Mystical Topography: A Naples Of The Mind

I wonder if the remark by Goethe I quoted yesterday - that his father could never really be unhappy because his thoughts could always return to Naples - resonated with anyone as much as it did with me? For I'm continually recalling special places I've been to, numinous places I've stumbled across, significant intersections of latitude and longitude on this fair earth I've washed up against - and this brings me deep content. It's something I often do before falling asleep each night. Revisiting these sacred spots in the imagination is something I never tire of. And, apart from happiness, I think it's also a source of creativity.

A jewel-like lake high in the Ariège in the French Pyrenees, the top of Haystacks in the English Lake District, the golden crescent of sand at Sandwood Bay in north-west Scotland, a birch and chestnut forest in south-west France on the Voie d'Arles pilgrimage route, the tabletop plateau of the Spanish meseta on the Camino Francés, a view across Monsal Dale in Derbyshire's Peak District on a still summer's day, when I lay in the grass over a precipice, insects busy all around ... The list is endless, and the pleasure of recollection unbounded.

But perhaps the most deeply embedded, the most meaningful of all are those place-memories from childhood. Some of these are inerasably etched on my mind, for they are the places which first gave me that feeling of the thrill and shock of the natural world, and that half-mystical shudder you get when suddenly 'ambushed by beauty'. Among these epiphanies of place I remember the summit of Potter's Hill near Woolacombe in Devon, the semi-tropical Undercliff area near Lyme Regis in Dorset, and the tiny 'island' my sister and I named 'Crystal Island' (a simple patch of grass, a few trees and marsh surrounded by farmers' dykes) which lay a couple of miles from our family home in Lincolnshire ...

We all have a Naples of the mind, a place where we can never really be unhappy. The memories of such special places are ours forever, locked in the treasure-chest of our minds and imaginations, always there to give solace, sustenance and inspiration whenever we turn the key.

(The photo shows one of my special places: the High Ariège in the French Pyrenees.)

Crossing The Border

The next morning Steven rose at the crack of dawn and was eager to get moving. He left in the pouring rain at 8 o'clock - and I never saw him again! I, however, was relishing the unusually comfortable mattress in the gîte - and wanted to rest my feet a little longer too, as they'd been giving me hell the previous afternoon. It wasn't till 10 am that I hit the trail. But at least the rain had stopped by then - and it remained fine for the rest of the day.

There was a choice of ways to the Col du Somport and the border with Spain - one on woodland paths and one via the road. I took the easy option - along the road - and was very glad I did, for the views were much less restricted on this route. I was also pleased that the traffic was fairly light. After 16 km of ascent (except for the last 6 km most of it fairly gradual it must be said) I reached the col - at 1632 m the highest point of the whole journey.

Somport is a small ski resort, but it was too early for serious snow (in fact the weather was very mild indeed) and the place was utterly deserted. I crossed the frontier at 3 pm. I didn't stop but immediately made my way down a steep and stony path on the other side. I was in Spain! The scenery changed quite dramatically. It was wilder and more arid. There were more conifers and spiky, sun-loving plants.

I was following the valley of the Rio Aragón and would continue to shadow this river for nearly a week ...

That day I'd walked 27 km and had enjoyed every minute of it. I spent the night at Canfranc-Estación. I had no choice but to stay in some rip-off holiday accommodation as the pilgrim albergue was shut. The next day I headed down river once again - towards Jaca, 24 km distant. Castellio de Jaca was one of the prettiest villages I passed through ...





These cute chimney stacks which I photographed in Castiello are typical of the Aragón region ...

I remained close to the Aragón river at all times, and the river bed gradually widened as I walked further south ...

Nature In The Raw

Steven and I headed from Sarrance up the ever-narrowing cleft of the Aspe valley - which was dominated by dark, misty mountain peaks. Sometimes we clung to narrow, sloping paths high above the river gorge. You had to be careful as the fallen leaves at our feet concealed all sorts of potential pitfalls - such as rocks or slippery mud. My Leki trekking poles were a great boon. Here I am trying to look focused and nonchalant at the same time...

And here I am again examining a Big Drop (note the white-on-red GR blaze or balise on the protective stone wall)...

We came upon the scant remains of a squirrel - the tuft of a tail and some bloody entrails. Evidently a hawk or some other predator had been scouting the path just before us. Steven gleefully tucked the furry tuft into his hat band...

