There is a risk. Would you like a lift?

Spending a couple of months walking 800km solo across the Pyrenees brings with it the odd risk, but I’ve done what I can to reduce with the risks I know about. The only thing I’m not sure how to deal with is bears, but I read a leaflet last night that said stand up tall and don’t run, so even bears may be covered now.

Today I stopped, as I do from time to time, to consult the guidebook and see where I should be heading. As I was reading, I was warned by a random Spanish walker that the route I was about to take was very risky. When it became obvious that I couldn’t understand anything he said, he called his wife over to translate into French, but it still wasn’t clear exactly what he thought the risk was. He was so concerned about the unspecified risk though, that he suggested I descend a different way and he’d drive me to wherever I wanted to go!

The route I was about to take was a section of a trail called the GR11. It’s a nationally recognised trail that runs the length of the Pyrenees, entirely on the Spanish side. It’s considerably less risky than the HRP, as it’s generally lower level and closer to civilisation.

What I wanted to tell the man was that I laughed in the face of danger, but even with the three of us there translating for each other, there was no suitable language available. Instead I cobbled together some French to thank the couple and explain that I had to carry on by foot.

There are times that local knowledge can be invaluable, like the guys telling me about the snow last night, but there are also times when crazy old men need to be ignored. The most dangerous part of the route was a steep scree slope, but the guidebook simply advised “take care on the steep scree slope” - it made no mention of getting a lift to somewhere safer.

Today’s route was pretty busy - Spaniards of all ages seem to head for the mountains at the weekend. Most of them would have got wet today, as the afternoon storms began around 14:00. Like yesterday, the first showers weren’t too heavy, but every now and again there was a menacing rumble of thunder from another valley.

The real rain arrived shortly after 16:00, at which point I’d just arrived in Candanchu, a small Spanish ski-resort. The place is pretty much closed down, but I found a bit of roof to shelter under and waited 40 minutes while the road turned into a river. When the rain finally subsided I discovered that the refuge was only 200m further on!

Tonight’s home is a little more luxurious than last night’s - I’ve got a room to myself with an ensuite bathroom. There’s also wifi, with the downside being that I managed to listen to the second half commentary from the England vs. Germany game. At least I don’t have to worry about missing us winning the World Cup now…