A super-sufficient re-hydration awoke me to visit the bathroom at 6:30am, and to notice en-route that tout le monde were preparing their departure for Canigou. As I hadn't really rated Canigou to be a peak worthy of such an early start I was somewhat alarmed; perhaps we too should be on the way? I roused Karen and we stumbled downstairs at 7am. Lastnight we had learned that our 'all in one' lodging fee of 26 Euros included breakfast; but it was not our custom to eat this early, what to do? What the continentals usually provide is not a real breakfast for us; tea, toast and jam being neither healthy nor substantial. As it was free I was bound to give in and join Karen who likes a cuppa at any time of day. At least, the tisanes we had ordered were healthy enough; a strong herby infusion of thyme and rosemary. Karen_comments

  Having paid our dues to the congenial warden we set out after the crowds on well worn and even paths. Near the refuge, we were surprised to find a signpost directing the course of the HRP; it was unique in the whole length of our journey. A distinct change was in the air; 'Mediterranean influence' of course, we were barely 50km distant now! The warm southerly airstream soothed us except in the deep dark gullies, where an icy katabatic nipped at our ankles. The forest passage was gloomy where the pines dominated, but some of the birches here were almost bare, and we halted to gaze back through the filigree of their delicate twigs; way below and beyond the refuge, a sea of blue-grey inversion cloud was slowly melting in the early sun.

  The way led to a river crossing with slippery stepping stones and logs to negotiate. A Spaniard couple who had just crossed over spotted us and the man quickly volunteered his trekking poles to aid Karen's timid advance. Then we forged ahead, facing indecision briefly at the GR10 bifurcation before the switchbacks carried us up and out of the tree-line to arrive at Ref Arago; little more than a cabane really. Here I almost gave in to the discarded (free!) cake on offer, but reason saved me for better fayre and a proper appetite to enjoy it later. Just ahead, we could see the big party from the refuge; its mixed ability members were strewn out along the path, the leader chivvying the unfit ones who struggled fatly at the rear.

  Before the path steepened finally, we arrived at a broad bowl sheltered by the sharp ridges, and there searched nervously for a nook to stow our precious rucsacs while we made a lightweight summit dash. Taking cags, water bottles, camera and wallets in our one day-sac, we left a pre-prepared note with the sacs, stating our mission in French and English. It was so good to be travelling light! We bounded along past les troupeaux on switching catwalks, to be pulled up sharp on passing a bréche in the tottering gneiss flank.

  There below nestled the most eastern 'permanent' ice-flow of the chain; Canigou's tiny rock-strewn glacier could not exist except for its protection cradled deep in the corrie of its northern arms. How long before global warming has melted this one into oblivion? From there, our pace was constrained as we scrambled the gully-staircase which connects characterfully with the rocky summit (2784m). Voici! Scores of people had already arrived on top and we lingered with them to admire the fine aerial views out past the ornamented iron cross. How bizarre to think, a little more than 10km to north, but 2400m below, the people of Prades were busy about their morning business. Voici! We posed for the usual summit shots, aided by the three Frenchmen encountered yesterday; lack of fluency prevented us sharing finer sentiments, but their camaraderie cheered us on our mission.

  A chill breeze made us grateful for our cags before leaving the summit, but the peaks are often exposed to such, aren't they? Having reversed the staircase delicately past many more ascentionists, we skipped back along the earthy switchbacks, to relocate our sacs intact, with gratitude. Karen_comments Foreknowledge would not have allowed us to enjoy the leisurely breakfast that followed, but down in that bowl, the sun warmed us, and only a light breeze tickled occasionally. The quick and supple lizards were out for their food too, having warmed sufficiently to scamper up the rocks. They presented a study in 'fine art', from the tiny beady eye and slack palpitating throat to the delicate 'fingers' and slender disposable tail.

  Resuming course, we passed a few campers and soon found ourselves on less travelled ground rising into the Gourgs de Cady, a series of lacquets set in bowls of bevelled gneiss made chaotic from erosion and fracture. Visibility was good however, and this allowed us to make our own course towards the landmarked summit ridge. Steep and insecure scree slopes made us struggle the last 200m, then we felt the wind again; we were after all, on the ramparts of Puig des Tres Vents (2731m) Voici! and expected to feel at least one of its 'three winds' up here. It was enough to occasion a few oaths from Karen as we clambered the subsidiary rocks, but this blow was but a mere zephyr.

  An aged red balisage led on to the airy summit (2714m), whose rock-fins offered no stable platform on which to stand, even had their been no significant wind. Now however, we crouched on the windward side as the gale threatened to blow us up and over into the hazy abyss. 'We've just got to get off this summit!' I shouted to Karen, who I know dislikes wind; I still believed (and hoped!) this to be a summit phenomena. The way forward presented no path to march upon however, and we continued slowly on what might have been (apart from the wind) an interesting scramble along the narrow arête.

  Twenty minutes later, we had gained easier but still rocky ground and lost considerable altitude, but the demon wind still howled around us, catching at lose clothing and challenging our stability at all times. Looking back to see how Karen was coping, my attention was taken by a sculpted grey 'wave' cloud back west, and then I knew; 'this wind heralds an approaching front, and will remain with us, this is el roto!'. Through the next hour, it continued to augment, a monster dragon breath licking at us and tossing poor Karen about like a rag doll. Meanwhile, the wave cloud above spread upwind, downwind, and laterally till it darkened the sky overhead.