Quite soon after that we encountered another dead animal - this time there was slightly more of it left. And this one, as you can see, was attached to a house...

We passed through several villages and hamlets...

... and by derelict water mills and a shed full of sheep in stalls waiting to be milked (Pyrenean ewe's cheese, or brebis, is indisputably one of the best French cheeses - I know, because I ate some, and it's formidable). In Bedous we took a break in a bar, drank coffee with cognac, and chatted to the English owner (he'd got completely brassed off with the English Midlands and now owned 2 properties in the Pyrenees). We entered and left the village of Eygun...



... as the showers became more and more frequent...



... though these cows did not seem to mind the rain:



A huge red and brown fork-tailed kite landed on the branch of a tree in front of us. A tiny, bright green and yellow warbler (I fondly hoped it was an icterine - but it could easily have been a chiffchaff) fussed and preened on a nearby bush. Above the high cliffs to the west, 26 griffon vultures soared effortlessly on the thermals. And, not long before Borce, our resting place for the night, we spotted the seated figure of a green man cut out of the hillside's ferny vegetation:

The Black Virgin Of Sarrance

Leaving Oloron I passed these 2 donkeys in a cramped, squalid compound. They did not look very happy ...

I was now walking due south along the valley of the river Aspe. I would follow this river for 60 km - almost as far as the Col du Somport and the Spanish frontier. Little by little the valley narrowed and the hills closed in. Despite the approaching mountains - and the notoriously unpredictable Pyrenean weather - the rain still held off. In fact it was another warm and sunny day. The path flirted with the stream -sometimes following the left bank, sometimes the right, sometimes contouring high above the river, sometimes staying on the same level ...

After 20 km I'd reached Sarrance where I hoped to spend the night. A shepherd and a fisherman had miraculously discovered a Black Virgin here (I've written about the cult of the Black Virgin before). You can find her in a side chapel in the Sanctuary of Notre-Dame:

I knew there was a pilgrim gîte adjoining the sanctuary, and eventually located it beyond a door leading off the neglected and overgrown cloisters. No one seemed to be about so I entered and made myself at home. I'd just turned on the shower when there was an urgent banging at the cubicle door. It was one of the church fathers - and he didn't sound very pleased. Apparently the gîte was closed for the season! Later however he chilled out and let us stay - even bringing us some oil and salt and various things missing from the kitchen store cupboard. I say "us" because by this time Steven, a pilgrim from South Africa, had arrived:

Steven made a really tasty soup for our evening meal - out of carrot, potato, caramalised onion, lentils, garlic, yoghurt and a stock cube - then we turned in early. The gîte was very dark and gloomy - and rather sinister. We told each other jokes and anecdotes to keep any lurking evil spirits at bay ...

This picture of Sarrance shows the village fountain (we filled our water bottles from it the next morning - the water was ice-cold and deliciously pure) and the lavoir (on the left). You find these old lavoirs in many French villages. It's where the women of the village used to do their laundry - and doubtless catch up on all the gossip too!

Oloron

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. HENRY DAVID THOREAU

It was Friday 10 October and yet another hot and sunny day. I'd been warned about today's 20 km stage from Lacommande to Oloron - how it was the toughest stretch since Haut-Languedoc, with lots of ups-and-downs. Some said it was more exhausting than the climb up to the Col du Somport which lay 3 days ahead. In the end it wasn't that bad. For a start there were the ravishing views - which helped take the mind away from tired and aching legs:

Then there was the wildlife - I saw woodpeckers, jays, buzzards, the occasional deer - and the not-so-wild life, like this friendly cow:

For more or less the whole day I followed isolated and hilly paths through extensive woods of beech, oak and chestnut. Once I came across a tree-top hide (called a palombière) used for pigeon shooting. I was groaning loudly at the time as I'd just climbed a very steep path, sticky with clay - and the head of a huntsman poked out briefly from the hide. He seemed very surprised to see me. Arriving in Oleron I made myself comfortable in a big, municipal gîte (this one had individual rooms) in the centre of town and went out to explore. The architectural style of the Cathedral of Saint-Mairie was typical of the area:

Oloron stands at the confluence of 2 rivers, the Gave d'Aspe and the Gave d'Ossau, which flow northwards as the Gave d'Oloron. It enjoys an enviable situation below the foothills of the Pyrenees:



As you can see, the Pyrenees were quite close now:

All I had to do was follow the valley of the river Aspe up to the Col du Somport. And beyond the col lay Spain ...

