No relaxed lie-in this morning, wasting energy on indulgent bonding activities! We were on the trail well before 8am, and climbed the 200m to Lac de Port in half an hour; this had become a reference time on average terrain. From there we could see the Port de Goellicrestada (2475m) where we might eat breakfast, so long as it was in the sun. Another ½hr got us there to break out of the cold shadows; early cloud had dissipated, and the sun shone serenely on the quiet Estany dels Monges. All was still save for a lone isard on the ground and a pair of eagles flying the flank of Montardo mountain. There we enjoyed muesli, biscuits, roast hazel-nuts, and luxury, some butter!

  Resuming the route, we passed more irregular lakes and tarns, finding our way between boulders and small crags. Towards the Port de Caldes (2560m) we caught up with a French couple who recognised us; they had been at Ref Portillon as we passed through and had then relocated by car to this area. We compared notes and they commented, 'We would have used the refuge (Restanca) lastnight but the door was locked'.
  'Really, when did you pass?'
  'About 4pm'.
  Then Karen remembered, the tussle with the outer door... 'Umm, err thats where we stayed actually, the door was rather stiff, but it gave in to a good shove!' But for this we would have had company, which might have been very interesting; on the other hand, we might have had to share that can of beans...

  Over the col, we looked down towards Ref Colomers, not yet visible. The way led along a lovely narrow green vallon with meandering stream. Three heavily laden trekkers joined the route near us and continued past, towards Restanca; 'where had they come from?' we asked ourselves. Perhaps the winter quarters of Ref Colomers, which were positioned a few hundred metres distant from the main building. Like Ref Restanca, Ref Colomers was also positioned on the edge of the dam. Also poised over the water was the open air latrine, whose outlet met no impediment in freely joining the lakes supply. That saved me any further guilt after merely washing my hands in the Restanca reservoir that morning; the water must only be used for power generation!

  It was very busy around the refuge, giving away the presence of the piste only 120m lower. The French couple passed us again and we followed, on a route with cheerful red, yellow and white balisage. Screes, cliffs and pines stood all around, and over the brow of Collet Cloto (2160m), we saw the expected lacquet; this was described as marécageux with a small rocky islet in the middle. Beyond and higher, the col was clearly visible. Voici! The lacquet was to be our cue to leave the thoroughfare and travel wild terrain, a mere appetiser for tomorrow's main-course entertainment.

  We wandered through the sparse pin a crochet whose age may span 600 years in this area; vallons and mamelons made for constant interest and urged reference to compass and altimeter. The objective was to gain Col Pigader (2450m), which stood between Tuc de Pigader (2537m) and Tuc Gran de Sendrosa (2706m); a steep ridge seemed to lead in the right direction, alternately grassy then rocky, but none of those little re-assuring cairns to guide. I was distracted by countless speckled thrushes tchack-tchakking as they burst from their feeding on ripe berries. Always too quick, they robbed me the pleasure of concise identification, but it is likely they were early winter migrants, redwings from scandinavia.

  Approaching the col, we found components from a long since fallen telegraph line, then we topped out to get a good view down into Val de Ruda 600m below. After resting a little we set off towards it, through a steep jumble of trees, grass and crags, disturbing flocks of isard as we went; I hoped we were not sending them towards the hunters. An open track was finally reached by a small quarry works, and here with over 2hr still to go, we set to eat more precious rations; perhaps le nouveau restaurant at Port de Bonaigua would have something tasty to supplement and replenish supplies tonight.

  Now we could quit worrying about the route for a few kilometres, as we followed a regular but rocky dirt track; it wound its way past marshy cut-off stream meanders and through wooded banks, passing some 4WD vehicles parked up. It didn't occur to me what a trial it might be for them to arrive here, but rounding the next bend I heard shouts and a revving engine. Peering down through the trees, I saw the vehicle attempting an improbable rocky passage in the track. The driver's mate was leaping about on the track ahead, guiding and shouting encouragement. The air was filled with the smell of burning rubber and scorched clutch pad; 'What a waste!' I thought. 'It must be a hired vehicle!' The jeep eventually got through and the driver leaped out to peer underneath at any damage, before shaking his mate's hand; they were obviously past the crux.

  We beat guidebook time handsomely on this easy stretch and at the appointed altitude (1800m), found a vague sente leading up through the pasture. There were quite a few such tracks, but at the point where our choice steepened into a wooded slope, we were re-assured as it gained definition. This continued for 200m, climbing en lacets till it broke out of the trees and rounded a brow near a pylon line, where we were immediately exposed to a chilly wind. Distant buildings were evident, and presently we saw cars passing; 'this must be be it then!' With the presence of grazing horses, Port de Bonaigua (2070m) looked rather like the grassy commons of the south Wales valleys.

  A feature of the HRP is that it traverses the watersheds which divide streams flowing out northwards and (so far in the trek) back to the Atlantic, from those on the south side which are collected by the mighty Ebro en-route to the Mediterranean. Port de Bonaigua presents an intriguing phenomena; its as if the chain has undergone a vortex twist in these parts. The result is that the encircling arm of the Noguera Pallaresa actually starts north of here but flows south into Spain, while the Garonne starts to the south but flows north into France! The Garonne is one of France's mightiest fleuves, yet it rises here in Spain to flow through Vielha and travel 45km in all before submission to French rule.

  The approach rounded the arm of the hill, where we spotted a grassy bowl which might just shelter us from the wind, and were grateful for the presence of springs pure enough to drink from. Having several times warded off curious horses, we pitched, stowed our goods and took our purses, in search of the restaurant. A good 5min walk brought us in sight of an odd castellated building right at the col, and we approached with raised expectations. But no, not a light on, not a person about, we were obviously out of season yet again; '...and the curious building', we concluded 'is just a folly!'

  If only we had brought our supper kit, the building could have been of value to us in preparing food on the leeside steps which were still in the late sun; 'Damn!' Disgruntled, we marched back to shoo the horses away from the tent, which was now deep in cold shadow. There to prepare our humble fayre, some kind of semolina pudding with coconut and figs; it was actually 'damn good tucker' and would see us through many an hour of tramping. Outside, dusk was falling; the wind had dropped and so had cloudbase! The still of the night was broken only by the horses; grazing, as they loomed darkly through the mist. Karen_comments