The fallibility of using the past for future navigational choices ...

It’s an illusion of age that things from the past are imagined in increased proportions; like going back to your primary school and realising how small it actually is when your memory is of a really big place. On the other hand, when it comes to mountains, it seems to be inverse proportions that remain, as my memories of Pic du Canigou (2,784m) was of a much smaller ascent than it actually turned out to be when facing it again ten years later. Admittedly, on my first encounter I was going down with just a small day bag. My recollections may also have been influenced by the guide books that all described it as an ‘easy’ ascent (although perhaps not in bad weather), and the occasional gîte/refuge guardian who may have climbed it once or twice, reassuring me it was ‘trés facile’.

I was still in two minds when I reached a crossroads and was faced with the choice of the shorter, steeper, Le Chimnée, or the longer official GR10 route. I stood there for 10 minutes debating with myself which way to go as cloud descended and it looked like rain, but just as I was about to continue ahead, Mimi and Michel, two lovely French hikers in their 70s I’d been tagging along the trail from Goulier, caught up with me and turned right. I followed, thinking something like, 'I once got down it, and Mimi and Michel are like ... 70 ... so how hard can going up be'. 

We emerged above the cloud and continued up the valley towards steep, long lacets of moraine and rocky passage. Leaving Mimi and Michel trailing, 1000m dissolved into a couple of hours and I was at the base of 200ft of near vertical rock face.

In hindsight, I should have relied on Google rather than my memory as Le Chimnée is in fact a Grade 2 scramble, defined by the British Mountaineering Council as a point where the line between scrambling and rock climbing becomes ‘blurred, and the use of protection becomes more advisable’. Grade 2 scrambles usually include sections where a rope is a good idea if you’re not feeling too confident. I had no rope, and my confidence had ebbed away with age, particularly following the Italian misadventure. The foul vegetarian dinner that I’d paid a supplement of €3 for the night before had already violently exited and my stomach was gurgling. My period started. I needed to pee. I was carrying a full pack that restricted movement. But faced with no choice, I was going up. 

It helped that it was a weekend and there were numerous agile runners (yes, people run up and over Pic du Canigou for fun), and other hikers clambering around me to provide encouragement. So it was little ledge to little ledge, tiny foothold to tiny handhold, metre by metre apart, steeper and steeper, for I do not know how long (time, like memories of height, was getting out of proportion), until the last three metres of straight up.

Knackered and at the very edge of my comfort zone, I perched on a jutting rock, letting some runners descend, before the last narrow passage to the top where a group of Catalans waited for me to clear the chute and generally cheer me on. One last haul and I was by the cross marking the point that I recalled from years ago, bearing the flags and hopes of Catalans that their country will one day be independent of Spain. 

A definitive edge remained in focus but beyond that clouds rose and fell, along with the chatter of day trippers. The sun and blue sky, the outlines of valleys and crests, appeared and vanished. A step further, the abyss. I could see the sea again knowing it was only five days until I would put my toes in it. 

Slow and steady, first Michel and then Mimi, half my size with twice my pack making me feel like a complete sook, appeared over the threshold and joined me for sandwiches. Quietness descended, with a slightly disturbing thought murmuring in the back reaches of my mind: ‘how the feck did I get down it the first time!'

An Epic Day

I generally estimate that 5-7 hours of walking time is a lovely day entailing a languid pace, a leisurely lunch break, and ample time for photography. But there is always the issue on a GR that gîtes and refuges are inconveniently spaced necessitating the occasional ‘epic’. Epics are okay if they come later on in the itinerary when the legs are broken in and/or the trail is inclined downwards, but on the final stage of the Ariege it was not only coming at me on Day 2, it was also 23km of 2400m ascent and 1280m descent over five cols. Estimated time at normal pace, with stops, in the heat, with possible afternoon thunderstorms: 12 hours.  

A gnawing anxiety got me out of my bed in an old farmhouse in Siguer and on the trail by 6am. The first ascent of 1200m was the worst with cold legs and a 14kg pack including food and water for a long day. Not even the soft alpine grass of the estives could ease the initial fatigue. Losing a clearly defined trail at Pla de Montcamp also slowed things down a bit. My interpretation of the instructions to ‘always follow the spur’ led to being about 90 degrees off course until a swift correction towards Col de Sasc.

