Under a Saguntine sky

Finally made it to Sagunto yestarday after first attending the tomatina in Bunol, which was absolute mayhem, I was under the mistaken impression that I could stand close enough to film it without actually being hit by hundreds of over ripe roma tomatoes....I was wrong.
What ensued was a deluge of a crimson bombardment which rendered the streets of Bunol knee deep in tomato pulp.


As you can see, not a pretty site.
Washed it all off in the local river and caught the train to Sagunto to begin the Hannibillica.
I spent the morning filming in the fortafied ruins above the old town in 30 degree heat. its unbelievable to think this is where it all began, the second Punic war between Carthage and Rome.The reason why im here in Spain. So its time to head north.
hasta la vista.

On the road part I

What a couple of weeks it has been.
Internet conection non existent (not that I sought it out intentionally)in fact I have deliberitally avoided as much civilisation as possible, hence the gap in blog posts, for which I hope you forgive me.

Life on the road has been tough,34 degree heat and a 25 kilo backpack has left me a little bruised and tired. But it has been a priceless experience, sleeping in olive groves and vinyards, gleaning cobs of corn, breathing the petrachor of early morning rain, waking at 3am in the tent to a vista through the shangrak even Michelangelo couldn't depict.

Fatigue brings it's slumber easily and dreams in the wild conjour fabulous creatures, magnificient feats of flight, beutiful sirens and armour breasted warriors, a tempest of thought which leaves you rested and thirsty for the coming day's adventure.

After seven days on the road during which time I crossed the Ebro as Hannibal did I came across every adventurers nightmare, the holiday resorts of eastern Spain. this tourist smorgasbord  lasted until the Catalunian town of Figueras. from where my ascent of the Pyrenees began.
After a few hours I reached sant Climent Sescebes and there the map differed from the territory. Where there should have been a path to Castell de Requesens and a trail to puig Neulos in the Pyrenees stood the Sant Climent military base.
I decided to camp in an olive grove for the night.

At 7am the next morning the base bugler sounded the call to arms or maybe it was the call to breakfast,I took it as my que to approach the armed guard on the boom gate, who, in order to get to the Pyrenees instructed me to walk through the military carpark past the gun inplacements and munitions dumps up through the firing range past the artiliary batterys, the tank corps and the fusiliers dorm where a goat would whisper to me the way to find the trail to Castell to Requesens. 5 hours later I arrived at the castle which was closed for the month of August due to the heat....

I camped for the night beneath an old watchtower on the trail, in clean mountain air
to the sound of water bubbling from an unnamed source.

Not without difficulty I summited Puig Neulos the following day around midday, only to find the French had paved a road to the summit on it's side of the mountain for the tourists. Still I felt exhilirated to climb my first Pyrenee! I discovered the Grande Randonne numero 10 which took me down to Le Perthus on the French side of the mountains through forests of Cork and Olive. Another nights camping in the wild, too exhausted to cook I drifted off to a gentle breeze blowing sweet fragrant air up from the valley below.

Arriving in Le Perthus was a bit of a shock with so many people after several days in the Spanish wilderness. My calves were sore my feet badly blistered. But from here to Nimes it would be the beautifully flat plains of  Languedoc-Roussillon. Where I could rest up and cure my ailments for several days before I cross the Rhone and tackle the alps. I have been well recieved at the Auberg de jeunesse, savoured the sights and flavours of Nimes' indoor market. in 3 days I will leave and head east,to the hills of the alps.


To be continued.......

