SNOW STOPS PLAY

PIC DU MIDI D'OSSAU IN THE MORNING

GRAEME AT COL DE PEYREGET

I WAS THERE TOO

REGUGE D'ARREMOULIT

FROZEN LAC D'ARREMOULIT

PETIT TRAIN

FANNY & CLEMENCE GAVE ME A LIFT

CYCLISTS XABIER, UNAI AND JULIUS SHARED THEIR ACCOMODATION

Refuge d'Ayous is a good refuge, but the sleeping arrangements give new meaning to the word 'togetherness'. Everyone, male and female mixed together, is crammed like sardines into the two upstairs loft rooms. You wouldn't be closer to your neighbour if you were in a double bed. I gave the chap next door permission to nudge me if I snored.

With so many people in such a small space, the room was hot and stuffy. I had a rather restless sleep and was relieved when my alarm went off at 6.00am, a time selected to enable me to get an early start to my walking.

The sun was just rising and I was treated to a wonderful view of the twin peaks of Pic du Midi d'Ossau reflected in the lake as I ate breakfast. This scene is a favourite with artists (the mountain that is, not me eating breakfast).

I said a final farewell to Marietta and Catherine, and then headed south to rejoin the HRP, which then took me east in the direction of Refuge de Pombie.

To get there it was necessary to get across the Col de Peyreget, a tough climb over jumbled rocks and snowfields. I met Greame, a Scot, on the lower slope and we made the climb up to the Col together. It was reassuring to have company for a while.

Once at the top Greame sped ahead down to Pombie, using his heavyweight army boots to kick steps in the snow as he went. Since my boots were too flexible for step-kicking in anything but soft snow, I trailed behind using my lightweight crampons for the first time. They certainly helped give me a more secure and thus speedier descent, and raised a certain amount of interest at the refuge.

Graeme continued on his day-walk while I stopped for cake and a pot of tea at the refuge. I spoke to the guardian who informed me that because of heavy snowfall this year, the snowfields had been slow to clear, making walking conditions hazardous. He said the snow presently surrounding the refuge would normally have melted two weeks ago. He thought that it was safe to procede as far as Refuge d'Arremoulit, but suggested I ask the guardian there for further advice.

Getting to Arremoulit involved a long downhill walk to the D934 road before climbing up the Val d'Arrious to the Col d'Arrious. It was getting late by the time I got halfway up, so I pitched my tent behind a large rock with a cabane built against it. It had been a long hard day, but the weather had been good.

I continued with my climb in the mornimg (Saturday), but began to meet significant snow above 2,000m. The Col is at 2259m. For the first time the ice axe came out.

Once at the Col I was rewarded by spectacular views straight ahead down to Lac d'Artouste. I turned right, however, to walk along the famous Passage d'Orteig, a narrow ledge in the side of the cliff where steel cables have been attached to aid safety. From there, it was once again necessary to use the ice axe and crampons to make a safe descent to the Refuge d'Arremoulit, at an altitude of 2,305m. It occured to me that I was not meant to be meeting snow conditions like this until I got beyond Refuge de la Soula in another week's time, when altitudes would be 500m greater than now.

I spoke to the guardian at Arremoulit who confirmed that the snow will get progressively worse as I go further east, making many of the passes difficult and hazardous to cross. The other problem with snow is that it covers up footpaths and other features making navigation difficult. One could be standing on top of a stream or lake and not know it - until the ice breaks. This is not the sort of walking that one should be doing alone.

I had hoped to at least get as far as Gavarnie, but that would involve going into relatively wild areas with few people and few easy routes out. Mobile phone contact is expected to be sporadic at best. By the time the guardian went on to inform me that the weather was expected to deteriorate over the next week, my mind was made up. Proceeding would be too dangerous. I had reached the limit of my risk-tolerance and decided that I must go down and rethink my plan.

Decision made, I headed down the snowfields to Lac d'Artouste. There is a dam at the northern end which is also the end station of the 'Train Touristique du Lac d'Artouste', a scenic miniature railway. I caught the so called Petit Train to be treated to an hour-long, slightly hair-raising, cliff-edge ride along the Vallee du Soussoueou. The mountains looked even more massive from a distance than they had felt whilst walking them. It was hard to believe that I had hauled 18kg of rucksack to the altitudes I had.

