Adventures in soup ....

So Dingo Baby was making his first foray into cooking lentil soup, unsupervised. Having never been in the spice cupboard before he had a guess at what he thought was cumin seed. We now have cardoman flavoured soup but I think he‘s on to something ... it’s delicious!

Adventures in London's musical underground ...

Having introduced Dingo Baby to Midnight Oil I felt compelled to accept his invitation to a night with Mac de Marco, if for no other reason than to experience the Coronet, a legendary sticky floor venue in Elephant and Castle, before it is inevitably knocked down to make way for more unaffordable apartments built for overseas investors to rent out to Londoners at exorbitant rates (read here the litany of injustice involved in this demolition of communities' and people's futures from Southwark Council and Australian developer Lendlease).

A quick tour through Youtube and I discovered that Mac de Marco's style could best be described as stoner or slacker rock so I was expecting mostly stoners and slackers to be in the audience. It's always disconcerting when expectation and reality don't meet so it took a few moments to adjust to being surrounded by a crowd of young, preppy, posh accents seemingly engaging in their own version of cos-play for a few hours, i.e., a mass sing-along of not particularly subversive lyrics wishing they too could be swigging beer and whisky from the bottles lined up on their speaker stacks.

Maybe after years of dance tents and stadium gigs, or the fact that I was just sipping on burdock and dandelion soda, I was also struggling with the repertoire of three minute pop songs ... just when you think the song is going somewhere, it stops. It was only in the second half that some of the music started to get more interesting but by then the state of mind of the band was starting to disintegrate along with the cheese sandwiches and other food stuffs being thrown at the stage (which was pretty funny). It was also funny to watch Mac de Marco (clearly a talented musician who will not age well) replace the drummer who then came to the front to sing; only he can't sing so it started to be largely unfunny after ten minutes. With long pauses and occasional guttural screaming, the jackass-ery finally came to an end with a five chorus version of 'I'm Henry the Eighth', lyrics substituted for something vaguely comical but I had given up caring. Apart from a freestyle long version of an instrumental somewhere at about the half way point (which was exceptional), my vegan souvlaki from the Greek cafe in the neighbouring BoxPark was the best thing from the evening (and the ride home on the night tube;  always guaranteed to be ethnographically fascinating).

I recognise that as the oldest woman at the gig, with a penchant these days for 'been there, done that' eye rolling,  my opinion on these things is doubtless considered worthless, but I would counter with the following vignette ...

This morning, on the way to a well earned recovery brunch in E20 (because dandelion and burdock soda can take it out of you), we crossed the no-person's land of Hackney Wick warehouses still to be demolished, to hear the ever louder pulse of a techno rave being illegally held in a squat. As the grinding bass lines reverberated off derelict walls and the houses of suffering neighbours, we started to see the late morning wreckage emerging, blinking, into winter sunlight, sitting in gutters with cans of beer, crashed out on nearby benches, digging holes in the ground for no particular reason, grinning maniacally in baggy cargos, hippy tie-dye and dreadlock splendour, make-up smeared down sweaty faces, in desperate need of a shower and sleep, weaving their way down the street beneath the ever encroaching cranes of gentrification to the overground station. And this was the vanguard of early leavers .... the hard core still had another eight hours of partying to go.

Now that, fans of Mac de Marco, is proper stoner/slacker behaviour, although debates on its authenticity are irrelevant if you have to live next door to it and I suspect neither the ravers nor their preppy brethren nor Mac de Marco were feeling particularly spritely today, and that, as I smugly sip my  dandelion and burdock soda, is a waste of a beautiful winter's day.

L'Ariege sauvage

You know you’re in a remote part of the world when you can’t get any phone signal … for days. L’Ariége has the reputation for being the most difficult section of the Pyrénées: there are fewer gîtes, fewer towns for resupply, fewer people about, and longer, steeper ascents and descents to walk over each day. But the reality is not quite as fierce as pre-departure wild imaginings may lead you to believe. The walking can be hard going but is more than compensated for by the spectacular, by the sense of having an entire mountain range to yourself, by attempts to market the area more and make the trails clearer, and the hospitality in some truly stunning gîtes.

The ‘hard going’ is evident in days of anything from three to seven hours of climbing, with the usual knee breaking descents on the other side. Fortunately, they love a lacet in l'Ariége and I lost count of how many I must have walked up and down. Not that I’m complaining, but I was feeling a bit seasick after an hour or so of tight turns on the descent from Col de l’Arech.