Super Walkers

In every walk with nature one receives far more than one seeks. JOHN MUIR

It was Saturday 4 October, and the weather had turned warm and sunny once again. In the morning, after briefly losing my way in some beechwoods, I encountered a dog guarding this gorgeous fortified farmstead. Luckily its tail was raised in the air which showed that it was pilgrim-friendly ...

These undulating, tilled fields caught my eye ...

Soon I came to the lovely red-brick 11th century church of Saint-Christophe - which is nicknamed La Vache Rouge or the Red Cow! However, looking at the cows in front of the church you can sort of see the reasoning behind this ... that reddish tinge in both building and beast ...

Who should I meet having a snack by the church than Jean and Marie-Lou, the walkers I'd shared a chalet with the night before ...



I walked with them for a while. Then Jean suddenly pointed towards the southern horizon. "The Pyrenees!" he exclaimed. It was my 1st view of them this trip. For me it was an exciting moment ...

Later, in the town of Maubourguet, I booked into the Hôtel de France for the night as I'd had little success in finding a gîte. I ate in the hotel's restaurant. The menu du jour was duck (liver, heart etc - all the offal-y bits) on a bed of lettuce, steak covered in garlic sauce with pommes frites and lettuce, and a selection of cheeses - with plenty of lettuce on the side. Duck's a speciality here. (I saw lots of duck farms en route.) They seem to enjoy their lettuce too ...

I spent the following night in the gîte at Anoye. 2 other walkers were there - René and Denyse, a married couple - who'd been hiking continously for 9 months. They'd started out from their home village of Vins-sur-Caramy in south-east Provence. First they'd gone north-west via Aix to Le Puy. Then they'd walked the Le Puy pilgrim path to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port - as I'd done last year. After that they made for Irun and tacked the Camino del Norte - a strenuous and challenging northern Spanish coastal route to Santiago. Almost as an afterthought they then trekked the entire length of Portugal to Faro, returned to Santiago once more along the Via de la Plata from Seville, completed the Camino Francés in reverse as far as Puente la Reina, and were heading for home on the Via Aragonés and the Via Tolosana ... Quite a journey.

I asked what motivation lay behind their pilgrimage. Denyse confided she'd had many brothers and sisters in her family - and, young or old, they'd all died before her through accident or illness. At the time she'd never properly grieved for them - perhaps she was always expecting the worst, steeling herself for the next death, always putting on a brave face. She became depressed. René suggested to her that a long walk might do her good. She said she'd give it a go. For the entire 1st week of the walk she cried continually day and night. But after this long outpouring of grief she felt a lot, lot better. And they carried on walking.

The next day was really hot, and I wandered along quiet minor roads, shady paths and sunken ways. There were little bridges over tiny streams. There were vast fields of maize. These were the fertile plains of the old kingdom of Béarn. And in the distance I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees getting ever closer ...

I was very lucky to see this grass snake shimmy across the path, and even luckier to get a photo of it ...

That night I stayed at a campsite in Morlaàs which had its own pilgrim gîte, conveniently placed right next door to the supermarket - so I did some food shopping. There wasn't exactly a lot of pilgrim activity ...

In fact, I was the only one there ...

Roland's Horn

Roncevalles (Ronceveaux in French) is famous for the Battle of Roncevalles Pass - especially for the rather embellished and distorted legend it became, as recounted in the Song of Roland (La Chanson de Roland), the oldest work in French literature.

On 15 August 778 Charlemagne (742/747-814), King of the Franks, was returning to his Frankish kingdom over the Pyrenees from Spain, when the rearguard of his army was opportunistically attacked, slaughtered and robbed at Roncesvalles Pass by native Basques. This was the worst defeat of Charlemagne's reign. Among these unfortunate soldiers was a certain Hrodland, Prefect of the Breton Marches.

However the epic chronicler of the Song of Roland has airbrushed history somewhat in order to retrieve Frankish pride and to accord with a growing sense of Frankish Christian national identity. Hrodland has turned into Roland, Charlemagne's nephew; the Basques have become the Saracens; and this time Charlemagne heads back to Spain to avenge the death of his knights.