The train ride took me to a cable car station from which I could descend to Fabrege, an obvious tourist centre. I hoped to find accommodation in the village of Gabas, some 5km away, and resolved to get there. As luck would have it, two young ladies, Clemence and Fanny, stopped their car as I walked alongside the road and offered me a lift just as it was starting to rain. How could I decline?

We couldn't find a place for me to stay in tiny Gabas so they offered to take me on to Laruns where there would be more opportunities. There was also a tourist information centre in Laruns and it would be a better place from which to catch busses to other places.

What Clemence and Fanny didn't realise when they dropped me off was that, on this particular evening, this was the halfway stop for the 2-day, 320km, Luchon to Bayonne cycle race. It seemed that all the hotels and gites were full!

Luck came my way once again. As I wandered around looking for somewhere to stay, or even somewhere just to pitch my tent, I met Xabier and his two brothers Unai and Julius. They were riding in the cycle race and had booked a mobile home for the night at Camping Bartheque. They offered me the sofa, which was far preferable to camping in the rain. We enjoyed each other's company and spent the evening eating together in a local restaurant.

In the morning they were away early for the second stage of their race, leaving me to hand in the mobile home keys. Sunday would be a good day for me to consider what to do next.

I took my time tidying myself up after two unwashed nights in the mountains and charged my mobile phones up now that I had power at last. It was pouring with rain outside, as I had been warned. I didn't leave the campsite until noon, but the proprietor didn't seem concerned and chatted to me in a friendly way as I handed him the key. He was a thin wirey man with a rugged face who must have been well over 70. He reminded me of neighbour Denis Lillywhite, whose farm is opposite to my house.

I explored Laruns for a while in the wet before settling down for the afternoon in the cafe of the Hotel d'Ossau to study my maps. The Bonny Tyler song 'Lost in France' kept playing in my head.

Pau looked interesting, though!

INTO THE PYRENEES NATIONAL PARK

SNOWFIELDS - EARLIER IN WALK THAN EXPECTED

WITH MARIETTA & CATHERINE

A WINDOW IN THE CLOUDS

SOCIAL GATHERING

STYLISH WATERPROOF FOOTWEAR

PRECIPITOUS DROP ON CHEMIN DE LA MATURE

They didn't have any drying facilities at Jeandel, so there was little choice but to put the wet stuff back on, including the soggy boots and socks.

Firstly, I decided not to worry about the fact that I had now travelled a 10km section of my Pyrenean journey by car. The essence of my trek was still there, and going back to Refugio de Belagua just to repeat the road journey on foot would have added nothing.

My plan was to follow the GR10 to Lescun, but I was informed that the normal route was closed because they were remodelling the mountainside to extend the skiing facilities.

The alternative route looked innocuous enough....until I actually tried to walk it. It led through a total jumble of jagged rocks - the sort of thing I would normally avoid completely. The next surprise was the snowfields. There were large sloping areas that needed to be crossed where one slip could lead to injury - or worse. Just to compound the difficulties, Navigation was tricky and I temporarily got myself off route and tried to correct it by modifying my bearing rather than going back to where I went wrong. Scrambling across those jagged rocks was not one of my better decisions.

Dealing with hazards like this certainly required a cool head. All this was at an altitude of over 2,000m, but at least the sun was shining.

Anyway, it took a couple of hours to get this 'alternative' part of the route over with. I certainly learned a lot in the process which should help me next time I come against similarly difficult terrain  I won't be going out of my way looking for it, though.

The rest of the route to Lescun was straightforward enough. The views of Pic d'Anie and the mountain cliffs that comprise the Cirque de Lescun are stunning. The only shame was that the mist came down in the early afternoon, and then the rain.

As I passed the Refuge de Laberouat on the way down, I met again some folk who had also stayed at Jeandel. One of them, Jean-Louis, was also walking down to Lescun, so we did so together. Wow, did he walk fast. I struggled to match his pace. We communicated as best we could given that his knowledge of English was as bad as my French, but we rubbed along just fine.

I had considered camping in Lescun, but by the time I got to the village I was drenched, so the 'Maison de la Montagne' where Jean-Louis was staying got my custom instead.

