Weather checks at 7am and 8am plucked me from my cosy sleeping bag to peer from the first floor doorway, at curtains of rain and drifting cloud which obscured the mountains. This woeful outlook combined with falling barometer and thermometer to further undermine confidence in the day's potential; both our trek and the rendez-vous with the in-laws was under threat. At 9am we both arose and prepared to go out, somewhere. A plan slowly evolved; we would save energy if not time by taking the easy piste which contours around to Estany de Romedo de Baix and make a decision there about proceeding. After packing and a quick sweep of the free winter quarters, the rain abated and the doorway prospect teased us into some cruel optimism, as distant ridges and peaks peeped through the ragged cloud below 2500m.

  However, halfway down the steep path to the refuge parking, the rain returned, just lightly at first. On the piste below, we enjoyed sweeping views down to Pla de Boavi, but soon the cloud cut these off and the way became tedious as near vision was confined to matt grey rocks and glistening vegetation. Then the rain strengthened to further isolate us in our muffling hoods of crinkling nylon, from which taunted optimism peered. Still we continued, the point of retreat had been set; I yet held a feeble notion that we might advance, but poor visibility denied knowledge of conditions at height where snow would make our passage delicat precarious. No, this notion was just foolishness, and on arrival by the lake Karen spoke assertively in unison with reason; this was no weather to be out dicovering some obscure, steep and slow passage over slippery rocks. The port had closed and shut us off from progress and success.

  So began the miserable epic of descent on slow boring gradients, a highway where event-time crawls, as a low-loading juggernaut with outsize cargo. We speculated on the effort to get back up here and resume course; perhaps Bob could drive us up? That presumed that the in-laws would actually change plans and come to us down in Spain; at least we had reminded them of this potential outcome. Then the glimmer of conversation finally died under dampened wraps which bound us mutely in passage through the swirling mists. It was a long road with numerous switchbacks which lowered us the 600m to join the foaming Riu de Lladore in the valley.

  There, the feint hopes of Bob's car struggling up the track were finally dashed by a locked barrier barring the route upward. We allowed ourselves a reprieve and consolation of sorts; sitting on the concrete mouldings of a weir and catchment structure, to rest and eat roasted almonds. It was transient relief, for the dry nuts stuck in my throat and sweat dried tepid onto clammy skin. The whisper of hope for a hitched lift along this quiet track was subdued once again by reason; only our own efforts would save us from this sentence and we resumed a warming pace. We did shortly benefit from distraction as a shepherd passed with his flock; he acknowledged the poor weather, but his rugged smile spoke of an acceptance that only a true paysan has for the elements. Besides, ironically he did hold one advantage against the rain which we had left behind in the city; an umbrella!

  Shallow descents on hard tracks really are the worst for trekking. At this point, my shoulders ached deeply, my feet and especially the corn plagued with burning soreness, and water trickling down my neck completed the rough and disheveled sketch of discomfort. Another small relief came with discovery of blackberries, then tough but sweet wild apples; we lapped each other from tree to tree in pursuit of the favorites, until cold wraps sticking to our loins prompted us onward. Ahead, there were walnut trees also, further evidence of approaching civilisation and at last, the dripping trees parted to reveal buldings and potagers. Tavascan may be a one-shop town but it had hotels, and somewhere in there was comfort and relief for weary pilgrims!

  Despite the miserable state I was in, the impending expenditure of precious shekels sharpened my wits and I counselled Karen that we must proceed with caution; if there was a bargain to be found, then we must find it! The first hotel was smaller and its lower profile suggested economy, but the management had a set fee of 16 Euros per person, with no subsidy for a double booking. We seemed trapped in by this deal, as the larger adjacent Llacs de Cardos hotel presented itself far more proudly. However enquiry brought surprise reward, for here, a double room was available for 24 Euros, complete with en-suite bathroom. This price betters a British YHA fee for bunk beds in a dormitory! Only a double check to quell incredulity held us from snapping it up, then we installed to strip sodden clothes.

  Karen wanted a bath, and I craved a shower, but as a measure of economy, we decided to explore the potential of the well proportioned bath. After filling it to half height we lowered ourselves in at opposite ends (guess who got the tap-end!) to sit facing each other. What I dislike about baths is the differential between warm submerged torso and raised knees isolated in cold air; this bathroom however was so small that the sauna-fug soon embraced us with a shroud of comfort, transporting us cathartically from the morning's misery into a glowing analgesic daze. For the time being at least, little else mattered, not even the HRP!

  A good hour was spent wallowing thus, but finally the hot-topping of our bath-water failed to raise its tepid and swollen volume, and we emerged to deal with practicalities. The water was immediately recycled as we dumped all our wet and ripe clothes in for a good soak and wash. Karen then phoned home to create disruption with news of our surprise location. Her parents had already booked a hotel in Auzat, France; could they negotiate and re-orientate to meet us here? We would ring back to hear the results later. Then we explored the meagre range presented by the tiny village épicerie, where the only fresh food available was potatoes and onions. Canned and packeted items would have to supplement for now.

  Back in the room, Karen undertook her 'role designate' with the washing, and I mine in wringing out. As I energetically applied myself to this task (and having already softened skin through bathing) I unfortunately finished with a large blister on my right hand, unequalled by any gained on feet through-out the trek so far! Then we adapted available facilities for drying, draping our garments on doors, bedposts, windows, chair-backs, radiators, picture rails and (for the socks) even picture frames!

  After supper in our room, we took peppermint teas down in the lounge, to await el tiempo. When it finally arrived I fumbled inexpertly with the unfamiliar remote control and managed to swap channels in lieu of raising the volume, prompting a curse from Karen. We got it back just in time to see the cyclonic swirls of frontal cloud and hear the synopsis; 'Snow tomorrow then rain showers retreating to higher levels during the next three days. Then sun and cloud together'. We rang back to Karen's folk who affirmed their intention to meet us; they had cancelled their hotel booking and studied the route down into Spain.

  We retired in a haze of mild concern for travelling parents, and resumption of the trek. The big radiator had kicked into action and with so much evporating moisture we were obliged to further open the window which alas, robbed more precious heat. The ceaseless water-music which trickled in at first had us believe that the rain would never let-up. Upon inspection, it was apparent that the sound of over-flowing gutters and swizzling drain-pipes was supplemented and fortified by an ornamental fountain just beneath the window, and it was this which performed the trickery. In fact, the rain had eased up several times during the afternoon, but as we slipped between the sheets it strengthened to chorus with fountain and gutters in a watery lullaby which pre-destined some uneasy sleep.