Walking the Pyrenees

So there we were, George and I, sipping our coffee and eating our croissants in a sunny little cafe in the Atlantic port of Irun, just on the Spanish side of the border with France. We had arrived in Barcelona, on a cheap flight from Liverpool, the previous afternoon with no idea how we were going to get to Irun on the other side of the country. To our astonishment, when we got to the bus station, we found that there was a bus leaving for Irun within half an hour.

Seven hours later, at 10.30pm, we arrived at our destination and thanks to the good offices of a local bar proprietor were quickly set up with some pleasant accommodation for the night. This was it then! We were about to take the first step on our journey across the Pyrenees. It was all rather unreal. Having been signed off by my physiotherapist from a quite painful back injury only two days earlier I was not even sure that I would last the first day, never mind the next six weeks.

Anyway, they say that a journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step so without more ado we shouldered our packs and set off to find our way out of Irun and pick up the GR11 path which would take us across the Pyrenees. We had an English guide to the route, a set of maps taken out of a Spanish guide book and of course there are the red and white waymarks which were going to play such a large part in our lives over the next six weeks.

We gradually climbed away from the town and were soon walking through the wooded valleys and along the wide rolling ridges that were a feature of the early days of our journey. The sun shone and the day got hotter and hotter. The first day was a long one and it was two weary walkers who entered the small town of Vera de Bidasoa at about 7pm and found a nights lodging in a ‘fonda’, a small bar and restaurant with accommodation.

Over the next few days we gradually rose higher and higher but still over broad green ridges qnd through mainly deciduous woodlands. Beautiful country often like English parkland but at elevations over 4000ft. The bird life was impressive with vultures (lots), eagles and red kites amongst many others. At this stage we were mainly staying in small hotels (hostels) or ‘casa rurales’ which were a great discovery consisting as they do of invariably excellent accommodation in private houses in the villages. We did spend our one and only night in our tiny tent which just happened to coincide with a magnificent thunderstorm.

After the first week the mountains started to get higher and we crossed our first and only peak, Pena Ezcaurri, at a height of 2047m. The landscapes became wilder and for the rest of our journey we were rarely going to be lower than 1200m (4000ft) and generally walking at elevations between 1800m and 2800m. The scenery was magnificent and infinitely variable, the geology changing from sedimentary sandstones and limestones in the west to igneous rocks mainly granite in the central and eastern area. There were magnificent gorges and canyons, soaring rock faces, lost valleys and fine ridges. There was an incredible variety of flora and some interesting fauna, significantly marmots (when you could not see them you could always hear them), and a species of mountain ibex peculiar to the Pyrenees.

Apart from a night in a disused barn and a couple of unmanned refugios, in the central mountains we generally stayed in manned refugios which were of a good standard and provided reasonable meals. Occasionally in the larger villages we stayed in the luxury of a casa rurales or a hostal and this allowed us to do more effective laundry and sometimes limited shopping.

The weather for the first three weeks was usually hot and sunny with occasional storms at night. During the last weeks it was more changeable which meant more storms at night but cooler days which were generally sunny. I found this preferable to the intense heat of the early days. We only walked in rain on about four days and then always for less than an hour. There is little wind in the Pyrenees so the rain comes straight down and the very lightweight (and cheap) ponchos that we took were perfect.

Due to different time constraints I left George at Puigcerda, crossed the frontier into France and spent two days walking the GR36 down to Villefranche, a few miles west of Perpignan where I caught a train back via Paris to England. George continued on the GR11 to Figueras and then via Barcelona airport and home.

As I sat on the ferry to Dover the previous six weeks were like a dream. The early days of the walk were a remote memory. In the last place I stayed there were some magazines devoted to the Pyrenees. As I looked at the many lovely photographs I reflected that we had travelled too fast and that we had left no time for proper contemplation. Since arriving home this feeling has become stronger. Perhaps it is a parable of modern life. We strive to compete at the numbers game, yes even in the outdoor activities world, how far, how fast, how high, how difficult. I am not disparaging these things, I am probably as bad as anybody, but we surely miss out on so much by not spending more time standing and staring.

In my own dale, there are walks that I must have done over a hundred times and yet still give me a sense of delight and of privilege when I do them, perhaps more so because I know them so well. These are just thoughts, reflections. I resolve perhaps to walk more slowly and stop more often and yet already there is a tingling in my mind, a reviving wanderlust which has already got me looking for a book where I can find details of more of the Grande Randonees of Europe.

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Walking the Pyrenees

Peter Dyson