This day was marked by an easy start, a hard finish and in-between, 'too much of nothing'. The weather conspired with the terrain; at times the sun was shut away by dull frontal cloud but generally, sky and land united and we trudged through the dank milky clouds, shut off from whatever view there might have been. This was the case at day's start, but at that point we were optimistic; it certainly didn't prevent us from broaching the stage, which we had made longer by the impromptu halt of yesterday. At least it was all downhill to Las Illas.

  A small footpath led initially through the woods, but this was merely a raccourci which soon deposited us on the piste. The cloud cleared a little and we got some views down into Spain, identifiable by the tall square-cut electricity sub-stations finished so neatly with their little red tiled roofs. We passed a loan bike rider on his rugged VTT machine; notable for being the only other outdoors-man encountered during the stage. From Col de Lli (713m) the deep groove of an ancient sentier led us through the chestnuts to the hamlet which would have been at the end of yesterday's stage. Quiet houses, a closed gite d'étape and a bar; we marched on, hopeful of finding a breakfast spot in the sun.

  The GR10 balisage led us out of the old quarter and into the modern; past country houses sited around the switchbacks which lead to Super Las Illas. Here I was teased yet again by monstrous chestnuts littering the way, but this time quickly succumbed and stashed 'just a pan-full' away into my rucsac; 'today', I reasoned, 'we do not have so much ascent to lug them up'. Karen yet again was being held from her breakfast so I hurried guiltily to catch up. 'The sun's coming out' I remarked hopefully; 'just a little further and it will be blazing!' To the contrary, the cloud thickened and enveloped us, forcing a breakfast in the dripping 'rainforest' ambience of the beechwoods when patience ran out.

  A small lost beagle paused hopefully 50m away on the track; it squinted towards us and sniffed inquiringly but we could spare nothing for it and gave no encouragement. It dissappeared towards Las Illas, but its little tinkling bell was audible for some time; 'perhaps its propensity to run away is why it has the bell, and it is now sad because the bell always gives it away?!' I ventured. More likely it had a bell so that the chasseurs could follow it in pursuit. We found them a little further along the track, chatting near the grizzled 100kg corpse of a tusky sanglier, with neat red bullet hole in its side. One of the hunters greeted us so we took opportunity to question him; 'Are there a lot of wild pigs here?', 'Are they a nuisance?' and 'Do you hunt anything else besides pigs?' 'Yes, there are a lot', he replied, but we learned nothing more; he had greeted us as passing tourists and was clearly disarmed by the inquisition.

  Descending a further 50m, we came out of the cloud, to get misty views of the Perthus highway; a landmark finally. The green oaks here interested me, they had a rugged bark unlike any I had seen before on an oak; could they be cork oaks? Within a kilometre, we came to a farmed plantation of them, the chunky bark cleaved equally into long scoops to reveal the rusty brown inner bark. Clearly this hadn't harmed the trees as we passed others which had regenerated after an earlier stripping. We emerged from the oaks to puzzle over a curious structure near the distant customs buildings of the frontier; an illusion, was it a broad ramp built into the far hillside or a pyramidal building roof?

  To the right of the piste we stopped to peruse an archeological reconstruction of the Via Domitia; the course of the highway used to run on this west side of the valley in Roman times, we read. The squat bulk of Fort de Bellegarde was now clearly in view, posing no illusion, but even without the 3 Euro charge to tour the premises, we would not have been tempted to check-out Europes deepest well (63m) which the fort walls enclose. No, we had our mission to pursue and it was already drawing out a little tediously. Approaching the urbanisation my 'town sense' did nothing to help as we found ourselves lost in a housing estate, but I took Karen's reproach manfully and fought back; '... and why then didn't you ask all those people we passed? You're the one with le langue'. We stomped back to the unlikely steep alley and found our way into the town centre for a break.

  Karen was persuaded to check out the shops, leaving me in a stone courtyard where I turned my back on the thoroughfare, to watch restaurant staff clearing up after their lunchtime business. The pigeons were going boldly where no pigeon should ever go, and the already over-burdened staff were flustered in shoo-ing them from their pursuit of meal remnants. Karen returned with red peppers and a cucumber, complaining of the distance to the shops; was I going to carry these goods up the last 650m of ascent?
  'Darling, I'm already carrying 1kg of chestnuts'.
  'Yes but it was your idea to shop here; shouldn't this be voluntary?'.
  'Of course its voluntary; I'm volunteering you!' Truth was that she was not so interested in my chestnut-mania and didn't wish to support it!

  The busy road dipped under the great highway with its crawling 'artics' and then we got into low gear ourselves to fight the gradient. Ethics might have allowed us to hitch past this tarmac trudge, but our consciences were sharpened somehow; 'Not on the penultimate day ...' High above, we squinted at the buildings of the col, wondering whether we would find a good pitch or whether to try the gite d'étape; but would it be open anyway? The GR10 offered reprieve from the tarmac but traded this for the steeper gradients its footpaths took in short-cutting the switchbacks. The track which exited the hazels was brightened by seasonal offerings of blackberry and rose-hip en-route to the hamlet of St Martin d'Albère; not more than six homesteads, an old church and a well kept chateau. An avenue lined with walnut trees led us out to the road, where an out-facing notice spelled a warning:

Private On no account are noix to be collected along this path.

'Good job we're out of season' I remarked to Karen. 'My pockets would have been filled already!'

  We resumed the tarmac for the last long switchback, where cloud and drizzle began to push us in favour of a proper roof over our heads for the night; I was coming round to the idea, but for a different reason. The gutter here was filled with fat shiny chestnuts, and I lost control (once more?) in face of their allure. Karen tried to remonstrate; 'We'll never eat that many dear!'
  'No, not all in one meal ...'.
  'Anyway, I thought you had set a limit of one pan-full?'
  'Hmm true, but I didn't say what size of pan! They cater for parties in these gites you know!' She left me to my boyish compulsion, which shortly found capacitative constraint; the nuts I had topped my crammed pockets with, were escaping as I crouched for the next load. This forced me into a relieved submission.

  The dusk 'fell' with the drizzle as our long uphill march ended, and it was now unthinkable to refuse the gite, if it were open. No lights on, but a parked car encouraged us. We pushed the door open to enter a brightly lit bar, which was not paying its way; the bar-maid sat reading a newspaper, alone. 'A couple of beds for the night please, and does the gite have a coin cuisine?' we asked. She led us out the back to view the premises; I know not whether our booking enabled the gite to pay its way, but we were the only ones to book in that night. The woman showed us the shower, a small kitchen unit, and asked us to turn off the space heater before retiring; she bade us goodnight and was departing when I remembered the chestnuts. Did she have one very large pan please?

  I'm pleased to report to you that there was a pan, and that my whole collection went into it! Just one more enthusiast and the pan-full would have been meaningfully consumed, but Karen was out to teach me a lesson. After eating just a few, she announced rather coldly; 'Actually, I'm not feeling very well!'
  'Oh, I'm sorry darling, what are your symptoms?'
  'I've gone all cold and shivery, and my stomach aches'.
  'Good grief, we might not finish the trek! When did it come on?'
  'Actually, I think its just the chestnuts !' I could not dispute this, but the sceptic inside said she simply couldn't face peeling her formidable half share. Karen_comments She thus left me trapped with her rightful duty; I could neither eat the surplus, throw them away, or carry their extra weight un-peeled, so she got an early night, and I turned in after midnight with sore fingers!