Evening entertainment comprised the local choirgirls practicing their singing in the bar. I am getting the idea that this is the thing to do here.

For Wednesday, in view of the previous day's experience, I decided to keep safe and continue following the GR10, ignoring any 'alternative' routes, of course.

Today I was leaving Basque Country amd entering the Pyrenees Occidentales. Jean-Louis went ahead and I walked with Stephane who had also stayed at the 'Maison'. The route took us through meadows and woodland. Were it not for    the backdrop of huge mountains and the size of the hills we had to climb, we could easily have been in England. We caught up with Marietta and Catherine, two girls I had met at previous hostels on the GR10 route. We continued on together to the charming village of Borce in the Aspe valley with its lovely church and houses, and then to a Gite at nearby Etsaut.

The evening was spent eating and drinking, sharing stories and planning for the next day. Although I was a Brit amongst French people, and my language skills were poor, I never once felt excluded. It was a good day.

Also today I discovered a way to keep my feet dry in the evening when my only footwear, my boots, are soaking wet. The trick is to put my feet into plastic bags before putting them into my boots. It works a treat.

On Thursday Jean-Louis, Marietta and Catherine set off along GR10 early. Stephane decided just to explore the local area before returning home, so I walked alone.

First point of interest was the spectacular Chemin de la Mature where the route passes along a passageway gouged into the cliffside. With a sheer face one side and a sheer drop on the other, it made me chuckle that someone had built cairns for guidance since it was impossible to 

get the route wrong except in a rather terminal way.

There was over 1,500m of climbing to do and several fast-flowing streams to cross. Somewhere around midday I officially entered the Parc National des Pyrenees Occidentales, the only national park in the French Pyrenees. As I approached the highest point of the day, the Col d'Ayous, there were several small snowfields to cross, but I was getting into practice now. From the Col I was greeted by the beautiful view of Lac Gentau with the Refuge d'Ayous on the western shore.

Although it was still only mid-afternoon, it seemed like a good idea to stay the night so that I could obtain safety advice and check weather conditions before setting off in the morning. Marietta, Catherine and Jean-Louis were already there, but Jean-Louis was just about to continue on to Gabas even though it was a bit drizzly.

You don't take showers in these refuges because the water which runs off the mountains is very cold and they don't have sufficient power to heat it. Fuel and food have to be brought in by helicopter. Although they normally have a telephone system, it had been down for some days, making communication with the outside world impossible.

NEW START

WATER, WATER!

BRIDGE OVER GORGES OF HOLZARTE

UNMANNED REFUGE NEAR PISTA PEKOA

PISTA PEKOA

BORDER CROSSING

SPANISH FRIENDS MANEL, AURELIO & MARTI SHELTER FROM THE STORM

I spent the morning at Bargariak pondering my options before deciding to walk down to Logibar hostel, the other side of Larrau. At least that would keep me moving in the right direction.

It was quite misty so visibility of the surroundings was limited, but at least I was comfortably cool for the first time in days. The clouds enveloping the high mountain peaks confirmed my thoughts that climbing Pic d'Orhy would have required a huge effort for no real benefit other than the 'because it's there' kind of satisfaction.

I acquired a bit of a change of mindset at Bargariak that seemed to lighten my load. After taking on board a helpful email from Mum, I decided to stop worrying about my walking schedule and simply deal with things on a day-to-day basis. I found myself actually enjoying the walk rather than just bearing the discomfort. It occured to me that I should just allow myself to bathe in the beauty of the mountains more rather than always trying to dominate them. I suspect that there may be some analogy with my character here. Life teaches us lessons in all sorts of ways.

I stopped to have a quick look around the village of Larrau while I was passing, and was delighted the hear the melodic voices of female singers coming from a local bar. The bar was near the church and it was a Sunday. Perhaps the choir enjoyed what they did so much that they just couldn't stop? I bought a beer and clapped when they had finished. Carrying my rucksack I was obviously not local, and a lady thanked me for coming.

They charged me €50 for a demi-pension single at Logibar, but gave me a nice clean double room (demi-pension means inclusive of evening meal and breakfast).

