Having lived in luxury for two whole rest days, we were ready to press on; it was our good fortune that the break-up in weather had been coincident with the rendez-vous, and now the weather was forecast to improve. That we depended upon, for first thing in the day, it was windy and cloud lay low in the valleys; a small rise in atmospheric pressure re-assured. I still held open the option to resume the true HRP passing by Port de l'Artigue, but knew it would now be under snow; it was not realistic to attempt if also under cloud. We could still make a last minute decision.

  'Captain' Bob drove us up the long rocky track to the Pla Boavi; not recommended for testing insecure exhaust couplings. We crawled to minimise any damage and arrived at our departure point soon after 9am, when we exchanged well-wishes and recieved last admonitions from Cynthia; 'Don't forget, you can always quit'.
  'You mean 'Port de l'Artigue' ?'
  'No, the whole trek; you don't have to do it!'
  'Like hell we can give up!' The weather had shown no sign of breaking, in fact there was a hint of drizzle. So, we must take the southern bypass to Vall Fererra, the 'nonks' route; this was bad enough, but for me, giving up the whole trek was well beyond the pale.

  As we set out, two men were preparing to hike up to Ref Certascan which is where we should have gone been going; we carried on past, grimly. The Pla Boavi comprises a broad area of shingles near the river, re-vegetated prominently with silver birch. No path was apparent but it was easy to move about, so we followed the compass to the river crossing at the eastern extremity; there to discover the day's first challenge. The passarelle comprised two telegraph poles spanning the raging torrent, now swollen with the rains. The poles were sturdy enough, but they were round (of course!) and not secured at their ends. By now, the drizzle had strengthened and the poles were 'greasy'; it was out of the question to tip-toe across upright, especially wearing a heavy rucsac.

  On our side of the river, we wedged the pole ends to stop them rolling and prayed they would stay fast at the other side. My choice then was to cross in a semi-crouch, shuffling sideways, and dragging my rucsac along behind; this did not feel especially secure, but saved me the indignity of adopting the obvious security of Karen's approach. She followed by shuffling on her bum, a cheval while dragging her sac after. Voici! Having both gained the east bank, we were relieved to resume marching, little knowing that the day's trials had only just begun.

  We mounted the ancient sentier, en lacets rising steeply through pleasant woodlands of hazel, rowan, birch and spruce. It was a broad track built solidly with stone and we enjoyed musing on its historic connection. For a while, we were sheltered by the fir trees, but it soon became apparent that rain had replaced drizzle and we put our cags on. After about 20min we reached another river crossing, but this time there were no slippery poles to negotiate; just some stepping stones, unfortuantely submerged by the recent rains. The obvious truth was not easily accepted; 'all we have to do is remove our boots and paddle through ...'

  The rain was increasing now, driving, in gusts; there was little point in further procrastination. An ice-axe came in handy to hack a support pole; then I removed trousers, replaced warm dry socks and boots with sandals and waded through as expeditiously as possible. The pole was then thrown back to Karen, and she followed, stripped up to her knickers. Increasingly careful scrutiny of the guide (on which we depended today, no map once again!) told us that there was a re-crossing after about 200m climbing (1km in distance), so rather than undergo the palava of changing and stowing clothes and footwear, we journeyed on clad for the re-crossing. This we arrived at, chilled in the legs and cold in our feet. The next crossing removed what little feeling had remained in my feet but I consoled myself; 'its over now; we'll soon warm up once moving'. I struggled to replace trousers and get my numb feet into socks and boots without also admitting rain and dirt; then I stowed shorts and sandals and set out once more, rather woodenly.

  We had now left the shelter of any trees, and crossed sodden grassy slopes leading into a bowl; in the upper part of this, we could clearly see the path zig-zagging, before it dissappeared into fresh snow ; 'Damn!' By this point, we might have retreated, and indeed had done so under similar conditions previously. Several factors drove us on:

• we had just had two rest days and must now make some progress
• we were on the 'easy' route, 'so how bad could it really get?'
• in retreat, we would have to re-cross the icy rivers ...

At that time, my feet were just beginning to warm up, but they were becoming damp; that was before we entered the slushy snow drifts which crossed our route. Of course, we tried to circumnavigate where possible, but the covering was more complete as we rose, and my feet were soon sodden and numb once more; my hands were in a similar condition. Core temperature felt good, but I knew I must keep moving to maintain this, which posed a problem; Karen as ever, moved at a slower pace, protected but also further encumbered by her over-trousers. She was thus somewhat warmer than I, but also suffering from cold in the extremities. An additional problem then confronted us; navigation.

