Finishing Things

After 53 days over four years, 892km, 50,700 metres of ascent and 49,700 metres of descent, 100s of insect bites, several blisters, one pair of boots, a torch and a couple of t-shirts, I finally made Banyuls-sur-Mer, the end point of the GR10.

It had been a steep tumble down, one last cruel kick up on stony path, passing the fresh faces and good looking white clothes of those just starting out in Ibiza hats and impractical plimsolls, and then a final plunge into vineyards and olive groves. It would be pleasant on a cool day but the heat was scorching and the rubber of my soles felt increasingly bendy on melting tar. The trail eventually became a street and then a town that I’d been to before but didn’t remember in its current arrangement.

You think there would be some fanfare, particularly having belted out the last three hours without a stop in the full heat of afternoon, but the rest of Banyuls was heading to the beach, to a café, to the shops, completely uninterested in the sweaty remains of yet another hiker standing in front of the commemorative plaque on the wall of the Mairie. I took a selfie of my pack and headed for shade, a litre of red cordial on ice, another litre of water, a cup of Darjeeling, and later, a litre of coconut juice.

The heat made memories of this final stage an improbable smudge of hours into days, with only dust and cicadas threading time into a semblance of coherence as the trail rolled downwards to the sea. I tried to rank ‘the best of the GR10’, with the section from Plateau de Beille to Pic du Canigou as the possible winner with its deep valleys, rivers, peaks, and impromptu mountain lake picnic spots. But memories of Val de l’Aspe and l’Haute Pyrénées disrupt attempts to make hierarchies. So instead I made myself recall aspects of each day out of assemblages of trail, landscape, and body.

The first moments like the last ascend and descend, through forests, occasionally passing through or ending in a village that is dead to the world except for the few who return in the summer gathering respite from the towns. Between rifts, the trail opens up into a wide alpine valley and becomes a series of rural paths and old Roman road. There is a crescendo towards Pic du Canigou and then, en balcon, traversing its side, looking east through layers of blue, the ridges of foothills down to wrinkles and plains and lakes to the sea, the massif at my back receding behind cloud. Distance is interspersed with the need to scan the close at hand, looking to the feet to avoid cow pats, breaks in the trail, shaky rock hopping streams starting out life in narrow ravines. 

The landscape changes into dry, rocky escarpment that smells like home. Roc de France, one of several great granite outcrops, cracked and ready to roll, grandstanding over gnarly old beech lurching in all directions that look like they may come alive à la Lord of the Rings. I can’t get my bearings in the forest. It is soft under foot, padding accumulated over years of leaf fall, and dense canopy traps the heat so that despite the shade I drip sweat.

From Col de la Cirère, a partition is rent and heat radiates upwards and outwards, reverberating off stone. The trees become eucalypts but not quite, and the undergrowth becomes scrub smelling of sage. Farmhouses (mas), red tile roofs with Spanish outlooks, are tucked into corners with handy source pipes for impromptu showers. Archaeological sites promise that Hannibal has been this way. For a second, there is a motorway but also a cold Agrum from the first kiosk I see, downed in 30 seconds. It hits 41 degrees in the hell that is Col du Perthus and close to Col de l’Ouillat an entire family has conked out under some scraps of shade.

The final Col is a ‘drive to’ tourist destination, settled into forest; a place of giant pines quietly screening out the heat, overseeing BBQs and dog walking, camping and wild cows. The hum of cicadas heralds the arrival of fellow walkers: dripping Germans, French and the English Prof (long pickled in alcohol and nicotine but completing the Haute Route Pyrénées, so, respect).

The path weaves in and out of arbitrary frontiers; the border fence a sparse bit of barbed wire keeping out immigrant cows. Accents become less French and the yellow and red of Catalan is everywhere. There is fervent discussion at the table, and narratives of history recalled, handed down each generation over centuries to dig deeper the furrows of a dispute that is not going away any time soon. Other comings and goings overlay such conflicts. Passing time before dinner at Las Illas, I idle slowly around the village tracing Les Évadés: those fleeing Vichy France (including Jews, British pilots, and Walter Benjamin at some point); and coming the other way, those escaping Franco. The transnational also find their way here; the pied à terre expats, the hippies, the retirees.

The trail assembles such bodies, in passing, at a table or on a col, spaced out but connected in some way. A sense of stillness descends in rest, defining equanimity in the contemplation of cowbells and the sounds of a river, eating picnics and finally considering descent towards the valleys enfolding more and more people along the way, found tucked into nooks and crannies, creased into picnic spots among the rocks and the trees and the bushes, sitting by the side of the path in the middle of a forest, regarding life, circumnavigating mirror lakes to be disgorged at assorted hostels, gîtes and hotels.