After a shower, I enjoyed a rucksack-free trot to see the nearby Gorges of Holzarte, best viewed from the suspension footbridge that straddles one of the Gorges. The sign said it was 50 minutes away on foot, but I made it there and back in that time. It was encouraging to know that my slow rate of progress along the Pyrenees was not due to any general lack of fitness.

After an exceptional al fresco supper I retired to bed just as the lightning, thunder and rain started. If I'd climbed Pic d'Orhy, I would have had to wildcamp at altitude in that!

As for what to do next, I did consider getting a taxi to take me to the nearest post office next morning so that I could send home the camping gear and anything else I could manage without. This would certainly lighten my rucksack. However, carrying the tent gave me flexibility and made it possible to turn up at refuges even if they were fully booked, as they always allow hikers to camp outside and still use the facilities.

I could switch to the GR10 instead of the HRP, but this route looks a bit dull in parts so I wouldn't want to stick to it.

The third option is simply to select the route I want to follow on a day-to-day basis. If that doesn't quite get me to the Mediterranean by the end of July, I can always come back and complete it another time.

Monday morning's weather was clear although rain was expected later. As I ate breakfast I watched a French gentleman set off with a rucksack that look even heavier than mine. I immediately made up my mind. My third option was the one I would chose, and today I would rejoin the HRP by heading up to the border ridge, a climb pretty-well as high as Ben Nevis.

The route took me past the Gorges of Holzarte again, although this time I did take the full 50 minutes. It was just after the suspension bridge that I caught up with the heavily-laden Frenchman. He would shortly be heading off in a different direction, whereas I kept climbing for five hours to get to the border ridge, passing an unmanned refuge hut and a beautiful waterfall along the way.

It was foggy on the way up which made it pleasantly cool again, but when I peered over the Spanish side it was sunshine all over - at least for a while.

As I moved east along the ridge the weather gradually deteriorated. Drizzle turned to light rain and then heavier rain. I heard thunder in the distance and was then subjected to a pelting by hail. Then the cracks of lighting and the booming of the thunder became almost simultaneous and the rain became a downpour. I was now in a full-blown thunderstorm.

Enclosed in my waterproofs I marched along quickly, making sure not to make myself the highest point on the ridge. I come to a road and decided that the safest option would be to walk down it to the Refuge Jeandel at Port de la Pierre-Saint-Martin 10km away. Not far ahead of me along the road I saw three walkers looking like camels with their capes over their rucksacks. Beside the road is the old disused Belagua refuge. I saw them tuck under the porch for shelter and thought I would join them for a bit. They turned out to be my three Spanish friends again, and they had already arranged for a car to take them to Jeandel. I was pleased to accept their invitation to share the ride.

Jeandel was a bit of a mess because the roof was being replaced after having been torn off by 228km/hr winds during the winter. We had to sleep in temporary portakabin-like buildings placed alongside, which wasn't exactly luxury.

Any port in a storm, however, and the food was good.

RONCESVALLES AND BEYOND

YOU LOOKING AT ME, MATE?

RONCESVALLES ABBEY

ALEXIS AND MARI SHARED THEIR FOOD WITH ME

TENT TUCKED AWAY IN WOODS

MORNING VIEW FROM COL BAGARGIAK

FEET BEARING UP - WITH A LITTLE HELP

The days have been very warm, making walking quite exhausting, but at least my exhaustion has ensured that I have been sleeping well in spite of the nights being warm too. There also seem to be a large number of flies about, which is a particular nuisance when eating.

I left the Sorogain hostel at 8.30am after a good breakfast. Hostels tend to be in valleys, so it is inevitable that each day starts with a climb.

It took me 4 hours to reach Auritz-Burguete, my first destination of the day. There is supermarket here so I can stock up with food for the next couple of days. I ate some of it at the nearby picnic tables on the basis that food somehow seems less heavy in my stomach than my rucksack. Whist eating, along came Carlos again, having walked to same route as me. He had decided to take a rest day in Auritz-Burguete whereas I was about to proceed to Roncesvalles.

For a while I would be following a section of the Camino de Santiago. After following a straight and level path (perhap this is significant) for half an hour I reached the famous monastery at Roncesvalles, an important stopping place for pilgrims walking the Camino.

