We awoke to the anticipated frosty dawn and folded the tent flysheet away with its veneer of rime. With all our thermal underwear and bedsocks, we had been just warm enough, huddled together. I had been dreaming of difficulties with an old lover, for whom I still felt some attachment. In the dream, we had been organising the furniture of a room together, but couldn't agree how; nothing would please her, not least when I offered to leave her to choose. I awoke troubled. With a certain irony that very day I was to lose a much favored trophy of that relationship, a tourquoise woolly hat which had travelled the world and 'kept me safe'.

  The way resumed the tarmac for a kilometre, passing two gite d'étapes where we might have found greater comfort (and value!) than our tent. Karen_comments There seemed to be some military exercise ongoing here, evidenced by battle-green trucks and jeeps with their camoflage netting. Perhaps we might be caught in the crossfire? At least with our scarlet cags on, we should be conspicuously non-military. Our sentier left the army boys (we supposed), to climb steeply on switchbacks, quickly gaining a view down the valley clear of trees; the way seemed to be associated with a pipeline. I left Karen some minutes behind in my enthusiasm to warm up, but waited for her on arrival at a curious shrine for the Saint Famille; evidence perhaps of this route being well-travelled in a bygone epoch.

  Karen arrived and we walked together for a while by a marshy stream until the path steepened again and my impatience got the better of me. I had been brooding since she put the brakes on the stage alternative via Cirque de Troumouse, for as the weather was clear we should have been on that variant; she just isn't adventurous enough. I next halted in a rocky ravine, re-ordering my clothes for comfort. Karen arrived muttering something about her lips cracking up and the need for lip-cream. The emotions which powered our bizarre little dialogue duelled on stage in mask and full costume.
  'Dry lips? Must be that tea you drink' I observed. Humour quickly soured as we set to.
  'Then perhaps your corn is due to the chillies you eat?'
  'Perhaps its the chillies which make me 20% faster!' I set off just ahead of her, keen to have the last word and we continued in silence, I resenting her differences, and re-justifying my own peculiarities. Now however, the cannon was charged and the fuse burned un-stoppably ...

  200m along the trail, we were both further pre-occupied on meeting a whole regiment of army cadets, all dressed in the same drab grey uniform, and all addressing us, 'Bonjour' as if this too was part of their drill. That made for a lot of bonjours in return, and by the time they had passed, we had missed our turning, which was no more then a deer-track anyway. The mistake came to our attention within 10min, and was rectified by contouring to regain course, which was better defined as it gained height. The last zig-zags up to the Hourquette de Héas (2608m) crossed dark shaly terrain, which supported just the odd crispy thistle. Then the path further narrowed, breaking through crumbling rock-bands, to bring us with a grand sense of arrival to the craggy arete. This was our high-point for the day and predictably, inspired a rest and some photography. I recall viewing the way onward, and pointing out to Karen the lower Hourquette de Charmentas in the west. Voici!

  The steep descent which followed again crossed black shale which was intimidating to Karen. I was fairly sure her knee was no longer a problem; perhaps I could help her to be a bit more adventurous? 'Its really quite stable here, look, just step out, follow me!' She responded positively, boldly picking up speed; good. I wandered on ahead, passing a yellow PNP notice on a post; it was conspicuous against the black shale, marking a bifurcation towards the Piau-Engaly ski station. 5min later, I could not see Karen behind, and was puzzled. I waited a little but still she did not appear, and I was forced to back-track in time to see her a long way off, marching vigorously towards Piau-Engaly. 'Kare-e-e-n!' I yelled. She stopped and turned. 'For God's sake', I exclaimed exasperated, 'Come on!'. She turned obediently, and marched with the same vigorous pace. It worried me to think that she might not be autonomous in the mountains, so my response compounded earlier brooding with anxiety. Usually, problems of navigation and co-ordination between us didn't stretch this far; why now, why today?

  She stomped up hotly but halted at a cool distance to wave her baton telescopique threateningly in my face; 'Apologise!' The whole valley resounded with this shriek, and I fell mute. The party we just passed at the hourquette would hear this. Surely I didn't need to apologise? I honestly thought she was going to whack me too, but then she slowly melted into muffled sobs. Sans doute my timing was bad, but this followed the second occasion that I had really tried to push her, the first being in the descent to Ref Pombie. The stress occasioned by these attempts and generally my will to make her more adventurous, was not leading to any good place. What needed to change was of course me. I must re-order my picture of reality and accept: Karen operates within a defined 'comfort zone', and its not productive to try wrestling her out of it. Karen_comments

  We settled down to eat our breakfast in silence; bread, yoghurt and fruit. It was easier to regard the way ahead than to look at each other, and warm enough to relax for a while, but the meal would otherwise have lasted a little longer. In any case, we had some way still to go and though we had completed the main ascent already, knew we must press on. Over Col de Chermentas (2439m), we passed a large party of folk lunching near the rim of a steep eroded gully next to some cliffs. The guidebook noted a valuable short-cut traversing under these cliffs, but implied it to be a passage delicat, without alluding to the nature of difficulties. It was important that we start out correctly.

