Category: Europe

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FRANCE Chamonix from north (1) 2016 June

Chamonix, north side of the Valley, part 1.

Alpen glow to begin a superb day at Bellachat. The weather had been very ordinary the day before climbing up, but this day was perfect. 
 Once it transpired that I needed to escort my sick husband north, I made the seemingly obvious decision to abandon my GR5 quest. Chamonix was en route to Geneva airport, and I know it well. It seemed a perfect location for a new base once Bruce had gone home. I was sure I could devise a wonderful programme of high walking and climbing and photography that would keep me moving and happy. As you can tell from these photos, I really love being high, especially to sleep. Well, I don’t actually like wasting too much time on that. A philosopher I spent quite a bit of time “with”, Immanuel Kant, called sleep “das tote Drittel” [the dead third] and I am inclined to agree with him. On many, many nights this trip, I just didn’t want to waste my time dead to the world when there was so much beauty out the window, so lay there staring at the mountains in the moonlight (or starlight) until sleep crept up on me unawares.
I was so excited when an Ibex came and photobombed my shot aimed at Mont Blanc. We are dealing with exposures of up to five seconds here, and this marvellous animal understood that she needed to be very still for me.

My first choice of mountain hut was Bellachat on the northern side of the Chamonix valley, high above the town and looking directly across at Mont Blanc. We must have been around about 1100 ms above Chamonix, as whenever the French told me Abels were unimpressive pimples, I told them that if Chamonix was the ocean, they were now on an Abel. If they thought they were high, then our Abels have the same feeling. I find the notion of judging a mountain’s worth by its height to be nearly as nonsensical as judging people by the size of their bank accounts. In fact, if I’m looking for nice people, I’d go directly to the opposite if I want to increase my chances of finding what I want.

It is not at all necessary to drop down to Chamonix to get from where I was to my next destination, Lac Blanc, but I am not in the mountains to be efficient. I enjoy exercise, and did not intend spending the time between dawn and dusk (the two times I love) being idle, so I descended to Chamonix, then went to Argentière and gained all my height back again and a bit more. The climb up to the lake was in full snow that looked rather forbiddingly steep from afar, but was fine in reality. Things always look worse than they are from afar, I find.

My glorious path leading downwards …

 

which eventually dropped below the clouds, giving me a magical mist to walk in.
The slope off to the side is a little steep.
How I love Lac Blanc

Lac Blanc was as beautiful as ever. I sat on a rock just staring at the majesty for over an hour, waiting for dinner time. In that time, a man approached who looked oddly like my husband did before his disease changed his posture and gait. His hair was wild, bushwhacker hair, like Bruce’s of yesteryear, and he seemed to stride towards me with purpose. Absurdly (seeing’s he was then on a plane to Australia), I thought: “Ah, here comes Bruce to meet me.” My heart leapt for joy, until reality crashed into me, and I sobbed. He will never come to meet me with a bounce like that, or in the wild again.

The beauty of the white snow with steely blue patches helped soothe me in this nasty rubbing of my nose in the state of things as they actually are. In the quiet and majesty of the mountains I find it easier than anywhere else to find peace.

The following night I would spend at a hut in the next valley to the east, but to get there, I would drop all the way down to the main Chamonix valley yet again, and climb back up, as there is no direct route connecting both locations, and, even if there were, I would possibly not use it, as that would make the day too short, and I wanted both a decent workout and to sleep in that particular valley.

A new day dawns. This world is breathtakingly, poignantly beautiful.
The next post will deal with the next two valleys on the northern side before I move my attentions south.
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FRANCE GR5 2016 Modane to Briancon

FRANCE GR5 2016 Modane to Briancon

South of Modane, high in the mountains near Col du Thabor

The tale of the GR5 this year is one of goals abandoned rather than mission achieved. I am not sad about this. I had only ever said I wanted to make Nice if Bruce was happy about the venture and if the scenery remained beautiful. I could see no point in continuing if we didn’t appreciate the landscape around us, and if Bruce wasn’t happy, it would not be right to inflict torture.

