible to imagine yourself in North Africa, the difference is so pronounced. Here the lack of water and the searing summer sun has baked the rock into a bewildering barrier of fire and gruelling climbs. In the scorching sun of the Spanish side, what was a tough climb becomes arduous and taxing. 

The Western, French Pyrenees are adorned by beautiful glaciers that cling like pearls from the upper sections of the mountains. Here the snow fall in the winter is deep and covers the rock well into the summer, hiding alpine flowers and tiny streams. Waterfalls sweep the rock as if hiding a shy bride on her wedding day, they tumble noisily, an encore to springs return. The area contains some of the most beautiful national parks in France, with diverse wildlife that still retains such beasts as European bears and eagles, although wolves no longer dwell there.  But mountains are not all about scenery on a grand scale, they contain some of the most exquisite tiny Alpine flowers and a world in miniature of colourful butterflies and insects. 

With the trek booked and training never really finished, I was busy cycling, walking and arranging events for the summer months of fund raising. By now I had quite a few carnivals to attend, the first of these was always the Verwood carnival.  Invariably wet and notoriously boggy, it was always worth putting the wellies and gazebo sides in the car.   A tombola stall is pretty hard work to organise. Prizes have to be acquired by asking the press to advertise you’re fund raising activities, or begging for items from friends and neighbours. Then comes the sorting and washing of items for sales. Teddies spin around the tumble dryer looking fluffier than they have ever been before and old ornaments once again become shiny and sell-able. The work doesn't stop there, cloakroom tickets need to be stuck on each item and then all the prizes are packed into boxes ready for the big day. Just when you think that’s the end, there are a couple of thousand tickets to fold, which is always a good job for a family evening around a summer chiminea fire in the garden. Finally it’s all down to the weather on the day.  

Although Verwood’s Carnival is often wet, many of the others are a delight. Corfe Mullen although on a windy field, the sun mostly shines and families enjoy the floats and gather to watch the parade with great excitement.  There is still more fun to be had a Ferndown on its breezy King Georges fields. The parade is a large and well supported one and it was here that I won a race and took home a water butt as my reward.  With the background noise and occasionally screams from the funfair they charity stalls are busy with families enjoying a little bit of luck as they scan the tables for their winnings. The other Carnivals are later in the summer and have a character all of their own. Verwood’s Rustic fayre, a bit of old England, complete with egg throwing completions, ferret and terrier racing. There’s pet shows full of fat guinea pigs and chubby hamsters. Plastic ducks racing along the bobbing river, beer tents full of merry husbands, while proud wives sell there pretty iced cup cakes in marquis full of home-made jam and hand embroidered quilts. The whistle blows on the Noddy train as children wave to grandparents who hold sticky candy floss and dripping vanilla ice-cream and dozens of lovingly polished vintage cars line up for inspection by the milling crowds. From another corner the loaded car boots are busy selling their wears. It’s been a great day and everyone is happy with pockets full of fund raising.

The summer months were full of long walks and even longer cycling trips. I became very fit and enjoyed the benefits of losing weight and fitting smaller and smaller clothes sizes. As the school term came to an end the trusty green rucksack was packed and ready, I received my tickets and with the advice of my GP picked up a prescription for Diamox (a drug that helps with acclimatisation, by removing the unwanted build-up of fluids in the body).

It had been a hot summer here in Britain, but France had been enduring an even hotter one. In Paris, elderly parents of working couples who had been enjoying a month away on the coast were returning to the news that many old people had died off heat exhaustion, unable to escape the inferno that the city had become. I was therefore wondering just how hot I could expect the Pyrenees to be. 

Why then was I so excited? Bobbing along with 15 other merry trekkers in the back of a mini bus sweating in the sticky, salutary heat of a Pyrenean afternoon.  We arrived at our first camp site which was at least in the shadow of a mountain ski resort, already making friends and learning who I would share my tent with.  After putting up our nylon dwellings that gently fluttered in a warm breeze we were ready for an acclimatisation walk along the GR 10. Dodging mountain bikes and weekend rambling families along the trail everyone gelled and a new family was born for the duration of the 200 mile, 15 day trek.

