Van Travel

We’re off!

It’s nearly time for me to set off again on what might be my last Pyrenean van trip. Because I want to try and have a normal life after this. Before I’m 40. That’s what I had said before I was 30 too…After Covid first had me sent home from my job as science officer in Madagascar, then ruined the season’s dive instructing in Menorca, I went to work in France. After that I made my way home through the Pyrenees in my van. Here are some notes on our 4th mountainous trip together.

I can’t wait to be able to lie in bed as long as I like and not have to tread on eggshells around the family I was staying with for the last 3 months. Looking forward to my own little bubble and my own space, I can’t wait to drive for hours and sing until I’m hoarse, to listen to something relaxing as it gets dark and not really know where I’m going. Having recently read that vibrations are good for our water-based bodies, I hope it’s true as I feel my chest buzzing while I warble.

At least this time I have my cheap-off-the-internet Harry Potter spectacles so that I don’t have to go twice and thrice around roundabouts before I can read the signs to work out where to turn off. I must remember that I bought them and put them on.  If I like somewhere I’m just going to stay, concoct something healthy but probably tasting like poo, and break into my eco box of red wine to toast to me and Bluey. I always want to eat healthily but cheese and crackers are certainly the safest bet for ones’ tastebuds. Don’t even get me started on Jerusalem artichokes. I’m curious too about what will break/fall off/go wrong with Bluey…and how my nerves will hold up.

I am not exactly affluent by Western world standards and my van is ancient. At 26, he is older than my last partner, though not as old as my dive cylinder. I never had some father figure to help me out when it broke. Thank God in retrospect, for it made me all the stronger. I do, fortunately, have an engineer friend on the end of a phone. He likes to call himself the VW helpdesk. He got me back from Brest last year when Bluey had a broken head gasket. 1600km and minus 5 kilos of worry later, I managed to fix him myself. Tho’ it did take me 6 weeks. So all in all, bring it on! we’re ready!

Aaanyway, I digress again…liftoff!!

Thurs 3rd Dec

Saint Jean Pied de Port. Every house is white with a red roof and shutters. Everything in the shop is locally made and labelled in Basque. The woman at the gift shop says the French don’t even recognise Basque as a language here. They just want them to put their flat beret hats on and do some folkloric dancing to keep the tourists happy. After parking up next to a river I went onto explore and it was great to walk around the ramparts at night.

“Ici commence la mer, ne rien jeter” signs are bolted to drains. An interesting reminder not to litter. I wonder if they’ll ever get round to putting reminders of how our meat is produced on the packets?  

There are loads of old stone bridges over rivers. It is verrry quiet and clean. The next day I set off on a bike ride that soon turned into a very steep walk with road shoes on. Not great. I was following the GR65 to the Spanish border. I pushed up the hills and zoomed down the other sides, always wanting to get around that last hairpin bend for a better view. Bald brown mountains and far-off snowcapped ones were all around.

The Spanish border was somewhere in the distance. Somewhere where fuel is cheaper but the Guardia Civil are horrid and I no longer challenged to practise my French. The air is fresh on my face and I just love the feeling of power surging through me when I look behind and see how far I’ve climbed on my own bodily strength. I feel so fortunate to be fit. When I finally ran out of time and had to turn back, the track was so steep I worried how long my wrists could take the braking, and realised quite how much of a scaredy-cat I’d become on my road bike. Out of practice on mountain roads, I forced myself to release the brakes, at least the front brake, when coming out of bends. The ground finally levelled out I rode back through sunny Saint Michel and Caro villages.

I lay in bed by the river all afternoon and read my book about turkeys. It says they are “curious, playful, friendly and lively”. I think that’s what I’ll put I’m looking for on my online dating profile,- just like the turkeys in the book I’m reading.

I never really plan and sometimes it pays off, though others’ it makes me waste whole days. Those are the days you are lucky to have with you a militant book on vegetarianism, and a box of AB certified wine. Even though, being French Bordeaux and not Spanish Rioja..  well…oh well.

On Thursday the 3^rd, after my lush bike ride, I drove up to ‘Cize-Iraty” plateau looking for a “Furgo Perfecta” camping spot. Not before first stopping to wash my teeth then driving over a bollard. The sudden BANG! knocked the radio to hell and showed me how to fix it! It had been disconnecting itself recently, especially when played at high volume or with lots of bass (i.e. always). Convinced it was something to do with the power getting to it, I realised that knocking the whole thing out of place set the power source/radio itself interface at an angle, and seemingly improved the connection. So thank you bollard, I will now position the radio at a 25° angle.

