• Coast to coast illustrated diary
• Our Kit list and recommended gear

Wed 17^th July 2002 England à France

We flew from Stansted to Biarritz scraping our deadlines all the way, and dragged ourselves into an over-priced 4 star campsite (with a flower fetish) on the outskirts of the town. We pitched the tent,flagged and dropped with tired bodies and minds - perhaps not the best way to start a 500-mile epic! Dinner - a celebratory 1^st mountain of moules frites brought us back to life. This was a good reminder of one of the reasons we had decided to do this walk; the inimitable great food, drink and history that is inextricably wrapped up along the southern frontier of France. The Pyrenees are a realm of mountain cheeses, wines, (and various explosive spirits disguised as aperitifs) and hundreds of peak top castles spawned from the Cathar persecutions and centuries of squabble over the beautiful valleys, arêtes, glaciers and peaks that make up the last wilderness of Europe.

Transport had been a nervous hair pulling endeavor to date – we met our connecting bus in London with no minutes to spare and then road works on the way to the airport led to us arriving at Stansted at the time of our departure (good thing Ryan air is such a timely service…!). Today we needed to get down to our starting point “St-Jean-de-Luz” where the GR10* (Grande Randonee 10) meets the Atlantic rollers. Typically we missed the bus on the way to the stop, but in a skin of the teeth turn of luck, we flagged down the bus and jumped in. Paying involved bus surfing - a rather delicate operation at 60mph down a winding coast road with a full pack on. Eventually we sat down and enjoyed the scenery as we swept South down to the coast. A big thank you by the way to the bus driver, a very friendly lady. I would like to see one of the perpetually grumpy National Express drivers stop to deal with two incompetent, blabbering, sweating tourists in the way that she did; with an unforced smile, more patience than a Siberian train spotter and total disregard for all other road users. She was with the ATCRB bus company, a private company that runs regular, cheap links down the South West coast. From St Jean we hopped straight onto the next ATCRB bus (by the station) to Hendaye. In retrospect it would have been better to start from St Jean, a much less touristy, pretty coastal town that retains a centuries old fishing port whose tuna, sardine and anchovy catch is still served up fresh in the countless restaurants. Hendaye is the most southerly town however and the official starting point for a traverse of the range.

We kicked off the official start of our trek with a ritual dunk in the Atlantic and a swig of the leaving bottle of sparkly kindly donated by my last employers (the ritual goodbye to the office for me – on to life!). No more than the use of our feet now (and the odd arse first scrabble) until we hit sea to the East! From the coast we took our rather ambitious first leg; 2 miles back to the campsite just inshore of the town (well we did have to finish up the bumper supply of croissant, sausages, wine… etc. Who knows where the next hypermarket is!).

Bottle of red last night on top of the office bubbly - hopefully the last work related headache for some time. We woke at 7 and were off up the farm track by 8:50 (yes I know - two hours later). It was a bright cloudless day as we stomped up the roads to the first foothills of the Pyrenees. The long, cool shadows of the morning quickly drew shorter than Tom Cruise and by 10 o’clock we were banished to frequent stops and to longing looks towards all forms of shade. By 11 we were cowering under bushes; pinned beneath the gaze of a clear blue day. With a full pack, all water bottles in use and really not enough practice, our optimism was ebbing rather sooner than we had expected. The land however was becoming more picturesque just as quickly, with rolling lush green meadows and wild horses grazing by the path. With our spirits lifting (and bodies dropping), we found ourselves at the Col d’Osin under some welcome pines - lunch time! We served a couscous salad (courtesy of old Ainsley H) with extra curry powder (sorry Ains), an essential condiment to camp cooking. The afternoon took us past a reservoir and through a pine forest (welcome in the intensifying heat) up to our first encounter of the Spanish border…and to our surprise its associated tax-free shopping haven! Not quite what we had in mind for our escape into the last wilderness of Europe – but today most welcome! A nice bottle of wine (by Mr Senorio de Sarria – how quickly you forget the mornings headaches and promises…) and the handy snacks we had forgotten to buy taken care of, we made a comfortable camp under a glorious old oak tree near the former border check at the Col d’Ibarin.

We were off by 7:30, down the hill, past the little lake and right up the other side of the valley from our camp. This was all under the cover of trees and in the cool of the morning – definitely the best plan for this sort of weather; charge off in the morning and tack on what you can in the afternoon.  Unfortunately from the col its then right back down along the valley past the gite d’etape to the base of the 600m climb up La Rhune* (the first pimple on the Western end of the range). Seeing the path up the ascent (level with us at the col 350m above the valley floor) on the other side of the valley was a bit frustrating – something we were going to see a lot more of (if anyone ever invents a hang glider that fits nicely into a 60litre pack could you pass it on to me…hmmmm parapente). As we had feared, by the time we were ready to start up La Rhune the sun was out from the morning haze and rapidly toasting the weekend walking groups (who had lazily only just got up from the gite, those lucky…. still they didn’t have such a nice oak tree and view as we did). We slogged on up La Rhune along the dusty sun parched track, making use of every shady boulder until we reached the small col just under the antenna-encrusted tip of the hill. After draining our water we stalked off into the handily placed trees to “les trois sources” – more like three slightly boggy puddles, and employed our water filter-pump. The pump was an indispensable bit of kit; circumventing the need to carry gallons of water and able to suck a quenching draft from any source. The view is great from up on la Rhune – even the little train that pulls itself up from the easterly flank is picturesque. The route back down the eastern side follows just below the train route along the sun-kilned surfaces, dusty bushes and a thousand and one lizards (some big bright green varieties well over 30cm  - who tend to sit dead still until some hiker tries to stroke them - and one high speed snake with road rage that shot past us and disappeared in flurry of shaking bushes).

