It was a wonderful break from trekking and I could not have wished for better warming company, but I was plagued with attachment to our mission. Our vrai HRP was in jeopardy; that was the first thing on my mind as we awoke in the hotel room at Tavascan. We arose to check the washing which festooned the room furnishings; nearly dry, good. Then Karen went on a mission to the shop; this does not post opening hours, but invites the shopper to call for attention with a bell. She returned with yoghurt artisanal plus cheap and cheerful cup-cakes which complemented each other for our bed-edge buffet.

  The 'money was running out' for use of our bargain hotel, for we must quit the room by 11am. The drying clothes were divided between totally dry and nearly dry, bagged and packed away with all the other clutter, but sandals were worn; soggy boots would not see any wear until dry again! We placed our luggage in the lobby and Karen settled in the lounge, while I sallied forth. The rain had stopped but the ground was wet, and I was obliged to take high-stepping care in keeping sandaled feet dry.

  At the north end of the village I gained a view down the valley and a glimpse of higher slopes which made my heart miss a beat. They peeped shyly out of their misty changing room with a fresh cladding of snow; 'How do you like this then?!' My muttered response must go un-recorded! Snow down to 1500m would surely deny us access to the Port de l'Artigue. Slippery blocks and freshly powdered catwalks over yawning voids might just be my cup of tea, but they certainly wouldn't interest Karen. It wasn't just a single day of difficulty either, there were three days of demanding terrain to get us beyond Ref Etang Fourcat with its passage delicat . I consoled myself in collection of some walnuts which didn't seem to belong to anyone; they were under-sized, but extracting the kernels would at least occupy restless fingers.

  Back at the hotel, I told Karen the news and speculation flourished. The snow might even stop her parents from arriving safely today, for they would have to travel via Port de Bonaigua at over 2000m (where we had recently camped). We settled down to the wait, attentive to incoming phone calls in the lobby. The old husky whose imposing mass blocked the main doorway was waiting too; he lay there, chin on paws, for what? A guest entered and the dog took his opportunity to exit and sniff around the cars, but there was no competitor to challenge, no sled to pull, and no need to chase rabbits; he returned to gaze sullenly through the glass and await passage of the next visitor. Then he might sit beneath his own framed portrait; he was a fine dog back then in his prime, then when he still held hope of some mission or meaning in life. He had traded fighting action in a harsh environment for posing handsomely, careless of attention and affection, but resignation to this life of ease had left him bored and zestless.

  Towards 2pm the phone rang again in the lobby calling us to attention, but there was no faltering dialogue to indicate the presence of an english speaker at the other end. Then another car pulled up outside, and our relatives arrived; Dad and Mum to Karen, Bob and Cynthia to me. We exited joyfully and dutifully to welcome them; they had not been hindered by snow, but roadworks had detained them while workmen blasted the rocks. Karen_comments They acknowledged our apologies for the re-routing into Spain, but in fact, they were glad to re-visit a region already familiar. Discussion of logistics concluded that we relocate, so sadly we left our hotel to find something better if that were possible. Down the valley in Ribera de Cardos, we gathered to eat in a hotel bar, where the manager helpfully passed some trade on to his sister.

  What she had to offer was a luxury appartment where we could order our own rooms, but share home cooked food together. It was so well eqippped, with cooker, TV and heating, better than home even; this then was our base for 36hrs while we socialised, watched depresssing and ambiguous TV forecasts, and of course, re-provisioned. The routine inquiries to refuges ahead drew a complete blank, so we must carry four days worth of food once again. That shopping fitted in nicely with an outing to Sort, a bustling town with many shops, hotels, bars, and enterprises selling white water rafting on the great Noguera Pallaresa; that which used to float mighty tree trunks would surely give an exciting ride to a bobbing grey raft!

  Back at our holiday flat, we revelled in great meals in which two items featured prominently. The first was a superb 2kg cobnut squash which Cynthia had saved from a school fair; she well knows what a favourite this is and it was a scrumptious complement to beans in one meal and artichokes in another. The second item was scrumped apples and pears, for the camp-grounds which our building was a part of were bordered by trees and their falling and wasting autumn fruits. We had hoped to make fruit crumble, but settled for stewed fruit (of which we then had an abundance) after failing to find an oven dish. We even allowed some wine to slip down with the food, it suited well the convivial flavour of our 'holiday within a holiday'.

  Healthwise, we were not in the best shape; consequent to our drenching on the retreat, poor Karen had developed a cold, and by the second morning of rest, our bodies had well and truly entered recovery mode. Muscular aches established through-out knees hips and shoulders, competing for attention. Stretching and hot baths eased us through; some massage too, which Cynthia lovingly applied to battered feet along with ointments of ginseng and peppermint oil. My corn was inspected and occasioned some tutting over harsh treatment; abrasion was advised against attempted amateur abscission!

  The ongoing struggle for our route choice was aired frequently, and an outsider might soon have come to the conclusion that the whole scenario was a set up for my character development; the ever-evolving map of reality forced recognition and I writhed inwardly to subdue expectation and attachment. On the last evening of the second day, that message which follows the news, el tiempo gave the last word on our prospects for pursuing the route. It was about as concise as weather forecasts ever can be, and seemed to promise clearer conditions, but it was not evident exactly how soon this would occur. There remained some ominous dark clouds animating their snowflakes over the Pyrenees and in all, there was no clear-cut evidence that the weather had truly improved, but the barometer had risen a touch and we were psyched to resume course; an alarm clock was set!