Report to the Donald Robertson Trust
My whole holiday, away from the constraints and stresses of university work, had been filled with the constraints and stresses of employment, and after 6 weeks running activities for foreign students and 4 weeks typing African baptism records into a spreadsheet for a PhD student, I was ready for a holiday. The Pyrenees had been sitting there, waiting, the light at the end of the long summer tunnel. Yet for some time it seemed we wouldn't even go; people dropped out, for one reason or another, and at one point there was barely a team of three. David Pettit, Ruth Pettit and I travelled up from Cornwall, having spent the previous day walking 20 miles along the Coast Path, and not knowing who was going to be at Stansted Airport to meet up. We were relieved when three familiar faces turned up, David Gruar (Dave for this report), Sarah Iams and Sam Gunningham. Together we boarded our evening flight and set off for Barcelona.
We arrived late, and, utilising Dave's fluent Spanish and good Catalan, acquired ourselves taxis to our hostel in the old city. The taxi driver whisked us through streets at around 10pm, already filling up with people for the night's party. The hostel had been booked in advance over the phone, and only on arriving did we read the leaflet advertising it. "For those wanting a good sleep, go elsewhere." It was right. The party in the square outside carried on all night, with people drunkenly arriving in the room throughout the night. I barely slept, and the other similarly, and so it was with dragging heels that Sarah and I got up at 6am to catch the daily bus. Dave, who hired a car, drove David, Ruth and Sam. It pretty much worked and the car arrived not too long after the bus. The journey had been pleasant, though I slept most of the way, tiredness overcoming the desire to see the coach weave its way through the mountains. We were staying in Espot, a popular ski resort in winter and walkers' haven in summer, though arriving in late September meant we had missed the worst of the crowds. Our campsite was good as campsites go, and it wasn't long before we'd set up our `base camp'. To get us in the mood, we took a walk from the campsite, up through the nearby woods, finally coming to a halt in a clearing with fantastic views back along the valley. There was not a cloud in the sky that day, nor was there to be for the next three. We couldn't have been luckier with the weather for our whole stay.
After a complicated faff trying to find the correct gas for our stoves, we had an early night, ready to begin walking the next day. Day duly arrived, and we set off in the car, Dave driving us the few kilometres to the main car park for the national park in which we were to be walking. The walk up from the car park was to become a familiar sight, though it was far from unenjoyable, weaving its way first through some woods before emerging in pastures alongside the lake that gave the park its name, Estany de Sant Maurici. Our target was the Pic d'Amitges (2851m), and we made our way up the valley, eventually achieving the col a couple of hundred metres below the summit. The ridge became a rocky scramble up to the top and David, Dave, Sam and I set off, Ruth and Sarah being content with the view from the col. It was a good scramble, not difficult, and we made steady progress up. We met a couple of men from Wales just below the summit, and we shared the top together, taking photos of each other. They descended ahead of us, moving faster, though we met them again sitting by a lake later that day. Shortly after that we reunited with Sarah and Ruth, and descended together back to the car, and base camp.
The next day saw an early start, as we were to begin our main activity of moving from hut to hut within the mountains. With tents and non-essentials packed into the boot of the car we headed back up towards Estany de Sant Maurici, carrying a somewhat heavier load, including a kilo of chorizo and even more cheese, which were to provide our lunches for the next week. We didn't aim for a peak, heading instead for Port de Ratera, the pass that would carry us over the ridge on which we had walked the previous day, and towards our first hut, the Refugi de Colomers. In what turned out to be a good day's walk we crossed the pass with no difficulty, following the well-marked GR11 route. As we approached the hut we saw a marmot monitoring our progress from a nearby rock, before it quietly snuck away behind some boulders. The hut, it turned out, was perched on the edge of a dam. This was for good reason, it turned out. The only toilet in the hut was a shack extending off the edge, with a hole in the floor that dropped straight down into the reservoir (if it could be called that) below. We cooked for ourselves that evening, but that first night in the hut was probably the worst of the entire stay.
Sleeping in a room with lots of people is never conducive to a good sleep. I awoke feeling groggy. A quick trip to the toilet left me in no doubt that I didn't want to get too intimate with it; hopefully our next hut would be better equipped. Sarah's guidebook recommended it, so I had high hopes. We set off on the GR11 heading west, the route frequently littered with toilet tissue, suggesting that others too had looked elsewhere for man about a dog; it was testament to what a large official route such as this could do to the landscape. It was not long before we reached our first pass, the Port de Caldes, from where we descended into a picturesque valley. The slopes of Montardo (2833m), our target for the day, loomed up ahead, some looking very rocky and unfriendly, some more accessible. We made for one of the accessible corridors of green up to the ridge, and then enjoyed a walk along to the summit. The location was excellent again, with views in all directions, though the beating sun prevented us from spending too much time exposed on the top. We descended to a shady spot to have our lunch, the normal biscuits, cheese and chorizo being shared around. Sarah lost her favourite water bottle after it fell down a steep slope into a rock field; all efforts to find it failed, and with this great loss hanging over our heads, we continued to make our descent.