I felt like a right tit and fled the scene immediately, hoping the bumper was still fully attached and I wasn’t gushing oil. I pulled over further up the road out of sight and was relieved there didn’t appear to be anything amiss. Or at least not anything I needed if it had fallen off.

Arriving at the mountain plateau at dusk, wild ponies ran along the road in front of the van, it was heaven. And empty.

Friday 4th Dec

The wind howled all night on the grassy plain and the van rocked from side to side. We were at around 1015m. After a scary night imagining I was going to be murdered or taken by a Yeti (the first few days alone are always hard), I awoke to a very quiet morning. I recognised the blanketed quietness. We were in a snow cocoon! We had become an Igloo!

Reasoning that the plough wouldn’t be too long, I had a quick welly and new posh waterproof (Guy Cotten) walk before the road was cleared and I no longer had an excuse to be up there on my own, worrying the sensible plough lot. When they finally arrived they told me to go back the way I had come to continue on to Spain. So I did. I went back through Saint-Jean and was in Roncesvalles (949m) by Friday night.

Re-entering civilisation nowadays means donning a mask. I had a fairy at the tourism office tell me I could follow a well-illuminated path “30 minutitos andando” to the next village were a choice of restaurants would serve me a lovely hearty meal. I found one weird man in a hotel that told me I couldn’t get food but would get a fine if the police found me. He struck terror into my heart, then relented and fed me a pizza.

After having my sense of adventure ruined by the legal complications of Covid-19, I had to run 2.5km in a blizzard through a pitch-black forest lane uphill home. So much for the well-lit path the silly cow! I was dripping with sweat, and at -4°C, this was not a great time for a shower. Wondering if this lady had ever set foot beyond the threshold of the tourism office, I knew I should have stayed in my beloved France. At this time I also realised my slippers had stayed there resting by the river.

Saturday the 5th Dec

Anyway, hey-ho, Sat 5^th dawned crisp and frozen, and I walked the Camino de Santiago until I got too much snow in my shoes and had to come back. It was wonderful. Beautiful big trees were laden with snow. The scallop-emblazoned signs reminded me or Narnia and it looked like the snow queen herself must be hiding just around the corner. I couldn’t wait for Aslan to step out from the holly. It was snowing hard and I kept double-checking the blizzard wouldn’t cover the tell-tale GR marks on the trees behind me.

I only met one couple. As I turned back I envied them as they continued on all geared up for the elements. My raincoat was fabulous and I was pleased about that. Buying a bigger size let me fit my backpack under it too.

Back at base, I was reading in bed with a hot water bottle and pondering a nap when skidding and much Spanish commotion awoke me from my doze. Heck! In just over an hour the car park was snowed under! I pounced into action and fired up the beast. I frantically flapped at his windscreen with a flannel to get the snow off while he coughed and spluttered himself awake. 3 hrs of very tense driving ensued to get us back down the road to lower ground.

Everyone was in a panic and had crashed into the ditch. I soon arrived at a hill with a line of stuck cars vrooming and people pushing each other up it. “No chance they’ll push Bluey far”- I said to myself. As soon as you cross the border you realise how much poorer Spain is, and the locals know well enough there’s no point waiting for the plough here. It’s every man for himself! Bluey is very heavy and we have slid into mud bogs before. Once he loses traction there is nothing you can do, and I didn’t want to end up across the road. So I sat back and reasoned that I could always just go back to my book and drink tasteless Blueberry leaves infusion, for a week if needed.

Bored of pondering, I got out and helped the last stragglers. 2 women appeared to be rolling about in the snow behind their car while a man at the wheel wearing a mask was attempting to drive it. One of the women was laughy and rolly-polly, she kept slipping and rolling away back down the hill. The other one was anxious and kept poking the ground with her index finger crying “oh it’s ice we’re all done for!!!” Mr seemed to be panicking, revving the hell out of the car and showering us all in snow. I teamed up with jolly and every time she collected herself off the ground and came back up behind the car we agreed to give it another go. Even if only to prove the ice detector wrong ;). I did pick up one tip from her tho; “zig-zag”!- she kept saying. Much fun was had by all. They finally got going and we exchanged numbers in case I was never seen again.

