Monday 26th
The first challenge was to team up with Rose, Tansy and Jeremy at Gatwick Airport.  Nobody was hanging around the area looking intrepid—or lost—so I boarded the Easyjet to Toulouse at the appointed time and took an aisle seat.  Minutes later, two girls dressed in colourful Helly Hansen jackets plonked themselves in the seats adjacent to mine. As luck would have it, they were Tansy and Rose.  Then a tall, lean fellow entered the aircraft and we accosted him on the way past.  This was Jeremy.
We gathered up our kit at Toulouse Airport to a fair amount of laughter. The temperature was in the upper 70s (real temp), everyone in Toulouse was in shorts & T shirts, and we were lugging kit suitable for a polar expedition.  We staggered out and met Robin Hare in the lobby, who was to be our rock & logistician for the following days.  The kit was loaded into and onto his Peugeot then we squeezed in for the drive to the Pyrenees.
After a pleasant few hours getting to know each other and unearthing at least one extraordinary coincidence (I lived in Robin’s ancestral pile near Stirling for 10 years), we arrived at l’Hospitalet-pres-l’Andorre at sundown.  It wasn’t hard to find James in the Hotel du Puymorens.  He was holding forth in the bar in his pyjamas surrounded by adoring Frenchmen, having just finished his 35th day of hiking.   We put the kit in our rooms and took seats for a happy dinner accompanied by a few beers and carafes of vin rouge. We were in bed by 10.30.

Tuesday 27th
Booted & spurred, we loaded our kit into Robin’s car, took team photos and started hiking at 8.10.  l’Hospitalet is a pretty alpine village with geranium-festooned stone troughs and narrow alleyways, at about 1400metres.  Soon we had climbed high above the valley floor while enjoying the beautiful still autumn weather.  We plodded along a steadily ascending track, passed a reservoir called the Etang de Besines where a helicopter was ferrying materials back & forth to engineers doing repairs, and stopped for a snack just above the Refuge de Besines , at about 2100 metres.
Rose, Tansy and Jeremy kept up with James like mountain goats, which was impressive for their first day on the mountain.  Afraid I pooped out at this stage.  As if I had hit a ceiling at 2100 metres, I was having problems going higher, so decided to hike the 3 hours back to l’Hospitalet. This was a shame, because the peak that day was the Coll de Coma d’Anyell, only 300 metres higher at 2470.  As I descended the path, I felt progressively better and met Robin in the lobby of the hotel, where he was waiting with a very appetizing Coke. Medical attention not required.  We drove round to the next refuge– Refuge des Bouillouses –via some extraordinarily beautiful scenery.
Shortly afterwards the weary hikers tramped into the Refuge, telling tales of swimming in an Etang and seeing some chamoix and marmots.  The Forshall party was given an 8-berth bunk room for the 6 of us, so we deployed 3 up & 3 down. After a dinner of Soup, Boeuf Bourguignon, rice and a seriously rich chocolate mousse accompanied by the usual vin du table, we crashed out about 10.30.

Wednesday 28th
Due to the overnight cacophony of snoring, grunting and sundry nocturnal noises in the Forshall dormitory, Robin announced at breakfast that he would be seeking solitary sleeping arrangements the following night. I volunteered to accompany him-it wouldn’t be fair for Robin to go off alone to a luxury spa hotel, now would it?
After the customary breakfast of café au lait, bread and jam we set off hiking from the Refuge des Bouillouses. We soon passed a rocky mountain lake. Jeremy stripped off and dived in, closely followed by Tansy, Rose and Papa Forshall. It was all too rugged for this Scotsman, so I remained onshore and took photographs.

We walked through off-season ski runs and had a wonderful day, gently losing altitude as we headed towards the village of Eynes. We walked through light woodland and agricultural land, stopping for lunch at a bistro on the outskirts of Font Rameau. A salade maison and some light refreshments later, we recommenced walking. We strayed into a suburban environment on the edge of Font Rameau and got lost in someone’s private garden.  Our intrepid leader approached a French couple relaxing on the chalet balcony to ask for directions.  They immediately invited us in. “You are English, you must want some tea.”  Before you could say Tetley our hosts had laid out a spread of cups, teapots, cakes, biscuits—the whole nine yards, even milk added to their selection of herbal teas. Refreshed, we re-set our compass for the horizon and headed off.
We safely crossed strands of old barbed wire and an electrified railway line as we approached the village of Eynes, after a day’s hike of about 24 kilometres.  The refuge du jour was called Cal Pai, consisting of a charming gite with plenty of single rooms, a sunny terrasse, piles of books and unusual art on the walls. Just our luck, as Robin and I had committed to stay at an (in)different hostel  called Le Catalan a couple of miles away.  Madame prepared a memorable dinner at Cal Pai—fresh vegetable soup, home-made Lasagna, a plate of local cheeses, pudding of “fruits de foret”—a tasty mousse of fraises de bois, raspberries and blueberries topped with fresh cream, accompanied as always by jars of house wine.

