our despair with something tasty – something that didn’t have the flavour of monosodium glutamate. But in the middle of our fantasising, Keith suddenly said: ‘Hey, have you considered where we’ll sleep?’
‘No.’
Neither of us had given a thought to night’s approach, being fixated by the storm and dreams of food beyond our reach. And a forlorn hope of escape. But as I looked around me, at pools of tan-coloured water and boot-flattened sheep dung, I knew this stinking hut would not do for a bedroom.
‘You’ll just have to face the weather after all,’ I told him, and suddenly felt much brighter. ‘You’ll have to go outside and put the tent up before darkness falls.’
‘Me? Why me?’
‘It’s your tent.’
So he went outside while I took his place beside the fire and began to prepare our meal. And I smiled for the first time that day as I listened to the rain smacking against the hut and the symphony of the storm outside. If anything, it was growing wilder out there, and he was gone a long, long time.
Then the door burst open and he was silhouetted in its opening. Water poured from his clothes; his long hair was matted and rain dripped from his nose.
‘What d’you want first?’ he asked. ‘The good news or the bad news?’
My heart sank. ‘Let’s have the bad news first.’
‘Well,’ he began, ‘there’s only one possible place for the tent. And that’s on a load of cowshit.’
‘And the good news?’
‘It’s still warm!’
10
C’EST LE PARADIS
In 2007 another solo trip to the Pyrenees to research routes for the guidebook gave an excuse to explore one or two areas I’d not visited before. Being alone is a luxury, for you can indulge yourself in long days of activity or hours of reverie without the need to consider anyone else. If you set your own agenda, but keep your options open, it’s interesting to see how each day unfolds.
Spain was well into summer, but on the other side of the mountain, in the remote Ariège region of France, a memory of winter lingered, with snow banked high on the hillsides and ice floes in the lakes. After a long morning’s approach I’d spent an hour dreaming by one such lake, its depths confused by layers of old ice still clinging to the shoreline, where spring was a reluctant visitor. Then I descended for ten minutes to discover a cascade erupting from a cleft of rock, draining the lake and crashing twenty metres below in a turmoil of spray. An exposed mattress of heather was too tempting to ignore, so I gave in and sprawled there, just out of range, to capture the essence of the scene – the fury of sound, the constant beat of water on rock, rainbows tossed like a bride’s bouquet into the air.
Later I dragged myself away and wound down the mountain for two hundred metres or more among dwarf pine and juniper into a glacial basin glistening with streams and pools, where spring had arrived with its bounty of goodness, vitality and promise. Water ran everywhere, and when the path disappeared a line of cairns, created in a drier season than this, directed a way across and mocked any attempt to retain dry feet. But wet feet didn’t matter, for such was the beauty of that basin that every sense was enticed into activity. Tiny islands of granite emerged from the water. Domes of grass, alpenrose and bilberry created archipelagos of colour. Meadowlands two metres wide were covered in gentian, spring anemone, soldanella and sweet-smelling daphne, while marsh marigolds bobbed their gold medallion heads along the edge of every rushing stream. Birds flitted from rock to rock, marmots whistled, and the distant boom of cascades echoed throughout the valley.
Perched upon a rock amidst all this water, absorbing the miracle of rebirth and bewitched by the abundant goodness all around me, I knew yet again the gift of sheer happiness. There was nowhere else I’d rather be. Life’s cup was full and overflowing.
Then my solitude was disturbed by a neatly dressed couple (they had to be French) making a beeline towards me, splashing calf-deep through the streams without concern. Stopping a few paces away the man spread his arms wide and, with eyes blazing, gasped: ‘C’est le paradis!’
And I couldn’t argue with that.
11
A PYRENEAN MAESTRO
After spending days climbing routes on Pic du Midi in the late summer of 1984, Alan Payne and I moved on to the granite peaks of the Balaïtous massif that loomed to the east. Bold, solid-looking mountains that carry the Franco-Spanish border, they dominate a wild, lake-spattered landscape around which a few simple huts are located.
We caught sight of Refuge d’Arrémoulit as we edged along the narrow and exposed Passage d’Orteig two hundred metres above Lac d’Artouste. A tiny blob of roofed stone, it was dwarfed by slabs and boulders that lay among tarns at the foot of Pic Palas. From a distance it appeared deserted, and when we eventually arrived at the door our initial suspicion proved correct; the hut was deserted – apart, that is, from the guardian, who appeared from the shadows rubbing his eyes with no attempt to hide the fact that he’d just fallen out of bed. It was mid-afternoon, and Alan and I had been on the go for six hours.
‘Bonjour,’ yawned the guardian. ‘You look hot.’
It was hot, and heat from the early September sun bounced off the smooth granite to emphasise the fact.
‘Any chance of a beer?’
‘It’s in the fridge,’ said the guardian, and led us round the back of the hut where several bottles were submerged in a spring-fed pool. He handed one to Alan, another to me, and took one for himself, then pulled a penknife from his pocket and yanked the top from each one.
Never did beer taste so good.
Rucksacks slid from our backs to lean against the wall, and with sweat-stained shirts draped over rocks we lowered ourselves to the ground to relax against the front of the building – with a second bottle waiting to be drained clutched in our hands or held against a burning brow. I’d drink this one slowly, to allow the flavour to settle.
After a few short, monosyllabic questions about where we’d come from and were we planning to stay the night, the guardian fell silent and let the afternoon’s peace settle around us.
Trapped in a landscape of stone and still water there were practically no sounds. No birds sang. No streams gurgled. No stones clattered into a far-off gully. If it had not been for the blood coursing through my veins, the only certainty that I’d not grown deaf was the distant thrum that spoke of the Earth spinning in space.
After some time a shadow moved across my face. Opening one eye I saw the guardian slip quietly into the hut and was vaguely aware of his bare feet padding on the stone floor. Moments later he reappeared, carrying a flute in his right hand, its silver dazzling in the sunshine. Choosing a rocky perch above the nearest small lake twenty paces from Alan and me, he settled cross-legged, like a bearded maestro facing an audience full of expectation. I nudged Alan, and when he opened his eyes I nodded towards the flautist, who now had our undivided attention.
This would be good – imagine! Big bold mountains reflecting the sun, an azure lake, a mind at peace fully receptive to the subtleties of some lyrical composition. The acoustics