Down in Sare* - a very picturesque little town and the first east of the hill, a fete was warming up. There were stands of homemade Gateaux Basque*, tables being laid and a game of Pelote* starting up. Sare is a very “Basque” place, the houses all white washed with either red or green shutters and trim. A central concept in Basque identity is belonging, not only to the people but also to a house; there are dozens of last names referring to ancestral rural houses. The name Javier for example comes from Xavier, or Etxea in the Basque language meaning “house”. Each house stands for a clan. These houses often face east to greet the rising sun and have Basque symbols and the name of the house's founder carved over the doorway.

After a brief spell wandering and munching our way about the town we headed back to a nice campsite just outside the town for a satisfying shower, shave (not Emma) and swim (the lack of wild camping spots this near the West coast is sometimes a real drag).

Rain last night cleared out the haze and gave a stunning starlit trip to the ‘sanitaire pour les hommes’. By morning it was back however for a misty breakfast of cassoulet* and some by now rather challenging French bread. The day was spent passing high speed along the low lands and through more perfect little Basque towns Ainhoa* and Dancharia, and popping into the nearby Ventas*. We took the HRP* variant up the Haitzaberri ridge heading for Gorospil .We parked up on a knoll with a view, right up on the ridge where we promptly put our washing out to dry across the path – much to the delight of those coming down late off the hills “mon Dieu les Anglais!”.

The climb from our camp continued 600m up the spur to meet another ridge, which you traverse at the col. From the col we headed past the friendly donkeys along the top of the fields back to the GR10. If you’re feeling lazy; breakfast can be taken in the Gite d’etape from where the track is followed down the hill and up, up, up the other side. There is a steep decent down into a gorge on the far side (gorges and canyoning can be found all about this spot – as with many of the valleys of this eroded range). The very steep descent is one of the most precipitous on the whole GR10. Your state of mind isn’t helped all that much either by the presence of the beautiful but some what ominous 20 odd Griffon Vultures* taking the thermal escalator up the gorge literally within a metre of your head! You can just imagine their thoughts “ Hmmmm lunch… if we just soar close past that one with the big back pack…". This is a beautiful little valley however, which lends itself well to a gentle descent whilst taking in the scenery, lunch and thoughts of canyoning. That was until we saw some of the canyoners lugging up their heavy tackle bags whilst clad in thick neoprene on a 30 degree summer day. The descent comes to an end on a meandering mountain road and a bridge over a crystal clear river (packed with trout and two rather relaxed hikers). The rest of the route to the village follows the valley as the river disappears over countless waterfalls and into endless secluded canyons – a brilliant spot for a day off, cooling in the pools and natural jacuzzis (or throwing yourself down them with the canyoning groups). But not 'the hardy' (pronounced stupid) - we carried on.

Bidarray*, another perfect Basque town with a Roman church, great restaurants, cafes, campsite, SNCF station, a little shop and a cheap bunk house/activity centre. We made use of the bunkhouse and watched our first major summer thunderstorm give the hills a 10,000V scrubbing (good timing).

There’s a good scrabbly route up the ridge that runs along the top of a glacial U-Valley all the way to Baigorry* (or a less scrambling, longer path up to the ridge) from just by the bunkhouse. The walk is breathtaking along the moor-like tops over looking the valley from your perpetual viewing platform (one that often has a 2-300m sheer cliff down to the floor). That is unless, like us, you have some big fog patches (we are going to have to go back as even what we did see was great!). Even on our foggy day we were often accompanied by eagles, vultures and from here on the ever-present Brebis*(from which the famous mountain cheese of the Pyrenees gets its name). Baigorry is a welcome view nestled in vineyards at the end of a long stage down along a largely beech wooded spur off the main ridge, with the best campsite in the range! A cheap Camping Municipal right on the river, right next to a little supermarket, right next to a wine cooperative and just outside the idyllic ancient village.

The route was a horse shoe reaching up to 1091m and then sweeping back down into the fortified town. The whole day was spent in fog and was rather boring. Despite the weather we hiked into the little walled town of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port and settled into the very novel (and cheap) municipal campsite* (why doesn't England have these?). The campsite's claim to fame/oddness, much like the rest of the old village, is due to it being encased in its own thick defensive walls complete with authentic arrow slits, guard towers and young lad guarding/charging the entrance. An unfortunate side effect of the following 'Rough guide' description; “picturesque, fortified, river-side, medieval, citadel, pilgrimage town, gateway to the mountains with international pelote court and 101 tourist shops and good road/coach access", is its over-popularity. Surprisingly enough though it is still a good visit and a very nice place to camp and stock up for the attack on the Pyrenees proper!