The catalan couple had returned very late to the refuge lastnight, and not just once; some indecision with friends had them to-ing and fro-ing. Perhaps they had hoped to have the space to themselves and we had spoiled the plan. Now at 7:30am they slumbered, and it was our turn to spoil their peace with the rustling of plastic bags. We opened the tiny shutters which allowed light (but also cold air!) to flood in, drank warm water and left within the hour, relieved to quit our whispering.

  Just 150m below the refuge we found the access road which had brought crowds of day-walkers into the hills; being a Saturday, we should have expected them. It didn't seem fair that they had started out from 2000m with so little effort, but my choices are directed by a religous up-bringing; salvation seekers take the narrow way, the uphill, the rough way. The track out of the ski-station had all of those qualities, and we strained to limber up in the morning shadows. The 'last stream' came early today, and we filled up once again for the long ridge walk ahead.

  Another 100m and we came out onto a broad rounded grassy 'common' where sharp rock 'fins' had been inset to guide the walker; the map named it as the Pla de Coma Armada. The sort of place where skylarks should be singing, but there were none here today; probably out of season. Today, I swapped one more role with Karen by being hungry first. She may have been hungry too, but quickly spotted the opportunity to keep me waiting; the next col, perhaps. The pla was a novelty at first, but I was happy to see the peaky Roc Collom near our chosen breakfast spot, where we consumed cereal and prunes. The sun struggled to warm us through the slowly breaking strato-cumulus. With negligible wind it was just comfortable to sit.

  Just a little further, we arrived at the head of a great forested bowl, the Reserve Naturelle de Py just north of Les Esquerdes de Rotja. This 'dragons back' was topped with naturally placed rock fins, far too large to be manipulated with human hands; Voici! it was to prove typical of the metamorphic gneiss rock which defines Canigou's ridges. We walked parallel and mostly level with it, pausing for 'window' views down into Spain where cumulus was growing far beneath us. Voici! Ahead, the massif of Canigou was taking shape and significance, though I was surprised it still seemed rather squat in form. If the Pyrenees were to mete out a last penalty to us, then it would be on these heights, for it is the last real mountain of the traverse (at close to 2800m). Generations of Catalans have held this mountain sacred, and perhaps we too would come to reverence it after making better acquaintance.

  It was past midday before I suddenly realised ... no snow! . I turned to look back along the ridge and on to the Ulldeter mountains, where just the odd patch lingered; Voici! today we had left it behind substantially ... for good! Just ahead, we joined a broad piste where more cheaters had left their vehicles. Extensive views down onto the forests, bright with a lively and uncommon hue of red; scarlet oaks, perhaps. Ahead, we found some of the cheaters assembled for an eye-watering pic-nic spread; I was hungry again and bargained with Karen for another prune-break. We spotted the lovely blue trumpets of the gentian, which seeded discussion. I thought they might be eidelweiss, but Karen needed no handbook to triumph this time; 'how could an eidelweiss be blue?!' She was getting tougher, faster, and bossier ...

  At the Pla Guillem we inspected a useful abri, then lost the way, struggling with shrubby thickets crowning the rocks. A mere 50m distant, the track threaded its way parallel to the steep crest, and we soon regained course, to arrive at the small Collade de Roquette (2083m). There we met three French walkers who had come up from Ref Mariailles; they exclaimed satisfyingly when they heard we had started from the Atlantic. That origin was becoming more significant, as we were but a few days from the Med; could anything stop us now?

  The sun was finally warming the day, and we pressed on, happy to think of sunny repose at day's end. Karen was ahead yet again while I dawdled to inspect an ancient stone shelter. Voici! The substantial walls were approx 2m thick, presumably necessary to support the un-timbered roof which held a substantial amount of stone and turf over my vulnerable head; 'A rare phenomena to see intact', I thought nervously. My eyes accustomed to the gloom, and I saw the stones placed as seats around the central fireplace; 4m above, the slabs of the roof apex were deliberately parted to conduct smoke out. Nothing else, no information panels; the walls of this orrhy did speak though ... they announced a historic richness with nothing more than roaring silence which echoed through the centuries since the prehistoric.