  Karen called for a conference of war; 'Can we find a quick way out of this please?' she shouted hoarsely. We both looked down into the great southeast bowl of the mountain; surely it would be calmer down there? Though I too found it wearing, I did not feel a need to escape the tempest so desperately. 'We could drop off the ridge, but its uncharted terrain down there, and will take much longer to complete the stage if we try' I yelled. 'Best to just push on if at all possible' Karen_comments

  Though the ridge was still narrow, we were now in steep walking terrain, so I led Karen across to the lee side, thinking this would be better. We soon entered calm air which allowed us to straighten stooped backs, but seconds later, a great rotor blasted us into dissarray. There certainly was some still air here, but interspersed with such mighty and unpredictable turbulence, that we forsook it for the constant but steady gale to windward. On and on we floundered, further dismayed by turns to find steep re-ascents which, in character with the main ridge summit, demanded some tricky scrambling. Above us, a vulture wobbled into view with wings 'close hauled'; it was barely penetrating the headwind, and like us too, visibly thrown around at times.

  At least, we could be grateful that the wind was warm, and the sun shone hotly. I attempted to humour Karen by pointing ahead to the col where our variant rejoined the GR10, and way off on the horizon, a hazy blue crescent; the Med. But she was silent, un-seeing and un-feeling; the acceptance of our hateful choice left her mute and resentful. Now it was her turn to express omni-directional anger at the opression our choice brought, for I was clearly in league with the tyrant elements.

  The wind strength diminished fractionally as we lost height, but it was only when the ridge turned northeast that we finally forced our way past the last kicking rotor to enter tamer air currents. This allowed us to focus better on the route-finding; could we really trust this faded red balisage? I thought I knew better and we struck out through juniper and myrtle, slipping on steep slopes which deposited us ... back with the red balisage, 'Huh!' Karen_comments Final slopes brought us down to Col de la Cirére (1731m) on the GR10. Though we had truly left the tempest behind, the wind here whistled through this eroded notch, and questioned the wisdom of attempting to pitch the tent that night. Karen was emerging from her shell now, and we discussed options; half an hour back along the GR10 would bring us to a maison forestiére, or we could inspect the bergeriejust ahead. Alternately, there was a castle of some kind half an hour ahead, but to use any of these, we first needed water.

  Descending among the grazing cattle and horses we approached the shepherds dwelling which did not invite, but a little further, we came to a cistern which issued clean water. Here we gratefully filled our bottles; water at least would no longer be a problem. As we packed the bottles away, a jeep approached, its driver herding four horses. The vehicle stopped, the driver and his daughter stepped out to oversee proceedings; the four horses it seemed, were about to undergo first introduction to the 'home' herd. Despite human entreaty, the strangers had to know their place, and the resident lead stallion stamped and snorted, baring his teeth in a show of strength.

  It was a welcome diversion, but we must continue in pursuit of comfort; we soon looked into the ugly square mine buildings which had been visible from afar. Here we could certainly take refuge from a short downpour, but even if we did tolerate the filth and rubbish, could we really settle down and depend on the dodgy roof? We continued. A little further, we came to what would have been the obvious choice for the night; the Mines Batére gite d'étape. The lights were on, and a vehicle was parked outside, but there was no sound of any large group installed within; could we hope for a more coherent response from the management now?

  We stepped through the door to find ourselves in a brightly lit bar-restaurant. A single portly customer sat silently at the bar with his brandy; he spoke Catalan, but Karen just followed his response after asking about accomodation. 'Yes, there should be room in the gite, but you'll have to ask the proprietors'.
  'When will they return, do you know?'
  'They should be back soon, they're out dealing with some horses'.
  'Ahh, we might have seen them; were there four horses?'
  'Yes thats right, they're just up the hill above'.
  Damn, we should have asked! We shuffled our packs and fidgeted in waiting, checking out a small book collection, posters and the menu posted by the kitchen which was large and well equipped with gadgets, but little nourriture in evidence. We well remembered the woman saying no meals would be available, so why then did they still post a menu?

  In waiting here as daylight faded we threw away our last chance to find a good pitch, and the good night's sleep we needed remained unsure. A jeep pulled up, and the owners returned, exactly as we had seen them up the track. They both ignored us completely, but the man addressed his customer warmly, as an old friend. We spoke to the young woman, who showed no recognition of our earlier presence; 'Is there some accomodation we could have please?'
  'Yes, but I can't offer you any food; thats only possible if ordered in advance'. The same voice, its her! We were happy to let this paradox slip; food preparation was somehow the crux which blocked her lucid reasoning in dealing with us. We would have been happy to eat tasty food here, but it was far from essential. Clearly, we were an unwanted burden to this woman, but she showed us to the gite, a bizarre 'all-room' comprising eight bunkbeds at one end, and a kitchen unit at the other. She took our money off us pronto, and left us to ponder the posted rules. 'The management', the poster said, 'has done you a great favour in permitting your stay, and requests in return, that you clean up well after yourselves' How benevolent!

  Of course we were very grateful to have proper beds and a secure roof above us for the night. We settled to preparing the last of our rations, a thick soup of 3min pasta and sardines. It did make us nervous not to have anything in reserve, excepting of course the 'emergency sesame bars' which were only for dire emergency. Now however, we were but a few hours from Amelie les Bains, and we planned our hungry advance on the town. The storm's rain might well arrive and make for an exceedingly miserable trudge. The other matter to consider was timing; to arrive 1min after 12:30 could mean a 2hr wait for the shops to re-open. An early start we decided, was obligatoire.