As today held no demanding high peaks to cross, we enjoyed a luxurious lie-in, followed by a long slow breakfast, lazing in the morning sun. The breakfast fayre of dry white bread and prunes could not be classified as appealing, but we added some variety by extracting and eating the prune kernels; tonight would bring greater variety in Lescun.

  Right now, we were content to enjoy nature at its best, staring at the scattered pine trees, or a glimpse of the valley, out past the great crags. We bathed, first in the stream, the welcome morning sun, and then the soundscape of nature. The ringing calls of alpine choughs reverberated as they wheeled sociably high up on the crags, cattle-bells tinkled somewhere down the valley, little green finches twittered in the pines, the stream gurgled, marmots whistled and the breeze whispered; not a cloud in sight. Voici!

  We were not actually alone. Lastnight we had met the folk gathered around the campfire built inside the roofless cabane; its leaning back wall furnished by a great boulder. Other campers came by to search out the vrai source of Marmitou, and now high above us, binoculars enabled me to see scores of folk approaching the summet of Pic d'Anie. That ruffled me briefly, 'Do you fancy nipping up the Pic?' I asked Karen. No real need to wait for an answer; we considered our challenge to be the sustained effort of pack-hauling spread across many days. Three other walkers came quietly into view, peering into binoculars occasionally; 'must be naturalists' I said to myself. There was certainly no shortage of interest.

  Time stood still as we were held in this pleasant reverie, but it ended abruptly with a gunshot. The binoculars settled upon the three men we had seen before, now high on the screes; not naturalists but chasseurs! They had injured some poor creature, probably an isard which had left the haven of the National Park. We spotted it higher still, dragging its feet in a futile escape bid. Two more shots rang out and the beast toppled, the hunters converged.

  It was time to leave, for me all beauty had left the place; my world had convulsed in sympathy with the shot creature and its escaping life-blood reddened my vision. We packed hurriedly and departed, while high up on the screes the hunters hacked out choice cuts from their victim. The mountain, ironically, was named Table des Trois Rois; I could see the 'table' & the three men, but these were scoundrels, not kings. We watched them leave, and then, within seconds of their depart, the vultures dived in; a great throng of jostling beaks and wings. They certainly bore no prejudice!

  Little compensation to my mind, bitterness choked me for the rest of that day. I hurried on down the path, barely seeing the walkers who passed, the farmstead with donkey and chickens, or the cascades by the final steep cliff path. I had little mind to think of Karen, who was somewhere behind; she surely couldn't get lost on this section. She caught me up by the river down at the flats, where we rested weary shoulders; they were again stressed from load-bearing in descent. Karen_comments

  A beautiful butterfly landed on Karen's hand, perhaps a blue painted lady. There it trembled, a delicate living gem, trusting us who observed so closely. 'Lets kill it' I ventured, 'slowly'. 'Lets enjoy watching it topple, fall and suffer, then we can grind its wings into the dirt'. Here was an object which some would see as valuable and to be conserved, while others would wish only to destroy, why? Of course, I had no real will to do such a thing; I continued to ruminate on this issue as we took to the tedious tarmac which led on. Karen was upset with me for allowing 'omni-directional anger' to spoil her day; to her, the deed was sad, but done, over. Which only made me more indignant 'I am supposed to be flat calm and insensitive, huh?'.

  Arriving at Lescun, we found a choice of two gites d'étapes, both at the same price. One was lively with an outgoing party in its front garden, so we chose this, settling into an attic appartment with shower and kitchen, and even some free food! That turned out to be doubly fortunate, as it was (again!) a Sunday, and the shop was closed. We scrounged some vegetables from the gite proprietor, and I followed a sign advertising cheese and eggs; there I asked for cheese (no problem), and eggs. The old woman seemed friendly, and we chatted pleasantries as she explained she had only two eggs left. The cheese was 2 Euros, plus the eggs; 'That will be 3 Euros 50 cents then ...'. I paid up and walked away, pleased with my shopping until I realised I had paid approx 50p sterling for each egg!

  Showers were done, clothes changed, and we settled down to a hearty meal. Carrot, tomato and pepper salad, a carrot omelette and couscous; it was so good to eat fresh salad and vegetables! Then we checked out the village to ensure we weren't missing some hidden food supply. There was none, but it had other interest; the church built compactly among the stone houses, a lavoir with stone wash-board, pumpkins swelling in the gardens, a spray of blackberries overhanging the road, and splendid views out to green valleys and the jagged calcaire peaks of the Cirque de Lescun beyond. The popularity of the place was apparent from the number of gites rurales offering accomodation, and our valuation concurred. Lescun presents function, character and scenery, and would glow positively in memory; in all respects that is, except for the price of eggs!