On the road part II

After 3 days rest Im back on the road east towards the alps.
first stop was Beaucaire where I believe Hannibal crossed the Rhone with his elephants, but the town turned out to be very dissapointing so it was north to Avignon, a much more spectacular location even if the camping site was completely scorpion infested, eventually after a few days I made it to Valence where the Isere flows into the Rhone this is where I depart for the Alps proper.
With a lighter pack ,after leaving most of my kit in Nimes including all but one of my lenses, going solo with the 35mm, to keep everything as light as possible.
Again the going has been hard, the legs are really starting to complain, especially the left calf muscle, Only a few days more if this and i can relax, tiredness is oozing out of my pores, the fatigue transcribes itself into my blog and diary entries, I fumble with the pen and keyboard,
The other night I dreamed I didn,t complete the trip, and was very relieved when I awoke to find myself in a field somewhere in the Haute Alps,east of the Rhone.
so, as long as the body holds out the mind is willing, I have new blisters over old ones, never knew it was possible, but the mountains draw me onwards and upwards, the air is cleaner and cooler, the sun not as hot but the nights not as pleasent as in the Rhone valley or Spanish countryside, still, this is what I came for. Im sure the wearyness will wane when I am among the towering alps,

on the way to puig neulos

Storms in Nimes halt the march

View Detailed 9 Day Weather Forecasts for Nîmes (Nimes), webcams, weather maps & more at Weather-Forecast.com

A funny thing happened on the way to Queyras

East of the Rhone, I am venturing towards the Alps.
But which way to go? which valley to take? historians differ as to which way Hannibal actually went, and which pass he finally took to cross into Italy, the Durance or the Drome valleys? and the possible passes number at least 4, which I think lends alot of weight to the mystery and only draws Hannibalophyles like myself deeper into the search for Hannibals pass.
Ive decided to take a non conventional route to my chosen pass of col du Clapier, one of the possible Hannibal passes.

So,the direct route would be to march along the Durance, as far as Briancon, up to col de Montgenevre over the pass to Clavier and thus arrive in Italy.
But that would be making it easy for myself, wouldn't it?
For some strange reason known only to the gods of mountain walkers or maybe saint Christopher I decided to take the road less travelled, or, replace the word road with "mountain trail'
several days ago I left the mountain village of Savines la lac, passed up through Embrun and took the backroad overlooking the thunderous Durance which drounded out the sound of motorcyclists on the motorway in the middle distance.
I arrived in the small town of Guillestre to find they were hosting the start of the Tour de l'Avenir bycicle race,France has a love affair with the humble bycicle and the French competative nature leads them to host bycicle races at the drop of a hat.This was the fourth or fifth major bike race in this little town this year alone, the tour de France passes through at 95 kilometers an hour, annually, therefor all roads in and out of the town were closed until all the riders were under way, one after the other, about 2 minutes apart, and there were about 50 riders which left me in a town with one pub and an hour and 40 minutes to use idly.
The choice was obvious, 3 beers later I was merrily back on the path.
On the outskirts of town an old man was tending his garden, he called out to me and invited me in to his home for a coffee, how could I refuse?
Moments later we were in the kitchen on the first floor of his alpine cottage, where he reheated a pot of already brewed coffee on the gas stove, we chatted, simply, to the extent of my french, he lived alone, as was obvious, the house had the feel of an elderly bachelor about it, someone comfortable with his surroundings and unused to visitors.
A cold vat of congealed vegetables stood alone on the the woodfired range by the adjacent wall, waiting to be reheaded for the evening supper and several jars of homemade preserved fruit occupied most of the kitchen table.
He was amazed with the story of my walk, alas he no longer had the legs himself for such an undertaking. In fact in all his 70 odd years he had never left Guillestre, he demonstrated his inability to walk a great distance by duly undoing is belt, dropping his pants to his ankles to display the condition of his 70 year old knees as he smiled all the while.
So there I am, sitting in this kitchen in a cottage in the alps drinking coffee while this old man stood 3 feet away with his army fatigues around his ankles one hand on his hip the other cupping his balls, wearing a big honest smile.
From there the conversation became a little cloudy for me, there were several references to a "chicken" or something to that effect, or maybe the siren in my head was too loud, I saw his lips move but heard nothing, I looked into my cup as I drained the coffee, hoping that when I looked up his pants would be back on, no such luck, he stood there smiling, occasionally clasping his knees then grabbig the top of his underpants, hoiking them up so it looked like he was holding a bag of nectarines, again there was a reference to a chicken? I think?
"Claude" I said,"thank you for your hospitality, but I must get back on the road if im to make Chateau Queyras by nightfall"
He raised his trousers, did up his belt, drank his coffee and bade me farewell.
He walked me to the door and thanked me for visiting as if I were an old friend.
We shook hands and I was on the trail once more on the mountain path which overlooked the small road to Queyras below.
I didn't make it to Chateau Queyras that night, after 30 odd kilometers I pitched my tent in a field near Bramousse, deep in the Queyras gorge and slept, as best as one could after that afternoons matinee.