The weather can add to the ‘hard going’ no matter what part of the world but this was the first time I had to re-route a section as the evening thunder storm rolled in and stayed. The next day the weather would not settle and the mountains were invisible in torrential rain and mist. It took several days to get some sunshine back as the valley’s slowly cleared and the leaden sky sucked up wisps of cloud.

But on the side of the ‘spectacular’, after the rain the rivers and waterfalls were in full throttle. This section of the GR10 passes from high pastures to woods and ravines, and later the pines and granite cirques of karst country. It also contains some near perfect traverses of varying length: from the twenty minutes it takes to walk along the side of the valley from the Mines de Bentaillou (1870m) to Col de la Catauère (1706m); the last hour through forest along an old aquaduct into Marc; the dappled mule track above a roaring ravine from Pas de la Core (1385m) to the hamlet of Esbints (810m), tucked into the hillside in the forest; or the three hours from the Barrage de l’etang d’Izourt (1647m) to Goulier (1110m).

L’etang d’Izourt, an artificial blue behind a grey barrage, is trapped by 270 degrees of high peaks. It is stunning. But the traverse from this lake is back in the ‘hard going’ category. It is not flagged in the Topoguide as difficult but it should be … in big red capital letters. The trail is in bad repair as the path is little used now the gîte in Goulier is closed (due to reopen in October 2017). At times it disappeared into heather clinging onto steep slopes, at others times it became a rock scramble around cliff edges. It is totally exposed with a 500m to 700m drop to the valley floor. With few secure places to stop and take the pack off I couldn’t enjoy it as much as I’d like to but did remember to look back occasionally at the clouds and light working against each other over the mountains (with thanks to Seamus Heaney for the imagery).

Turning the nose of the spur and descending to Goulier I finally found someone to point me in the direction of the path down to Auzat: an ugly village of powerlines, pipes and abandonment. All through l’Ariege are ruined orries, cabins and hamlets, abandoned in France’s rural exodus towards the industrial revolution. Auzat is dead. Even the bus is long gone and I had to catch a taxi to Tarrascon sur Ariege (30km away) to make my train. It’s a sad place to leave the mountains but also a marker of how isolated l’Ariege can feel.

‘Solitude’, if that is what you’re after, is a strong feature of this section of the GR10. Previous blogs have highlighted my Greta Garbo-like desire to be alone when out walking and l'Ariége is as close as it’s come to the Pyrenees being all mine. As with the traverse from d’etang d’Izourt, from Artigue to Fos I was the only soul on the mountain all day apart from a troop of isards who grazed warily but without running as I ambled by. Perhaps because it is more isolated there was more wildlife present than previous years, including birds, foxes, snakes, and something akin to a pine martin or stout that popped up from time to time.

The sense of solitude extended to several ‘install yourself’ gites where you make yourself at home, have a cup of tea and wait for your hosts to eventually show up to cook dinner. Twice I was the only person in the gîte, sleeping the sleep of a single person: one eye and ear always half open. Interestingly, most of the single people I ran into were women wild camping along the trail: a moment of recognition that required no translation. 

It is always ‘hard going’ to manage the desire for solitude with other people’s desire to interrupt it to talk about their dietary requirements and the pain in their knees, but while Mz Austen may suggest that once names have been exchanged ‘there’s no escaping the acquaintance now’, I beg to differ. I resolutely refuse to give in to any attempt at attachment (not counting requests for help obviously), and always add in a couple of short days or a random rest day to lose the overly attached.

Still, some sections of l'Ariege were quite busy, related to attempts by the local tourist industry to boost numbers to the region. PassAran, for example, is a new sportive hike between France and Spain following parts of the GR10. It looks tough but has become very popular, especially with the Spanish, helping to keep the gîtes and refuges on the course in business. There are obvious signs of improving the paths on this particular section, with better signage, for example, and the three young men trimming the trail with whipper snippers above Maison du Valier. Of course the down side is overcrowding and perhaps people taking to the trail without figuring out that it’s not the middle of a city. How the young men got their float tyres, deck chairs, £20 pop up tents and sound system up to l’etang d’Ayes (a solid hike up from the parking bays to 1694m) is a mystery at once impressive and annoying.

Refuge de l’etang d’Araing was also busy with walkers, fishermen, climbers, feral shepherds and a man who seemed to have run there (which in fact he had as I discovered when I ran into him the next day for a chat – he was spending his weekend running around this section of the mountains with just the slight problem that he had forgotten exactly where he had left his car in comparison to where he thought he was on the map). I noticed that everyone at my table (I’m the only woman out of ten) was wearing a GPS watch – about £3000 in watches alone – all of which started beeping at 6.30am the next morning.