He began well enough, after a more than shaky start in England. I always use the week in England as a kind of acclimatisation period for him, in which he supposedly increases his amount of exercise each day as the fatigue and stress of work are gradually shed. This year, there was no shedding, and no increase of exercise. The only thing that grew was his anxiety about being away from the place where things are familiar – an unfortunately frequent symptom in his illness that has not invaded him up to this point but which is mushrooming now. He slept a lot in England, so I just kind of hoped that the resulting rest would mean he’d be nice and fresh for the task of France.

 He started very well for the first hour, but then began asking: “How far now?”, a bad sign that many parents of young children will recognise immediately. I encouraged and cajoled and eventually he made it. As you can see from my images, this was a very beautiful place, with heaps of wonderfully photogenic snow. He was not happy walking on snow, and after dinner went straight to sleep while I explored and took the above photos.

In the morning he slept through my dawn shoot (in all other trips, he has accompanied me, to share the beauty even if not to photograph it). He said at breakfast, however, that he wanted to walk the route I had planned – my Plan A of many – so off we set after we’d eaten (hut breakfasts are not to die for), dropping down sharply before climbing up very steeply indeed to another col, and finally descending to Plampinet, where we arrived for a mildly late lunch, our day’s work done. Apart from a single incident where he was obviously geographically confused, he appeared to be going very well, ate his delicious omelette with gusto and joined me exploring the two churches (two of about ten buildings in this whole quaint place built of stone), one of which dated back to 1450 and was having its bell repaired : Chapelle Notre-Dame-des-Grâces de Plampinet.
Later on, he said he was exhausted, so I arranged for him to catch a bus to my next destination, Briancon, while I went high into the mountains and over three cols to drop down and join him. He was happy with this. I took him to the bus stop, wrote notes for him about where to go, what to ask for, and everything was fine. All the other walkers had meanwhile changed plans and abandoned going high, as they were frightened of the thunderstorms that had been predicted for this day.  They would walk along the valley floor, following the beautiful river to Briancon and avoid all climb. However, I was here to be in the mountains, not to make destinations per se, so I set off into the mist alone. For me, seeing the kind of scenery I wanted was more important than saying: “I have walked from Lac Leman to Nice”. The others kindly said Bruce could go with them, but he doesn’t deal well with changes of plans, and was happy with the one we’d set in motion. He carried it all out well, and at the end of a truly wonderful long morning where a storm did surround me but didn’t drench me, and certainly didn’t kill me, I met him at the Gîte d’etape in Briancon. This was a fascinating town with dried out moat, old cobbled streets about the width of two donkeys and a great feel to it.

Bruce underway on day 2.
When there, I discussed with the Tourist Bureau how Bruce could get to my end point for the following day, Brunicard. He nodded with approval at our plan, but half an hour later said he had never heard that conversation and knew nothing about what we’d agreed to. Meanwhile, he couldn’t walk. I could tell he’d been sleeping for much of the morning, which was not an encouraging sign. He was obviously not comfortable with what I’d planned for him this next day, despite my offer to go with him to the starting point of his vehicular journey. 
One of my cols on day 3

I asked was there anything we could do that would please him, anywhere where we could go – even if far away from here. No to both. Would he like to go home? Yes. So while he slept during the night, I typed away to my amazing travel agent, Gary Woodland from Andrew Jones Travel. Meanwhile, the gardien from our refuge (Gîte Le petit Phoque) had driven us down to the bus stop so we could check everything out and make sure we had the timetable right, an incredibly kind gesture. By 5 a.m. there was an email from Gary. Please confirm quickly. I have Bruce on a plane out of Geneva in two days’ time. Cost for change, $85. How amazing is that? Confirmed immediately, of course. By the time Bruce woke up, I could tell him the new plan. We’d catch a bus to Chamonix and he would be nice and near Geneva to fly out.