the singing of the moon

I awoke in the Queyras gorge to a covering of frost on the valley floor, the coldness hastened my packing and stole from me that mornings appetite. All I wanted to do was to move, to be back on the trail, to feel the earth once more underfoot and a heavy load ony my back to warm my muscles and unstiffen my bones.

I decended from the sleepy town of Bramousse, past 2 elderly hunters coordinating their early morning cull with mobile phones, Occasionally I heard the double 'crack' of them firing at their prey, only to see the rongeur make its speedy escape and almost to look back in jest at its lesser opponant in this battle of wits.

I made it to Chateau Queyras only an hour or so later and had coffee and croissant in the mid morning sun afterwhich I doubled back about 2 kilometres to take the mountain road towards Arvieux.

I passed through this little alpine town unscathed and was walking in meadows and fields of wheat up towards Brunissard and beyond the ski fields, lushiously green and without visitors. I had this entire valley to myself. It made the heart soar.

I decided to leave the road and take the mountain trail which would lead me up over the 2542 metre high pass of col des Ayes, instead of taking the 2361 metre Col d'Izoard often used during the tour de France.
Here the path narrowed into a trail that would humble even the cockiest of goats.

The GR5 rose from a gradient of 5:1 to 3:1 in no time at all and I found mysef looking down on the surrounding peaks, towards the south stood the jagged tooth of Monte Viso the tenth highest peak in the alps and its harem of snowclad brides,a dozen or so kilometres away, it was frighteningly spectacular.

But I had my own Alp before me, and the day was getting on, the altitude was begining to filch the warmth that the bright sunshine promised and it wouldn't be long before that too dipped behind the mountains.
I had to make it to Col des Ayes which would take me up between the 2779m Pic des Chalanches and the monsterous Pic de Beaudouis at 2843 metres and It was getting late.
Camping up here was not an attractive option, and going back down to Brunissard was equally unappealing.

Then disaster.....

I missed the sharp turn that would bring me up the steep south western slope of the beast, I had wandered along the trail breathing in my surroundings when I found myself on a different trail heading southwest away from the col.
I figured I was a half hour off track.

I decided to take the most direct route back to the GR5 a cross country hike on the slopes of Chalanches, accross the rock strewn Eychaillon, crossing the Torrent du Vallon and rejoin the trail at the exact same altitude without having to go down 350 metres and climb up again.

Much easier said than done, the wind picked up, my ears and fingers were freezing, the terrain was boggy and dangerous, All I could hear was the wind and the sound of my own heartbeat in my head, the sun was now out of sight, and the valleys below began to fall into darkness as the beast raised its curtain of shade on its lower neighbours at a visibly awesome pace.

Panic was begining to strike in my heart..my throat swelled up as I swallowed back unthinkable thoughts, I prayed to my ancestors for their strenght, the day had already been long without the climb, exhaustion was taking hold, I began to dream a waking dream, my water almost gone, my tongue felt like treebark in my mouth, and my mind wandered as I strugled to place one foot before the other.

