Borce to a shepherd's hut somewhere on the GR10
The few people I've told recently that I was thinking of avoiding Somport and going into Spain by the Col des Moines all tried to discourage me, some with unexpected vehemence. One said "mais il faut être Alpiniste pour faire ça" and another, who told me he knew everything about the Camino, said that I had to start it at St Jean Pied de Port. Sigh. Even when you're convinced that you're, if not right then at least reasonable, such negativity can be demoralising so it was a huge relief when the two friendly people in Borce who were doing the GR10 confirmed that, far from needing mountaineering equipment or skills, I probably wouldn't even have to use my hands. And so it proved.
A hour's easy walk on the GR10 (the west-east route on the French side of the Pyrenees) takes you to the start of the Chemin de la Mâture, looking down on the slightly sinister Fort du Portalet, where Daladier, Mandel and other de
View attachment 65498mocrats were imprisoned in 1940 and, with a pleasing circularity, Pétain found himself banged up in 45.
The Chemin de la Mâture is a path 2-3m wide and 3-4km long cut into a sheer cliff, and used to drag tree trunks down from the higher woods to make masts for the battleships of Louis XV's navy. It is bloody scary even if you don't have vertigo, as a slip or stumble could easily launch you into oblivion. At least it isn't particularly steep, and eventually you reach some beautiful woods, at which point you start going up seriously. If the previous day's resumé was wet wet wet, Thursday's was up up up.
After about five hours of continuous up, including a stretch of 70m up in 210m forward, I wondered briefly if I had possibly fallen off the cliff, and my purgatory was a Sisyphean eternal walk through never ending woods with a heavy backpack. At least there was no water shortage.
Eventually the woods did end and I found myself on a gloriously beautiful upland pasture, 1500m of accumulated ascent since breakfast. And, an hour or so later, and about three hours before I'd planned to stop, a tiny hut appeared with a sign saying that, after 15 September, when the shepherd stopped using it, the National Park made it available to anyone. A single room, a table, and a loft with two mattresses. And a delicious source by the nearby stream. Although it was relatively early in the afternoon, it seemed too good to miss, so I had a late lunch/early supper, and settled down. A few vultures circled around, some cows with their musical bells joined me, night fell and I had one of the best views ever, completely clear of light pollution, of "la splendide forêt des constellations". It was a magical ending to a very special, if rather energetic, day - and then lulled to sleep by my two favourite sounds: animal bells and a busy mountain stream.