Once everyone had pushed themselves up the hill and I was the only one left, I worked out that if I zig-zaggedly inched my front wheels back and forth in the snow I could carve a runway and get a run-up to launch us up this hill. Progress was slow and the rear wheels kept sliding worrying into the ditch. There was just no traction, even in my snow tyres. I reasoned that there was no rush, so relax and keep at it… It worked!! Look at us!! While I was preparing my runway my new pals sent a lovely message to say they were stuck again just upfront and if I needed any help I knew where they were. How very kind. Lol! The stuff you get up to in a crisis.

I did my runway carving and zig-zagging technique for 47 km and got past upturned cars and a group of police winching a van like mine out. Terrified of sliding into a ditch and blocking the road, I egg myself on to keep going. “Super Bluey!’- I coaxed. I was on a mission and getting a kick out my new-found snow-driving skills too! After a couple of hours, as the stress took its toll,  I resolved to drive straight to the nearest sports shop for shoes, gaiters, and waterproof trousers. I also wanted Lidl plastic dishwashing gloves to go over my allegedly-but-not-even-remotely waterproof mountain biking gloves. Alas, after all my heroic efforts, they had non. So I bought a tramp a bag of muesli instead. Maybe that was to offset my own 220e of guilt-ridden retail therapy. I’ve never bought anything for a tramp before, but I didn’t think the Gasy folk would let their own less fortunate starve on the streets.

I couldn’t wait to get out of the shops; the press of humanity was suffocating. I had to do breathing exercises in the queues. The more I’m away from people the less I can stand being around hordes of them and the less sense consumerism makes to me. I feel distant. Every day I double-check what clothes I’m wearing and how much of it is second hand then I calculate the age of each piece. Someone once said I have autistic tendencies. Maybe so. Yet for all my convictions, when I’m surrounded by tidy-looking people in shops, I notice my muddy trousers, scuffed shoes and holey, bobbly, woolly jumper. I’m sure my hair looks crap. And I can’t wait to be away, can’t wait to get back to my turkey book and hot water bottle, or chocolate-chip muesli breakfast in bed. I gave the tramp the plain one and kept the choccy one for myself. Teehee.

Sun and Mon

On Sunday and Monday I did micro walks testing my new clothes, practising with my gaiters, seeing how well my boots fit and how waterproof I was as an ensemble. I also came up with some van tips for my book;

Use dirty clothes to dry the condensation off windows and roof then stick them in a plastic bag so that the moisture can’t seep out again.

When driving with heater on open sunroof in back otherwise moisture leaves from the front but still condenses in the back.

Wear a scarf to sleep to properly seal the entrance to the sleeping bag.

Have lots of bottles of water handy for the stove for tea and soups so that you don’t have to haul the big water carrier about each time.

You can boil eggs in your tea water to save gas. Likewise for melting the honey and cooking oil.

After 2 days in Navarra waiting out the rain, I decided I had best go higher so that the rain would become snow. Though this would come at the expense of freezing and not being able to read at night; my hands and head would have to be hidden in the sleeping bag. I drove through fab gorges and stopped in Biescas. I stopped because the main road had become 2 lines in the snow from the previous car I had to follow. It was pitch black and snowing, and the mountainous road was windy. Even in my Harry Potters I couldn’t tell if there was ice on the road or not. Though having said that, I did have the phone number of a lady who was particularly adept as interpreting road conditions.

My decision to call it a day was a good one. Biescas was a winter wonderland, with snowy fir trees all over and Christmas decorations. Despite the snowdrifts, it was not too cold. 1 degree is fine. -15°C is not. None of my bottles of water froze so that’s how I know I’m ok. Moisture only froze on the inside of Bluey once this time around, at -1°C.

I go for a walk along the river and around the old town. Tall churches tower above narrow cobbled streets.  Another useless tourism info woman tells me about great walks but has not a clue about the snow or weather.  She was nice, just not a walker, basically. This one too kept referring to me in the plural and I bemusedly wondered why I couldn’t just be on my own? Nor do they seem to have a clue which restaurants are open. Again. Oh well, lucky I have 10 pumpkins and half a red cabbage, ecological of course. I don’t like to cook much in a closed van because of the moisture, yet frying eggs works a treat for an egg sandwich.

