There was a cold nip in the air when we arose but the morning was clear of cloud, wind, and frost; however a trace of ice on languid waters of the little spring confirmed the temperature. We were keen to start early for this long day, which would yet prove to be longer than expected. Right from the start we had difficulties in locating the point to leave the road C142; following it from the port, 800m as instructed to the southeast, we could find no panneau indiqant le km 21 and coincident with 2050m. All I can tell you with hindsight is to look for the break in the hill flank to the north (and above the first real bend in the C142 heading southeast from the col) and make for that, but we wasted a lot of time climbing a steep hillside and generally casting about. The aforementioned weakness was eventually spotted and a formidably steep traverse through broken crags brought us back onto course, above the lacquet Estany Pedo at 2220m.

  From there we followed definite traces through easier grassy terrain between gouffre drained pits and hillocks of various size, trending north or northeast until we reached the Col d'Estany Pedo (2330m). Here we left morning shadows and entered blissfully warm sunlight; even though moving, we had felt that chill which penetrates 'to the marrow of the bone'. The route shortly over-looked the larger lake Estan del Muntanyò d'Arreu; the pine trees framed its blue water perfectly, convincing us it was time to pause for breakfast with a view.

  As good as it was so far, we could not rate this stage as highly as Véron suggested, but on crossing the collet at 2380m the landscape underwent notable transformation as we passed from limestone to granite. The region comprised sparse forestation punctuated by a diverse choice of angular or rounded boulders positioned as variably as scattered dice on the glacier-sculpted slabs and domes. In the middle foreground, the sun glimmered on the water of Estany de Garrabeia, and beyond another lake gave itself away as a distant shimmering in the heat haze; the lonely Lac Rosari-Airoto.

  Little did we guess of the difficulty in gaining that lake's shores. Though we were never again that day lost as we had been first thing, there was much uncertainty in the micro-navigation, and no paths to ease the plunging through shrubby vegetation. The trials really began at the deversoir of Estany de Garrabeia, where we paused to consume bilberries; the plants which trapped our ankles did at least offer compensation. After crossing a rib, we surprised isard families which fled with their lagging eterlou. Then we reached the axe of the valley to follow the trickling brook awhile. That was both challenging and delightful, as it vanished and split beneath boulder chokes so that we must follow it by ear; the gurgling was a pleasurable music which fell silent as the flow was traced to languid rock pools upstream.

  Another sound had been distracting me awhile, this twittering of finches was a new one in my repertory of birdsong. The compact binoculars sighted upon colourful crossbills in the tree-tops, busy extracting seeds from between the expanding hooked scales of the pine cones they rely upon. We expected to follow the stream to Lac Rosari-Airoto but arrived at a smaller lake whose shallow waters were covered with a thin layer of ice. Just beneath the surface, the rounded granite rocks appeared as a pale freckled tourquoise, while out of the water, they contrasted pleasingly in mottled pink. It suggested trickery which compelled inspection, cogitation, and finally acceptance; 'Thats just how it is!' It was a momentary invite to join the stillness of this wilderness.

  The trees thinned out and we topped a rocky bank to discover the larger Rosari-Airoto in its expanse of tussocky buff grass and pale granite. We walked its north shore to ascend again towards the un-named col at 2350m, where we rested and ate more bilberries while searching the view ahead. Somewhere down there the tiny refuge of Gracia-Airoto was hiding between the two Airoto lakes; we finally spotted it in closely wooded surrounds. The larger supérieur Lac d'Airoto was barely visible being tucked around the hill shoulder, but the smaller inférieur was open to view. Voici! It was the larger one which we must get to, but there was no helpful trace to guide us through the dwarf rhododendrons which swathed the descent. Their dense resilient stems and slippery tough foliage impeded progress, and we had no compensation from the spread of cheerful colour which a summer passage would offer.

  The wooded fringe of the Lac Airoto supérieur was finally gained near its outlet. The cliffs and screes which plunged to its further shores told us it must be deep, and it was certainly cold. A definite trace of passage here led back towards the Ref Gracia-Airoto before climbing for the last time in the stage to Col 2420m. There we sat overlooking the lakes, finally able to relax as we were now through all difficulties and had a well-travelled descent to finish. The stage had not offered lofty cols or rocky hourquettes, neither was there a trace of glacier or snowfield, and indeed these would be unlikely as we had averaged only about 2200m. Instead, we had climbed lesser cols which divided the lonely lakes in this granite wilderness of rocks, pines and bilberries. Voici! Sadly, we had not felt able to stop and enjoy it and vowed to return someday.

  Turning our backs on the sunlit granite, we re-entered the limestone terrain, which coincidentally lacked interest and warmth; the shadows reminding us that daylight was limited for the distance remaining. Since we needed fresh food supplies, we decided not to go to Alos de Isil which is directly on course for the next stage, but rather to head south for the larger Isil, which we hoped would provide more.

  My choice of path on the south valley flank was not the best; it deteriorated into a hectic thrash through undergrowth before emerging onto a broad piste, easy but tedious. A bend into the main valley granted a vantage point over the compact hamlet of Alos de Isil, framed by the fine drooping silver birch twigs, almost bare of their yellowing leaves. Here at close to 1700m the neglected terraces and tumble-down barns spoke of a hardy populace who worked these inclement slopes before mechanisation increased productivity in the valley. A jeep passed us, and suddenly we realised how tired and footsore we were. 'Damn! we should have hitched that!' A second vehicle never materialised before the interminable switchbacks brought us to the tarmac. Voici!

  On reaching Isil around 7pm, we were glad to spot a casa rurale sign, but inquiry within informed us that beds were un-available, neither here nor anywhere else in the village. As for food, there was no shop, but we might get a meal at a certain restaurant. This was located but we baulked at the expensive menu; what we really needed was a shop anyway. Karen decided to inquire regardless, and the young proprietor emerged. No, he didn't normally open during the week, out of season; then asked 'Have you tried the casa rurale just up the road?' Confusion.
  'We asked there but they didn't seem to be taking guests'
  'Ahh' he nodded thoughtfully. 'Then what you must do is to head down the road, to Esterri, where there are shops and hotels'. My heart sank to my foot-sore soles, I couldn't face any further walking on tarmac and there was little chance of a hitch now in this quiet valley.

  Then our advisor transformed to sympathetic benefactor in offering a lift before we had even raised a thumb! The casa rurale, he explained, had been going through difficulties, which had prompted him and a friend to plot the opening of an auberge. I left Karen to do the talking and wondered what we owed for this impromptu taxi service; it seemed like a long way on winding roads. On arrival we offered 10 Euros, but our benefactor would take nothing, 'God bless him!'

  Our trials of the day were not yet quite over. Having no knowledge of the accomodation available, we entered the first hotel on the highstreet. 'Sorry, there's a wedding in town tonight; we're full and you'll be lucky to find anything elsewhere'. Camping remained an option and we were almost resigned to a pitch 'in the darkness on the edge of town', but a yen for comfort persisted. A man merry-making in the crowded bar could not help, he probably wasn't even local. At the far end of the high street, another hotel was located finally; the Fonda Agusti. It offered a room and a meal, possibly a little expensive but this was no time to deliberate. We removed sacs and boots for the last time at the end of that long day and gratefully accepted a hot bath, a four-course meal and a double bed with linen. Karen_comments