The monastery is an impressive place so I had a good look round before continuing northwards on the Camino. The rather assertive arrows on the frequent signs kept reminding me that I was walking in the wrong direction. I wondered if this made me a bad pilgrim?

There was a constant flow of walkers of many nationalities coming towards me offering their greeting of 'Buen Camino' which means 'Good Way'. Once again I bumped into my three Spanish friends who were also using part of the trail, but the right way round in their case.

I departed the Camino at Col de Bentarte to head east along the GR11 for a while, then deviated north near Azpegi. I soon found myself following a road which turned out not to be the one I had initially thought. Feeling adventurous I decided to to follow it anyway and see where it would lead me even though it was starting to get late and I needed somewhere flat to pitch my tent. I came across couple, Mari and Alexis, cooking a barbeque at a picnic site alongside the path. Not only did they find me a suitable campsite in the woods but the also shared their food and wine with me. You can never tell how the day will turn out!

Overnight I was woken by thunder and lightning. It was the first sign that I was approaching the higher mountains

Next morning I worked out that I was in a place called Arrazola and set about getting myself back on my intended route. This involved a couple of pretty steep climbs on grassy pathless slopes. The weight of my rucksack made climbing laboriously slow. Other than a solitary farmer, I didn't see anyone until I reached the summit of Okabe, in spite of it being a Saturday. This 1,466m peak was crowded with folk on weekend daywalks.

From Okabe I quickly picked up the GR10 and headed for Chalet Pedro and then les Chalets d'Iraty, where I found hostel accommodation at Col Bagargiak located at an altitude of 1,327m.

Next morning as I looked east at the beautiful snow-patched mountains which comprised the Cirque de Lescun, and the cloud inversion below me, I realised that if I carried on the way I was I would create memories of the Pyrenees that were filled with pain and discomfort. I needed to reconsider how I would explore then. 

I took my time over breakfast, then I patched my sore feet and washed the salt stains from my shirt. I then looked south towards the huge 2,017m Pic d'Orhy which was meant to be my goal for the day. It was shrouded in mist.

I realised that this was mountain to enjoy by travelling with a light daysack, not hauling up an 18kg load only to find myself enveloped in cloud.

Another matter to consider was that I was already one day behind my planned schedule after only 5 days - and that was in spite of walking 10-12 hour days for the past three days. I had clearly underestimated the difficulty of the challenge and would never get to the Mediterrannean coast in time for my flight home at this rate.

A final consideration was that when I wrote the introduction to this blog I was having to put up with various 'twinges' in my right leg that I attributed to sciatica. Since then, the twinges have gone away, to be replaced by 'twangs' in my right knee as if a tendon is catching on a bony protrusion as I walk. This causes no pain, but it is still an irritation.

It is a Sunday which seems to me to be a very good day to reassess my goals and consider my options.

Watch this space!

IRUN TO SOROGAIN

SHOWING OFF MY NICE NEW BLUE SHIRT

WILD HORSES COULDN'T DRAG ME AWAY

SPANISH FRIENDS

PLEASANT HILL WALK

STEP THIS WAY

WITH CARLOS AT SOROGAIN

It is 9.00am on Tuesday 17th of June. I said farewell to Chris and started walking.

There was no reason to repeat the section from Hendaye to Biriatou that Chris and I had walked the previous Saturday, so I headed straight to the furthest point we had reached. From there it was steady slog up to Col d'Ibardin with its views towards Biarritz and the sea, and also of the imposing 905m summit of Larrun. The rucksack felt heavy with its full load of food and water.

I am beginning to appreciate the weaknesses of the French IGN maps I am using. They show marked paths that don't exist and I have come across other paths on the ground that simply aren't marked. I had to use my compass frequently to check that I was still walking in the correct direction.

The weather was hot so I stopped at a cafe at Col d'Ibardin to enjoy a cooling cassis sorbet. Shortly after continuing my walk, I realised that I had missed a turning but decided to plod on and find my way by a different route rather than retrace my steps. I had intended to climb Larrun, but was getting tired by now and decided to skirt around it to the south and head down to Col Lizuniaga for the night. I had expected to camp, but bumped into three Spanish walkers who were staying at a hostel at the Col. One of them offered to translate for me if I wanted supper and a room, and I was too weak-willed to refuse.

