Today, we noted was half way through October; the winter nights were closing in on us, longer and colder. The night previous was memorable for both features, and it seemed as though I had slept little, battling compliance with lumpy ground. The twisting and turning which ensued, instigated cramps and torsion strains in my back and innards, which thus left me less than fresh for the day. Karen on the other hand, had slightly better padding to deal with these problems, though that was wearing thin on our dietary regime!

  The sound of the Frenchman departing stirred us, but we slumbered on a while knowing we had only a short day ahead. The packing revealed a seam failure in Karen's rucsac; an ice-axe loop had suffered too much strain, so she traded her axe for my billies which could be carried internally. Our dependable hazel pole came before the jury once more. It had been four days since our river crossing, and the terrain today would be easy. Too heavy to take as a passenger, we left the pole by the refuge to help someone else; Karen would now be lighter and faster!

  My camera meter co-operated for just one exposure before resuming failure mode; then we set off at about 9am, hungry for food and sunlight. A slight back-track accessed a low bridge before we circum-navigated the meandering marshes and gained steeper ground. 30min of walking then brought us to a false col guarding a higher basin and some lacquets, plus ou moins assechés ; all present but quite shallow. Gusty wind hinted at stronger conditions over the main col and the sun was shining here, so why wait longer for breakfast?

  After our petit dejeuner both digestion and the steep ascent were set against us, but in 30min we reached the rim of the bowl and re-entered the sunlight joyfully. Voici! A zone of tranquility, tip-toeing through fresh snow-fields before arrival at the true Port Dret (2564m) where the wind hit us properly on the progressively defined ridge-top. I developed ear-ache of the right ear, in spite of wearing the balaclava; Karen, I knew would not be enjoying this, but the scenic outlook from this ridge was a good distraction, reminding us of the early Basque stages. Karen_comments From there, a broad whaleback led us to a communications tower where we sheltered in the lee of service buildings; back northwest, we could see our major col of yesterday, while somewhere ahead lay Mt Carlit, lost among the snow-capped ranges to the east.

  That was tomorrow's objective and likely the crux of the stage, though we didn't anticipate anything too demanding. Of the Pyrénées Orientale which we were about to enter, Mt Carlit is the highest peak at 2921m, and we were concerned about the accumulation of snow. We reasoned however that being so near the Mediterranean, the snowfall would be lighter and in any case by tomorrow, six days of melting (since the last fall) should have reduced it. There might just have been a passing concern for the results of six days thaw-freeze with which to contend without crampons.

  En-route now, a broad vehicle-worn track led us to an abrupt view down onto Pas de la Casa; a city in the mountains. A collection of high-rise hotels and appartments set on a trade route, busy with lorries grinding their gears to gain the Port d'Envalira (2408m) 300m higher. It is also a busy ski station in the winter months, as evidenced by the ski-tow machinery and broad swathes of eroded pistes. But for us, it held promise of shops selling tasty comforts; nuts, dried fruit, or even muesli. We descended into the blue haze of hydro-carbon emissions, evading tedious switchbacks by steep eroded raccourcis , which brought us out under the line of a chairlift.

  We felt very small and dishevelled now, surrounded by the tower buildings and slick tourists posing on the bar terraces with cool shades. Satisfaction comes easily for some, but does it endure? We had worked hard to arrive here, and judged oursleves well worthy of the poleo de menta which Karen suggested. The tea was welcome, but it took only a few moments for me to tire of hustle and bustle in the bar with its smokey atmosphere. We exited in search of a phone to research the evenings stopover. Véron defines the true HRP to pass via Col Puymorens, but the accomodation available there would cost 20 Euros, with no shops nearby. Just down the road in Porte Puymorens however, we could get a room in the gite d'étape for just 11 Euros, but that logically would compromise our route tomorrow. The cash won its argument, we would go to the porte.