  Several trods converged on a broader path, and we were re-assured. The position at the base of the bulging limestone cliffs was sheltered and warm. I removed my cap, tucking it loosely inside my jacket above the hip-belt of the rucsac, a nook where I often retained it. Zzzi-i-ng, p-phlat 'Stonefall!' Could this be the reason why the passage was delicat? We moved into the cliff walls until clear of the buttress. Looking back, I noticed rare wall-creepers searching on the cliffs above; perhaps one of them had dislodged the stone? I pulled out my binoculars to get a better look, giving Karen a chance to go ahead. The birds were insect-like in their upward hopping, and on reaching some invisible limit, would suddenly break away into a fluttering diagonal descent, to start upwards again from a fresh point. Resuming course, the balcony path now presented sweeping views down into the green Vallon de la Géla, while above and to the right, the precipitous Muraille de Barroude unfolded. The main valley path joined steeply from the left, and then the Barroude basin opened out, comprising lakes, boulders, and its own humble glacier.

  The apex roof of the refuge became apparent, and then we heard loud banter and bizarre choral music from a radio; the hut warden was discussing something with a PNP ranger and paid little attention to us. We snooped around inside; only 8 Euros per night here, but 15 Euros for a meal! It looked well kept and inviting, but compact upstairs under the sloping roof. I noted it as another scenic stopover to return to. We had already remarked it would provide an emergency option in foul weather, but now the sun shone and the day was still young; 'On to Parzan!'

  Port de Barroude (2534m) was not itself much to look at, a rounded hump of black shale which reminded me of a Yorkshire slag heap; the view back into the Barroude lakes made for better scenery. Voici! We were warm during the ascent, but met cold wind at the port, and hurried on to gain the shelter of lower slopes. At the head of this new valley, Circo de Barrosa presents more wild cliffs below the towering Pic Troumouse (3085m); they were broken at our height by a near-level groove traversing far round to the left. It begged me to puzzle; was it a natural fault line, or a human attempt to force an extremely precarious route through?

  Karen and I were together at this point, but as we set into the arduous descent, a gap opened between us yet again; we had just left the well managed PNP paths, and this was certainly different! The gullies had obviously seen passage of much water, eroding broad swathes out of the route, which were insecure under-foot. I kept looking to see Karen was OK, and eventually stopped to watch her, very distantly, while sunbathing. Karen_comments There had been no possible deviation, but then she halted, doubtful; 'Lee-e-e-ee ?' I waved both arms high, but without the scarlet cag on, she couldn't see me so I called back. Re-assured thus, she moved forward, but arrived out of sorts. 'Give me the map!'
  'No problem' I said, 'in fact, why don't you keep it from now on?'
  We discussed the route again, and I allowed her to go ahead.

  Perhaps she would be happier to be ahead of me more often? This idea only came slowly as a formal tactic. I watched her progress for 10min, preferring to sunbathe a bit longer before the plunge into evening shadows. Then I followed, pausing just before them to clad myself in all those warm layers I had shed that morning. Did I say all? All except my beloved tourquoise hat which was nowhere to be found. I quickly figured where I must have lost it, but we were a good 2hr from there now, and could not justify returning to search; someone could have taken it by now anyway. 'Damn!'

  Karen_comments The path became a track, broad and grassy, and from here we enfin walked together until day's end. In addition to the track, ruined cabanes evidenced the past development in this remote valley bowl. A few horses grazed around the ruins and, at a cautious distance, isard herds also; did they know they were outside the PNP boundary now? We continued towards the tree-line, but first, a broad confluence of granite screes blocked the route. We crossed the main stream, then met a tributary; its banks were chaotic with immense pale granite boulders, strewn haphazardly. No bull-dozer had done this; we gasped at the thought of the torrents which pushed such great rocks along, snapping and up-rooting pine trees in their path.

  Continuing into the forest, we found a good track, but at intervals this too had been wrecked by avalanche trails similar to that described. Could this be the reason why the valley's development had been abandoned? It was so still there apart from the now rushing Rio Barrosa, and all about, crags and hanging forests, side ravines leading out through an expanse of forested wilderness to rocky peaks. Too still, 'Bear country?!' The track continued past desolate mine workings, towers, ramps and canals, a slag tip; what had induced men to produce such elaborate constructions and then abandon them? Over-whelming deluges producing tidal-waves of enourmous boulders, and of course bears! We hurried on.

  Fatigue was mounting as we arrived at the road, uniting us at last. My pack-straps cut into my shoulders, and the corn on my right foot was sore. We had little dilemma in hitching a lift now, Parzan lay to the south of the chain anyway. A driver soon pulled over to take us on to the village, and it was good we had conserved some effort, for on arriving, it was not clear where to find our abode. 'A hostel room with a cocina pequena please?' Fresh reserves of stamina were summonsed and we found a casa rurale for 18 Euros per night; 'Use of kitchen?' 3 Euros for two nights. 'Bargain!' The flat included a double bed with linen and towels, a sitting room, marble bathroom, and fully equipped kitchen. 'Absolute bargain!'

  It was especially satisfying to have such a good place for our planned day's rest on the morrow. Karen settled in while I shopped at the handy service station on the main road. Having washed and changed we settled to the usual prodigous feast; then relaxed together, almost completely. In attempting to resolve the day's conflicts, a third factor became apparent; the unpredictable 'time of the month' is not one to reason with. It had arrived early and taken us both by surprise, so we hastened to check when the next was due. With some relief, I noted that the trek should be completed within 28 days; we would be OK so long as the moon didn't falter in its orbit!