Tomorrow we would start our 200 mile trek across the mountain range. The GR10 crosses the Pyrenees from the Atlantic in the west to the Mediterranean in the east. It takes about 50 days or 6 weeks to walk the entire trail, so we were only focuses on the most popular parts between Gourette and the spa town of Luchon. Our route would lead us through a number of small traditional villages at the foot of the mountain range, through two national parks and into one of Frances most beautiful areas.  We would camp, stay in mountain huts (a first for me) and enjoy a treat of a night in a gite and two nights in a little two star hotel in Luchon.

Living Gourette that morning we climbed up into the heart of the mountains, below us the dreary grey buildings of the ski resort were far below us. Following the GR we crossed a tiny mountain road and marvelled at the cyclists as they battled up the ever increasing gradient. Here is the route used in the tour de France each year, when hundreds of professional cyclist take on this alpine section of their route. Flowers in meadows along the roadside were looking tired and dry as the summer heat ensued. What must have been a stunning sight was now only a memory of a late spring. It must have been a wonderful sight only a few weeks before, a whole mountainside of Pyrenean lilies (lilium pyrenaicum) , their golden yellow  upturned petals with protruding chocolate brown stamen like clusters of tiny upturned bulrushes. We were to late for this alpine garden, but much higher up they were still in abundance, an incredible, spectacular extravagance of blue gentians, purple iris, pink orchids and white asphodels. This is an exceptionally striking sight, but also one only seen by those who make their way to these remote and extraordinary places. For in this magic place the sheer magnitude of the dimensions and scale of such a mountain environment is not for everyone. It is a place of extremes; vast and magnificent but also lonely and humbling.

After two days of walking and camping our group was now preparing for a multi-day walk with only the food and clothing in our day packs. We would now leave our main bags and head up into the higher mountains and two nights sleeping in mountain huts. We were very fortunate to have two super guides. They were both female, young, enthusiastic and obviously had a real passion for mountain sports and activities. From our camp site at Arrens they primed us in what to expect. It would be hot and sweaty. We would be hungry and tired, but above all it would be beautiful. While we packed super light, they offered extra food and suggested we took a bathing costume to swim the mountain tarn beside the refuge.  Upon asking after the temperature of theses lakes we rejected the likelihood of our taking a drip as we were informed that the ice on them had only just melted two weeks prier to our visit.

The walk through the Vallee d’Estaing to the Lac d’Estaing was hot but with its wide flat path, a pleasant one. We were now seeing the true colours of certain members of the group. While we stopped to a morning coffee in a pretty flower fronted café, one member dashed on ahead to be first up the route. Unfortunately the mountain path he had chosen was in the wrong direction, leaving our leader the problem of going after him. It was difficult for a leader to be both guiding at the front and encouraging and cajoling the less fit and more reluctant participants at the back.

Finally coming to a large and pleasant lake, we found a tiny wooded path that would lead us up through the welcome shade of holme oak, chestnut and pine trees. We talked about rare sightings of bears that live on the edge of existence, here in the remote forest of the western Pyrenees. Only about twenty bears survive in the Pyrenees, but these will die out unless they are better protected and bolstered by bears introduced from Eastern Europe. The current population, spread over a vast land area, was thought to be too small to be self-sustaining. So In spring 2006 the French government arranged for three bears from Slovenia to be released into the forests near Arbas and a further two were released near other villages in the area. The plan, agreed between Spain, France and Andorra, was to introduce 15 bears over three years but due to riots in Arbas riots no further bears were released. The French police believed that there might be a few protesters, mostly farmers worried about their sheep being attacked, but a large turnout of 250 protesters turned up, smashing anything they could find outside the town hall, trying to break in, spraying paint and throwing bottles of blood. It took over eighty French police officers to keep order.