Tue 8^th

Fab walk in all my posh snow getup. After wasting time driving to a walk that was undoable because the snow was too deep, I settled on a one in a howling valley along a river.

I love pulling out my gaiters for the deep bits or putting my cycle shell on to stop the wind. Some parts were hard as hell, with snow up to my knees. The trees and bushes were bent double in parts so I spent a lot of time scrabbling about trying to find the yellow and green markers almost on my knees. Retracing my steps, sliding down streams and hauling myself up banks by trees in search of the path, I felt a bit Bear Grylls at times. I was getting constant snow dumps on my head. Very slow going. I can’t remember where I slept that night but I was knackered! Elated but knackered! Trying to get anywhere in such snow also reminded me of ‘Viven’ -the book about the rugby team that crashed in the Andes and had to try to get out of the snow with no food for energy.

Bluey has a hole in his side but I think I can ask the neighbour to cut it out then I’ll fibreglass it over. Again, I love to drive him and sing. I could happily sing and drive for hours, till the road gets too snowy and dodgy or I become hoarse. The heater knob is faulty and stuck on full blast so I daren’t touch it until I get home, too risky; I need heating to dry the van and my walking kit, especially my precious boots. I’ll just have to gasp and turn the music up above the noise for a few more days. Also, my spare battery is shit, really shit, it can’t even fully charge the phone. At 20e I have been blatantly ripped off. It must have been for a microcar. But he is still my home sweet home and there’s nothing better than finding him dutifully waiting for me after my hikes. Ah, my trusty slippers had been hiding in the boot! Phew!

Wed 9^th

Had a faaaab walk from Hospital de Tella to Tella. Starting at 750m and ending at 1350, I went through all seasons, all clothes. Shedding outer layers and skipping down sunny southern faces to fully waterproofed up and snow up to my knees again on the northern side.

Out on the trail, my legs were pumping and heart hammering for 5.5hrs solid. Either because of the effort of because of the views. Not a piece of litter nor a single human footprint, much less any more humans. Not like the UK, at least not the parts I’ve seen. I’m sure it’s quite simply because there’s no one here. There are lots of climbs that even out and wind along tight exposed singletrack on the side of the mountain.

I feel really good, this is the best version of me and no one can stop me. I get so hyped-up I start thinking about something else entirely and go bombing up a track, forgetting to check for markers, breaking my own golden rule!! Having been lost before and ending up spending the night in the woods in the Alps in my sleeping bag, I should know better! I know to stop as soon as I can’t see a marker every few minutes!

Realising my mistake at the top of a hill, I was rewarded by vultures swooping down overhead and my video not working. I should also stop trying to capture my life thru a lens and enjoy the moment for myself. Maybe I would if I was sharing my trip with someone else. Seems to be a human need to share our experiences. The vultures were huge and I was thankful for being momentarily lost in getting to the top of a random track. My detour cost me 45mins, which I then made up by excitedly running back down to the river and the last marker I remembered.

There were 3 goats wearing tags, the only domestic animals I saw on the Pyrenean tracks. There were luminous yellow piles of what looked like sick, with green berries in them, partly separated from their husks. Something else had made sure to put light brown poos near the green sick. I need to ask someone in the know what this must mean, clearly some sign of communication.

I find tiny, delicate, well-spaced deer prints in the snow. Rabbit prints scuffled up banks across the paths.  Now and then I saw fox prints. They were dainty and also well spaced out as if the narrow owner was travelling at a lope.

After about 3 hours I got to Tella. Approaching from the north side, it was blowing a gale. Gusts of snow nearly knocked me off my feet until I could drop down into the warren of cobbled streets. There was a scruffy grey dog asleep on a step and it took me a while to work out what it was. Was it alive? He was and smiled at me as I stroked his very soft furry head. He stretched and ambled off down the lane with some hens, and looked like he must have been called Nesbit, or Rolf. I’ve never seen hens in the snow, in a street, or with a dog as a friend. I thought instead of ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ it was ‘Hens in the Snow’.

