I arrive at Plaza America 15 minutes early to find some slight confusion. Nobody knows if there’s space or not, and the bus has gone to the wrong place. It arrives and people jump aboard, Rodrigo and I are last — we didn’t sign up after all, and it turns out there’s no seats left. Never mind, that’s why I brought my car. Rodrigo gets in the passenger seat, with the usual comments about how much discount I got for having the steering wheel on the wrong side. Plug in the Ipod and Eric Clapton is singing Layla. We look at the cloudless sky, look at each other, and smile. This is going to be a good day. Down the motorway, into Quirós, and then up the pass towards Puerto Ventana. There’s not much snow, but the temperature is dropping. Soon we catch up to the bus, and start climbing. Patches of snow start to appear. Another fifteen minutes later and I’m driving slowly, a good distance behind the minibus, wondering if I’ll make it to the top of the pass without getting out and putting chains on. We made it. Just.

We get out of the car. “Joder” — Rodrigo breathes in sharply.“Fuck, it’s cold!”. And it is cold. Cold enough — and snowy enough to get the skis out. And so after a little discussion and a few jokes, we’re standing on the snow, skins on, ready to head off up the mountain. The target is El Ranchón, a summit of about 2100m. There’s still some way to go, but as I stride past the others, gliding over the top of the snow they are sinking into, knee-deep, I start to think that I’ve made the right decision.

Heading up past the walkers

Two hours later I’m struggling up an icy slope, watching the walkers in crampons filing past. I really need to buy some ski-crampons. They certainly would make life easier in these conditions, but a month cross country skiing in Norway has taught me a thing or too about skiing uphill, and I manage better than the more experienced skiers think I would. There are even one or two words of praise. “You’re brave, coming up this without them” comments one of my companions. That’s one word for it, I reply, thinking to myself that perhaps stupid or stubborn might be more appropriate. The ice steepens and steepens; It’s alright when it’s textured by the wind or breakable, giving me something to dig the edges of my skis into, but as Ciro and I approach the top, it starts to get really tricky, and the last 15 meters take me about ten minutes, laboriously side-stepping my way up. “It’s all worth it when you’re up here” he shouts down to me.

Heading up behind the walkers!

On the peak, a swig of water and a bite to eat, then I peel the climbing skins off my skis – without taking the skis off, much to the surprise of Ciro. “How do you do that?” he asks. It’s good to know that I learned a few things in Norway that I can teach to people over here. Ciro is still eating, and besides, I suppose I should go first for a change. “Right, I’m off”, I tell him. I slide towards the edge of the summit, and my earlier worries become more concrete. I look down at the 60º sheet of ice below me, with a few rocky islands sticking out here and there, and realise that the days I spend skiing on-piste in Andorra won’t help me at all here. But there’s no way i’m coming all the way up a mountain with skis on my feet and then taking them off to go down. Count to three. One. Two.

Getting ready for the off.

Three. And I push off, sliding sideways down the first few metres through a gap in the rocks only just wide enough for my skis. “Faster is Easier. Faster is Easier”, I repeat to myself, the advice I got from pretty much every experienced skier I asked. I point my skis downhill, and start to pick up the pace. Lean left, lean right, and lean forward. Ski aggressively. Oh my god, it’s working, I’m going, I’m not on my arse! I see someone at the bottom taking photos, and realise I have remained on my feet for the whole steep section. I start to cruise towards Alberto, his camera still trained on me. I look up from the snow in front of me, smile, and my ski tip drops into a hiker’s footprint. Before I know what’s happened I’m in a heap on the floor. I burst out laughing. So do the spectators. “And it was all going so well”, I comment. I get myself back on my feet, and continue on down, sightly flatter now. The next descent seems easier at first, but I hit a patch of ice and cartwheel down the hill, hearing my left shoulder crunch as I go over. A quick yelp, count to three, and back up again. It’ll get better by next weekend, I think to myself. I’m right-handed anyway.

Ovidio at the beginning of the walking part.

As I approach the beginning of the next downhill section, someone calls out. If I want to get back to my car, I need to put my foot down. I cruise down the last downhill section, flying past all the hikers until I take a final comedy bail into a snowbank. This time I stand up unharmed. Ovidio is standing, waiting for me, looking amused by my enthusiastic incompetence. We ski to the bus together, two perfect examples: one of how to ski, and one of how not to ski. I’ll let you guess which was which. The final couple of kilometres we have to walk, carrying our skis. We arrive at the bus, and the weather is closing in. We’re all onboard just in time, and the doors close as the cloud, wind and snow arrive. Back up to the car, a quick repack, and Rodrigo and I are on our way down, wondering where the bus got to. As we arrive at the bar everyone is stopping at on the way home, we still can’t work out how it got down so fast.