The first big knee crushing descent down 600m was through the usual gorse bushes and rocks to reach Cabane Balledreyt. Because of the closing of the Siguer gîte (with the only options being the one farmhouse bed noted above, the very basic free village gîte, or deviation to a village further down the road), and with no supermarché for miles, local walking groups have taken on the task of stocking the cabanes in this section with provisions that hikers can take and then pay back when they get to the next refuge or gîte (or send money online when next on wifi). So it was with joy that, after five hours of walking, I found the cabane well stocked with vanilla and chocolate puddings to go with my boiled eggs and energy bars.

The closing of the Siguer gîte has also affected the number of walkers using this section. Most of the people I’d met in Goulier the day before were taking deviations via car to avoid the distance. But the lack of people over two seasons has meant that the trail is now being reclaimed by nature, disappearing into grass, mud and streams, and the familiar red and white GR signage was wearing away. From Cabane Balledreyt the trail often bore little resemblance to the route description so faith had to be placed in map, compass and a sense of ‘it’s the right general direction’. Tree cover made landmarks harder to see and added to the ever present doubt of ‘when did I last see a ballisage’; a question often spoken out loud to no-one in particular.

After what seemed like an eternity of stumbling downwards through a dappled corridor of rocky trail with a torrent running unseen through chasms first on one side than another, eventually a clearing was found, a forest re-entered, and the path rose again. After 400m of switchbacks, Col de Sirmont held the world for a second in pause position before I was allowed to hurtle once again down into the forest on the other side, along a path still taking shape around the trees and rubble brought down in snow melt and thunderstorms.

Descending further alongside a river, crossing a bridge, passing a helpful trail runner who confirmed directions (one of only two people encountered during the day apart from some bergers in a morning that seemed eons ago), I emerged at a road that helpfully coincided with where I thought I was supposed to be on the map. With 8.5 hours now done, and one final ascent, I stopped to finish off my supplies just as a swarm of biting flies stopped to finish off my legs on the one day I had decided to wear shorts.

I had saved one strategic caffeine gel for this last 800 metres upwards to Plateau de Beille, and also found solace in using my gps to break it into 100m lots, resting on my poles at the end of each section. The road below was the point of rejoining for those who had taken the deviation and I now reconnected with several of the people I had met on the first night in Goulier. We made a caravan over the last hundred metres of ascent, reaching the edge of the plateau just as the rain began to start and stop in short bursts as nature signalled her indecision about just how much more difficult she wanted to make it for us.

The trail soon becomes a piste that made the final kilometre an easy walk to the campsite, where there were dozens of hikers heading back to their cars to drive home after checking out the views, which were superb. There is always a slight disjunction at arriving at a place, a tad tired, dishevelled, smelly and lumpy, to see fashionable day-trippers wandering about in sneakers.

Looking to the north-west I could see most of my route: from Pla de Montcamp, the nearer cols and ridges disappearing into deep valleys. My gps recorded a time of 10.5 hours instead of the 12 predicted, so I may have legged it more than I needed to but I did beat most of the rain. I also noticed my gps categorically telling me my activity had been moderate with no recovery time needed! My legs and upper arms in particular politely declined to pay it any attention and, after eating as much as I possibly could, collapsed into my yurt to recover, dreaming of chocolate pudding and flat, wide open plains. 

Encounters in my neighbourhood

My neighbourhood has an ability to absorb most collisions. At its worst there are occasional explosions of loud music, bitter argument and violence at which point discrete phone calls are made to police and the local council's ASBO team. But for the everyday grievances of difference we mostly just ignore, tut, or keep objections to the privacy of the home rather than the street.

There are though moments of choice when we have to decide which way we're going to go. For example, after a few weekends of aggravated tension on our street related to the selling of illicit substances, I came home to find the shop had opened, so to speak, literally on the doorstep to my building. Unfortunately, before rational thought took charge, my middle aged self stepped in to berate the young man as he made a sale to a car passenger, with an eye rolling 'Seriously! you're going to do that here, on my doorstop!'