It was a bit stormy up top.
Thus, next morning off we set on his homeward journey. Sad to change my goals? Only a little. As said at the start, they were always subservient to other, higher ones. The really sad part is that I presume that is it, our last ever trip. He was ill at ease the whole time, even in England, and his is a degenerative illness, so that is the end of a chapter in our lives: travelling together. We have travelled the world together since we were teenagers. He was always a great adventurer, keen to see new places, discover new things, and fit and strong enough to carry out the most bizarre of plans. Now this disease has corroded his spirit and left him in a state where travel no longer pleases.
Another sad part of abandoning the GR5 (as opposed to abandoning travelling with my husband) was saying ‘Goodbye’ to all the lovely new friends I’d made already along the track, people who would continue on without me. We said our fond farewells, and, funnily, they thanked me for what I do for my husband. This is excessively rare for me – so rare it made me cry. Living with us for three days, they could see how things were.
The next stage of my journey, and your next lot of photos, will be from Chamonix.
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ENGLAND Lake District 2016

England, Lake District, 2016

We’d been travelling for forty hours, which included the couple-of-hours’ drive from Manchester to the Lakes. After an alfresco pub dinner, I needed to stretch my legs, so climbed the first mountain that night: Troutbeck Tongue.
Fells Walking in the Lake District, 2016 version. Wainwrights.
We first visited the Lake District BC (Before Children), influenced in our choice by the English Romantic poets we’d studied at Uni. We came straight from Switzerland, but the height difference didn’t bother me at all and neither did the lack of a jagged, diamond-shaped summit.
Scene out our window at Maggs Howe, Kentmere  our first base this year  a lovely B&B with a huge “sun” room for reading, and magnificent breakfasts. We loved our veggie lasagne dinner too.
What impressed me far more was the intricacy of the glaciated lumps and bumps that produced interesting shadows and changes in the theme of green. The stone walls and sheep, quaint villages and lakes all added their charm. It was like drinking pinot grigio instead of cordial; I enjoy subtler flavours. The only boring bit was that the wretched people spoke English, but I guess they can’t be abused for that.
Setting out for the first peak on the Kentmere Seven: Shipman Knotts. It’s lovely when the people who run your B&B know the fells too. I had laid out the map on the breakfast table before setting out, showing Christine (Magg’s Howe) my intended route. She nodded her approval. Richard at Scales Farm did the same, and loved talking maps and routes with me in the evening. The English actually navigate their fells: they don’t just go baa behind a leader. I like it. 

We climbed many peaks that first trip; I climbed more later as an athlete training and competing in the area (not many more, actually: I was like a record stuck in the groove of running from Derwent Water up Cat Bells to Dale Head each day. I couldn’t get enough of that particular view. It seemed the perfect workout). Meanwhile, we had fallen in love with the sensitivity to nature and the sense of humour of a guy called Alfred Wainwright whose Coast to Coast and The Penine Way books we’d chucklingly devoured when we did those walks, so we now bought the whole of his collection on the English peaks, called after him, the Wainwrights. A Wainwright is, quite simply, a mountain that has made it into his books. It seems that a lot more people than just us liked this guy’s taste when it came to beauty.

Haweswater

After I bought the books (2012), I began ticking in the index at the back the ones I’d climbed. Uh oh. You guessed. I decided I wanted no black spaces in those indexes. I became a collector of Wainwrights. 2014 was the first trip where I actually began systematically to mop up spare mountains lying, accidentally neglected, about the place. I continued my cleaning operations last year and again this year, managing around 35 or so new mountains each eight-day visit. 

 Steel Knotts

A wonderful aspect of this completing game, both in Tasmania and England, is that it propels you to climb peaks that you might otherwise dismiss as being too easy, too foreboding, too boring or too far away. They must all be climbed, and ultimately, each one, however dull it may seem before you get to meet it properly, has a story which is worth knowing. So, in 2014 I found myself climbing mountains that had looked formidably steep or high from face on. Both abroad and at home, I have had to have a massive redefinition of “can’t do”. With map and compass I go out in any weather; after all, clouds are interesting, and mist is wonderfully moody. There’s a Wuthering Heights-type wildness up there alone in the windswept tops by yourself. 

Beginning my final peak for this morning: Hallin Fell, looking back at Beda Fell, which I would climb the next day (for the second time) before breakfast.

I am now in the endgame of this mission. This 2016 trip was carefully planned, and next year’s trip is mapped out already. I know the order in which I’ll climb my remaining peaks, and the particular base I’ll use for each cluster.