In the bar I continually decline the cider I’m offered, choosing cecina and chorizo instead, nursing a lemonade. This is the price you pay for not signing up for the trip in advance. Chatting away, I am always amazed by how keen all these people that I have just met are to help me. “I’ve done the bike-ride you’re doing this easter,” says Alberto,” I’ll see if I can dig out some maps and stuff”. Last week, Miguel, who is sitting opposite us, lent me a pair of bicycles for the trip. I think back to England, and wonder how many people would lend be a bike after I’d known them for a fortnight. Not so many, I think to myself. More jokes about my backwards car, and finally everyone is rounded up and it’s time to go. Rodrigo and his fiancée María José pile into my car for the ride back to Oviedo, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to wipe the smile off my face for the next few days. I drop them near my house, and we say our goodbyes. “So, I’ll call you next weekend then,” says Rodrigo, “and let you know what we’re up to. There will probably still be snow in the Picos.”

Living for the weekend. This is my weekend.

I’ve cleared my diary.

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Snow on the mountains behind Tuiza Arriba (1300m), Asturias, Spain

They were covered in snow.

Of course, I knew that the first snows had hit the Picos de Europa last week, but this was some one thousand metres lower in altitude, and still there was a decent covering. My mind was racing with the possibilities for climbing in the big mountains. Now the need to find a partner of equal ability and experience is even more pressing. I pulled myself away from the view and after a quick stretch — I never was a great believer in long warm-ups — I set off running. I wanted to reach the col above the village so that I could see the view on the other side, and with sunset in two hours, I was going to have to get a move on. Oh well, I thought, I’ve packed a head-torch, what’s the worst that can happen.

As it turns out, Bulls. Lots of bulls, all over the path I was running along. I’d driven nearly an hour to get here, there was no way I was turning back. I started trotting towards them, and to my amazement, they all turned and ran away. It must have been a bad hair day. With my bovine obstacles out of the way, all that stood between me and the col was… well, a very steep hill. I arrived at the top, some 400 metres higher and 4 kilometres along the track, panting and spluttering my way to an incredible view. After soaking it up for a few minutes, I noticed that my hands were numb. It was windy and cold up here, and I was dressed for running, not for hanging about. Better get back on the move, before I get so cold that I injure myself. I looked behind me at Tuiza, my starting point. It seemed a long way, although thankfully now it was a long way down, instead of a long way up.

Looking down on Tuiza from the col above. You can just see the village in the valley below.

I tumbled back down, my earlier adversaries nowhere to be seen, and had a quick look around the village before getting into my car and riding the brakes all the way down to the motorway. This is how I want to spend my afternoons. This is why I came here. This is Asturias.

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Aside from that, it was just a normal beachy weekend, with sun and swimming, hammocks, beer and a fire. I’m getting worryingly close to leaving from Guzmán to go travelling. I’m really looking forward to travelling, but it’s a shame that I’ve just met a load of cool people in Colima, and now in three weeks’ time I’m going away for ever. I think the only answer is to come back to Mexico, and to visit the USA, Canada, New Zealand, Denmark and Sweden at some point in the near future!

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3. Sayulita

I rolled up on my bike, and everyone looked surprised. It turned out that the one guy at the camp who knew that I was coming wasn’t there, but they didn’t really care anyway, I suppose an extra pair of hands is always good. I was quickly put to work digging and raking with the others, and soon had some lovely blisters to show for it. The people at the camp are great too, and I had a lot of fun just chilling out and chatting to them, which is what they do most of the time it seems! The rest of the week was much of the same: releasing baby turtles, making a trench to protect our tents from the rising tide, and on one day going with a crazy old man to feed crocodiles.

I also managed to convince everyone at the camp to come back to Guzmán for the weekend, which turned out to be a very good one, with a great night out and a relaxing morning after spent at the park.

In other news, I’m also going, hopefully, to have an exhibition of some photos, portraity type ones of the volunteers, so I’m pretty excited about that too! I’ll put the photos on the site, so have a look!

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We decided that since it’s seven hours from where we live, it would be more sensible to get an overnight coach, and set 2.30 as the time (having been told about a coach that leaves then). It turned out that the 2.30 coach was a) not at 2.30, but 3.30, and b) far too expensive. We ended up kicking around that the new bus station (where all the cool kids hang out) and getting a much cheaper bus at 4. Whilst this meant that we didn’t get into Sayulita until lunchtime, it did mean that we had far more money left for beer, which is always a bonus.