In the Chanson 400,000 infidel Saracens ambush the small band left behind to guard the pass. Roland, with his trusty sword, Durandal, and his men fight heroically but are impossibly outnumbered. Charlemagne has told Roland to summon him back if in trouble by blowing his horn. This Roland refrains from doing until only a few of his brave knights remain alive. When he does finally put the horn to his lips birds fall from the trees, the ground shakes, chimneys topple down from houses, and people cry out from the pain in their ears. Charlemagne turns back but it's too late for all have perished.

The Song of Roland exists in various different manuscript sources, the earliest version being the Oxford manuscript dated somewhere between 1140 and 1170. It's an example of a chanson de geste, a literary form of epic poetry telling heroic deeds, written between the 11th and 15th centuries. Lines of early chansons de geste have assonantal endings, but later poems are fully rhymed.

Charlemagne is a pivotal figure in European history. He's considered the founding father of France and Germany. Indeed he was instrumental in christianizing and unifying the whole of Europe. He turned the Frankish kingdom into a Frankish empire, and, having conquered Italy, was crowned Emperor by the Pope.

A Day To Remember

The Route Napoleon is 26 km long with a cumulative ascent of 1390 metres and it took me 7 hours to complete - 7 of the best hours of my life. (Napoleon used the route to get his troops in and out of Spain during the Peninsula War.) It's strenuous in parts - but hardly beyond the ability of your average hill walker. For me the day was a total joy. The miles seemed to fly by as I climbed higher and higher, and as ever more spectacular views opened up all around me (see 1st photo). The 1st 16 km is uphill - but after that it's more or less downhill for the rest of the crossing. Half the distance you follow a narrow tarmacked road, but it's very quiet with hardly any traffic. Then it's by natural pathways all the way to Roncesvalles.

After 11 km I reached the panoramic viewpoint of the Pic d'Orisson, where I perched precipitously on a narrow ledge of rock for half an hour and ate my picnic lunch. Close by was a statue of the Virgin Mary, the Vierge d'Orisson, which you can see in the 2nd photo. This statue had been brought here from Lourdes by shepherds. High above me 12 griffon vultures soared effortlessly in the thermals. There's a bigger concentration of these magnificent birds here than in any place in the world. It was bitterly cold. When I began walking again I'd lost all sensation in my nose, ears and lips. But I soon warmed up as I continued along the trail.

It was still a further 5 km to the border. The road now became a path ascending between huge rocks. There was a deep frost and some patchy mist but no real snow. I passed a tiny mountain refuge hut and soon arrived at the border fence and found the border marker stone. I was in Spain! The path climbed more gradually now through beech woods up to the Col de Bentarte. I took a picture of some frosted tree tops illuminated by the sun (3rd photo). A stray dog followed me for a few kilometres.

At the Col Lepreder there was another choice of routes: either down a winding, treacherously icy road or by a more direct, stony path which descended steeply through more woodland. I took the latter. Leaving the high plateau behind me I raced down this delightful track, pausing again briefly for a bite to eat and to take in the view which was more restricted now because of the trees. This forest is one of the largest remaining beech woods in Europe.

All too quickly the path levelled out and I glimpsed the roof of Roncesvalles abbey through the trees. I would spend the night here in the spartan refuge of the old hospital adjoining this monastery. What a day to remember...

Saint-Jean

I had now walked 750 km from Le Puy and was in urgent need of another rest day to take stock before attempting the crossing of the Pyrenees. And what finer place to spend it in than Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port (Donibarne Garazi in Basque) which means "Saint John-at-the-Foot-of-the-Pass". It's a border town with a population of 1400 on the river Nive. You enter via the famous Porte Saint-Jacques (see photo) at the top of the steep, cobbled Rue de la Citadelle. The ramparts of the old citadel or fortress loom above. It's a pretty little town, full of many examples of traditional Basque-style houses with their balconies and overhanging roofs.

From here there's a choice of 2 routes to Roncesvalles. In very bad weather I suppose it's safest to follow the road route along the valley of the river Valcarlos. But for the true pilgrim there really is no choice. It has to be the route Napoleon, a high route up to the Col de Bentarte used by shepherds and pilgrims since time immemorial. So at 9 am on 16 November I set off, rested and eager, through the Porte d'Espagne, and left Saint-Jean behind me. It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, with just a hint of mist...