This sense of parts of the region being spruced up seemed to affect the gîtes along the way as well, some of which are the best I’ve ever stayed in for cheap comfort and superb food. Maison du Valier, for example, insisted on guests using their fresh sheets, and the hostess spoke French so deliberately that I could understand everything! Similarly, Village de Vacances de Marc has clean sheets and a buffet where I was instructed to push the chicken to the side of my plate and eat as much of the rest of the paella as I wanted.

There seemed to be a competition along the trail to see who could make the best picnic lunch. Marcel from Fos is up there with four pieces of fruit, the ubiquitous bread and cheese, a cereal bar and last night’s left over goat’s cheese crostini. But Village de Vacances de Marc gets the prize: two hunks of break; a chunk of cheese; two boiled eggs, already peeled; a whole tomato; apple AND nectarine; mayonnaise tubes; and TWO packets of crisps.

All other meals were consistently a tour de force of local cuisine for ridiculous prices. At Artigues, it was truite bio, tarte de myrtille, rosé de table and kick arse views of the mountains. The serious comfort food of tarteflette (without the lardons for the veggies) of Gîte Presbytère in Aulus les Bains made me institute a Montelbano (no talking) rule on the other English speaker at the table (I literally said to another human being that I needed to concentrate on my potatoes). Auberge des deux rivières offered a three course gourmet dinner and the smell of fresh pain au chocolat in the morning. The restaurant was all wood, stone and stuffed animal heads. It was one of those evenings when the manager, Robert, who is barman, waiter, maitre d’, and translator, effortlessly switching between English, French, and Dutch (he’s Belgium), wanted to proudly surprise me with a starter that turned out to be turkey stomach confited in duck fat (I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was vegetarian). The chef arrived with my ‘surprise’ salad, dressed in an apron over his running shorts, while the old sheep dog did a circuit of tables looking for handouts. Everything came from ‘up the road’ and tasted better than anything I paid £200 for at Le Gavroche.

But the farm gîtes of Esbints and Rouze were my favourites. Esbints was a collective of cats, dogs, chickens and two lovely young farmers who run sheep for meat as well as produce vegetables, fruit, jams and sorbets. The dogs spent most of their time chasing the chickens and fighting for attention with the cat that goes off stalking phantoms. It is a low-tech farm in keeping with the self-sufficient atmosphere of the region. Our host carried loads of straw on his back like a Nepali, from the field to the barn. Everything we ate was from the farm and I get daal! Oh joy. Not cheese or eggs, but real daal. The French tried it but preferred their mouton. The guardians, as in other gîtes in l’Ariege, joined their guests at the table and over dinner the discussion turned to farm life and bergers. I have started to understand how respected they are in this region for the job they do. 

At Gîte de Rouze I was greeted by a troop of staring goats standing in the middle of the lane, who then spookily surrounded me, wanting a scratch behind the ear, and then followed me all the way to the gîte door. The patou appeared to check me out but just wanted a scratch behind the ear as well (note: never scratch a patou behind the ear in the wild). The garden was full of vegetables and a dairy that makes 20 types of cheese. Our dinner was entirely from the farm: bread, baby goat (chevrette) for the carnivores, butter, milk, cheese, yoghurt, vegetables, jam and sorbet from Esbints. The fire was lit, there was a big jug of red wine and talk turned to the local protests over re-wilding bears, including something said about people who live in cities and are vegetarian (I decided discretion was the better part of valour and held off announcing that I think re-wilding is a good idea). In the morning our breakfast bread was warm! Seriously, someone got up at 5am to make bread for us. They left our bills stapled to our picnic bags and asked that we put the money in the unlocked cash box by the door.

The one exception to the exceptional hospitality was Refuge de Bassies. The spectacular setting at the foot of a circle of granite peaks did not make up for being told I had to buy my own toilet paper. The heating couldn’t be turned on because the heater didn’t work so at night it was every layer on plus four blankets (which was probably a bit excessive as I had to shed thermals and two blankets during the night). There were no lights in the dorms or vestibule and in the morning the main dining room lights didn’t come on till 0800. Although this may be related to their solar power it didn’t make for a cheery establishment. I did get a room to myself though.

 Notes to self:

• Icebreaker really is the best. After seven hours of ascent, sweating in 32 degrees of heat, yes, I’m going to sleep in it and wear it the next day.
• Gortex really is better. I’ve worn a Berghaus brand wet weather jacket for years along with gortex pants for really wet days. They were both severely tested in a Pyrénéen storm this year: six hours of walking in rain ranging in intensity from a shower to sustained torrential downpour. The results: legs completely dry but the top was very damp and cold. I’m now going gortex all the way.
• Embarrassingly, I somehow always manage to be as slow on the descent as the ascent, so after watching a young woman with a full pack gracefully descend a boulder field I decided I can do better by sucking in the stomach, tucking the butt under and leaning back into my sac à dos. It feels odd, but it seems to work. I'm open to other suggestions.