I had planned to eat my sandwich at the church. Of course, as always, all churches are closed. So much for pilgrims, I reckon they all must have frozen. I sat on a sunny wall on the south-facing side of Tella and admired the view before running home. Just because my body felt like it. I hate to put music on in the mountains, it seems sacrilegious not to hear all the sounds of nature. As when I’m riding my bike, I seem to require sensory feedback of my feet bashing on rocks to not fall off the mountainside. However, sometimes music give me a burst when energy is lagging, and so on Asaf Avidan went and down I ran!

My waterproof trousers are great for crashing through spikes. Who knew rosemary and asparagus grew as high as 1300m?? Unfortunately, the skin on my index fingers isn’t quite as tough and I would still be extracting spelks a week later, driven in when I was running through the bushes on my descents. My new boots really make me feel like I’m on my Downhill bike. It seems I can blast through anything in them and don’t even need to look where I’m putting my feet.

I was also glad I had got a bigger size as my toe tops were thankful for the extra space on the long descents. I was so happy in the sun and warmth that I skipped and hopped and danced my way back down to the van in an hour, past the soaring vultures and the grazing goats. The sun was still shining when I got back, so I drove Bluey into a verge by the side of a river and had an outside shower. I didn’t care if oncoming traffic caught site of my hinterland. Now my portaloo is nearly full and gas running low so in case I die, I am having to go find some supplies!

Today has been such a good day that I’m nervous about what might go wrong soon. I finally have found a wee while to sit on my portaloo and write my diary up, propa-like.  I have also finally decided to stop this healthy lark and have bought some beer and Pringles original. Just managed to stop myself from buying barbecue flavour in time by conjuring up images of tortured chickens. They hang them upside down and drop them in an electric bath to be stunned before having their throats slit.

You see, on a quest to horrify myself into becoming a complete vegetarian I have recently bought “Eating Animals” by Jonathan Safran Foer. Full of vivid descriptions of abattoirs and poultry “farm” facilities, it is certainly doing the job! Anyway, today was wonderful, worth putting up with a cold wet drippy van and my mind driving me mad even in my dreams at night. It has been a great day and I’m having a wee party to celebrate!

An aside, mood swings.

It’s funny how 1 instant can change your happy day into a grumpy one. Even if only briefly. Here’s how. I stopped at a petrol station to fill my tyres. The whole operation went well and took under 5 mins. Bluey only has 3 hubcaps; 2 shitty fake VW ones he came with (out of 4), and one original VW one I bought on the internet. Handy they were only selling one at the time. While putting air in, seamlessly and very professionally I might add, bits of the 2 shitty ones both broke off in my hands. Much like the metal in the Titanic, I assumed they mustn’t like the cold weather too much and was having a right chuckle to myself when a man approached.

“Do you need a hand ?”-he asks, ” I see that you are having a bit of trouble”….Eh?? Hang on, me?? Still crouched at the wheel, I bristle. After my amazing day in the snow in all my posh kit, after 10 days alone in my van in blizzards…Why would he assume I can’t pump my tyres up??

Oh, but of coooourse, because I am wearing a pastel blue scarf and purple trousers, i.e, I’m a woman. That is ALL he has to go on, and so I clearly can’t pump my tyres up. I raise, smile sweetly and say “no I’ve managed thanks”. The anger hadn’t arrived yet….Then I got in Bluey and ROARED my way up the road to Bielsa, How dare he the stupid arsehole?? I felt like inserting the inflator thingy up his arse. Though being a woman, I probably wouldn’t know how much air to inflate a male human being to? Maybe I wouldn’t be able to stop when he was full…hahaaaa. If anything I think his ego needed DE-flating.

Why do I get so riled about silly things like this? My feminist persona sometimes gets the better of me. Anyway, soon forgot about the little twat.

Next, I found a shop with a madwoman in it. This was the only place open in the whole of Bielsa. To find anywhere else I would have to drive winding, icey, snowy roads in the dark, forever, leaving my walking wonderland for far-off, people-ridden places. That would just never do. In this dark and freezing town, the brightly lit Spar sign had never been so welcoming, and I think the 4 foot 5 lady was enjoying playing her role of crazy senile grandma. I know this because while rocking from side to side, her head rolling all around her shoulders, she fixed me with an evil beady glint and a smile. I winked back and enjoyed the show.