The Spanish walkers, all retired but fit looking, were spending 11 days walking a route though the Pyrenees that was broadly similar to mine. Over supper I discovered that they had made the same route-finding mistake as me. Unlike me, however, they had chosen to walk back and correct it, but the additional walking had wearied them, so they too decided to skip Larrun and head for the hostel.

After a very comfortable night, I ate breakfast, paid up, then headed generally south. My target for the day was Elizondo and I would be following the GR11 all the way. Route-finding was generally staightforward and I did manage to avoid being misled by a sign that tried to divert walkers down to a Cafe, adding half a km to the distance. However, a path which didn't appear on the map took me to the wrong side of a valley. This time I used the GPS to confirm my location, then retraced my steps to find the correct route.

Just as I arrived in Elizondo, I met Carlos and his father who had been walking the same route. Joining forces, we managed to locate the Auberge Kortarixar (hostel) which had been recommended to me by my three Spanish acquaintances. When we arrived, however, we found them sitting outside looking rather glum. On the door was a note saying that it was closed because of a family emergency. After a few heated phone calls someone drove up and let us all in. Apparently, they had only one front door key to share between us and no room keys. Still, it was cheap, and with a bed, a shower and a supermarket down the road to buy food, I was content.

I had intended to walk to the Monastery at Roncesvalles the following day, but was persuaded by my Spanish friends that my plan was too ambitious and it would take me two days. I would stand a better chance of getting there quickly if I continued following GR11 instead. Trouble was, I didn't have the maps to cover this route. 

Nevertheless, I set off early next morning confident that I had learnt enough about the vagiaries of GR signage to find my way without a map. And I did! I didn't quite get to Roncesvalle, but I was only about 5 miles short. After about 10 hours of walking I decided to stop at an Auberge at Sorogain. Then, just as I was enjoying a cold beer, who should stop by but Carlos, without his Dad this time.

BASQUE COUNTRY

ON HENDAYE BEACH

HRP AND GR10 BOTH START FROM SAME PLACE

CHRIS FINDS THE GR10 ROUTE MARKERS

SAN SEBASTIAN AYUNTAMIENTO (DISTRICT COUNCIL) BUILDING

SAN SEBASTIAN WITH SANTA CLARA ISLAND & CASTILLO KALEA BEHIND

Saturday morning we took the train from Irun to Hendaye, which is on the other side of the River Bidasoa. The rail journey took us about 2 minutes. We were now on French soil, and we trod a little more of it as we walked down to Hendaye Plage (beach) where the HRP starts.

The beach was uncannily similar to that at Littlehampton where I grew up. For the first few miles the HRP follows the route of the GR10, the start of which is indicated by a sign across the road from the Residence Croisiere, an unmistakable large grey building that backs directly onto the beach.

After a brief exploration of Hendaye town we came across a decent looking restaurant which looked worthy of us investing our funds in their lunchtime 'Menu du jour'. This time we were not dissapointed by the fayre and ate all we were given with gusto (that word always makes me think that 'wind' is somehow  involved).

Perhaps it was the wine, but I managed to persuade Chris to accompany me on the initial part of the HRP route. Starting from the Residence Croisiere, we headed for the hills, initially guided by the red and white stripes that mark the route of the GR10. The surroundings became more rural as we left the town, and looking back we could see how high we had climbed.

We passed through a tunnel under the A63 (A stands for Autoroute in France - the equivalent of our motorway). Immediately following this I teased Chris by completely ignoring the red and white stripes and instead deviated left up a steep, poorly defined track. This was more representative of the HRP route I would be following, with no convenient signs to guide me.

We turned back to Irun shortly after passing the village of Biriatou, returning to the hostel at around 8.00pm. Chris was surprised that we had walked almost 13 miles that day.

Sunday's expedition was a train journey to Donostia/San Sebastian which is about 15 miles to the west of Irun. Just to clarify, Donostia is the Basque name for San Sebastian. After our 22 minute journey we stepped out of the station almost straight onto the banks of the River Urumea, and were immediately delighted by sight of the beautiful bridges, a fountain, churches and intricately-carved sandstone buildings. A walk along the river bank towards the sea took us to the old town and the magnificent sandy beaches filled with olive-skinned sunbathers.