Setting out for Beda Fell as the sun peeps around the corner. Ullswater below.
You have to be systematic in the endgame, as accidentally leaving one mountain out could require an extra trip to the UK – a rather expensive omission – or, even if you’ve allowed enough additional days for error, if you’ve planned for and booked the next base, you might be geographically stuck. Also, of course, it’s unnecessary to pay for fourteen days when you can get the job finished in nine. I have treated the whole matter as a quasi rogaining exercise, and I believe I’ve grouped the residue mountains in the best way. Had I known I would end up collecting Wainwrights, I would have been a lot less random and haphazard at the start, when I just chose the shapes that pleased and went up them.
On Beda Fell
I’ve really enjoyed being challenged to climb mountains that didn’t initially appeal. Life and nature are full of variety, and it’s not good to only do our single favourite activity, or eat our most preferred dinner each night – or to only mix with a single kind of person. We become narrow and unhealthy in several ways. Fresh elements are required in any system to keep it functioning well, Climbing mountains that I thought were too dull is part of imbibing life’s variety. Sometimes these “ugly ducklings” offered an unexpected surprise; they were always an experience to be valued as enriching my life with their tiny dose of added complexity. As Niklas Luhmann correctly says, there is nothing with absolutely no meaning: even “meaningless” has a meaning.
The moody lower slopes of Blencathra, stage lit on the ridge with a single shaft of light.

 My favourite mountain this year was Blencathra, full of drama and mystique, shrouded in thick cloud. A popular mountain due to its height and bulk, I had it all to myself that day (as long as you don’t count sheep). The monster drop over the sharp edge of the summit ridge, should you get careless and accidentally step off the mountain, would be every bit as deadly as falling off the Matterhorn (I am not actually sure how people manage to accidentally step off a mountain, even in thick mist, but I have a friend who died that way, so it is possible, even if beyond my comprehension). 

This is not the steep drop to which I was referring, but you can see that even the “gentle” slopes of Blencathra are pretty steep.

My two favourite routes were the Kentmere Seven (in which I climbed eight, so I’m not sure which one gets kicked out of the in-group), and a route I did above Ullswater that took in Arthurs Pike, Bonscale Pike, Loadpot Hill, Wether Hill, (Brownthwaite Crag), Steel Knotts and Hallin Fell (starting from Sharrow Bay), with brilliant vistas nearly the whole way. For all routes, I was back at base for lunch with my husband who had left home so stressed that not even the beauty of England and removal from his work could help him regain his composure. Sadly, he only climbed three of my thirty-seven mountains, and spent many days sleeping. He was anxious and uncomfortable away from home, and wanted to return, so I arranged for him to go back early. It is with huge sadness that I realise this was probably our last attempt at travelling together. He was always an intrepid adventurer, but now his illness is catching up with him. Thank goodness we did so very much together while we could.

Across the road from our accommodation at Bassenthwaite
On the first day in England, I met my counterpart, David Purchase, who keeps records of the completers of the Wainwrights, who had helped me as I researched information for my recent article in Wild magazine (issue 153 if you’d like to get a copy). It was fun to meet him in the flesh after writing emails for half a year. When I complete the Wainwrights next visit, I will be the first non-European to do so, and David will climb my final mountain with me. That will be fun.
The scenery on my final cluster of three mountains for this visit, and my husband is with me. 
And here he is at the summit of his third and final mountain for the trip. He then went back to the car while I continued to do more.
If you’re planning on being in England June next year, maybe you’d like to join us on top to celebrate. I’ve chosen a nice doable mountain for the final one, just in case Bruce decides he can cope with Europe, just in case … whatever.

Post script. I have realised, a week after publishing this, that I have not expressed my gratitude to a person I have never met, but to whom I am greatly indebted in this venture: David Hall of http://www.davidhalllakedistrictwalks.co.uk. The old name for his site was walkthefells. David publishes his various routes up each fell (with times and distances), and gives advice on parking. Not knowing the area, I find his parking hints to be indispensable, and his routes always make interesting (map) reading. I love staring at maps, imagining myself walking along the route indicated by the colourful line crossing its features. His pictures are wonderful. The site makes great browsing, even if you don’t ever want to visit the Lakes.