Thursday 29th
We began the hike from Cal Pai at 7.30, having planned to leave at 6.30. But the problem was that it was dark and nobody felt confident about hiking in the dark. So after lingering over breakfast we headed out at first light towards LLO. The first part of the hike was a long, steady trudge up the Eynes valley. We hiked in the shade for much of the way, which was a blessing, passing a herd of horses grazing on the slopes. The mares wore bells like Swiss mountain cows, making a rhythmic clanking as they munched grass or drank from the stream.   They were large, docile horses with big hairy feet like Clydesdales. Destined for the pot, apparently.
As we climbed we spotted a family of marmots, prompting a request for a marmot sandwich, and made our way to the ridge which defined part of the French/Spanish border. Views were stunning and dramatic, as the mountain fell away to the South West on the Spanish side into a deep fjord-like canyon thousands of feet below.  The French side consisted of boulder fields culminating in shattered corries and cliffs soaring up towards jagged ridges. The rocks had been twisted and bent by tectonic forces that still torture the Pyrenees to this day.  We worked along the ridge to climb two peaks including Pic de Noufonts (2831m) both over 9000 feet.  Visibility was crystalline, with views extending over 50 miles—and thousands of feet down.
We lay on the heather munching baguettes and jambon as the, er, luncheon vultures circled overhead.  While they kept their distance, one had the impression that they would not hesitate to peck a hole and disembowel a passing hiker if given half a chance. We passed a horse’s skull further on, as white as snow with not a shred of tissue attached to it, evidence of the vultures’ thorough work. We also passed herds of chamoix, which seemed quite tame. We could walk to within 50 metres of them in full view; they don’t seem to have the fear of people that Scottish red deer have. They were quite chubby, too, so every reason to bag one for a pot of Chamoix Bourguignon.
This day’s hike of 26 kilometres ended at another off-season ski piste, where Robin met us and transported us down to La Cabanya, a hotel in the resort of Setcases far below.  We were warned that a Fiesta at the hotel might keep us awake all night, but the Fiesta seemed to consist of a camper van in the car park with its side lowered to reveal a pistol shooting gallery. Here, a couple were taking desultory shots at a target to win a blue teddy bear. The bear was still there in the morning so the Fiesta presumably carried on for another day.
Dinner was a choice of beef, chicken and pasta. Most of the Forshall group ordered beef, which arrived in enormous double slabs folded over so that they would fit on the plate. The slabs weighed around a kilo apiece, which did raise the slightest suspicion that they might once have been attached to one of those Alpine cart-horses.

Friday 30th
This was a watershed day, as Jeremy, Tansy, Rose and Robin headed back to Toulouse Airport thence to the Frozen North.  After farewells in the car park, James and I resumed our trek towards Le  Canigou. The day started with a steep hike up to a plateau and continued as a very pleasant, slow descent along a sloping ridge for the rest of the day. We passed Mort D’Escoula (2412m),the Porteille des Avets (2235m), Collada de les Roques Blanques (2252)—a vast field of scattered quartz—and Pla Guillem.    The weather was reminiscent of the California Sierras, with a light breeze, warm sunshine and the scent of pines.  We were struck by the extraordinary beauty of the distant mountains, folding into each other in pastel shades of blue and grey as they disappeared to the horizon.   We hiked along the tree line for much of the afternoon, which was like being in a giant garden of bonsai pines, azaleas, heather and outcrops of white quartz.
We saw signs warning of roaming “Montagne de Pyrenees” dogs and not to approach them as they protected their flocks, but we didn’t come across them in the mountains. The only such dog we met was a playful elderly chap called Corneille at the next Refuge. He dropped sticks at our feet in the hope that we might have a game with him.
Towards the end of the day we flanked Le Canigou, the mountain which occupies an iconic place in the hearts of Catalans , and stayed at the Refuge de Miriailles at its base (1700m).  We sat on the terrasse sipping Artisanal beer pondering our next move. Charles and Alice Loftie, who had taken over from Robin Hare, had been delayed and were not able to make it to the refuge this evening.  It was no big deal: we had food, shelter and company at the refuge and could do without clean clothes and washing kit for one night.
We asked the patron to show us our room. We removed our boots and were taken upstairs to a dormitory with 12 bunks in it. Even though there were no other guests yet, he allocated James and me the specific beds we were to take. Later, a couple were allocated the 2 adjoining beds.  Although nobody else came to our room, we were crammed together in a line. About 20 hikers stayed at the Refuge that night. We all shared a single hole-in-the-floor toilet, a part time shower and troughs of cold water.  Our patron seemed to be disconcerted when James asked for sandwiches to be made for the morrow. “Can’t you see I have a lot of work to do, without having to make sandwiches for you?”  Dinner was simple: soup and chicken (one piece each) with lashings of tinned peas and carrots, apple pie and red wine.  Our company at dinner was cordial. Among others, our companions included the Master of Works of public buildings at Perpignan—an ardent ornithologist—and an economist from the Bank of France.

