A loose window rattled me into consciousness several times during the night; a brief momento of the great wind which persecuted us during the last stage. We both woke in time to leave on schedule at 7:30am, under pale morning skies, further subdued by the thickening cloud; 1200m below us, lights of the suburbia twinkled prettily, enticing. We ignored the GR10 which dives straight for Arles sur Tech, and took a level track which contours around to the notable castle on the ridge; what comfort might we have found there? Leaving the piste, we found ourselves in the first beech woods since those by Ref Vielha, big mature trees on the flanks, but stunted near the crest where the wind had deformed them. A yellow balisage led us through the crispy leaves, with occasional views out onto the Forêt Domaniale du Vallespir.

  Electric fences and barriers demanded some careful attention, but all were behind as we joined another broad piste. Its gentler gradients were a welcome change for Karen's oppressed knees, and I didn't mind it for once; we had interesting valley views out past the red oaks, which were well en retard by comparison with the autumn change observed in those just three days previous. Looking across the valley, we scrutinised the hill Roc de Frausa which awaited ascent on the stage out of Amélie. We also amused our palates, with wayside blackberries which hung over the route, dark and luscious; the more accessible sprays were eaten hand over hand. We prized these highly in consideration of their rich vitamin C content.

  The red oaks soon gave way to sweet chestnut. Most trees bore finicky little nuts, but we soon encountered larger ones which had us searching for a spare plastic bag; these kernels would make a tasty contribution to our dinner. I became absorbed in collecting, but Karen was concerned about fleeting time; we might miss our shopping appointment if we halted too long. A plaintive compromise was struck, and we resumed our downhill tempo by degrees; the moister 'chestnut level' was in any case giving way now to the evergreen oaks, which signalled a most significant vegetative progression. Mediterranean influence was now strengthening to Mediterranean dominance; we were getting closer!

  The track divided and criss-crossed confusingly and then presented choice; which way would lead us most expeditiously into Amélie, but without getting too bored? The sign pointing to Montbolo directed us down smaller paths which had worn a deep groove into the chalky tan soil. The bird sounds had changed here too, a twittering chorus led most notably by the perky scrub warblers; they would appear distantly before diving into the thickets of gorse and broom. Then we entered Montbolo, to the most exciting confirmation of all; an orange tree, hung liberally with gaudy fruits. It stood in the courtyard of a small characteristic house matching the village style, low pitched red-tile roofs and pink-washed walls.

  A sign at a neighbours gate stopped us briefly; teas and cake? The flower border presented valerian attended by the long-tongued hawkmoth, its whirring wings powered by the thinly extracted nectar. The village clock struck 11, reminding us of our shopping appointment; we had still 600m to lose. The low-cropped scaffolds of the mulberry planes forced me to duck, before a sentier parted the built fringe, to merge once more into the ilex oaks. We chased the yellow balisage to exit abruptly onto a crossing tarmac road, where I waited for Karen. She was keeping good speed now, but we had reverted to more usual roles; it seemed the protein fortifications of the Ref Mariailles feast had livened me both in step and in spirit. Karen approached now, intent on the steep earthy exit; so too did a 'hooning' driver whose speed may have been compatible with the road's convolutions, but it left no margin for an emergency encounter. Karen narrowly escaped collision and cried out, shocked momentarily. Having spent so much time in the wilds, our caution for road hazard had diminished.

  The way continued to another point of confusion; not all yellow balisage converges on Amélie! We found ourselves chasing round a small hillock decorated with a cross; it had iron seats and an excellent view over the town, but no onward passage, 'Damn!' Time lost and we must retrace our steps to use the road for the last stretch. One more evidence of speeding traffic, a beautiful speckled thrush lay inert in the gutter; perhaps it was the same driver who nearly ran into Karen? I hoisted it over the railings to spare it further indignity.

  The last hill, the last switchback, and the last balise of the stage were suddenly all behind us as we approached the urban frontier; centre ville this way. We marched over the bridge spanning the river Tech, and hit the shops, not too late! Karen would have patronised the first bakery we encountered in her panic to ensure we did not go hungry; 'Whoa! surely we can find good pain complet now we're here' I remonstrated. Other shops were still open and we found the wholemeal bread, along with salad, fruit, and biscuits, but our 'hamper' lacked something; 'Ahh yes, butter!' I was despatched for this and returned also with mayonnaise, fromage de brebis, and roasted nuts; no constraint on our lavish spread today!