The rational side of my brain finally caught up with me two seconds later as I made it to my doorway, just as the young man also caught up with me and said 'Excuse me Miss, what did you say?'

Now at this point a few scenarios where trying to make there way around various neuronal passages in order to come to some decision on the best possible course of action to take at this point, influenced by the following confounding variables:

1. I was carrying my cello and therefore couldn't actually run very far, very fast.
2. I was almost in the block door but there was only a few feet and an open gate between the young man and me.
3. He was actually being very polite.

So my eventual response: 'I was just saying, have a nice evening', as I disappeared into home. 

The shop's not been back since but I somehow don't think the withering eye rolls of a middle aged cello carrier wearing hand knits and doc martins would really have had any impact on that decision. 

Check out these beds, Tracey Emin

Hiking without a tent in the Pyrénées means sleeping in a variety of beds with various levels of bodily contact, cleanliness, and exposure to the elements and insects. The following is a set of simple guidelines set into your own sliding scale of importance if you want a decent night's sleep:

1. always get in early if you want a choice;

2. avoid the beds nearest the door;

3. spread your sleeping sheet out without looking at the mattress;

4. if you do happen to glance at the mattress just pretend any hairs you see are actually your own; 

5. avoid the top bunks unless you know you've got them all to yourself;

6. always take a single room if you can afford it;

7. manoeuvre the very drunk but amusing Frenchman onto a bed as far away as possible;

8. move as far away as possible from the room where the young men who have been camping for  days with their dog, and who are now soaking wet after a storm, are sleeping in - the smell will be so thick you could cut it; 

9. 'centralise your crap';

10. remember the temperature will rise in direct proportion to the number of people in your room so you don't need to wear all your thermals to bed; 

11. keep your your earplugs in;

12. keep your water bottle within arm's reach as you will get thirsty at 2am;

13. keep your torch within arm's reach as you will need to get up to pee at 4am;

14.  fold your blanket neatly in the morning, while still avoiding looking at the mattress, and don't forget to thank the guardians. 

Slow moving trails between tavernas

Coming from the Pacific it took me some time to understand why people were so enraptured by Greek Islands. To my tropical eye they were dry, dusty, and ramshackle with shale beaches, a lifeless sea, and not much to recommend them other than clear water. But then, slowly, pastry by pastry, I found myself immersed. I discovered that ramshackle is part of an informality that centres on hospitality; that getting lost and finding your way out of a Greek village is a rite of passage involving serendipitous discovery; that Greek food is quite a bit more than souvlaki; and that walking can involve engagement with starkly contrasting forms of beauty, from dark jagged cliffs and mountains, to green oases of olive and fruit groves, down to the aquamarine of the sea. Even the Med has managed to redeem itself in some places with the occasional interesting fish and reef structure revealing itself.

Naxos is ideal for encapsulating all that is good about island life. Its mountains and plains are criss-crossed by walking trails embedded in layers of history ranging from the ancient Temple of Demeter to Byzantine churches with frescos and aniconoclastic art, from kouros lying around by the roadside to Venetian forts and chateaus, from industrial mining (emery and marble) to pristine beaches of actual sand. It is marked by the kinds of interactions that are part of a culture placing a higher premium on the interpersonal than the timetable, as seen in daily bus journeys.

It is relatively easy to get around with a good public transport network in the season timetabled to manage the flow of humanity. All buses to everywhere leave at 0930 from the port, as tourists, walkers and locals disperse into the villages and mountains for the day, and then scoop people back up for the return journey in the afternoon. Yet nothing is ever too precise. We start out ten minutes late one day as we drop off a woman who missed her bus that was now waiting for her on the outskirts of the city. Our return bus waited ten minutes for the Beatnik to get his ticket from the closest shop, but the driver thought it was hilarious to watch his pale, spindly legs running up and back in the heat. I also suspect he wanted a cigarette break. 