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ENGLAND Lake District 2015

Helm Crag. A pre-breakfast climb to begin our trip

I am trying to climb all the Wainwrights (Lakeland Fells). “Isn’t it perverse,” I hear you say, “going to the Lake District to climb peaks when Tassie has so many mountains of its own?” It can seem so, certainly, especially to those who judge a mountain’s worth by its height. If this is your criterion then, yes, forget it. And if lakes are to be judged by volume and impressive dimensions, then forget them too. This is not the country for that kind of importunate drama. However, if you find beauty in subtle shifts of colour and form, in lines and patterns in the landscape, in amusing lumps and bumps as the land progresses upwards; if you love the mixture of verdant green with blue or steely grey, then you might begin to understand the allure.

Seat Sandal

And if you have a head full of English Literature (especially that of ancient times) as my husband and I do, then you might understand even more.

Descending Seat Sandal

“OK,” you say, “a holiday, sure. But why bag peaks (Wainwrights) there when there are great Abels and other mountains to collect in Tasmania?”
“Why not do both?”, I retort.
And why did I get started on this idea of wanting to climb all the Wainwrights in addition to as many of the Abels as I can? We were drawn to the Lakes initially because of what the area meant to the poets who claimed part of our imagination, and have continued to return for what it means to us in its own right: for the nuanced beauty it contains. We lived in England for a while before we had children, and have returned since for a term to do some research at Oxford; as an athlete I trained in the Lakes for a month in preparation for the World Championships in 1993, and competed on the fells I now walk over.
Somewhere along the line I began ticking the ones I’d climbed in the index to my Wainwright books, and from there developed the idea of ticking the lot.

Fleetwith Pike

We adore our lifestyle in Tassie, and the bushwalking we do here, but we also treasure the Lakes and the regime we adopt while there. I am a completer of things I begin, and now that I have commenced this mission to climb every Wainwright, I won’t stop until I’m finished. And then I’ll turn around and begin all over again, just like I do with a good book. These mountains are now my friends and, having got to know them, I want to keep seeing them. Once will not be enough, but I want to taste everything on the smorgasbord before I go back for seconds in any systematic way.

Rannerdale Knotts

Although the view from a peak in Tassie stretches further in many cases, and although the scenes tend to be more wild and rugged, the view from a Lakeland peak still has the capacity to thrill and to connect the soul to the infinite.

Rannerdale Knotts to Loweswater

And if you think the fells are too tame and unchallenging (which is what some say to me), then perhaps you haven’t done them justice, or are judging them without having been there. You can die just as easily in the fells as you can in Tassie (if that’s the level of excitement you’re seeking); in fact, due to population differences, there are more Fell deaths than Tassie wilderness ones. If you find them unchallenging, I suggest you walk faster, or choose routes that are more direct – straight up the face if you will. One creates one’s own challenges in the fells, just as here. I know I have led us into some pretty precarious situations in thick mist over the years, especially on the day a few years ago on Swirl How when my compass said that every direction was north and the ground said nothing helpful at all. That day, a young guy (25) died within a kilometre of where we were, falling off a precipice.

My husband trying hard not to kill himself on the way to Causey Pike. As you can see, there are opportunities for this activity off to the right, especially if you have Parkinson’s Disease. My husband finds ridges like this to be very challenging. Logic says if he fell to the right exactly now, he would not fall down the mountain, but that is not how his emotions feel it.

 

Loweswater. Plenty of scope for a gentle walk after dinner.

The Fells and Tasmanian mountains each demand a different type of fitness. In Tassie, as you are fighting bush down lower to get to your peak, the going is often very slow. You need strength and endurance. In England, you can run up the fells with your heart pounding (as long as you are not lugging a full-frame camera). You can do ten or more Wainrights before lunch if you choose the right ones (even with said camera) and are very fit – unthinkable in Tassie. Ten Abels might take you a year if you’re nearing the end of the count and have left all the far-flung ones to last. I have a strong, fit friend whose experienced party took ten days to get a single mountain, and it was only 800 ms high (thus not an Abel. Only mountains over 1100 ms are Abels). This variance does not make one type of mountain superior to the other; it just means that the style of walking (and the gear) required is different.