Of the five introduced in 2006, one gave birth to two cubs. But two others, both females, died. One fell from a cliff in a freak accident. The other was killed by a car on a road outside Lourdes, much to the delight of many local farmers and the sorrow of conservationists. Bears are shy creatures and easily frightened by people and it is extremely rare to hear of bear attacks in Western Europe. They hibernate in winter and so have no contact with skiers who enjoy winter sports in the area. Brown bears are largely vegetarian. In spring they feed on flowering plants and grasses, adding in fruits and berries during summer. In autumn, preparing for hibernation, they need to eat fat-rich foods, so acorns, beechnuts and hazelnuts form a huge part of their diet. They also eat honey, mainly form wild bees, but will also raid the hives of bee keepers.

Thoughts of meeting bears gave way to those of our uphill struggle in the heat of the late morning. Our leader had briefed us on how we were going to take on the challenge of this 1200m climb, up to the Col d’llheour. She had decided to brake the climb into four parts, with a short stop to drink and check on our well being. When we reached the edge of the tree line I wisely changed into my shorts. There were one or two members of the group who were finding the walking more tiresome than they had anticipated so our leader stayed at the back where she could keep an eye on them both. 

Unfortunately the group seemed to be divided into three styles; those who struggled, those who cared about the group as a whole and a couple who seemed completely unaware of others and any consequences of their actions. It was this last group who shot on ahead dismissing the prearranged agenda and didn’t stop until they reached the col.  No amount of shouting to them had any affect and we all eventually arrived at the pretty col with its clear blue mountain tarn in a state of collapse. After a few carefully chosen words with the subordinates our leader joined us in an hour’s slumber in this high place and eat our lunch. We looked out to the north, where what seemed like the whole of France was laid out before us, like a landscape scene from an aeroplane. In the azure blue skies around us breaded and golden eagles, griffon vultures, peregrines and Lammergeyers circled the golden summits with such ease that they lulled us into a state of such perfect relaxation that all was forgiven and now with full stomachs we headed off to clamber up the summit rocks that lay behind us. 

It wasn't now far to the refuge d’llheou but for the first time I now felt the full effects of our hasty climb. My head thumped, my pulse raced and I could feel my body swelling and retaining fluid in my extremities. Even before the end of the days walk I felt I needed to take my Diamox, and so I had it along the way, feeling a little better by the time the deep blue lake beside the hut came into view.

Here in this deep bowl of jagged, austere mountains the sapphire blue lake of pure, crystal clear water reflected the exact mirror image of the mountain arena with such clarity and sharpness that you could photograph the inverted image and mischievously omit to tell the viewer of your deviance. After finding a bunk in this new world of mountain refuges we placed our boots and bags in the entrance (no shoes or bags are allowed in dormitories) and made our way back out into the bright sunshine. Our leader was already in her swimming costume, balanced on the rocky edge,  waiting to immerse herself in the lakes freezing depths.

Sweaty and dirty we each in turned stripped to our underwear and underwent the competitive torture of entering the water and tiring to swim for as many seconds possible. The prize went to my hardy tent partner, who swam daily in the cold waters surrounding Wales. Later that evening after hearty supper of a fatty pork stew we dried our pants over the stone fireplace and entertained ourselves with a very random and somewhat noisy game of cards that involved naming the owner of the said underwear. The French were not amused by our annoying game and quickly made their way up the ladder to bed. It wasn't long before the attraction of this bizarre game was over and we too went to bed. Unfortunately the French now had the upper hand being fast asleep and snoring loudly.

A night in a Mountain hut is quite an extraordinary experience. There is often, as in this case, only one toilet and wash basin with cold water. One large or two slightly smaller dormitories sleep at least sixty to one hundred people, in bunks of two or three layers .In each sleeping space a mattress with a neatly folded blanket awaits, the only problem being that this is repeated in the space either side of you with no gap. It’s cosy on a cold night but on a sticky summer’s one it becomes rather oppressive.  

