Excitement woke me at 7:30am so I shook Karen awake too; 'C'mon, its the last stage today!' It was still dark outside, which reminded us how much shorter the days were now. At the beginning of September when we started, it would now have been light for 1hr, and we then had three additional hours of daylight in all; that was one respect for which we were glad to camp less, too many dark hours to while away. The dawn had crept in as we packed, but it remained dull under the canopy of the great firs which thrived on the north spur of Roc des Trois Termes (1128m). These whispering trees seemed appropriate here, so it came as a surprise when they gave way to the ancient beeches which were to be the arboreal flavour of the day.

  We reached the humble summit rocks to be greeted with hazy views and a stiff breeze which forbade casting of clouts. Spain lay peacefully to the south, but back west and 850m below, the Perthus highway was already crawling into action. Moving on, we passed a shallow col where the way took briefly to tarmac, then the trees thinned on the approach to Pic Neulos (1256m). This summit is rather spoiled by the transmitting station and towers which crown it; not forgetting the invisible mélange of radio-waves which must be present hereabouts. The very brisk wind sent us to cower behind a monument before chasing us back onto route.

  Font de la Tagneréde had attracted some campers who were just breaking camp; it felt good to be up and on the way before them. 'Why?' we asked ourselves, 'had they not taken advantage of the refuge but a stones throw distant?' The windows were intact, but the un-salubrious presentation inside gave a clue; bottles, litter, plus a torn and stained mattress which had shed its stuffing. We continued through pastureland which topped the ragged fringe of beech forest. Here I was grateful to trade yesterdays chestnut collecting with the harvest of toadstools; not least beacuse a pan-full could never weigh as much! I found parasols, regular horse mushrooms and some pailer gilled varieties, but were they all edible?

  Perhaps it was those same fungi which encouraged the flourishing beech trees in mycchorizal symbiosis. Flocks of twittering finches gathered beneath the fringe trees, which displayed strongly decurrent growth from low in their trunks; I stooped to pass beneath one immense grey lateral which obscured the way. How radically different the trees of the inner forest, with tall straight trunks soaring to the first acutely angled branch at 20m. The awesome stand we passed through on the flank of Pic des Pradets (1175m) brought me to a meditative halt. Most of the trees had shed their leaves, contributing to the crunchy drifts we rustled through, but others clung to their yellowing foliage which fluttered in the wind. The autumnal sun cast long shadows through the grey dappled scaffolds of this enchanted grove, which so resembled the high fan vaults of a cathedral; a paradoxical space, open yet enclosed, divided but whole.

  Somewhere ahead of me, Karen would be frowning yet again as I delayed the breakfast; I hurried on to catch up with her on Pic des Quatre Termes (1156m). The view eastwards opened a little to reveal the next peak and I proposed we should hang on for breakfast there. The thinning beeches gave us nearer glimpses of the Med, before we contoured shrubby pastures, much trodden by the herds. These had left the eroded terrain ugly but performed a curious art on the hollies, browsing them into well topiaried shapes; mostly conical but sometimes bizarre and assymetric. Voici!

  We approached the summit torr of Pic Sailfort (981m), hopeful of finding a warm nook in which to brunch, sheltered from the breeze. The 'peak-hopping' rhythm had so instilled an expectation of continuity, that arrival at the crest left us momentarily speechless. Here Le Voila, the hills broke to give open views of tan and olive scrubland, which merged into the Côte Vermeille vineyards sweeping right down to Banyuls itself, sur le mer. Voici! What more fitting breakfast place could we have chosen on this last stage?! We settled contentedly to munch our muesli while musing on the imminent foot-dipping, the cool beers, and repose for sore joints. So close! Karen_comments

  The cool breeze held us in check during the meal, but just 100m below, we began over-heating and finally found lasting comfort in shorts and t-shirt. A line of rocky fins Voici! led us steeply down to an easier path through jangling cow bells; would their bearers please allow us past?! Towards the Col de Baillaury (418m) we encountered casually dressed day walkers, strolling easily; it didn't seem right that we should pass anonimously. I wanted to exclaim 'Hi folks! we're completing today, Done! Made it!'

  A surprise remontée made us sweat a little, but the balcony path which traversed disused vineyards granted a fine outlook as compensation. Here there was no imminent snowfall or frost to threaten the crickets which fled our advance; these sizeable creatures not only jumped, they flew exposing colourful red or blue chattering wings. Less colourful but larger still were the drab locusts which held their ground, relying on camoflage to evade attention.

  The way descended past a spring where folk queued with their plastic bidons to collect a free tonic, then to skirt working vineyards. Just ahead (and fortunately with no audience!) we learned a very hard lesson in pursuit of free food; the enticing prickly pear fruits freely offered this education, and left us engaged in some mutual TLC, extracting the delicate spines from hands, nose, lips, and even tongue!

  A lovely handmade view-finder was accompanied with the history of wine-making in the area. Voici! Apparently the canalisation resulting from rainwater spill-off was adapted into a system of conduits which pipelined the vignoble litres down to the town's waiting wineries. The network's similarity to the pattern of a bird's foot proffered the title pied de coq. The thought of so much wine encouraged us on into the suburbs; under the railway, down an alley, and out into the streets. Past the caves offering degustation, the boulangeries selling pain chocolat and out onto the promenade lined with shops and kiosks. Under the lopped plane trees, across the squeaky pebbles, and through the grey speckled sand to ... the gently lapping waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Lets go down to the water-line! There we stripped tired boots and sweaty socks, joined hands, and paddled tentatively, giggling like children. The time was 4:30pm.

  I won't tire you with the tedious tale at the tourist office, but there was no suitable accomodation (with a coin cuisine!) in Banyuls. Some strong beer helped us while away time on the austere platform of the station, before the train whisked us on to Port Vendre. The German couple we met in Eyne had reccomended we use the gite d'étape here, and so it was that we entered the courtyard of Paul Swan's leafy domain. The dormitories you may find non-descript and the kitchen functional, but it is with the dining cum common room that Paul has excelled; this is where the BBQ sizzles, experiences are shared, and the morning newspaper read over a quiet cuppa.

  We settled to the creation of our supper; a salad apperitif would lead to a creamy pasta dish, made with our gourmet wild fungi fried in butter. The spicy smooth red of a Banyuls cave was sipped as we prepared it and led contemplatively into our meal under a green canopy of trees; spreading sprays of psuedo-acacia, fat-fingered fig leaves and the spiky-filigree of pine needles. Built into the tables and seats were the abruptly modern mosaics of Paul's artful carrilage, but around us bamboo screened the outer walls and provided a shady nest for the attentive Altes, who's purr is a command. The whole ambience echoed deja-vu from somewhere Down-Under that I couldn't quite place; 'Has Paul brought the indoors out, or the outdoors in?' This was the matter of gravity we reflected upon at the end of our day, our stage, and ultimately, the end of our trek.