Not for Naxians the tediousness of contracts and receipts. It only took a handshake with a fourth generation textile artist in Halki to place my order for some bespoke weaving (and despite some anxiety that things were lost in translation, my material did appear, beautifully, three weeks later). On the third visit to our quad bike rental centre, Yannus apologised for asking for my passport again: ‘I know you now but I have to do this’. We thanked him, reassuring him that as Anglos we would feel uncomfortable if he didn’t do the paperwork. At the ferry ticket office, the agent juggled multiple phones (I counted six) and multiple customers, her iced coffee and cigarette, but still managed to get us on the right boat after the original one was cancelled without telling anyone. Our laundry was held captive one afternoon as the manager had unexpectedly locked up in the middle of the day but we just figured that the grocery store next door would know where she was, and they did, and they called her and she came and released my smalls.

I can imagine why North European bureaucrats and finance ministries might find such multi-tasking and informality infuriating. It’s not spread sheet efficiency but eventually stuff happens and it’s too hot to rush anyway.

In summer the walking requires some stamina, although there is generally a cool breeze on the mountains. Trails are not necessarily long but the heat, the informality with which trails are looked after, and the mountains can make the going tough. For our first Sunday of exploring we headed for the most popular trail on the island, the climb up to Mt Zas. This is easy to get to but a stiff climb on rough trail that often needs attention so as not to wander off like the young North Americans who took an extra three hours to find their way to just below the summit but had to turn back because they’d run out of water (not realising that the springs are there to be used).

Such hardships are compensated by the ability to factor in tavernas and cafes at strategic locations where refreshments will be required. In Filoti, the start and end point of the Zas climb, the platia is shaded by giant trees and lined by home cooking (our favourite taverna on the island, Platia, is here). 

Unless you fancy the extra labour of walking up mountains, the best approach is to bus or drive to the top of one and then walk down to a beach, to catch a bus or lift back up. From the mountain village of Apiranthos, for example, you set off down ancient monopati (paths) and kalderimi (paved trails), mostly shaded at the start, through a valley of stepped olive groves and pink oleander, taking in Agios Kyriaki (closed, like so many churches that promised frescos), to eventually pop out 3.5 hours latter at the magnificent small beach of Moutsouna with tavernas and cafes right on the sand.

Koronos is typical of the mountain villages: perched steeply over a valley, it is whitewashed, marbled, geranium pot plant and bouganvillea lined with mostly an aging population kept fit by walking daily up and down steep alleyways. ‘Streets’ wind around each other and public and private know no bounds. Asking directions to the platia, a woman vaguely waves her arm and tells us to ‘go straight’, straight being some right bends, some left turns, up and down some steps. We follow the sound of men sitting outside debating politics and clicking rosary beads, cigarettes in their other hands (they really need to cut back on the smoking). The platia is always shaded under trees or vine leaves, there is always an argument somewhere over the bill, and there is always free stuff: dessert, a shot, a coffee.

I left the Beatnik (Dingo Baby but with a beard) writing amidst the geraniums of Koronos’ platia and headed down to Lionas on good, well-marked paths, descending sharply to a valley floor and then following a creek bed under shade until emerging on the other side of the valley to traverse across the mountain above a gorge dotted with the gaping holes of mining history. 

Island trails were often obstructed by mesh wiring to keep goats and sheep into undefined fields but the path to Lionas went one step further with the shepherd placing his pen right across the path. The shepherd was in and opened the gate for me, happy to chat away in Greek (I imagine it’s a lonely life with few walkers on these trails). He helped me take off and put on my backpack, introduced me to his goats, told me the direction of the path and how long it will take to get to Lionas (all in Greek). Somewhere in the midst of this I ended up buying a wheel of goat’s cheese (I had the feeling I wasn’t getting out of there without buying something). The path kicked up 200m for magnificent views back up the valley and down to the sea, and then it was downhill all the way through olives and stepped gardens to the village of Lionas with its coloured pebble beach.

The Beatnik had driven down on the quad bike and we decided on To Delfiniki for lunch (there’s only two inns to choose from). The family-run tavern (most of them seem to be) served home-made and home-grown pretty much everything: briam with home-grown potatoes (the father proudly showed us photos of his garden); grilled mackerel; home-made dolmades; home-made rosé. The dessert, semolina halwa with preserved figs and cherries, AND a shot of home-made lemon liqueur was on the house. Then a plate of plums arrived from the garden. 