Dawn had hardly broken when we were out once more filling our water bottles and photographing the rosy hues of another sunrise.  How beautiful this golden day was, sparkling and fresh in the cool mountain air of a new day. Setting off over the col de la Haugade we looked down onto the green, pine covered slopes of the Vallee du Marcadau. It was tempting to photograph the numerous tiny lakes as our group hastened down the steep rocky slopes. Stopping to take a toilet break the girls hide behind a large rock. Strange noises and tiny shadows interrupted our business and we looked up to observe a family of small brown marmots, inquisitive of our actions looking very annoyed at us trespassing  in what was obviously their home. Quickly joining the boys we informed them with great delight of what we had witnessed. Although we had all wanted to see marmots it appeared that the boys felt that they would rather “been” the marmots. We all laughed and told our lads off for their misdemeanour's, enjoying the togetherness that we shared.

Joining the tourist route at The Pont d Espange, it was with great joy that we meet up with our other leader who had arrived with a magnificent picnic quite unexpectedly. So setting off up the beautiful and inspiring Vallee de Gaube it all appeared quite magnificent although rather busy as this is a very popular spot for families to picnic beside the calm waters of its glittering lake.  It is a truly incredible part of the route, with the shimmering intensity of Vignemale’s glaciers, glorious and engaging before us. We were doubtful that anywhere could be more beautiful. Pine trees gave way to rocky moraine filled areas, where white water tumbled in exquisite waterfalls and cathedral like, yawning cavernous voids broke free from the mighty glaciers above.  But weariness took over us as the day wore on into evening and thoughts of a hot meal and a bed were with us all. Arriving late we swapped our seven o'clock dinner for eight and flinging open the windows of the stuffy dorm we climbed into our bunks. (I'm not really quite sure if you can call it a bunk as it is more of a platform upon which between ten and twenty climbers and walkers share the area with mattresses that touch lengthwise. So that you may wake to find a handsome French climber or a rather hairy walker sleeping next to you, which ever the case may be.)

The night ended violently as thunderous crashes filled the mountain bowl we were in. The air was full of electrifying energy and brilliant lightening flashes that made the night seem more like day, for each flash followed the other so regularly.  In the morning it was apparent that most of the climbers camping around the lake had made hastily for the safety of the already full refuge, but here in the mountains no one is refused sanctuary in the huts and many climbers were sleeping on the crowed floor or tables. There only being one toilet and about two hundred soles in residence that night it was in great demand that morning. The air was cooler but the sun would soon be up, so we were away as soon as we had managed to finish our hot chocolate and stale bread. (It was so hard that we watched in fascination as the lad in the kitchen took what looked like a small saw to it and craved tiny pieces onto a plate before presenting if to us proudly. I think the helicopter must have been due with a fresh drop of supplies for the hut.)

Here was a landscape of stone, like that of a mighty fortress. Weaving our way up the slippery path we observed with delight both tiny blue gentians and the shy chamois clinging to the sides of Vignemale’s huge slides that surround its north face.  Once reaching the col the air was cold and the valley below danced with clouds that swirled and puffed as if dressed in crinoline gowns at a royal ball. We climbed to the summit of Petit Vignemale and made our way in the rain to the shelter of the next hut. My cough was worsening and I felt the extreme fatigue of altitude sickness, having had these problems since the night before. The day become evening and the endurance taxing;  twelve hours of walking across snow covered streams that poured out of the melting snows and a route that seemed to never end.

The group had formed two fractions now, those at the front who were ambitious, single minded and loners and bringing up the rear a merry bunch whose kindness was that of true friendship. They sang together, cajoled one another and always had a tissue for the tears of the weakest members of the group. Above all they were patient with each other and had formed an understanding that the group would make it together how ever long it took. There were as many tantrums at the front as there were tears at the back as we tried to dissolve the issues as they arose. Eventually we all arrived at Gavarnie for a welcome rest day. We had reached the half way point.