  I hurried on to catch Karen, now on a broad piste which led right to the refuge and parked cars. Vehicle access to a refuge at least means that the food should be good, and we were booked in for full board that night. Would we get satisfaction here? A notice on the door informed us the premises were locked until 5pm, so we occupied the table and chairs on the deck for a sunny hour of writing and planning; the last few prunes staved off hunger.

  After coping and succeeding already with so many trials in the trek, it still surprised me that at least one of us remained apprehensive. The variant which I pushed for on the next stage had built its repute through a dearth of information. Apart from technical difficulty, we were even concerned that our meagre rations would see us through! High above, the un-quantified rock-ridge solemnly waited to conduct us to the 'mad' woman of Mines Batére. Would we beat the approaching weather front? What about el roto?

  I lifted my eyes to the tawny freckled cliffs of the granite gorge, framed by the sunlit autumn colours of the larches and oaks scattered amongst the sombre pines. A splash of scarlet high on the steepest buttress announced a single rowan established in a fissure, its roots penetrating deep into the rock mass. This undersized but lively individual had lost the race with its siblings on better ground, but it was thriving right there, where no others had gained a purchase. We too have an appointed niche which awaits our dedication; winning begins with daring.

  The doors were opening and we were admitted, along with the accumulated flood of wkd visitors; it would be noisy in the dorms tonight. I felt a kinship with the warden from the start, even before we checked in and introduced ourselves. The bond strengthened after he showed us to our four-bunk dorm of which we had sole occupancy! He obviously knew we long distance trekkers needed quality rest; or perhaps he just wanted to shut away our sweaty and dishevelled forms for the sake of his more respectable guests?!

  I attempted to allay this last suspicion by heading for the shower but it was occupied. Karen put down for a nap, but was concerned to wake in time for supper, could I wake her after an hour? 'Darling, if you need the rest, I'll let you sleep on', I teased. I occupied myself with the refuge literature and maps till the shower came free. It was so hot I had to mix some cold in; then I got stuck, as usual. Being clean is for me secondary to the re-warming of some elusive core component; every hour and minute that I suffer wet cold feet or frost-nipped fingers accumulates a heat loss which demands a later redress. On eventually finishing, I returned in time to wake Karen for supper, but 'oh dear', too late for a shower; some days you just can't win eh?'

  Downstairs, the dining room was lively with garralous chatter over pre-dinner drinks and tantalising aromas wafting from the kitchen filled us all with anticipation. We were seated to the warden's plan and a beany soup was served, but not just once! We vegetarians were fully rewarded, an immense potato and chard omelette accompanied the rice. The cheese and bread which followed would have finished off nicely, but then the curiously titled 'English' dessert was announced, 'creme-belle des pommes'. Karen offered full explanation to the curious natives; 'Oui, cette une couche des pommes avec un surface de cereale, une melange de farine et ...'
  I was just tucking in, to discover a crumble unlike any I had tasted before; ground hazelnuts in the topping made it utterly compelling! Well worth the risk of embarrassment I took in begging left-overs from the next table; 'No point in wasting that eh?!' Karen_comments

  We retired satiated, brimming with good food and good will for Ref Mariailles and its warden, 'a very nice man!' What a great memory to take away from our last mountain refuge, and a weighty counterbalance to the memory of poorer service elsewhere. We climbed the stairs to the great dormitories, filled with muttering, shuffling and fidgeting guests, then to proceed on into our own tranquil haven where we reclined to a super view of the waxing moon through the big Velux window. I said it was nearly full, and Karen thought it to be fully full, but this was not really worthy of dispute. The moon slowly departed the window frame, and took its secrets with it.