Unable to fit any more in, I frantically texted a Greek-Canadian-Londoner friend to see if it was rude to bag them, but before a response the father brought another packet of plums for us to take away. As I took out my wheel of cheese to make room for the plums the Delfiniki family laughed and pointed up to the mountain. I got the sense that many walkers arrive at their tavern with a wheel of cheese.   

The home-made, home-grown food seems to be the prevalent mode of feeding the tourists on Naxos, and just when we thought we’d arrived at the pinnacle (the galaktoboureko in Halki as far as I ‘m concerned), we headed to Apollonas for a swim at another beautiful, small harbour beach with tavernas and cafes chained along its shore. Here we tried our first (extra large plate of) loukomades; deep fried dumplings with toppings of your choice (ours being nutella). They are delicious, oozing oil and sugar, and must never be spoken off again.

The advantage of hiring a quad bike or other non-bus transport is the freedom to explore beyond the main routes and walking trails. The coastal roads are worth the drive with incredibly scenic panoramas of jagged black cliffs tumbling into deep blue sea, with isolated chapels dotted in impossible locations, hanging onto cliff edges as mortar defies gravity. 

It is necessary though to check the legend on the map before setting out. There are few roads on the island and there is definitely a hierarchy between tarmac, tarmac but a bit dodgy, unsealed, unsealed and very dodgy.  On our first day we took off for the coast road in the south that turned out to be a goat track. The ATV could handle it, and it was even fun in places gunning a quad bike up a steep fire trail with nothing but seemingly a few rocks between taking the bend and going over it, but I try not to think about it too much. I do have to say fair play to the owner of the Ferrari we occasionally spotted (not on the off road sections), although it seems a bit of over-compensation to have a high powered car on roads that wont allow much faster than 40mph. 

Transport other than buses is also handy for getting between trails as most are quite short (one to three hours), but they can be looped together if you fancy something longer. From the Dieter Graf walking guide I stitched four into a single epic eight hour day: from Chalki to Filoti to Ano Sangri to Plaka Beach, with conveniently located tavernas and cafes along the way. This crossed the Tragéa Plain with several byzantine churches, villages, the Temple of Demeter, luxury villas and the concrete skeletons of Greece’s economic disaster to look at.

I have to stress that by this time I had concluded that no walker should rely on the Dieter Graf walking guide; that would be a recipe for dehydration after wandering around trying to find where the trail actually goes. Especially don’t try to do his routes backwards. It gives enough clues, along with a map, local signage and way-finding experience, but on several occasions the route description is made up of humorous quips rather than necessary detail. The English translation causes some confusion: a ‘roadway’ is not necessarily a road but more likely a vague track. Whole sentences seem to be missing, like ‘at the end of a rough trail turn right on a dirt track for 500m’ and only then hit the road and look for the church. 

On my eight hour epic, between farmers' copious mesh barriers, sink holes with the stench of the dead in them, overgrown monopatis that definitely are impassable, I was out of water and two hours late getting into Plaka. That’s two hours of beach time you lost me Mr Graf!

In fairness it wasn’t all the fault of the guidebook. In another of my classic, ‘trust me, I’m a geographer’ moments, I spent 30 minutes walking away from the trail after emerging from the winding streets of Damarionas 180 degrees in the wrong direction. Greek villages require compass bearings although wandering around getting lost in them is probably the point. All paths will eventually lead to conviviality: the platia, a shady taverna, a cold coffee and a chat.

Tips for walking in Naxos

• DO NOT RELY ON THE DIETER GRAF GUIDEBOOK. Make sure you have a backup map. 
• It can be hot for walking and I passed several wilting north Europeans by the wayside, huddled under scraps of shade.  While there are springs on some trails and in the villages, make sure you carry a hat and more than enough water for the time on the trail. On the up side, the heat was probably the reason most of the trails were empty. 
• Many of the trails are not marked well and are overgrown. More could be made of the island’s walking infrastructure for tourism but if in doubt the cairns and red dots are usually things you should follow. 
• The livestock barriers across trails can mostly be opened but can take some time to wrangle. They are normally tied up in extravagant knots or wire loops and are tetanus shots waiting to happen. 

The true value of a 'bestie' ...

On the Florence - Milan Frecciarossa high speed train (and what a lovely piece of engineering that is, she says as she removes her anorak) a couple of young women sat across from me at the table. One immediately burst into tears and a long Italian conversation ensued wherein Bestie reassured her friend that it was all his fault (I don’t speak Italian but some things don’t require translation).