My cough did not improve in the heat and lower altitude of Gavarnie. It was a very beautiful place indeed. Graced by strait walls of grey rock from which many waterfalls tumble as if they were ribbons of silk trailing from a brides wedding dress. We enjoyed the rest, wrote postcards home and drank lemonade and beers under the parasols of a café. It was a prefect place but I still felt far away and weary. We walked to the restaurant that evening in the village a sort distance from the camp site and I felt sick, my head bursting with pain and a cough that bothered me consonantly. Dizzy and lost in my own world I left the others to make my way back to the camp site, unable to face the prospect of food. One of the leaders followed me back as I hung on to the stone walls of the road side. I spent most of the night either in the toilet or my sleeping bag, sick, coughing and shacking with cold. I tried to drink as much water as I could but its coldness discouraged me. Rousing myself in the morning I tried to believe that I could walk in the sweltering heat of the day, but I could not feel my hands and feet and was shivering in a thick jumper. The girls would not let me walk and called a local doctor. They dearly wanted to take me to see him as he believed that I had pulmonary oedema once again. As I would not go, his advice was to make sure that I kept taking my Diamox and to not let me go above 2000m.

There was a huge storm brewing that afternoon. So arriving at camp (there were three of us now), we helped to put up the tents. After trying to help with one, I saw this was not going to be possible and collapsed under a tree in a fit of coughing. I didn't eat that day either. The next day I tried to eat, but the meagre amount I consumed was not enough and the fluid in my lunges was both pink and plentiful. The leaders knew that I was secretive about the true extent of my condition. During the day I either slept in the van or under a tree, any amount of activity brought on a fit of coughing and made my heart race painfully.

The next morning we were to travel over a col that was a little more than 2000m, the doctor had advised the leaders to watch me with extreme causation even though I was only sitting in the van. I was unable to unable to fly home and the girls knew that I dearly wanted to stay with them and not worry my husband, Martin.  Who would otherwise have had to drive down to the south west of France to collect me and most probably not let me leave home without him again!

The col was fine but they had to leave me for the night in the small town of St Lary as they were to spend the night beside the magnificent Lac de l’Oule in the beautiful Reserve Naturelle de Neouvielle. I asked if they could leave me in the camp site instead of a hotel and one of the guides kindly lent me her tent. They really were the sweetest of girls, going out of their way to make this a very special walk for us all.

I waited for them to leave, having promised to eat in town and not to walk anywhere and then promptly left the site with map in hand to see if it was possible to climb once again. Having found the GR10 once again I struggled up through the woods in the heat of the day until I reached the track which turns off for Soulan. The effort of climbing made my chest hurt painfully, but the views were beautiful and I could walk as slowly as I wished. I stopped often and wished I had not gone as far, but eventually I made it back to my tent just as the heavens opened and a deluge of rainwater erupted violently from the dark clouds yet again. I fell asleep, waking suddenly to another dawn storm. Once it had cleared I left in the semi darkness to try once again to gain altitude and walk a distance.

This time I went in the opposite direction towards Azet, a sleepy village where dogs barked and very little else appeared to happen. I arrived back with a present of some beers for the girls, forgetting that one of the leaders would arrive in camp with the vehicle long before the others made it back into camp. She quickly forgave me for my misdemeanour's and was pleased to see that I had eaten some bread, cheese and apricots that I had bought myself. She even let me go out once again to meet the weary wanderers as they came down my route of the previous day. After meeting the advanced party enjoying the sun outside a small bar, I found the stragglers a little way up the hill and they welcomed my joining them as I led them up to the camp for a cup of tea. All the tents were now up as two others had accompanied the leader in the vehicle that day. As the trek had gone on a number of others had succumbed to sore feet and bad knees, so had decided to have a day off.