Tucker and I managed to walk along the beach straight past our campsite and to idiotically keep walking for about an hour (it must just be a bit further) until we actually left Sayulita and ended up in the next cove. Once we realised that this really was too far, we plucked up the courage to ask the woman who was obviously staying in the one tent on this very secluded beach where we were. She replied that it was basically a private beach (beaches can’t be private in Mexico, the government owns all coastal land, but people just close off the only access routes), but that since she was allowed to be here, and she liked us, she would let us use the road to get back. This turned out to be far harder than climbing through the forest that we had used the first time, and we ended up making a dash for it through someone’s back garden. Not the smoothest of entrances, but it at least gave us a story to tell.

After settling in to the campsite and grabbing some food, we all got vaguely unpacked and hit the beach for some serious Frisbee, volleyball, swimming, and all manner of other beachy things, before finally going out to somewhere slightly more fancy for Martine’s birthday, and returning to our hut for the obligatory drinking games. We also made a camp fire, evoking the usual Neanderthal attitude towards fire from most of the lads, and the usual tutting and eye-rolling from the lasses. Never mind. By about 10.30 everyone was determined to stay for Monday as well. Moving from the fire to the sofas in our hut was a natural progression, as was the progression from ring around the fire to ring of fire — what a game!

After waking up relatively early the next morning, Danny and I pissed of to the town half an hour away that is, in fact, the nearest cash point. We arrived back at about midday, and everyone except Tucker, who was resolutely and completely battered the night before, had woken up and were finding food or lying on the beach. Yet another day of beachiness ensued, the only difference being that we were much more careful not to lose our second and only remaining Frisbee to the rip-tide. By about two there was a serious flaking off home and working on Monday contingent forming, and after last night’s fervour, only six of us ended up staying.

I for one am very glad I stayed! It was another standard night of drinking games and giggling, but it was well worth staying for. After more Ring of Fire, and then some truth or dare, Tucker was the first to pass out, followed by Danni, leaving the last four of us to go and get some tacos, and then gracefully fall asleep, three in a bed top and tailing downstairs, and me upstairs as the only one who was sober enough to climb a ladder.

Once again we woke relatively early, pissed about on the beach, this time acquiring some friendly hippies with whom we played some bizarre pre-colombian version of Hackey Sack, and we left earlyish at about 3 so that we could get buses home rather than pay for taxis. Finally, after some more tacos, we got home to sleep and prepare for the next hard 4 hour long day at work. Life is hard.

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Day One — Easyjet-Peasy

After rising at 5am for a breakfast of cornflakes and the obligatory fannying about checking bags, passport, money, map etc. we made it from Sutton to London in record time (less than two hours!) to discover that we were in fact too early to check in. Our plane was delayed by about an hour, which caused us moderate strife, but there was just enough time to leg it from the train station to the worlds smallest, and yet best stocked supermarket for the camping essentials: Camping Gaz, Pasta, and … erm … well that’s it really. After safely installing in a hotel in Gap (preceded by a train journey through which I slept completely) we are now safely repacking our rucksacks in the cheap-and-cheerful cream and pink hotel room. The joys of backpacking!

Day Two — Why did no one warn me about the mountains?

We rose at six, after indulging in a French game show in which just over half the games involved the contestants, in pyjamas, running away from a rampaging bull (no really…). Only two were actually gored though, so it was all good, clean family fun. From bed to breakfast, and with the baguette theft competently accomplished we had our lunch too. Well, if they’re going to charge €72 for a room, then they surely can’t begrudge us a couple of french loaves! A few hours , a boring coach journey and an extortionate taxi journey later, and we were optimistically setting foot on the trail. Little did I know the world of pain that I was entering.

There is a curious phenomena within our guide book: where it cheerfully states a three of four hundred metre height gain, it actually means that you drop a couple of hundred first, then climb double, meaning that where we should have climbed about 900m, we climbed well over 1200m, and probably more like 1500m. Shane took this in his rather rapid stride, whereas I climbed at approximately the speed of a beached whale. No, I lie, marginally slower than a beached whale. And I didn’t even make soothing whale noises. Add this to the usual first day sunburn, and you begin to see my agony. And then I got cramp. In my legs. In both my legs. Why must I be blessed with an uncanny susceptibility to cramp?