Bestie dried Crying Girl’s eyes and then realised that her makeup was now looking rather ramshackle. Out came the travel box of makeup complete with at least two dozen shades of eye shadow, four blushes, several lip glosses and foundation, and for the next half an hour Bestie reapplied Crying Girl’s makeup while all the time soothingly reassuring her that it was still all his fault. By the time we reach Milan happiness, along with eyeliner, was restored to its full glory.

The trouble with being la végétarienne ... and other current French troubles.

There is not much that I don't love about France, except foie gras. But it's hard to love a country when they start charging you for being vegetarian. It's not like there's a shortage of cheese in France that they can't just throw a slice on the plate! So as I make preparations for the summer's Pyrenean walking I fully expect, Refuge Marialles, for my €3 extra supplement, some extra quality vegetables.

Je suis aussi un peu annoyed that I had to fly home from Milan yesterday instead of taking my beloved tren de nuit. The rolling SNCF strikes finally caught up with me, and while I admire French militancy in the face of attempts by anyone to curtail the long lunch, I will never forgive them for making me fly into City Airport. This landing involves descending sharply through thick cloud with zero visibility until popping out next to the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf, thinking ‘ummm do we have enough clearance over the Excel Centre’, but before being able to worry too much about that getting buffeted by wind shear off the Thames and  bouncing all the way down the runway into a reverse park at the terminal. I could, however, spend hours sitting on the DLR platform watching the prop planes swaying across the tarmac as they come into land, marvelling at how flight really is an amazing feat of engineering, or an unnatural act of magic (and where did I put my anorak).

Defying English weather ....

Curse you, English weather! My challenge event today was cancelled due to the persistent snow and high winds in Kent. Unfortunately, having spent all of yesterday eating bread, rice and cake, the amount of glucose in my system was demanding some kind of work out. So I spent ten minutes of my Sunday hauling on my favourite winter leggings with fleece knee warmers, a skins thermal top, a thin fleece top, wind cheater, thermal gloves, face buff, wool hat, and thermal socks in gortex shoes. This is what I had to wear to defy snow, wind and a skating rink of black ice along the towpath for the next two hours of my Sunday, with a killer final 30 minutes hauling arse through bitter headwinds to home. I was, surprisingly perhaps, joined by hordes of other people who think going for a potter in sub zero conditions is a fine way to spend part of their day off, with others wearing anything from shorts (must be Northerners or Canadians) to puffer jackets (soft Southerners). Whatever gets you out there ... but I am so looking forward to Spring (okay, it is supposed to be Spring now but it will come properly ... eventually).

The affects of ageing ...

Towards the end of my 50th year a young man stood to offer me his seat on the Tube and in an instant I realised I had aged. The signs were there: I was overcome with waves of nostalgia watching T2: Trainspotting and re-listening to Alanis Morrisette's Jagged Little Pill' on their 20th anniversaries. And at Glastonbury I found myself trying to sing Mary J. Blige songs to two teenage poppets who'd never heard of her, but who, in return, sang me snippets of One Direction songs they liked.

The trouble with ageing, I thought, as I realised that I'd now been alive in the world at least 30 years longer than the poppets, is that I seem to have less patience brought on by being in sight of the terminus, but fortunately also care less about the small stuff. K.T. Tunstall wandered into the massage tent she'd left an earring in the day before where I was naked except for my bonds knickers, and neither K.T. nor myself could give a rat's arse.

That kind of contentment is worth getting old for and if we can get through life causing as little damage to ourselves and others along the way, we've done alright. Scar tissue must never be allowed to accumulate, and 'if onlys' lightly collected, dusted off occasionally and then forgotten about at the back of a high shelf in a room seldom visited.

So in honour and celebration of half a century, even in a world of Brexump, while revelling in the complicated entanglements beyond a Manichean universe of good/evil, left/right, long lunches and fairy lights have been (and will continue to be) interspersed with unproductive walking and hours of Jane Austen.

My deepest thanks to those who have travelled with me during various decades along the way, and the various posses over the last year of finding Wally.