I raised my head towards the col, it was close, but I knew at my pace it was a torturous 15 minutes away, it was already past 8 o'clock and the brighter stars were already begining to shine. Taunting me with their winking, an ageless knowing,of the frivolity of man.
I began to hear them, like bells in my head, follow, sleep and dream they called.....
The moon shone coldly to the north. Its waning cresent smiling crookedly as it neared the end of its libration.

Onward! the stars beckoned, my eyes began to well and my heart pounded,the quickening of my existance swelled, my chest heaved with the agony of apprehension more than the strain of the climb. my strenght I re-agained at reaching the top of the Col, and then a burst of emotion, joy, tears of happiness ran down my cheeks as my teeth chattered noisily with the cold.
Fear and anxiety gave way to relief and extacy, to the north I now looked towards Briancon a days walk away, and in the distance......Italy, I could see her in all her splendour, or maybe it was in my head, but maybe it was Italy, More peaks rose before me but I had climbed mine for that day, albeit a Col.

For the next 5 minutes I tried to film what I saw, the view was dizzying, I had climbed 2.5 kilometres up from sea level in a few weeks, my hands began to freeze, turning bright pink then a pale shade of blue, I fumbled with the equipment, eventually getting it back into the bag, I promised myself that once over the col ,I would run down the far side, something which I discovered to be an impossible task with the steepness of the trail the failing light and the weight of my pack.

Instead of the gracefull movement of a deer, I had more of a lateral motion due to the pendelum affect of the backpack, so that I had the hurridly gait of an elderly man with a gammy leg trying to make last orders in the pub on a sunday night. You know the run im talking about, all that motion that doesn't transfer to speed over ground.

Down in the valley on the northern side of the coll the wind for a while abated and in the distance again, the sound of bells, but of the variety attached to cows,which I followed in the halfdarkness to a sign pointing me towards a Randonners hut 800 metres away, which, I prayed would be open......it was.
Peacefull was my slumber at the Gite that night as I dreampt of stars ringing and a moon shining softly blue, with ghostlike clouds devouring the alps like Dragons and their companion the howling wind reminding me of what might have been had I not made it off the mountain.........enjoy the photos.