Every time the cashier came to charge her she’d remember something else. He doggedly scoured the shelves and returned with more wine, more roscos, and then carrots. It’s great not being in any rush and just watching what’s going on around you. Lucky she entertained us all (me and cashier seeming to make up the whole of the rest of the population), because finally a big hulk of a man (now you’re talking), lumbered in, clad head to toe in orange worky dude garb.

The shop owner didn’t have a gas bottle, but the orange man was friends with someone who ran the closed-for-winter campsite! Whoop! He rang him and we arranged a rendezvous at the campsite ipso facto! “But hurry up because he’s waiting for you, don’t stop, go now!” 3 minutes later granny was shoved out the door and had her carrots and plonk carried to her car, and tired old Bluey was being powered back down the dark windy mountain. I gleefully enjoyed a few illegal u-turns and a bit of wrong-way-down-a-one-way-system driving, high on the excitement of serendipity and good fortune. I emptied my loo and got gas.

Note 1; it’s really embarrassing trying to flush your turds down a sink with someone looking over your shoulder. Note 2; at 16e for a new gas bottle, I think I might leave it on all night, I feel so hedonistic. Wow, what a day, I just love Bielsa!! Or Biescas?? Or where the hell am I again? – That’s what happens when you move around too much. Night night.

Oh P.S. The saviour shop-keeper also gave me my 3 apples and lots of beer and Pringles in an oblong cardboard box, just perfect for fitting under the bench. It’s funny how the tiny things are the essentials of life in a van. With a whole bottle full of gas, 15l of water and an empty loo, I could stay here forever! I really don’t want to go home. Or see other people, or have to live in the real world at all, my time here is precious. So precious.

P.P.S. I’m in BieLSA, 1053m. Always check the altitude and how cold it’s going to get at night.

Thursday 10th

I awake to hear a tractor roaring around and around my van. Disgruntled, I manage to extricate my arm from the sleeping bag and roll back my 4 layers of sleeve. Next, I extricate my eyes from beneath ever-present bobble hat and scarf, to peer blearily at my watch. 8.40. Crap I was supposed to be up a mountain. Urgh but I’m on holidays, … anyway, what the hell is all that racket?? I manoeuvre over to the window as nimbly as any pupating grub could when awakened before complete metamorphosis, and rub a patch of condensation off the window to spy on the source of my current displeasure. A soddin snow-plough. Urgh again. Flop out of cocoon, don wellies and jump down into the crunchy, snow-filled, car park.

Rising and shining in the fresh cold morning, I often feel slightly embarrassed they may take me for a crazy lady too. Dressed like a displaced alpaca herder, I happily survey my surroundings while Bluey does his best to splutter into life amidst clouds of noxious white fumes. I obligingly move him to a side, get a grateful thumbs up from the operator, and go back to bed.

Finding the start of trails always takes longer than planned, and I didn’t want to end up on a trail that was too high up in the snow again, thus I had decided to walk near to where I went yesterday. 1350m seemed to have just the right amount of snow that I could still get through it and cover some ground at the same time.

Surely today would never be as much fun as yesterday but I was going to get to wear my gorgeous new boots again. I’d feel them around my feet, my toes toasty warm and the back of my calves pulling as we powered up tracks to the unknown. I had my trendy gaiters in my backpack, they are turquoise and have a whale fluke on them. Oddly for me, I haven’t a clue what brand they are. I absolutely love being able to rip them out and whack them on when the going gets tough though, how pro am I??

Today’s route started on a GR, and was quite ‘tame’ I thought as I nibbled a ginormous apple imported from New Zealand. How incongruous, I mused, to be eating an apple from NZ when you can get them in Spain? They also go to the bother to print a sticker and clag that on the side too.

We were in the mist and everywhere was dripping. I could hear the constant sound of pitter-pattering from the trees. The temperatures were due to reach 7 degrees and I worried that the snow might melt away from my fearsome gaiters and super boots. It was an enclosed kind of path and I was beginning to think it might be a bit boring, would anything much happen today?? At the very least I was getting my workout in the Pyrenees so it was still going to be good anyway. However, I need not have worried as it turned out to be an animal day, ergo the best kind of all!

As I rose higher and left the mist behind, I began to find turned ground in the middle of the path. Large cloven prints left messy trails through the snow, as if their owner didn’t have quite so long legs as the deer.