On the other hand, the mountains are spectacular, and I took some great photos. The landscape is incredibly rocky and barren, and then in seconds you descend in to lush green meadows. Why do the french have it all? The food, the wine, the mountains, the beaches. Even the attitude, although seemingly arrogant, at least means that they enjoy themselves. They don’t have the music though, we have the music. And I took the fact that ‘Stand By Me’ (the signature tune to another unforgettable trip) was playing on the radio in the taxi to be a good sign. If it was, that means tomorrow will have to be bloody fantastic!

Day Three — Blisters!

Yes, it happened, we both got blisters. Despite the fact that I’ve worn these walking boots for nearly three years and never had a problem, even on a previous alpine exped, on the second day of the longest, most arduous walk I’ve ever attempted, I have blisters. Added to this, I very nearly got blisters on my hips from my monumentally uncomfortable backpack. I think it’s adjusted for someone a foot taller than me, but there are so many buckles and straps that I wouldn’t know where to start.

Yesterday ended with pasta, and thus today began. Yes, we did eat dry pasta for breakfast. I intend to live entirely off bread, pasta and chocolate until we arrive in Menton, and since we had no bread, and had eaten all our chocolate (the worlds most delicious chocolate orange cake — more later), pasta was the only option. Whereas last night was €72 for bed and breakfast, this was €20 for a pitch, a €6 phone card, and an entire chocolate orange cake. It turned out that a slice meant a quarter, so four slices went a long way. We ate half immediately, and half at the day’s high point, shortly after being overtaken by three gnarly looking frenchmen who seem to be walking the same route. The other nutritional highlight of the day had to be the pizza. Pizza? Where did you buy pizza? I hear you ask. Well, in a small village that we passed through, it turned out that there was nothing but a church, a few houses, and a pizzeria (and no, I don’t know why!), so we had a pizza, and welcome it was too.

Shortly after that, another climb, where we were overtaken again by the same group of frenchmen (we were confused too) and then down (far too much down) to St. Etienne de Tinée, where we dined upon yet more pasta, and met Josh, the friendly cyclist from Loughborough, with whom we whiled away the hours chatting until the late bed time of about nine. Today wasn’t nearly as bad as yesterday (thankfully), and tomorrow promises to be even shorter. Hurrah for relaxing strolls through green meadows with previously unheard of numbers of crickets. Shame we ate all the cake though…

Day Four — Logging and ‘les tortues’

Today we had the inevitable getting lost. We walked about an extra three miles because of it, and had to climb straight up a couple of hundred metres to get back on track. Then disaster struck. Apparently, the section of the GR5 between St. Etienne and Roya is closed for logging between June and November. We made a fair effort, but after five or six hours walking, we gave up and went back down to Auron, then returned to St. Etienne where we were mercilessly mocked by the aforementioned friendly cyclist. However after a slap up dinner of pasta and a few Leffes, the world seemed alright again. It turned out that we were only about an hour and a half’s walk from Roya at the top of our climb, but at least this way we’re safe, slightly less kackered, and we get the beers in.

Day Five — The ‘Rest’ Day

The plan for today was to recover from yesterday’s seven hour beasting, with a bit of gentle, bagless walking with Josh, who decided to stay for another night since he now had our company. In reality however, ridiculously fit cyclists will be ridiculously fit, and our gentle walk turned out to be a 1400 metre climb to the highest peak we’d yet reached, and running back down. It was amazing fun though. It started raining at the top, which worried us a bit, as we weren’t really prepared for wet weather, but we sheltered in a hut, then a mountain refuge, and the weather turned again to glorious sunshine. Our little rest also allowed us to discover an abandoned mine of some kind, or at least a cave with a railway in it. All very intriguing, especially as it seemed to run underneath a lake. As I mentioned, we ran down, a leg bashing for all, so we decided to splash out on sausages for tea (or at least as close as the french come to sausages), which were consumed with glee all round. We ate pasta too of course. Early to bed though — we have to be up early to catch a bus around the logging to another town on the route. At least our mishap means that we got a great day’s walking, and we managed to get Josh’s email, so he can send us some photos. Hopefully it’ll be plain sailing from now on, but somehow I doubt it, as we thought that this was the easy bit!

