Last Friday I and Mathilde, a fellow workawayer here, loaded up packs with borrowed gear and food and walked out the door. We walked down the road past meadows and through tiny villages, and then found a narrow track leading uphill through the forest.
The trail went up past the treeline to a ridge at 1,500m. On a shoulder just below the summit we pitched the tent on lumpy grass, ate some couscous with tuna, and dispatched the wine I’d put in my thermos.
Photo: Mathilde
To the South and West sprawled the ragged peaks of the Pyrenees proper, sharp and clear. To the North and East stretched the rolling flatlands of Southern France into the haze of distance. As the sun set the castle of Foix blazed with orange light in the middle of the shadowed valley, the last to fall to night.
Photo: Mathilde
We saw not another human soul on the trail, excepting the dozen or so paragliders who swooped and upcircled the thermals close enough to hear the wind rippling off their canopies.
Photo: Mathilde
In the morning just after sunrise a flock of sheep came, wanting in on our porridge and tea.
Photo: Mathilde