Saturday 1st October
In the morning we decided to push on rather than spend the second planned night

at the Refuge de Mariailles. We trudged up the rear of Le Canigou laden with his contentious sandwiches (17 Euros), and merged with streams of hikers, ramblers and climbers including a large group from the Perpignan Diving Club. All ages were represented on the trail, plus a Golden Retriever. The trail was a gradual ascent towards a saddle that presumably led onto the summit of Le Canigou. I was on cruise control for an easy ascent of this famous peak.
But no. At the head of the valley the trail veered sharp left towards the base of a sheer cliff. I had one of my occasional you must be joking moments, which I expressed to James.  He kindly offered an alternative route via the saddle, but assured me the cliff was not as precipitous as I imagined. In the meantime we were being overtaken by members of the Perpignan Diving Club with its motley parade of children, old ladies and dogs. James suggested politely that if, well, they can do it, so can you.
Besides, it was my job to accompany James on this hike, not poop off in safer directions when the going got scary.  So I shut up and plodded along behind him. Or more accurately, below him. The cliff was about 90m straight up, admittedly with quite a few ledges and resting spots. Dodging the odd falling rock and neither looking either up nor down, I clenched my teeth and heaved myself up from handhold to handhold .  The final Guns of Navarone moment came when one of the Perpignan divers attached a rope to a rock pinnacle and tossed it down, inviting people below to haul themselves up on it.
I expected the summit of Le Canigou (2784m) to be windswept, desolate, god forsaken and deserted, peopled by the rare intrepid climbers who had made it to the top. But it was like Hyde Park on an August weekend.  At least 60 people were milling about the narrow rocky summit eating sandwiches, taking photographs, laughing and loafing about in the sunshine. One large granny hove into view, accompanied by a small white fluffy dog. She wore carpet slippers, clearly regarding her ascent of the summit of Le Canigou in much the same way as one might take a stroll in the garden.  Most of the people had come up the easy route, but it was still impressive to meet so many French folks going up their local pinnacle for a Saturday picnic.
As much as it had stretched my comfort zone going up Le Canigou, it was a doddle going down. We were followed by a group of young Catalan girls singing camp fire songs like the Von Trapp Family. We met Jerry and Alice hiking up the mountain to meet us (the easy way…ha!), and they continued up while we kept going down. An hour or so later we were happily sunning ourselves on the terrasse at the Refuge des Cortalets, sipping chilled artisanal beers and waiting for Charles Loftie, our new rock and logistician.
A granite plaque on the wall of the Refuge commemorated the ‘Henri Barbusse’ unit of the maquis, burned alive in 1944 in that building in a raid by the Germans.
We all duly met up and camped below the Refuge after a hearty dinner –soup, the ubiquitous boeuf bourguignon and cake.

Sunday 2nd October
Au pete du moineau, we had a welcome coffee and cooked breakfast over the Loftie’s blue gas camping gas stove. We dismantled tents and packed our kit in the field surrounded by curious horses.  James, Jerry and Alice hit the trail at 8; Charles & I crammed the kit into his vehicle and we headed downhill. It was about 25 kilometres to the nearest tarmac and took us the better part of 2 hours to reach it. Charles drove very carefully down the rough track, single lane in many places. We were lucky not to meet much traffic coming uphill, as there was a serious risk of plunging off the edge and plummeting hundreds of metres into the gorge below.  We rewarded ourselves with a coffee on the terrasse of a café in Prades, enjoying the rhythms of what appeared to be a Hare Krishna band doing its rounds from café to café on the square.
Charles kindly drove me to Perpignan station from where I took the train to Narbonne and thence to Toulouse.  Stayed in a cheap & cheerful hotel by the station. Charles and James had recommended that I should head downtown to look for a typical Toulouse restaurant for dinner.  I checked out numerous halal joints selling kebabs, and eventually found an indigenous place called Sukuraya on Rue Bayard where the Sushi and Teppanyaki were a credit to the region’s cuisine.

Monday 3rd October
As Easyjet soared into the sunset I wondered how James was getting on down there. I wished I could have taken the final plunge into the Med with him, but needs must.  I thoroughly enjoyed the 6 days and (approx) 126 kilometres I spent in his company raising funds for Romilly’s Challenge. Thanks James, you’re a star. Or possibly, even a vedette.