Day Six — Back On Track

Today was the recovery of thursday’s logging disaster. We arose at the ungodly hour of six, rapidly packed up, and grabbed some ‘pain au chocolate before catching the bus to St. Suaver de Tinée and walking to St. Dalmas de Valdeblore. Today really was an easy day. We arrived in St. Dalmas by four and we passed through a beautiful mountain town called Rimplas. We even stopped to talk to friendly french pensioners. When we pitched our tent, we were next to a brother and sister who have already been walking for fifteen days. And we thought we were tired! I have to go to sleep now though (before eight!) because we’re getting up at four tomorrow to start a seven and a half hour day of walking (that’s seven and a half hours without breaks) up into the mountains. We won’t be back in a town, or even a village, for four days. It’s exciting and daunting at the same time, especially as I’m already tired, and the first four hours are steadily uphill. Our bags will be heavier too, because we have to carry a few day’s worth of pasta. Josh will probably be in Nice by now, having ridden at some disgraceful speed along the 90km long, entirely downhill road he was taking this morning.

I’m told that then next few days are the most beautiful part of our walk, but on the other hand, on one of the days we walk through something that roughly translates as ‘The Pass of The Devil’, so it’s no cakewalk. I’m sure it’ll be fine though, as long as I stop writing and get some sleep!

Day Seven — The Long Haul

We walked for quite a long time today. In fact, even if you take out all the breaks we walked for eleven hours solid. Ridiculous I know, but we had our reasons (well, reason: the place we wanted to stay was too expensive). We climbed 2100m too. We got to where we planned to stop on our longest planned day of walking, and then walked on for another three hours. Uphill. Fortunately, by this point we had both reached the stage where all physical activity was an exercise in mind over matter, and it only hurt when we finally stopped. It hurt a lot. Did i mention that we got up at four am? Four! We’re sleeping in beds tonight though, so there’s at least something to look forward to. I would write about some of the marvellous sights we saw, but right now I feel like I’m about to die, or at least lose my legs, so until tomorrow, gentle reader, farewell!

Day Eight — Madonna in the Window

Today was a chance for a slight recovery, as we had cut about two hours off the planned journey by adding to yesterday’s original distance. By recover, I mean to say there were six or seven hours walking instead of eight or nine. We set off at about half seven after a breakfast of chocolate and we were off, walking accross a rather sketchy scree. We soon enough reached a beautiful lake, with a couple of wild horses by it. It bode well for the rest of the day, but then we saw it: a climb to our first col, that started steeply and became steeper at the top. It was, suffice to say, very hard work, but unlike yesterday, it was hard work for only a short period of time. We reached the top and it was straight back down again to a large refuge and church in a place called ‘Madone de Fenestre’. Why it is called this I don’t know, but they had some lovely chocolate tarte.

We then continued to walk through the heat of midday to what was mysteriously marked on the map as ‘hard part of hiking trail’. Read ‘No path here’. What we saw was just an immense boulder field, which, after much ankle strain, took us to another little lake with a fantastic view for miles between two mountains (perhaps the window?) and some ‘Chamoix’ deer. And even an iccle baby deer. How sweet. This was followed by a steep ascent up a scree, and a steeper descent down an even more treacherous boulder field which brought us to Refuge Nice. Here, we camped by a lake, and after a friendly Ex-Pat geordie had bought us a beer, we cooked our pasta and retired to our wonky tent. And then, did it rain…

Day Nine — In Cloud Nine

It had rained all the previous night, and it was most certainly raining this morning when we had to cram a sodden tent into a dry-sack and start walking. The Gore-Tex was resolutely on today, even if it did make me far too hot, and before we knew what was happening we were walking in the clouds.

There was more ‘hard’ path today, and we realised whilst freezing on top of a windy, rainy, col inside a cloud why the group of french walkers just behind us had stopped just over the col, rather than actually on top of it, completely exposed to the elements. So our day in ‘The Valley of Wonders’ was to be marred by cloud and rain. It did brighten up slightly as we entered the valley, but I can’t help but feel that some of the ‘wonder’ was lost in fog.

The mist did add a strangely atmospheric feel to the mountains though, especially on the higher cols, and some of the lakes looked like they were pulled straight out of a Sci-Fi B-movie. The Refuge de merveilles really was wonderful though, and we camped in the mountains amidst some stunning scenerey. Unfortunately though, we have run out of Gaz. I’m sure we’ll manage, and tomorrow really is a short day to our final stop away from the towns. I’m looking forward to a shower though. A hot shower.