Climbing Long Side
In Tassie, if you are collecting Abels, as said, you must be very strong, as you can’t do it without carrying a heavy pack for the multi-day excursions required to reach some of the peaks. In England, a day pack is all you need. Both types of mountain require map and compass skills.
I love my heavy pack as a symbol of freedom and adventure, but I also love this cushy daypack business for a pleasant break, and I adore being able to move much faster. I feel great pleasure moving quickly, especially in nature.
Crummock Waters – a little walk with friends before dinner at the end of the day in the mountains 

My husband loves being filled to bursting point every breakfast (which never happens at home), and I don’t mind climbing a mountain or two waiting for the very late – agonising – hour of 8 a.m. when this breakfast is finally served.

Crummock Waters

And it’s pleasantly sociable climbing in the fells without it being crowded (but then, I have long since climbed the icons like Helvellyn). That said, we had Scafell Pike to ourselves last year on a return visit. We climbed it yet again, just because the sun was shining when I suggested we go up, and although I’d climbed it four times, I’d never seen the view. Alas, I still haven’t. As in Tassie, the weather changes very quickly. I have an excellent collection of photos of my husband surrounded by grey, all claiming to be taken at different times on the top of Scafell Pike.

The famous waters of Buttermere (whilst waiting for one of the notoriously late breakfasts).

I enjoy the fact that on the most horrid of days, in a spot that you think is totally outré, you can still come across a fellow traveller. Of course you have a chat. I love to meet people who are as crazy as I am. They’re my type. You have a short exchange and then diverge, for there are endless possible routes in the fells. Sometimes you just give and receive a smile of complicity, a recognition that here is another person smitten with the same disease and the same penchant of going out into wild nature even when it’s furious – sometimes precisely because it’s so raging, as there’s something fun about being out there when nature is trying its best to destroy you. That is wildness as opposed to wilderness. I love both. So did my “friend” Goethe. King Lear’s rages in the storm suggest to me that even Shakespeare knew what it was like to be out there in the inclement elements. It is exhilarating (not that Lear found it so). Elizabeth Bennett loved it too, and I love her (and Jane Austen, her creator who loved to walk).

Buttermere again

And where else in the world does a sheep beat you to the summit?
Where else does a sheep show you that here is a possible route down when you’re in a fix?
I love a summit cairn that materialises out of the gloom with the shape of a welcoming member of ovis aries beside it. Unfortunately, they seem very camera shy, and the minute I pull my lens cap off, they’re away.

Walla Crag
From Raven Crag, looking towards Thirlmere

Tassie’s weather is wild, especially along the tops of the southern ranges, and yet it is only in England that I have been reduced to worming my way along the ground in order to touch the summit cairn. Only in England have I been a mere two meters (horizontal) from my destination yet been in serious doubt about making it. Each centimetre was a fight against a blast that threatened to lift me right off the mountain and deposit me somewhere a long way below. If you think there’s no adventure to be had in England, then you just haven’t tried.

High Rigg. This was the windiest summit my husband climbed. The one where I crawled, I had to do solo while he sat in the car and counted the pairs who began and gave up after five minutes.
Friendly sheep near the summit en route to Sail
 

A note on planning: Another factor required by both areas if you are actually trying to collect all the peaks, is careful planning. I spend multiple hours at home before we leave with maps spread all over the bedroom floor, plotting the circular routes we’ll do each day. Sometimes I think I spend more time planning than climbing. It’s like a mini rogaining competition. Once you’re into the end game, you can’t just haphazardly do a mountain here and then decide which one to do in the afternoon. Clusters have to be worked out to minimise or avoid unnecessary travel. When you’re just beginning, this is not so essential, although it makes sense to have a base and climb as much as possible from that point. Now I am discovering isolated mountains carelessly left behind when I was in an area. In two more trips of one week each I’ll have finished my Wainwrights, and one of these trips will be a kind of mop up operation, like a wife tidying up, picking up the strewn bits left here and there by a neglectful husband or kids. At least these strewn bits are beautiful mountains, but on this trip I will have more than the usual amount of driving. I already have it planned. It is feasible.