By the grace of Baal

Waking in the Gite was a surreal experience after 6 weeks or so under canvas.
For starters Id slept in past dawn for the first time on the trip. My normal routine was to rise and pack in order to leave the Orchard, vineyard or grove before anyone came to tend to their harvest, (it wasn't always convenient to seek out the landowners permission before setting camp, so I usually chose a discretionary position to bivouac until dawn)
But in the Gites my movements were slow something wasn't right, I didn't feel good at all, even taking a dram of cold fresh water resulted in unmerciful cramping, I couldn't even take the remainder of the bread Id saved for breakfast.
However upon opening the door and stepping outside my spirits picked up. It was a beautiful cool and clear Alpine day, The Col des Ayes looked down on me approvingly as I secured by backpack and took to the road once more.
Before long I was in forest on my way to Briancon along the GR5.
But the cramping became more severe as the morning wore on and was made all the worse by the waist band of the backpack. I was loath to loosen it and let my shoulders bear the load so I persevered. Guided once more by the sound of bells I eventually arrived in the Alpine town alot later than I expected, the illness was slowing me down and the Italian boarder was still 15 kilometres away up over col de Montgenevre.
I spent little time filming in Briancon and left qiuckly following the Durance in the direction of Montgenevre, the climb was long and hard but something was driving me on...I resisted the urge to just stop and camp for one more night... this day I would be in Italy I promised myself, I became used to the stomach pain by the early afternoon but by then I also was passing everything in liquid form about every hour or so, the medication had little affect at abating these visits to natures commode until late afternoon, by which Time I was exhausted.
It gradually got cooler and cooler as I made my way up over col de Montgenevre and made my way to the Italian boarder...
Walking through the unmanned checkpoint into a deserted Claviere was very eerie, being a skiing town meant it was ghostlike at this time of year, worse still I didn't have that romantic view down into the valleys of norther Italy I had lusted for since leaving Sagunto.
This was supposed to be the moment...The hero scene, where, after weeks of hardship I, like Hannibal gaze down on the richness of the Po valley and beyond..... It wasn't so.
I was tired and ill, it was 6:30 pm there was no view and there was nothing open, not even anywhere to stay and I was 2800 metres up in the alps.
Still I had to get that shot of Italy I wanted, so, Hiding my pack in a bush, I grabbed my camera and started to hike up the snowless ski fields just south of Claviere. Onwards and upwards again I traipsed before finally reaching the top of the ski fields where I found a trail which took me along the Italian slopes of the Alps in a southerly direction, I followed this path for another 3 kilometres before finally deciding on a place to film my first look at Italy.
Utterly spent I returned to Claviere where I found an open cafe, I ordered a cappuccino and picked up a copy of La Stampa where I deduced that continuing on to Turin would be detrimental to my health on account of the random Violence and muggings in the city....seemingly they just shoot you and rob your corpse to avoid any confrontation... My Barcelona mugging incident was enough, I didn't need to fight off another assailant with a can of beer inside a plastic bag (for details of the Barca incident I can tell you about it over a pint)
In my condition I felt I would be eaten alive if I continued to Turin, I had had enough, I had walked from Spain to Italy I had lost 7 kilo's in weight, I was sick as a dog, unable to eat, drinking anything was painfull enough though I nursed the coffee as it comforted me with the onset of the early evening cold.
I needed to rest, but I was stuck here in Claviere, what were my options? continue on into unfamiliar territory? risking life and limb or return down the mountains the way I came and seek refuge? After all I had walked to Italy... The finish line was always transient to me.
Initially when I concocted this idea I planned on walking all the way to Cannae in southern Italy, then reality struck in and had to be accommodated.
My starting point was always going to be Sagunto, Turin became the finish line not long before I embarked on the trip for reasons I can't now recall.
It just seemed like a good place to end it and it also had an airport.

Here I was 30 kilometres from my finish line and contemplating ending it there and then in Claviere.
What was left to prove I had walked through Spain, crossed the Ebro, marched over the Pyrenees through France along the Rhone into the alps over 2 cols and into Italy.
I had done what Hannibal had done and I was proud of my achievement.
In the end my malaise made the decision for me.
I was in no condition to continue.
I needed rest, somewhere familiar and warm.
I would return to Nimes I decided. yes a few days convalescence in the south of France was just what doctor ordered.
I found a bus that would take me back to the train station in Briancon, I sat in the ghost town of Claviere wearing only my hiking shorts until the bus arrived at 9:15pm.
Arriving in Briancon after 10 o clock I discovered id missed the last train, dazed and confused I decided I would wait in the station for the first train at 4:55 am the next morning.
No such luck, at midnight on the arrival of the last train I was turned out onto the streets of Briancon as the station closed for the night.
I sat shivering at a bus shelter opposite watching the lime green digital display over the door of the station, display first the time and then the temperature in degrees Celsius gradually dropping from 11 degrees to 7 during the course of the night, which lasted an age. Like before my mind wandered from conscious dreaming to paranoia and fantasy, I had eaten nothing in 28 hours and my stomach felt like it contained a piece of lead ordnance.
Gratefully I boarded the train with just one other passenger and slowly we pulled out of the station into the early morning darkness to speed me on my way to Nimes.

So, that's it then, the Hannibillica, the walking done...nothing left now than to edit my footage into something watchable.
What have I learned? well, if you have an idea or really feel there something you want to do .. then do it, don't wait, don't let the moment pass, Two years of dreaming and planning could have easily turned into four or eight and then faded into something I was going to do...once.
No, I couldn't live with myself.... Carpe Diem...
I will never regret not trying something.

As Goethe said
"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."

Watch this space for the next adventure!