Day Ten — From Wonders to The Devil

We decided to eat breakfast in the refuge this morning, and it turned out that breakfast means hot chocolate, butter, jam and enough bread to kill anyone but a ravenous hiker. It was a good decision as we’re running out of our stale bread. Eating someone else’s stale bread is clearly preferable! We even managed to dry the tent a little. The day was unremarkable as far as mishaps or difficulties go, but the views were truly amazing. From the ‘Pas du Diable’ (Pass of the Devil), today’s high point, we could see not only the mountains, but all the way to the sea where we will eventually finish. Unfortunately, I don’t think that photos can capture the beauty of the scenery, but I took a few anyway (I’ve taken over three hundred in total, I’ve run out of room on my little memory cards).

Because today was so short and down hill, we took it fairly easy with a nice ‘steady’ pace and frequent, long breaks. Even at this gentle canter we made it to the gite we’re staying at by three. We couldn’t camp tonight, so somewhere to sleep incurred the highest costs since the preliminary travel and hotel. At least it includes bed and breakfast, possibly a packed lunch and maybe even a lift back to the GR52 (we had to go an hour off route for somewhere to stay). And it was only €34, which isn’t too bad.

Since we arrived I’ve spent a very relaxing few hours having a shower, playing ‘Slam’, the legendary card game of speed, reactions and dexterity, and a few imaginary card games with a four year old girl to relax in between the intense competition, and now I’m writing this. Not for much longer though, as dinner is in forty minutes and I want to read some of my scintillating book on literary theory. Adieu.

Day Eleven — The Mountains (Of Cake)

Within the last twenty four hours I have eaten so much as to be positively unnerving. Beginning with last night’s dinner at the hotel, our first full mean for about a week, including an unusual egonion/cream dish (recipe on the site!) and copious amounts of ice cream, onto the this morning’s breakfast of pastries, jam, bread and hot chocolate, a large ham sandwich, half a loaf of bread, a huge pile of pasta, a slice of chocolate cake, a slice of almond cake, a pain au chocolate and a pizza. The ‘Walkers Tariff’ at the hotel included a lift by van back to the GR52, cutting a one hour walk off route, meaning that we arrived in Sospel by about half past two to find everything closed for lunch, got to the campsite, washed everything, and then to relaxing. The other walkers we befriended even bought us some cake from the patisserie as they saw us eating pasta as they left (the almond cake, if you’re interested), which means we’ll definitely have to buy them a drink in Menton.

We’re going straight to Menton tomorrow, as Castellar has only a hotel, which would be too explensive, and we’ll stay either at the campsite or the youth hostel depending on the price. Our walk is nearly over, and sadly I think that by the end I will just about be as fit as I should have been to even attempt it. Even more sadly, I’ve lost the belt for my shorts, which now keep falling down, and my socks still aren’t dry, nor are my boxers. I have what I am wearing now, but the wet socks are more comfortable (and the wet boxers more clean!). I hope they’re dry in the morning, because it’s quite a long walk tomorrow. Oh well, c’est la vie, or, as I have now learnt — veut faire avec!

Day Twelve — The Grand Finale

We did it! We actually finished. The views were truly spectacular, I hope the photos do them even vague justice. Our first action was to slump at the nearest café, and then off for a paddle, which turned into a swim, despite not having any swimming trunks. It meant that my clothes were wet, but it had to be done really. The sea is so warm and flat. It turned out, however, that the only campsite is up a huge hill (about one hundred and fifty to two hundred metres of steps!); added to this, we were told upon arrival that it was full. Luckily our friendly hiking (and, in a new twist to the tale, moderately aggressive) frenchmen came to our rescue, basically by shouting at the receptionist until she let us stay on one of the many blatantly not full plots. After this, we descended from the heights to forage. Well, at least to find a cheap italian restaurant, where you got lasagne or a pizza as a starter. Madness, but a good kind of madness! Full of lasagne, pizza, steak and chocolate mouse, we remounted the camping peak and I shall now promptly fall asleep after a somewhat strenuous but very satisfying day.

Day Thirteen — Beach Bums

After a fond farewell to our french compadres, during which, amongst other things, I was invited both to stay in Paris, and to go climbing in Fontainbleu (whoever said the French weren’t friendly is very wrong), we descended from the heights once more, determined not to return until the evening. Shane did in fact return to the campsite. It took him two hours (with an ice cream break). This made us even more determined not to go back during the day. There really isn’t much to report though, as we spent all day lying on the beach, and cooked on the beach in the evening (Des Oeufs à la Trippe, of course!). We did discover the worlds best ice cream shop though. It’s priced by weight and you make your own! After a bottle of Rosé, we walked through the old town, watched some very enthusiastic Ukulele playing and returned to sleep. Not as exciting as the walking, but certainly a welcome respite!

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