In Tassie, the planning has more to do with weather and finding the best route up the mountain, which usually equates to extracting from somewhere information about patches of thick scrub and how to get around cliff lines on the ground but not on the map. In Tassie, other walkers and bushwalk.com are both indispensable. In England, when researching routes, the site I use, which has fantastic information not only about routes, but also has wonderful pictures and information about the best place to leave your car, is the blog put together by David Hall: http://www.walkthefells.net/ . Unfortunately there is no listed way to contact David. I would so dearly love to write and thank him for the fabulous help he has been in my little quest, but there is no email. He has been swamped.
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ITALY Dolomites AV1 (alta via uno) 2015 (+Tre Cime)

Day 1. Pre-dawn tranquility, Lago di braies / Pragserwildsee.

The bus neared the grand old Hotel Lago di Braies, the start of the AV1, the place I had been looking forward to sharing with my husband since the first time I stayed there two years ago. That first time, I had been full of uncertainties. This time, I knew what lay ahead and was sharing it with Bruce, hoping he would enjoy it. It is sometimes scary returning to a place once loved: I get fearful that the present actuality won’t match my fond memories; that it will fail me the second time around and somehow, in that failure, mar the aura created by the initial memories as well. I thus had a mixture of apprehension and excitement as we grabbed our packs and headed for the entrance. If nothing else, here was the last time for a while that we would have a room for just the two of us, and the final decent shower for an unknown number of days to come.

Same

In order to fully appreciate what the hotel had to offer, we chose a room with a balcony overlooking the lake with its reflecting waters of an entrancing colour – its quaint wooden boat shed protruding over the bobbing wooden dinghies to our left – the gardens in front, and the tiny chapel to our right. The scene needed some ladies and gents in Romantic Era clothing. We spent a long time both before and after nightfall just staring at this view.

Day 1. The next morning, it was time to test out this route, 2015 edition. It begins with a big climb, up into the mountains at the end of the lake. As with last time I did it, there were plenty of people on the track, all heading in the same direction (both day walkers and AV1ers), so I was free to go at my own “happy pace”, lost in my own little world of thought. Bruce and the girl who was with us were perfectly capable of finding the route without me, and I am used to climbing solo in the Alps. It’s our habit to reunite at the top. It was a hot day – a perfect day for using the climb as a good workout and climbing quickly to finish it before the day got any worse. I used my early arrival to debate our case for a bed in the full hut. We were given our own quarters in a little barn, removed a bit from the hut – perfect. There was no toilet or shower, but we’re used to tenting; this was luxury. I loved the view, and we kept the door open to maximise it.

(Day 1, close). Looking at the real hut from our little barn

The day was a hazy sort of day that wasn’t going to offer any fine vistas from the top of Seekofel, but I hadn’t done enough work for the day, so climbed it anyway just for the workout value. I didn’t take any photos, so could have saved myself the weight of my camera. Even in the haze, the view down to 1400 ms below, to the diminished lake and hotel where we had been that morning, was impressive.

Day 2. I had intended us to stay at Rifugio Fanes, but when a call was put through on our behalf, they said it was full, so we went to Lavarelle instead, and it turned out to be nicer anyway. The food was brilliant, there was a beautiful lake for Bruce to swim in once he’d arrived, and a plethora of wonderful streams to explore once the day had lost its sting.

Day 2, shortly after leaving Seekofelhuette / Rifugio Bielle. 

This day was another scorcher, so I’m afraid I belted it out like the previous day, getting my homework done before lunchtime so I could enjoy relaxing at the hut and dipping my legs in the lake. (The water was too cold for me to swim. Shrieks from a different beach indicated that others shared my opinion. Even Bruce didn’t last very long in the tempting waters). The odd combination of solo and company that resulted from our different speeds pleased me, as without the other two, I got to converse with new friends in German before I was required to use English once more. I also got some reading done, satisfying my love of reading in mountain locations.

(Day 2). Bruce having an enjoyable freeze down at the end of a scorching climb; Lavarelle.

One of the many streams to explore near Rifugio Lavarelle (end day 2).