There were only a few more days of walking left and so I was very happy when I finally convinced the leaders to allow me to join the group the on the next days walk. I already knew the way and was more than pleased to be out even though it rained heavily most of the day. The route was in a lower lying area of trees and fern covered moor like terrain.  The cloud shrouded the mountains and made navigation difficult, while the rain found its way into the tops of our socks and trickled down our necks in little droplets that soaked both our T-shirts and our spirits.

I wasn't a long walk to Genos which sits sleepily beside the Lac de Genos Loudenvielle. Here one can row boats on this pretty lake or picnic on the grassy edges. The little village, for that is all it is really, although it contains a number of shops geared up for walkers. Buy now there was one person who was not very popular with anyone. He had moaned about the slowness of others most of the trek  and how wet he had become when it rained in his incredibly old leather boots and ancient waterproofs, that were now all falling to pieces. The leaders gave him one last opportunity to buy some new gear in the village or else he would have to tack a taxi, the van being full.  Having big ears I overheard both this and the leaders saying that I would have to stay with the vehicle the next day, due to the altitude, and so I made a special effort to eat three bowls of fish soup that night. No one else liked it, and I wasn't sure that I did either, but it slipped down and the leaders seemed ecstatically pleased with the improvement of my condition.

That night we slept well after nearly falling asleep in a tiny church as we listened smilingly to the graceful voices of local village women singing folk songs. Although very pretty they all sounded the same to us, so we slipped out thanking them and either went into the local bar to play cards or off to bed as in my case. I slipped into camp quietly and over heard the leaders talking about the possibility of my joining the walk the next day. I slept happily that night with the thought of being up in the mountains and part of the team once again.

We left in cloud the next morning as usually follows a previously wet day. The couret d’ Esquierry at 2354m is not very high but the altitude bothered me and made my chest hurt and my pulse race. I was glad to be down when we reached the valley below and a nights slay in a warm bed at the gite (rather like a youth hostel, with rooms of two to six bunk beds and self catering),  in the Val d’ Astau.  I drank a whole large pot of weak tea and was now feeling much better. They even let me have a bash at the last day when we walked into Luchon, up over the Pic de Cecire.  It was a fine day and I had finally recovered after a week of attitude sickness. The views here were perfect as we breakfasted on lunch and followed it with an early lunch an hour later. Calling them second and third breakfasts, everyone was in fine spirits and had healthy appetites. 

It wasn't long before the speed merchants were off once again heading on up to the Spanish border and so our leader reluctantly left us once again to fetch the renegades back. The rest of the group stretched out upon the rocks to sock up the morning sunshine, tossing and munching nuts while pretending to be English marmots. Sure enough just when you don’t expect to see anyone they will, a group of French walkers laughed at our stupid behaviour and sufficiently entertained and amused they caught up with our leader who was descending with the runaways, the boarder still having been a long way off. Our leader looked at us with an incredulous expression as we explained how “the sun must have gone to our heads”. Who knows what the French party had said to her, she was quite perplexed and said that they had thought “we had all gone mad”.  We laughed and ended up buying her an endearing looking marmot for the front of the van in the town of Luchon.

The only thing left to do now wads to spend the next day relaxing in town, but that wasn't an option for me now that I had found my second wind. After a hearty breakfast made the 27km return trek up to the Spanish boarder at the Pic de le Glere at 2367m and returned in a huge thunder storm, sliding down the waterfalls of the cirque below as they quickly turned into torrents. Thinking I could sneak into the hotel to change my dirty wet shorts I was caught out and the girls glance suspiciously at me. It was then at our final celebration meal, taken in the French tradition of eating duck and tripe that they later found out from me where I had been. “Bloody hell, Pam” said one of them and the other added “that’s not the easiest way to reach Spain”, and she was right. But it was something that I had always wanted to do and I was happy that in so many ways my trek had been both successful and a one full of shared and happy memories.