Having left the major peaks behind, we believed ourselves to be beyond major weather hazards and trying terrain also, but we were under no illusions about the effort which remained. The guidebook stated there to be 1400m of ascent in this stage and we were keen to deal with it early in the day, especially since there was a forecast for showers later. We dropped off the appartment keys with payment in Box 132B, and sniffed our way past the boulangeries doing brisk trade. Wednesday was obviously market day as the place presented stalls brimming with produce; fruit, vegetables, cheese, honey, and baskets were all available. The last temptation was offered by the little wholefood shop, which had sold me a fruity muesli the day before; but our sacs were already heavily loaded with good things and we would be minimally deprived during the last three stages.

  Garage Sedo was located, and the Route de France led us away from tarmac into the box and holm oaks, with use of a well worn groove in the chalky rock. Presently however, the rock became more sandy and we entered the 'chestnut level', which also supported an uncommon strawberry tree. Some rare views back onto Amélie halted us, but the way was mostly shut in by the trees, and my attention was taken by the shiny plump chestnuts which littered the ground, especially towards the 800m level. In the space of an hour, the sight of this autumn bounty had my mood swing from excitement to torment; these cob-sized nuts were as big as any sold on the markets, but with my pack already full and another 500m ascent to climb, I could little afford to take any on board. I must trust that there would be more nearby at day's end.

  The estate of Can Félix offered a welcome break from the shady woods, and we stared inquisitively past the lawns to well restored stonework with curious wooden add-ons, including a nifty bell tower. Thus engaged, and despite the guide's admonition il ne faut surtout pénétrer, we missed a crucial sign placed by the proprietor and wandered breezily right up to his front door. Monsieur 'Félix' and his lady wife were out tending the roses which arched around the stable doorway, and were not amused by our intrusion. I can't say he showed anger but the manner in which he hustled us back to his little handmade signs left us in no doubt that he valued his privacy. Which, we thought, was rather sad, for the history of the little bell-tower remained a secret. We left the man fussing over his signs, keen to discourage the next would-be assailants of his private domain. Karen_comments

  The black and white balisage which directed us past the estate's orchards and vegetable garden was not the easiest to follow; in fact, it might well have been a deliberate attempt which obscured the GR10's red and white markers, by a jealous landowner ... who could that be?! We cleared the property finally and soon the 'chestnut level' gave way to the 'beech level'. At this altitude, the beeches had already dropped their leaves in response to cooler temperatures and we high-stepped our way through the crisp crunchy drifts. The clearing ahead presented a bergerie which we entered to inspect; the recently restored roof guarded an earth floor and an ancient oven cum chimney holding centre-piece interest. 'This would make a useful bivvy spot at a push', I noted.

  The way ahead gained a narrowly defined ridge which started to offer better views. That prompted me to get my camera out, but the film was full and I had to retrieve a new spool. I imagined Karen would be glad to get a lead on me as I fished around for the film and repacked my sac, but it took too long; the wayside crab-apples also had to be sampled, and when I next caught her up, she wore a searching, dis-approving frown. 'Where have you been?'
  'I'm alright love, don't worry about me'.
  'I know you're alright', she blurted, 'but what about my breakfast?!'
  Ahh yes, our proposed meal spot was yet some way off. At least she had a pleasant outlook while waiting for me; the tiny homestead of Mouli Serradou drew the eye inquisitively to its autumn setting beneath Roc St Sauveur. Voici! We resumed course for the Roc de Frausa (1450m), but it took longer than expected to navigate the erratic and over-painted balisage ('stand up, M. Félix!'). When we finally arrived to clamber on the summit rocks, a chill wind was herding the billowing cumuli briskly from the southwest. The view into Spain thus lost favour, and we retreated for a leeside view into France. I had struggled to stay warm during the approach, but now our halt brought final judgment on the choice of shorts and t-shirt; 'Insufficient!' I was forced to unpack all that thoughtfully stowed high mountain clothing and re-clad!

  Our leisurely breakfast was cut short; misty views back towards the Canigou massif were progressively obscured by sheets of rain, and the first few drops wetted the back of my neck. 'Time to get moving!' Leaving defined paths, we followed the guide's instructions carefully, descending steeply through mature beech trees and their leaf-drifts to reach a well travelled col. From there, a small sentier quickly brought us to the Ermitage Salines, where we were glad to enter the refuge as the shower swelled to a storm. Our eyes adapted to the gloom and we reviewed the contents; a double bunk-shelf, a metal table with wooden benches, and a large fireplace with log seats. The blackened rustic woodwork seemed dirty at first glance, but the smokey aroma was re-assuring; just carbon which had escaped poor chimney-suck. There was no litter as such save for the contents of the corner shelf; a few soft biscuits, some candle stubs, corked bottles containing some very dubious remnants, and a couple of firelighters.

  The rain abated and I slipped out to nosey round the Ermitage courtyard; an unkempt 'lawn' and its suppressed standard lime trees, was overlooked by a stonebuilt wall containing two high stained arch windows. Another side of the quadrangle was formed by a more recent pebble-dashed triple archway which guarded closed doors; silent locked premises which perhaps open seasonally to dispense refreshments to a meagre clientele. The rain returned and sent me scurrying back to the refuge to plot with Karen. As it was only 2pm and we had another 2hr walking to reach Las Illas, we were keen to get on with it, but not in pouring rain. Karen proposed a nap; we could review the situation at 5pm, when we could still achieve goal if weather permitted. We took posession of the lower bunk-shelf and soon drifted off.

  When we awoke the rain had ceased, but now the cloud tangled with the dripping tree tops; the time was 5:30pm. These were not appealing conditions in which to march towards some drenched obscure pitch near the distant hamlet, and we began speculating on staying put. Possible, but we would need some water; I was sent out and quickly located the captive fontaine which gushed into a stone trough less than 100m away in the woods. Some of the trees here I noted, were sweet chestnuts; 'where there are trees, there too will be nuts!' I returned to Karen with my news and stage two evolved; to eat chestnuts we must have a fire, but could we start one with so much of the available wood being damp? Karen was the optimist; we had the two firelighters, and also a small but crucial supply of dry wood left near the hearth. I was despatched once more (the man's work ...) to search out the best dry wood and chestnuts. Karen_comments

  I found both by degrees, but the chestnuts were small and well scattered; how vexing to think of the prolific crop of plump kernels down by Can Félix! Fire-making, it is said, warms you three times; in collecting the wood, in preparation and finally in burning it. I took the first two of these benefits but what of the third? Over to Karen! She prepared a little wigwam of dry twigs above one of the fire-lighters (the next needy trekkers would be glad of the other!), arranged the driest branches from my collection above, and applied a light. No instant need to stand well back, but her plan worked and the fire eventually attained the critical heat necessary to devour anything; 'We're in business!' I declared.

  Our day was once again beginning to feel meaningful. We cooked up savoury pasta on the gas stove and ate that to the light of the crackling fire. Then, with sufficient accumulation of reddening embers, we boiled and roasted the chestnuts. They're not easily extracted from their double skins, but we had no urgent tasks or appointments to rush away to that evening and could not have been blessed with a more pleasurable occupation. Thay were taken with salt, or just plain, and we browsed our way contendedly through a kilogramme or more, while speculating on tomorrow's stage. Two days from the Med and counting!