To the east of the river the beach is in the direct line of fire of Atlantic waves, hence its popularity with surfers. The western beaches form a crescent to the south of the natural harbour of La Concha Bay, which is protected by Monte Igueldo, Monte Urgull and Isla Santa Clara. All of these natural features appear to be represented in the prominently displayed logo celebrating San Sebastian's selection as European Capital of Culture 2016.

The weather was scorching again; perfect for a swim in La Concha Bay.

At the top of the 123 metre high summit of Monte Urgull is a castle, and sitting atop that is a 12 metre statue of Jesus Christ overlooking the bay. We naturally felt obliged to make the climb and were rewarded by impressive views over the city. There was also an informative museum within the castle walls that explained much about the city's history.

For Monday, making good use of my final full day based in Irun, we took the bus to the charming Spanish town of Hondarribia just a few miles to the north. The town lies on the Spanish side of the River Bidasoa facing Hendaye opposite, but is a little smarter and more picturesque than the latter. We walked to the Cabo Higuer lighthouse, took a quick glimpse at the old fortified city built during the Rennaisance period, then settled down for lunch in the modern town centre.

A short ferry trip across the river took us to Hendaye from where we caught the bus back to Irun. All this swiching between Spain and France and back again has got us in a real muddle with our buenos dias's and our bonjour's and our por favor's and our s'il vous plait's.

The late afternoon involved shopping for food to take with me when I start walking the HRP in earnest tomorrow. Back at the hostel I carefully loaded up my rucksack taking care not to forget anything. Finally, I gave Chris all the instructions and tickets she needed to get home.

Chris keeps asking if I feel nervous about tomorrow's departure but, having done all the preparation, I'm just itching to get going now.

SANTANDER, IRUN & WORLD CUP DEFEAT

MAGDELENA PALACE

I FELT A RIGHT TIT DOING THIS

OUR PENSION (RIGHT) OVERLOOKED BY THE LOCAL CHURCH

I had wondered if we might encounter choppy seas as we crossed the Bay of Biscay, and I found myself continually humming the Norma Waterson version of a folk song that goes by that name.

As it happened, the sea was almost as smooth as ice, ensuring a nausea-free voyage and a clear-headed start to our first morning in the Cantabrian city of Santander. The weather was stunningly warm, so after the obligatory al fresco coffee and rubbing-on of sun lotion, we set off along the coast towards the Magdelena Peninsula. The city is blessed with many beautiful buildings in spite of the 1941 fire that destroyed a large central part of it.

Our coastal walk took us past some beautiful beaches. We took pictures when we reached the Magdelena Palace which, between 1913 and 1930, was the summer home of King Alfonso XIII and his Queen Victoria Eugenia. There were many more things to see on the Peninsula including seals basking in the warm sun and numerous large metal sculptures.

We kept to the coast until we reached Faro de Cabo Major (a lighthouse), then headed back to the shopping centre and our hostel via the sports arena, a metallic slug-shaped building somewhat remeniscent of Newcastle upon Tyne's Sage Gateshead.

Whilst reading on the bed at the hostel, my glasses suddenly sprung apart and the right lens dropped out. Disaster! I guessed what had happened and froze whilst swivelling my left eye about trying to spot the tiny screw that held things together. There it was lying on my chest! Eventually I managed to refit the screw using a penknife; then, after checking the other screws, I dabbed a bit of glue onto the heads of all of them to make sure they continued to stay put (it's amazing what I carry in my rucksack).

That evening we visited the Cathedral Iglesia del Cristo, a building which, contrary to the Tardis, was much smaller inside than it appeared to be on the outside.

Our subsequent efforts to locate a decent supper were tinged with disappointment. After taking considerable time to find a restaurant which served something Chris was prepared to eat, the chicken casserole they eventually served her could have been more accurately described as cold chicken balls in lukewarm gravy (read into that what you will). Moreover, they completely forgot about my order! We kicked up a fuss and left paying for the drinks only. Fortunately we had enough picnic food back at the hostel to fend of imminent starvation.

Next morning we rose early and made a satisfactory breakfast out of our remaining picnic food. Having settled the hostel bill we headed for the Estacion de Autobuses to catch our coach to Irun. I had booked the front two seats for this 135 mile journey which made it feel like a sightseeing trip.