I note the trail makes hard bodies, as I randomly pass the fit and naked, lying stoned on the rocks of a riverbed. I share a bunk with M&M, both in their 70s and both mountain walking for over 30 years with the wiry musculature of the much younger, such as the two Spanish runners I redirect through a forest; straight out of Vogue with nothing more on than black sports bra, shorts and wash board stomachs.

The motley crew gets motlier as we plunge down the final spurs and foothills to the sea, with each new batch requiring analysis. At the intersection of walkers and anoraks, a man at the opposite table is reading a book on European butterflies. I’ve seen some brilliant species today. There are three teenagers with springy ligaments and knee joints, one of whom carries an open umbrella for shade. There are the three young men, and Jackson the dog, sensibly avoiding a career by staying as long as possible in the mountains. A young woman all lean body and tattoos started out with a 22kg pack but is sensibly leaving some with an understanding gîte owner to pick up by car on her way back. There’s a young north American woman who really needed to speak English, had bed bugs, was abandoned by her friend when she realised what the Pyrénées entailed, and who hadn’t booked any accommodation. She was adopted by the Germans. There is Sam, who spends the afternoon drinking beer, then a jug or so of wine, then after dinner liqueur. I find him howling outside my very basic gîte, and being yelled at in turn by the locals, and get him inside where he collapses on a mattress downstairs. He wakes several times during the night to cough up a lung but spryly passes me the next day. Bastard. I analyse myself.

People come and go, and sometimes disappear. The gendamerie pull me over in Siguer and ask if I’ve seen a man gone missing. I had passed one going the other direction but too young I think for the one they’re looking for. My bad French may also have sent them in the wrong direction: le col and Lercoul being very similar when I say them.

I remember the wild things: the black horses of Plateau de Beille that investigate my yurt; fields of yellow and purple wildflowers; marmots setting off their high pitched alarm as wild cats stalk them over moraine. There is also the forest where the wild people live: in a clearing with pirate vans, tipi and horse. Little trails disappear into the shadows and the outlines of off grid shanties.

I remember wild weather. In the afternoon a storm would mostly threaten, with thunder barely raising itself into a clap and either deciding it can’t be arsed, passing over to somewhere else, or half hearted drizzle will accompany sleep until a clear morning repeats itself. But occasionally the clouds gather up their contempt into fat cumulonimbus and bring down hell on a hot earth, grumbling and cracking for hours. Half way to Porteille des Besines (2333m), it begins with a bank of black cloud speeding up the valley, swallowing me in its biblically dark path, and slapping wind and rain into the mountain. It ends after an hour just as abruptly, by passing through a curtain into a sprawling valley below. There must always be a willingness to be immersed in these elements, to be blown over by their great gusts, but just make sure to be swaddled in gortex while its happening.

After the outburst there is refuge: coffee, crepes, nutella, warmth. There is a feeling of gratitude to arrive at shelter, to sit on a wooden deck overlooking a river, as the storm growls its way down the valley, distant thunder echoed, replied to by an outstretched arm of black cloud. Ecogite Orrie de Planés is all brick and children, scoring slightly higher than the gîtes of Rouze and Esbints due to its immaculate sleeping quarters and Pink Floyd playing across the terrace in front of the pool. In the dining hall there are pictures of all the produce providers on the wall; the guardian points out whose veggies and cows we are eating.

Refuge Ras de la Carança is compact, with no showers except the icy blast of the rig next to the creek. The superbly clean composting toilet is 100m away. There are two roaming chickens and a dog that likes stick-throw and my yarn. Quietness descends with cards and scrabble, books and kindles. Py is a patchwork of medieval stonework, and 20th century cement and drains, ancient cemeteries and today’s artisanal beer. At Hotel Glycine, Arles sur Tech, I recharge myself and my gadgets, and plan to lie in on clean sheets, but the church bells peal ALL night, on the hour, outside my window opened to escape the heat on the top floor where the walkers are deposited so our smelly bags and bodies don’t offend anyone (though in fairness the hotel is very welcoming and the food is excellent, served in a courtyard under an ancient mass of ivy).


There is always the uncomfortable; the little scramble to Lescun paling into insignificance compared to Pic du Canigou’s chimnée; and that moment when I proclaim in bad French ‘Pour l’environnment, les Française doit arrêter manger le viande’, just as the rest of the table goes quiet and all French eyes turn to me. But most discomfort can be resolved by perspective. There are things over which I have no control; there are things I can get better at if I choose to practice (please, practice my French!); and the most difficult path does not have to be taken. I do not have to walk up an inclined ice pack and then leap from a hollowed out ledge onto the moraine at its edges. It may just be indicative of trust issues with my boots but I can always choose to scramble around the outside to get to where I need to be.