Sure enough, suddenly a dinosaur-like roar and a lumbering flash of brown crossed my path,  a wild boar! For the second time in two days, a cry escaped me, awe!? Exhilaration!? It was something bigger than that.  It was gratitude and luck and wonder all in one. The first time was yesterday when the vultures swooped in so close I could hear their wings swooshing and almost feel their air currents on my face. The sheer size of them took my breath away!  Now I was all ears, my senses heightened. I stuff the half-nibbled apple back in my bag lest the munching makes me miss anything. What else was lurking around here? I was spellbound such a big beautiful wild creature had been but 15 m in front of me! I tried to walk quietly and slowly as I hiked on up the path, stopping frequently to breathe it all in. My timing was way out and I reflected that I must have relaxed for once.

As I neared Tella the snow deepened and the trees and bushes began to bend over the path, weighed down by snow. This is when I put my raincoat on with the hood up and am glad that I brought an old Evax pad bag to keep my phone dry. Not that I use pads anymore because they are unecological. I love being well prepared for trips, I congratulate myself as my ego rises higher than the clouds.

Once I get to the now familiar village I decide to try one of these hermitage things as a picnic spot. I had been harbouring the romantic notion of finding old ruins to explore along my path since last week in Navarra. The maps always have them as features and I am vaguely intrigued by them. Just vaguely.

When you get to them they are always locked. Anyway today I  had time to loiter and the weather was calmer on the north side, so I found a sign for the hermitage trail and set off. A white dog with a black head must have been lying waiting and bounded over offering to show me the way. I read her mind instantly as we exchanged greetings and arranged a deal. I show you the way you feed me cheese. Alright then.

She kept stopping to check I was coming, turning her head back to wait for me. Hang on I want to get a picture! More snow-laden bushes cover the path and I plough through them bent double. Big dumps of snow buried the top of my backpack and sometimes I just smacked into the branches head-first for fun! My new guide does that cute thing dogs do where they lie down and eat the snow and push their fronts along with their back legs. She was like a puppy and had me cracking into smiles. She played with branches and wanted me to throw her sticks.

When we got to the over 1000yr old hermitage it was open! Well about bloody time! We went in and I marvelled that the bolt and wood on the door must be so old. There was a crypt and doggo wouldn’t come down it with me. Just like my crap dog at home, they never like to go down into dark holes. I had brought a torch, so down I went unaided. There was a hole in the wall and a stone chair thing. We ate our food and she led me off to the second hermitage. The weather was closing in around us and I preferred to follow my footprints back to Tella now in case we could no longer find our way in the mist. I knew she’d soon catch up.

She did and just in front of me she suddenly stood bolt still, raising a front paw in hesitation. She started growling and inching forward. Oh bloody hell what is it thought I? Has some murderer seen me leave the village and followed us up here? I hope she is as willing to protect me as she is to eat my sandwiches. I whip out my pepper spray and proceed with care, hot on her still-growling heels. It better just be the whiff of a fox that has set her off I pray as she barks to tell whatever it was to clear off. A few minutes later we were back at the village and she went home. Sigh. The sun was shining and I blasted back down the mountain in record time again. More vultures swooped around me on the hill. Wowzaaaa.

Home to Bluey in good time, I drove to a churchyard for a shower. I had just lit the stove to boil my water when some very insistent miaowing started up at the door. I peek through the window and tell a ginger and white moggie also to clear off. I’m tired and not up for adopting a wayward puss right now. He responds by jumping into my window and purring my van to death. Fine then, just don’t burn your whiskers on the stove.

Once clean and having ejected mog back out through the window we drove south. Leaving my mountains behind, I drove out of the snow and through a herd of sheep and some very pretty cows standing right in the middle of the main road. Driving south is just rubbish. I see where they get the saying ‘it all went south’ from. I was leaving fresh air and all that was pure, heading towards humans, noise, cars, and litter.  Granted I was driving a car myself, and not precisely solar-powered either. The drive from Lleida to Barcelona was full of cattle wagons and I could see the pink flanks of pigs on their way to become sausages. I quickly averted my gaze as my tummy lurched. The air stank of pig poo and industrial ‘farming’.

Humans stink. I can’t wait to patch Bluey up and get away again before we overrun the Pyrenean mountains too. Ironically though, as a human, I would like a fellow one to come with me sometimes, for little bits of the way. I can always push them out the window once they start getting on my nerves. Just like that cat.