  Vall de Sellente, I had imagined, would be a well defined valley which would confine us to the correct route, even if that route were obscured by the snow (which now covered all), and even if the visibility had dropped to 50m. The actuality was a broad valley, filled with irregular hummocks; furthermore, the main valley was far from straight. This resulted in considerable uncertainty which compounded my discomforts; a maddening chatter plagued me. 'Damn my aching fingers! Was this the right way? I can't carry on with feet in this state! Can't we move faster? Damn this snow!' The gibbering looped like an endless tape, round and round. While waiting for Karen, I stomped and clapped my hands, desperate to return pain-numbed fingers and toes to normality, but no escape was at hand; somehow, we had to push on through.

  Through the mists, we spotted a small 'blind' lake; surely this landmark would orientate us correctly? We consulted the guide, but there was no mention of it; Véron's instruction was to proceed south or southeast towards the beau Col de Sellente. How I wished I could see it that way! How I cursed the conditions which in no wise allowed it! All we could do was to watch the compass and altimeter and keep trudging. This eventually brought us to the col, recognisable by presence of the odd fence post or poteau and confirmed by the altimeter. At least now we could gather some speed with gravity helping us in descent.

  I set off, warming a little but the snow was deeper here and I would keep plunging into deep drifts which spilled melting snow into my boots; how I wished for a pair of gaiters! At least by this time, the cloud was thinning, and we saw the expanse of Lac de Baborte which confirmed our location. Somewhere on our left was the Ref Cinquantenari which we could have bolted for, but what good would that do us? We would still have wet clothes and would not have completed the stage. Slowly, ever so slowly the cloud was breaking as we lost altitude, the rain reverting to drizzle. We stopped for an uncomfortable snack, and then traversed round the lake, finding better paths as the snow thinned.

  As we crested the brow beyond the lake, we gained a view into the valley ahead dappled with patchy sunlight; 'Wow! we're out of it, finally', I exclaimed. A green balisage led us on and we began to dry out, with the cloud, snow, rain and cold all behind. I stopped three times during the next hour to wring out my socks which slowly wicked moisture out of the boots; feet and hands were then fully recovered in temperature. Karen suffered her own woes courageously and complaining little; she just kept going steadily, often questioning and discussing the course. We raised the possibility of staying in the refuge that night; ' ... somewhere warm with a drying room ...' and decided to miss out on camping if possible.

  The way now entered the trees and continued deviously at times. A herdsman's string across the way threw us once and we wasted time in searching. Slowly, we were converging with the valley bottom, which (of course!) held a river; 'Will there be a bridge over this one?' I was distracted by a dark movement and a grunt; a rare sighting of a wild pig in broad daylight; branches snapped as it plunged off through the forest. The way brought us right by the swirling waters of the river before finally revealing a bridge; what a relief! A regular piste then led us towards the refuge; many cars parked and lots of people out and about; we would not be alone that night it seemed. It was, we remembered, a holiday weekend.

  The refuge was in the shadows as we arrived wearily; it didn't seem particularly cosy and there was no drying room. Regardless, we wished to reward ourselves with whatever comfort it did offer after the day's gruelling stage, and checked in. This establishment was so small that there was no room to unpack our sacs anywhere, least of all in the dormitories, to which access was denied until 10pm. We adapted by occupying a table and bench in the dining room; the change into dry socks could then be made.

  The refuge was filling as walkers returned, and at an adjacent table, a group of garrelous youths gambled with dice. Most of them played audience to one especially loud individual who entertained the rest with a rich mixture of grimacing, belching, snorting and hockling. Oh for a quiet tent pitch! They were only silenced as food filled their mouths at dinner time; we endured watching them and others eat freshly cooked dinner, (our ample supplies must be reduced!) and finally retired to a very cramped dormitory. I crept and crawled past peoples heads and toes in order to reach my mattress next to Karen; she was positioned claustrophobically right under the eaves, her nose only centimetres from a beam. There, we slept restlessly as people turned, fidgeted, snored and grunted. This stage would be memorable for its recurrent phenomenal bad-luck; it was the veritable low point of our trek. Karen_comments