The Mystery Of The Unknown

For centuries the Pyrenees basked in the mystery of the unknown. Unaccountably dismissed as holding little of importance to the climber, mountain walkers ignored them almost completely. But all that has changed and the Pyrenees have now become the focus of attention for mountain activists of all degrees of commitment. Not just walkers and climbers, but parapente enthusiasts, mountain bikers, white-water kayak buffs, bird-watchers, butterfly and flower lovers, cavers, and those who gain a thrill from descending horrific waterfalls and seemingly inaccessible canyons - the sport known as canyoning. As an arena for outdoor adventure the Pyrenees fulfil so many dreams.

The Alps they are not, and it would be a mistake to attempt comparisons. These are mountains of another order, with something to offer every climber and walker. There are peaks in excess of 3000 metres that are within reach of most hill-walkers weaned on the heights of Snowdonia or the Lakeland fells, but also vertical faces of awesome stature to test the stamina and expertise of the ardent rock specialist. There are valleys lost in the transient mists where weeks of high summer pass with barely a vistor - though these admittedly are growing fewer with the passage of time. There are tracts of unspoiled upland to answer the dreams of the devoted backpacker, and acres of alpine flowers of such rich variety that the botanist could happily spend months of worthwhile exploration there...

...The range is one of startling contrasts. On the northern slopes mountains fall steeply to the plains, while the Spanish side is confused by a series of successive ridges - or sierras - which run in a maze away from the main crest to subside in the badlands of the Ebro basin. In the west the Basque country receives heavy, moisture-laden winds from the Atlantic, but the eastern sector has a truly Mediterranean climate with low rainfall confined to the winter months, and summers that are very hot.

Scenically the landscape is full of diversity, offering a rich variety of features guaranteed to excite and entice the first-time visitor. Forests of oak, pine and beech in the west are far removed from vineyards and orchards that dress the sun-baked plateaux of Catalonia. But between these two extremes the High Pyrenees contain all the attractions of alpine scenery: sharp, irregular peaks splashed with snow, shallow glaciers, deep, trench-like canyons, great amphitheatres (cirques), and many hundreds of glistening mountain tarns.

From the Introduction to Walks and Climbs in the Pyrenees (2001, 4th ed) by Kev Reynolds

Four Stone Crosses

It was only 90 more km to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the gateway to the Pyrenees. I walked this in 3 days, passing through many Basque villages with strange sounding names - Quinquilemia, Uruxondoa, Larribar-Sorhapuru, Uhart-Mixe, Ostabat-Asme... The photos were taken at the church in Gamarthe.

The fields were full of docile, pale-coloured Blonde d'Aquitaine cattle. These are big and hardy beasts, the 3rd largest breed in France after the Limousin and the Charolais.

I arrived at an important crossing of Roman roads marked by the Croix de Galzeteburia, where several pilgrim paths merged with my own route from Le Puy, the Via Podensis. On one side of this ancient stone cross was carved the figure of Christ, on the other was the Virgin and Child.

As I drew nearer the mountains, the weather became wetter and more changeable.

On 14 November, the day after my birthday, I finally reached Saint-Jean. It had taken 29 days to get there. Imminent was the Pyrenean crossing I'd been looking forward to so much, and there was talk of snow...

Hospitality

The houses of the small town of Arthez-de-Béarn line up for almost 2 km along a narrow ridge like a string of rosary beads. I arrived there on the evening of Sunday 11 November. From the church I had a proper view of the Pyrenees for the 1st time, jutting up purple and black on the southern horizon, the sinking sun hanging over them like a golden orb. They stretched hazily from east to west for as far as the eye could see. They were superb.

The local hospitalier saw me coming and rushed out to greet me. He gave me the key to the gîte d'étape. He showed me around - the showers, the kitchen, the patio where pilgrims would sit outside in the summer. Then he invited me into his cottage opposite for the ceremony of stamping my Créanciale or pilgrim passport. He introduced me to his mother, a tiny, plump lady with white hair. She was sitting at the table in the cluttered living/dining room. Crucifixes and effigies of Mary, mother of Jesus, adorned the walls. A log fire burned in the grate.

"The pilgrims are less numerous and much better behaved at this time of year," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "In the summer months there are crowds of them and they drink far too much. Now, what would you like, Ricard or whisky?"

3 Ricards later we were all talking volubly and quite incomprehensibly. It was difficult to understand their strong, southern accent. It seemed to me it could have been a harsh mixture of French and Basque. Whatever that sounded like. I was too drunk to tell. Not that I could have told anyway. If you see what I mean. But we got by. I think the conversation revolved around a possible shortcut I might take the next day.