  So, on to the shopping. Karen gladly handed this responsibility to me so I left her on an un-enviable street corner to contemplate over-fed tourists and men at work digging the road. Karen and I have never been happy shopping together; she is the impulse buyer while I am compelled to extensive research before purchasing even a tin of tomatoes. So, it seemed sensible that we split for the task, though I rightly feared for her patience. Every street was crammed with shops, but most of them sold cigarettes, whisky and disposable cameras; it was no trivial mission to find what I wanted. LR44 camera batteries were the most challenging item, but fresh fruit and veg, pan integral , and muesli all sapped time. So, I was all ready to be snapped at by the time I returned, but worse, Karen had gone; gone! Karen_comments

  I spotted her, laboriously relocating our packs away from the traffic and out towards the two great boulders near the customs boothes. 'Apologies', I stammered, 'the batteries were hard to find', but she knew the rest and frowned at me.
  'I couldn't stand it any longer!'
  'Sorry luv', I volunteered again.
  Our short day was now feeling rather mis-spent and we yet had some way to go; an early arrival at the gite d'étape would have been welcome. We shouldered packs and extended the relocation out along the grassy hillside till the distant sounds of helicopter, traffic and building were tolerable. There we ate a belated commiseratory lunch, trying to focus on the colchiques at our feet. As we were now 500m back inside France, Pas de la Casa and its din left a final stamp of character on our Andorran sojourn; rural invasion in the name of commerce.

  It was 4pm by the time we set out once more, to unravel 101 cattle 'trods' which threaded through the heathland. We passed the inquisitive grey herds which had created this confusion, and after gaining some height, converged on the true path. We traversed grassy moorlands high above busy valley traffic where distant motorbikes whined past in relays. An abandoned mill focused our attention, then a monument erected for les deux disparus; perhaps we might be remembered thus after tomorrow's stage?! We followed the guide's instructions (which direct towards the Col) until the necessary depart for the lower Porte. The gorse and bracken eventually gave in to another ski piste which led us down into a car-park, then tarmac and snippets of GR107 finished the stage.

  Our village was a welcome sight. Just the right size to have a decent shop, a characterful church with twin bells in its open apex tower, and just a few cars; all the through traffic was racing through the tunnel, 200m underground. The locals were un-sure where our hostel was and we arrived at an establishment which was not expecting us before being re-directed successfully. Then ironically, after all our impatience to finish the day, the proprietor was not present, and we were obliged to hang out. A kind and respectable looking man informed us that the local shop was about to close and whisked Karen away in his car to do some shopping; 'Get something nice!' I yelled after her. Karen_comments

  That just left me to the now daily task of removing grass seeds from my socks, and to fend off an attention deficit kitten; 'No!' was obviously not an appropriate answer, and it told me so by biting playfully. I was not surprised that the proprietor was absent; it seemed she was in charge of a shop, restaurant and a stable complex as well as our gite . She arrived eventually, complaining of equine problems and directed me to locate an external staircase up to the second floor where, she assured me, the door would be open.

  That is actually a lot of detail for a debutant French speaker Come back Karen! so I proceeded cautiously. The second floor door was locked so I peered into the first floor; the door was open here, but it seemed to be the family's private living quarters. No, I must return and hassle my hostess once more. My expectation of impatience was appropriately rewarded. 'Yes, the second floor, not the first are you daft as well as english?!. You must be mistaken, the door should be open'.
  'I'm sorry, the door was fermé, pas possible a ouvrir ', I insisted.
  She dissappeared into the house muttering and emerged with a key. Another apology, she had been busy and was mistaken.

  Karen returned, just too late to rescue me, and we settled into our lodgings which, we decided, were worth waiting for. A bathroom with shower, an attic bedroom with double bed and a coin cuisine with free food to browse! Sunflower and pumpkin seeds, bread and garlic all salvageable, but not the mouldy jam. No other contenders for this fayre, or for any of the second floor space, so we spread out well, Karen occupying the shower while I 'set to' changing my camera batteries. Then while I showered Karen prepared a 'proper' dinner for us; a dressed salad followed by a risotto seasoned with olives. That was the 'carbo-load' we needed for tomorrow, and finally made sense of some precious riz integrale I had been carrying for days.

  A very mixed day in all, but the balance had finally weighed positive for satisfaction, with comfort and appetites fulfilled. Could the rather decrepit double bed maintain the trend by giving us a good night's sleep? We re-arranged the missing slats and slipped in gently; perhaps we would, after all be too tired to even notice.