Irun was bigger than I had expected, but our accommodation in Pension Bidasoa was just a few minutes walk from the bus station. It wasn't quite 2.00pm and we were unexpectedly early, but the staff quickly had the room cleaned so we could leave our bags and head out to explore the town.

On the way to the local information office we discovered that we had accidentally walked a short section of the Camino de Santiago, which made us feel rather holy. To reinforce these positive feelings, we paid a visit to the local Ecological Park.

During the evening we commiserated with the locals as the Netherlands inflicted a crushing 5:1 defeat on Spain in the World Cup.

JUST CRUISIN' ALONG

LATE FERRY SAILING

SMOOTH SEAS IN THE BAY OF BISCAY

The late ferry sailing wasn't the only hiccup. Our very short rail journey from Fareham to Portsmouth was also delayed when electrical power was cut due, apparently, to a trespasser on the line at Hilsea. Images arose in my rather warped mind of a charred sticky mess being scraped from the power rail.

Whatever the reason, we still made it to Portsmouth ferry port in good time to check-in and get through security. Oddly, having made a bit of a fuss about me carrying an ice axe and various other 'lethal weapons', they ushered us straight past the x-ray machines in their hurry to get us aboard. Our ferry, the Pont-Aven, embarked just before midnight.

Thank goodness we had booked a cabin as we were both exhausted and ready for sleep.

After a bit of a lie-in, we spent Wednesday enjoying the delights that Brittany Ferries had to offer, including a main meal discounted by 50% to compensate for the delay. After exploring the ship, I devised a little aide-memoire to help me to remember what was on each of the accessible passenger decks. Decks 6 to 10, respectively, were sleep, scoff & slurp, shop, swim and sea-views.

In all seriousness, I thought the Pont-Aven a brilliant ship and our trip to Santander turned out to be a great little taster for a real cruise. The beer and cocktails were good value too, hic.

There wasn't much to see of Santander as we docked in darkness but, because I had done my 'Google Street View' homework, we were at the door of our hostel within 10 minutes of being ejected from the ferry. Happily, the Pension Plaza still welcomed us at 1.00am local time on Thursday 12th, even though we had originally been expected on the evening of the 11th.

Yet another exhausted departure to the Land of Nod was imminently due!

BLAST OFF (NEARLY)

17KG - DOES MY BUM LOOK BIG IN THIS?

THE NEW FORESTERS

THERE'S ALWAYS SOME POSER WHO HAS TO SHOW OFF

I have at last made my final selection of equipment to carry on the walk and revised my kit list to reflect this. The base weight of my rucksack is just under 15kg, but I have estimated a typical weight of just over 17kg with average water and food loads. Considering that I am carrying my heavier Hilleberg tent (the Terra Nova is 1kg less, but a bit cramped for 5 weeks), and I am taking over 1kg of kit for walking on snow and glaciers, and another 1kg worth of maps and route guides, I am reasonably pleased with the result.

The last week has been pretty frantic with preparations, but I did find the time to lead a 17 mile walk around the New Forest this past Saturday, which included visits to a WW2 bombing range, a trig point (useful as a posing plinth) and to Castle Piece, an iron-age hill fort. Exciting stuff. In spite of an early morning downpour, it was a gloriously sunny day enjoyed by everybody. One participant, Simone, had a birthday, so we celebrated the fact with an evening curry in Ringwood.

This will be the last blog entry written from my computer for a while. I will shortly be heading to Portsmouth with Chris, who is accompanying me for part of my journey – the bit where she doesn’t have to walk. We will arrive in Santander tomorrow afternoon and after spending a couple of nights there, take the coach to Irun, which is just south of the Spanish/French border. In Tuesday 17^th I will cross the border to Hendaye, from where the walk will commence, leaving Chris to stay another week before she heads home under her own steam. There are plenty of sandy beaches nearby so I am sure she will be happy.

STOP PRESS

I have just received a text from Brittany Ferries telling me that the sailing is delayed due to a technical fault. We now arrive in Santander at 01:00 Thursday morning. I have emailed the Hostel, but if they don’t let us in at that time then the tent might get used earlier than I thought. The adventure begins!