The milky liquid had slipped down my throat easily. Ice clunked at the bottom of my glass. "Another drink? Have you tried the local spirit? It's very good. It's made from plums." The kindly matriarch then ordered her son to bring food from the kitchen - chocolate, cheese, grapes, little tins of foie gras. I tried and tasted. "But what will you eat later tonight? It's Sunday and the supermarket's shut. Fetch the pilgrim some bread."

Another half hour later and I was staggering across the street, carrying armfuls of bread and eggs, paté, cheese, and a bottle of blood-red wine. I tasted it later. It was subtle and dark and smooth as velvet. It went perfectly with the omelette I cooked in the gîte's kitchen that night. Life was good...

The Long Fields Of Les Landes

On either side the river lie/Long fields of barley and of rye... ALFRED LORD TENNYSON The Lady Of Shalott

Les Landes (meaning 'The Marshes') is one of the départements in south-west France's Aquitaine region. The part I crossed was flat and relatively treeless. I followed long, straight country roads and farm tracks alongside irrigation channels. Some walkers find this section of the Way tedious; for my part, I relished the contrast with what had gone before. Here are acres and acres of arable land, laid out geometrically and given over to agriculture on a huge scale. One of the biggest crops is maize.

France produces more maize than any other European country. Maize (or corn as it's known in the US and Canada - short for Indian corn) is a cereal grain and the largest crop in all the Americas. Most maize now grown is in a high yielding, genetically modified, hybrid form. Originating in Latin America, it's now - like rice and wheat - produced all over the world. It's a staple food for humans and also excellent fodder for animals. Corn meal can be made into a sustaining thick porridge. In Italy this is called polenta. In Mexico it's the basis of many dishes such as tortilla. Corn syrup comes from maize. It also forms the basis of alcoholic drinks such as Bourbon whiskey. It can be turned into a low polluting biofuel, heat (from corn stoves), plastics and fabrics, and used as fish bait in the form of dough balls. Vegetable sweetcorn is a genetic variation of maize, high in sugars and low in starch.There's cornbread. There's hominy, a corn-based dish from the south-eastern US states. There are corn flakes. There's popcorn.

Gradually the landscape changed again as I approached the département of the Pyrénées-Atlantiques and the rolling hills and river valleys of the Basque Country. I was in a state of perpetual excitement and expectation. For I was close to the Pyrenean foothills and would soon be in Spain and at the half-way point of my journey.

Pyrenean Longing

The Pyrenean mountain range stretches for about 270 miles from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea, separating France from the Iberian Peninsula. It's a stunning area, largely unspoilt, and wonderful for hiking.

Reading yesterday about Andy Howell's trips to the Pyrenees made me long to go there again. I've been twice before, both times flying from Stansted to Carcassonne and hiring a car at Carcassonne airport. I mixed in some walking with car touring. Next time I'd like to use the car as little as possible - and just walk.

The part I know best is the eastern end: the Couserans, the Ariège (read about a walk I did here) and the Pays de Sault; the valleys of the Tet and the Tech which border the Canigou massif north and south; the Castellane valley which was described so beautifully in Rosemary Bailey's book Life in a Postcard: Escape to the French Pyrenees; the gentler wine-growing hills of the French Albères; the strange volcanic region of the Spanish Garrotxa; and the Mediterranean coast from charming, artistic Collioure in France down to the Aiguamolls nature reserve just east of Castello in northern Catalonia.

I've always yearned to trek one of the Pyrenean long distance trails ever since I read Chris Townsend's account of doing this in his book The Great Backpacking Adventure. There are 3 waymarked end-to-end footpaths: the GR10 on the French side, the GR11 on the Spanish side and the HRP (Pyrenean High Level Route) which sticks as closely as possible to the frontier. (The HRP shares some sections of both the GR10 and the GR11.) Logistically and technically I suppose the HRP is the most demanding; but the GR10 and the GR11 are no pushovers as there are lots of steep-sided valleys to negotiate.

3 books on the Pyrenees I own and would recommend are: Walks and Climbs in the Pyrenees written by Kev Reynolds and published by Cicerone; Pyrenees: Car Tours and Walks in the Sunflower Landscapes series; and the excellent Rough Guide to the Pyrenees by Marc Dubin.

My first photo shows the village church of Castillon-en-Couserans; the second is a view from the castle at Foix in the Ariège valley; and the third is of Collioure on the Mediterranean coast.