A fortnight of cheese sandwich lunch stops

Day 1: With view towards Bagnères de Luchon (1230m).


Day 2: Pic de Bacanère (2193m).


Day 3: Carrefour d'Uls (1820m).


Day 4: From Gîte d'Eylie en Haut (990m).


Day 5: Cabane de Bessett (1494m), looking back at what has already been climbed and descended in the morning.


Day 6: Between Col d'Auédole and Pas de la Core (1550m ish).


Day 7: Auberge des Deux Rivières (541m).


Day 8: Soggy cheese sandwich in lashing rain with zero visibility, Col de Pause (1527m).


Day 9: Salle de manger, Gîte Saint Lizier d'Ustou (740m).


Day 10: Passerelle d'Ars (1485m).


Day 11: Col de Bassiès (1933m).


Day 12: Former aqueduct, above Marc (1010m).


Day 13: Barrage de l'Etang d'Izourt (1647m).

Meeting the neighbours

All happening in Homerton this evening ... traffic collision outside the block turns out to be our suspected local dealers trying to execute a handbrake turn in order to get away from a police pursuit. The driver missed the turn and hit a neighbour's car instead, which then rolled into another neighbour's car. The driver legged it leaving his girlfriend to deal with the police, two of whom ran after the driver eventually tackling him on the green. They've just brought him back kicking and screaming ... literally. 
Meanwhile half the street has come out to watch the performance and piece together what happened, swapping notes and perspectives from our various vantage points, having a laugh at the poorly planned escape attempt and commiserating with the car owners. Conviviality in action! It may not be pretty but it works.

Season's greetings ...

So in a week we have a spate of acid attacks in the neighbourhood, a riot brewing on Kingsland Road following a death in custody, a man beaten up on a local cycle path, and dealers now taking up residence on it. It's an odd, angry summer, this one. All thunder storm and gusts of wind out of nowhere. Anything unmoored is being buffeted into a gutter, and the rest of us cling on to our umbrellas and find the nearest wall to stand with our backs to. Youth workers talk of withdrawing from some streets because, like fake news, and alternative facts, and trolling, and Brexit, and Jo Cox, and shrapnel at a kid''s concert, the borders have shifted.

Up North

It seems that there comes a point in the life of a challenge eventer's feet when they finally give out a definitive signal that they've had enough. Losing sensation in my big toes was pretty much it for this year at least. Discretion, and the avoidance of gangrene and subsequent amputation, being the better part of valour, I finally had to accept the inevitable and withdrew from this year's North York Moors 100.

Yet having overcome the feeling of being gutted this actually turned out to be a good decision on many levels. First, I had always wanted to see the North Yorkshire Moors, and now I could walk around some of them at a leisurely pace with a camera. Second, Dingo Baby could  join in, rather than sit in a community hall waiting for me to arrive at some ungodly hour of the morning to hose me down and carry me home. Third, I could drink as much ale along the way as I wanted.We soon discovered however that there are other challenges that need to be overcome when travelling up North. All restaurants seem to close at 9pm (at least in Whitby) and if you happen to be still eating your spotted dick and custard too bad; cleaning of floors and tables will just go on around you. And don't even think of being a soft Southerner and asking for a spoon just because the waitress forgot to give you one. You can manage your seafood chowder with a fork like everyone else.  Likewise should you put on a jumper when sitting outside on the pub terrace, no matter that the sun is setting, the temperature dropping and the wind picking up, expect a chorus of 'soft Southerner'. 

The need to  test the plethora of 'best fish and chip/yorkshire pudding/homemade cakes in Yorkshire' claims in every village in the county led to challenging mathematical calculations of the ratio of calorie intake to walking time necessary to burn it all off. And if you ever want to sadistically see your Siri SatNav lose it, then tell it to find Botton Village or some other obscure, but ridiculously beautiful, dot in a dale. We also walked through fields with some of the scariest looking rams I have ever seen. I am still haunted by their appearance of being the bastard off-spring of a pig-sheep mash up and if anyone knows what breed they are I really need to know so I can stop thinking I imagined them.

Such challenges, however, are more than compensated for by big sky walks that take you from the sea, to moor and dale, forest and fields of rampaging wildflowers, interspersed with people that will stop and chat along the trails (even if only to point out that you're a soft Southerner for walking in boots instead of sandals).