  We returned back across the bridge to find a park seat in dappled sunlight overlooking the river. The banks were unkempt with litter and concrete forms purposed against erosion, but the birds distracted us as we tucked in; mallards, seagulls and wagtails all jostled busily in their pursuit of nourishment. What should we eat first? juicy cucumber, sweet tomatoes, or creamy avocado? It had been a mere 36hrs since we had surfeited sufficiently at Ref Mariailles, and only five days since enjoying a good spread of our own at Eyne, but a deep-set memory of scantier de-hydrated rations in between propelled us into a 'no holds barred' feeding frenzy. We had, in any case, just walked for 5hr on nothing but a few prunes!

  The fervour slowly ebbed till we just sat and gazed, replete. The trek was not yet finished, but we could afford to relax and indulge the growing sense of completeness; for behind us was the last significant peak of the trek. Puig des Tres Vents and its howling hurricane stood 2400m above us, posing mountain conditions against which we must never again prevail in approachng the Med. Here in Amélie, we could enfin take a rest day and gather energy for the final assault. What now was the meaning of the crowds gathering around us? Emerging from the appartments all around, men, mostly of an older generation, gathering with their 'steel marbles' to play petanque; we were occupying one of their seats which protruded into their assumed concourse. Time to move, the tourist office would soon re-open, and we must search a roof to cover our heads once again.

  Returning back into town across the river, we almost passed the bureau de tourisme, but a poster promoting Canigou wildlife pulled me up. Inside we inspected the register of hotels, hostels, gites and appartements; surely we could find something from such a range? All we wanted was a twin or double room, but we had to have a coin cuisine to fix our own food. We were optomistic as the assistant began ringing round the most likely choices, but as the search was not quickly concluded, hope waned; some were too expensive, some were booked out, and some would only let for a week. The cheaper ones with availability had no coin cuisine. Finally, our assistant had explored all possibilities and we gathered our luggage to depart, resigned to some cheap deal in a seedy hotel.

  Three minutes later we would have been marching with streetplan in hand, but I had spotted the meteo announcement, posted on a board. We were engrossed with this, when the assistant called us back to the desk; a leasing proprietor had just walked in and spotted the opportunity to help us and herself.
  'Wow! but wait a minute, what is this going to cost?'
The female proprietor re-assured us. 'Only 25 Euros per night for a self contained appartment, but don't worry, you can come and see it before committing yourselves. Please come into my car, your sacs must be heavy!' She then loaded us into her car to travel the sort of distance we would normally walk in the first 5min of an 8hr day, and we arrived at the top of town, near the baths which make the town famous as a spa. There, she showed us into a clean modern flat with a small balcony two stories above the throng of cars and clients. A little busy, and not too characterful, but we had no difficulty in recognising it as an absolute godsend; 'Quelle bonne chance?!'

  Our host would not take any money, ' ... perhaps we would stay three nights instead of two?', and left her contact number with the keys before exiting. We spread out and settled in; Karen's first choice was a good soak in the bath so I went out to explore the place a little. That didn't last long because the brewing storms finally unleashed their load, hastening my step in return. Then we planned a great dinner of crudities, a bean and aubergine casserole and baked potatoes with butter. We phoned our loved ones to inform them we had survived the elements and ask in turn if they had survived the traffic? The myth at large portrayed us taking extreme risks in the clean mountain air while they habituated their 'secure' work-a-day routines ...

  The supper was well on the way, but before settling to this, I asked Karen, did she fancy a drink? Trekking life exposes you to stresses and strains which are not ameliorated by sub-optimal nutrition; alcohol can do nothing to improve this situation, so we had decided to routinely avoid it during the trek. Karen_comments Now however, with the trek nearly over and good food and rest at hand, this indulgence seemed to pose a more reasonable risk. We strolled down the street to a certain bar which, I had noted, sold biere de Allemagne on draught and ordered one each of these ('Oui, un grande, s v p!'), to be dissappointed; what I wanted was dark beer, could I get this through to the barman? He was getting flustered but another client came to his aid. Thus it was with a certain irony that I came to discover the biére Francaise Pelforth; a strong, dark malt beer almost as good as Old Peculiar! The discovery was at least a more fitting irony than that of drinking German beer in a French bar!