Eventually we came to a stop beside the Lac deth Cap deth Port. Sam and Sarah in particular had been searching for somewhere to swim, and being outside the bounds of the national park this was an excellent opportunity. Dave and I tentatively paddled up to our waists in the water which, having come straight off the mountain, was a bit `bracing'. Sarah slowly allowed herself to acclimatise, finally getting in for a swim up to her shoulders. Sam did the same, though he was straight in. David and Ruth were content to enjoy the warm sun from the banks of the lake. After a dry off, which didn't take long in the sun, we were off again, and eventually the Refugi dera Restanca came into view. All my wishes came true. It was a large hut in an excellent spot; the rooms inside were warm and friendly; the staff likewise. As David chatted to the staff in a mixture of Catalan, Spanish and English, I settled down in the living area with a new-found faith in guidebooks. The hot shower was broken, we were informed, but I couldn't care less. Compared to Colomers, this was paradise.
After a much more pleasant night's sleep, a decent breakfast, and a less terrifying encounter with the toilet, we set off on what promised to be the best day of the trip. Our target was a pass crossing the Bessiberri ridge, only 200 metres below one of the highest summits (Bessiberri Nord, 3015m) in the Pyrenees. The valley shielded us from the sun that morning, which made for a more pleasant ascent. Having enjoyed a much better night's sleep we all seemed happier, stopping regularly to enjoy the reflection of the mountains in the still water of Lac de Mar. We'd departed from the GR11 that had carried us most of the way the day before, and now followed rough paths marked by fairly frequent cairns. As we gained height, the terrain became rockier, and it wasn't long before we were clambering over granite boulders. In a strange way it was just like being at home, playing around on the tors of Dartmoor, though a look up from the familiar rocks was all that was required to remind oneself that this was somewhere quite different.
Our route was not immediately obvious. We had been told in the hut the night before not to aim for any obvious cols on the ridge to the east; our pass would reveal itself only once we had passed the lake and made our way up. We trusted the cairns and they did not fail us. Eventually we found a point where we could see the pass. A steep scree slope led up to it, the occasional large patch of ice that had survived the summer giving some hint as to the character of these slopes for most of the year. The rocks themselves were latticed with geometric patterns, clearly where the ice had been at work over the millennia. As we approached the 2800m col the slope steepened and the rocks became smaller, and the hazard of rock fall was never far from our minds. The col was a narrow passage, flanked on either sides by high walls of rock. Sarah, troubled by the way the ground slid downhill under her feet, clung to larger rocks. Sam, feeling a little more adventurous, scrambled over some of the larger boulders that lined the walls. Eventually, though, we all reached the pass, and were rewarded with spectacular views of the Bessiberri ridge.
The col was narrow in all directions, with little flat ground to sit on. A small hut had been here once, providing shelter for those tackling the Bessiberri summit in winter, though this had now been dismantled, only a few objects and its foundations indicating its prior existence. Dave and Sam had recently spent a day negotiating the Black Cuillin of Skye, and felt like challenging a smaller peak on the ridge. David and I, ever up for a challenge, decided to go as well, though Ruth and Sarah found a comfortable spot in which to sit in the foundation platform of the old refuge. Sam led the way, easily scrambling up the ridge, and David and I followed, with Dave bringing up the rear. All eyes were focussed upwards when a chilling yelp came from below. The chest-sized rock that Dave was pulling on with both hands had just come clean off. I turned to see him hanging by something to which he had managed to get a hand. The boulder had somehow slid down his body, cutting a gash in his arm as it went, and then bounced down the slope from the col. Our shouts of "below!" were deafened as it hurtled into a pile of rocks, disintegrating into many pieces with a fitting explosion.
Dave was a little shaken, but, bar the cut on his arm, unhurt. Sam, David and I descended back to the col, a job made slightly more difficult in that our main hand- and foothold on a tricky section had just disappeared down the mountain. A bit of chocolate and some light jokes later and we were ready to proceed. The descent route deviously avoided the scree-slope on the southern side of the ridge, branching off to the east where it weaved its way through boulder fields. We had second lunch at a fantastic vantage point on the Pas del Isards, before descending to the Refugi Joan Ventosa i Calvell.
The hut was comfortable, though not up to the standard of the previous night (which was not to be surpassed for our trip). All the beds had been taken despite our having the previous hut phone ahead, but they fitted us in on the floor of the living area anyway. We couldn't complain; my BMC membership card had, not entirely officially, gained us a half-price discount for the night. We tucked in that evening to the usual variety of Spanish dishes and red wine, before our tables were converted into our beds. Alas we were not the only ones not to get bunks, for a certain man, whom we had seen smoking outside on a fairly regular basis, was also there, and his snoring was, to say the least, disturbing. At around 4am we all lay wide awake in our beds listening to the room reverberate around us. For some reason I couldn't suppress a giggle. And that was that. We spent the next 15 minutes in fits of giggles, acting like 10 year olds on a scout camp. The man carried on snoring oblivious to our mirth.
Of course, the downside of this was that we set off the next morning feeling somewhat less rested than we should have been. Our aim today was another col, this time the Collet de Contraix at around 2750 metres. The `world champion snorer', as Dave had christened him, sat outside smoking, and we glared at him as we walked past. Again we were faced with a long walk up steep and rocky terrain. It was not long before we were hopping from boulder to boulder; it was only so long, I postulated, before one of us had to fall down one of the dark cracks. But no one did. After a slightly less tricky ascent up to the col, we were again on a narrow platform perched high in the mountains, with inviting ridges heading up from either side. This time, however, we'd planned to give one a go and taken advice on it. We were to descend some way down the other side, we were told, and then to head up our chosen peak (Pic de Contraix, 2958m), by a path over boulders.
Unfortunately, I had us go the wrong way. A very inviting grass gully went straight up on to the ridge. Ruth and Sarah waited for us at the col as we set off up the gully, telling us to be careful with our handholds! The gully was harder than it looked, but not much, and we easily achieved the ridge. From there, though, things got more complicated. The scrambling wasn't technically difficult, but the exposure was very high indeed. At one point we had to cross an angled shelf where, had we slipped, the consequences could only have gone one way. Sam, whose climbing experience was put to good stead, led us along the ridge. It looked like we might have finished, but a pinnacle stood between us and the easier ridge up to the summit, a pinnacle that proved too much for me. We all turned back, somewhat dejected, at having failed another scramble. Getting down a scramble is always much harder than getting up, and we had kept this in mind while making our ascent, but it still took us longer to get down than expected.
Sarah and Ruth were waiting for us at the col. Desperate to achieve something, we decided to try the ridge in the other direction, to the north, where an alternative unnamed peak seemed easily accessible. Sarah and Ruth headed down towards the valley, arranging to meet us at the bottom. The scrambling was of a similar difficulty, but less exposed, the greatest challenge being to cross a couple of deep gullies in the ridge. This time, however, the weather caught us, and it started to rain. We decided that continuing on the rocks, which were rapidly become slippery, was not a great idea. Beaten, we descended down one of the gullies and negotiated our way over the boulders around Estany de Contraix. Reunited, the six of us ate lunch as it rained, before setting off down the valley towards out hut for the night, Refugi d'Estany Llong. The hut was packed with day trippers, as we were now nearing civilisation once again, though they eventually left, leaving us with a comfortable hut to spend our evening. While there we discovered the `Everest' game, whereby through a very complicated set of rules one has to ascend Everest by a variety of routes, culminating in the hardest of all. This inspired Dave to start the planning of a Snowdonia peak bagging game, which will keep us entertained during the long winter evenings in bunkhouses!
Our last day in the huts was a short, easy route, for which all seemed grateful. We took an easy route along Estany Llong and out of the valley, before slogging up a grass slope up to Pic del Portarro. The view from the top showed us much of our first two days' walking. After dawdling at the summit we descended and made good time heading back to the car park. We found the car still there and undamaged, and it wasn't long before we were back at base camp, setting up our tents. A trip into Espot followed, where we spent the afternoon drinking in a local bar before heading to a rather touristy restaurant for some medium-quality food. A baroque concert in the local church was a fine end to the day, and we trudged back to camp for a well-deserved sleep.
People had mixed views for the last day. I wouldn't have minded doing a low-level walk through the woods, perhaps going back up and further along the path we took on our first afternoon. However, David was definitely up for another peak, and we duly set off again in the car. From the car park we headed along the now familiar path to Estany de Sant Maurici, where we headed south up a minor valley. It was a nice walk through the woods, and we stopped for lunch besides a small tarn. A trudge up westwards to the Collada de Cote was hard work, and we all felt tired after the previous week, though eventually we reached it. Most of us were just glad to reach the pass, but it was the last day, and we hadn't made many summits while going from hut to hut, and so we decided to make a try for the summit of Pic dels Feixans de Monestero to the north. My heart sunk as it became clear that the last leg to the summit was only achievable by a scramble. It looked easy enough, but there was hardly a tradition on this trip of actually completing such routes. In the end it turned out to be one of the best twenty metres of the trip. The scrambling was well within our ability, and the exposure just enough to get some adrenaline pumping, without causing `wobbly leg syndrome'. All in all it was a delightful climax of the last day.
The return to Barcelona went off without a hitch. David and Sam took the coach this time, and Dave drove Sarah, Ruth and I back in the car. We all arrived at our pension, this time in a much quieter location. We had two rooms between the three of us, which promised a much better night sleep than our first night in the city. We'd left Espot early and arrived in Barcelona around 11am, which left us much of the day to have a look around the city, which essentially involved us visiting several Gaudi buildings, including the famous Sagrada Familia. Ticking off `the tourist thing' from our lists, we were now content to find a nice restaurant for dinner. A good night's sleep and a straightforward flight later and we were back in England. We split up in Stansted, Ruth and David returning to Cornwall, Sam to London, whilst Dave, Sarah and I set forth for Cambridge. We caught the `blue bus' into town, showing the driver our university cards for the discount. As he arrived in the city centre he called down the bus "alight here for town, restaurants, shops, punting, the university, ancient colleges and, for at least two people on this bus, home." He was right.
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