Day 3 was a longer day, culminating in a protracted climb up to the highly perched Rifugio Lagazuoi, a fabulously situated refuge. The first section is benign enough, involving green vistas and flowers, followed by a medium-length climb to a different col, a short, very steep descent over the other side, a traverse along a scree slope with huge towering, shapely rocky hunks above, and finally, just when the day has reached its hottest, the long climb to the rifugio. Once more, with the day that hot and with there being too much glare for photos, I just knocked it off quickly so as to enjoy being there. For the third day in a row, no photos were taken after about 9 a.m.. I like walking quickly in the Alps anyway, and when it’s hot, I love relaxing at our destination and soaking in the view, waiting for day-trippers to disappear and for the sun to assume its more golden hues as the shadows lengthen. Sunset at this height is always an event to look forward to.

Trying to cool down at a stream early in the day on day 3.

Day 4 involved, of necessity when you’ve just spent the night very high indeed, a marked drop to the valley floor way, way below. There happens to be a téléphérique operating from near this hut, so I suggested that Bruce, who has never been a purist when doing these walks, take the easy way down, which would save his knees and give him a rest. He liked that idea, and went down with a family we had befriended. They would all walk up to the next hut where we would be together once more.

A scene taken during the drop to the valley floor after Rifugio Lagazuoi (Day 4)

Yet again, it was an extremely hot day, and one that didn’t offer much photographically due to the glare and slight heat haze. I repeated the no-fuss, no-delay approach of the other days. I also knew that our next rifugio, Avarau, had the best food of any mountain hut I know. I was keen to have both lunch and dinner there to maximise the quantity of food sampled from this great chef. His liqueur cakes are very special, but his pasta is out of this world. We had cakes, then lunch, then divine pannacottas and the best dinner of the holiday. In between all that eating, if I was still capable of getting up any slopes, I had planned to climb the mountain from which the refuge gets its name. However, at long last all these days of extreme heat produced a hefty storm, and no climbing could be done, so we ate some more. I didn’t even get to explore the interesting rocky formations below, of the cinque torri; the storm beat me to it.

Dawn, day 5. The cloud lingered, to float around the biggest of the Torri. I loved it.

Day 5. Time was running out on our Italian section of the trip and we would soon be flying to Manchester. The person with us really wanted to see the Drei Zinnen (tre cime), so we had agreed to terminate AV1 on this day and begin a different trek further east that would take us to these shapely and dramatic monsters. We dropped down from the refuge, exploring the five chimneys en passant, descending through a beautiful, shady forest replete with wildflowers, and dropping eventually to the road, where we caught a bus to Cortina and another further north to a point I had selected that would enable us to reach our new goal if we walked east and climbed a huge amount for a few hours.

Flowers on the descent from Avarau
After the cosy, friendly huts of the AV1, this one, on the AV6, felt very touristy and strange, but it satisfied a need for us (and the many others who want to see these rocks at sunset), and we were given a bed in another barn, which felt much nearer to our style than the main hut. Another storm was brewing. We could barely see our barn through the thick mist, which helped lend the place some of the atmosphere that it otherwise lacked for us. The paparazzi came out in force both nights we were there. It was almost comical.
Our barn (shared with many) and moody skies over the Paternkofel – far more atmospheric than the giant hut efficiently churning out meals for the hordes. (Day 5, close)
 
Dawn exploring, day 6

Day 6. This day, which we had left free for exploring, was brilliant. Whilst taking sunrise photos, Bruce and I happened on some tunnels that delighted us. We explored them, and decided we wanted to devote more time to this after breakfast. Off we set, not having a clue what lay ahead or how far we’d manage to get. Bruce got quite high, but called it a day when the drop-offs became a bit daring. I was a little unnerved, especially as everyone other than our party had the full via ferrata gear (helmets, karabiners, special rope) but D was also willing to keep going, so up we went. When we got to the final stage of the climb up Paternkofel we decided we needed to be clipped in, so climbed the neighbouring knob that was less dangerous instead. Even this was high, with an element of risk, so we were both elated as we stood on the summit. It was exhilarating.

More dawn day 6 exploration
On our summit
In the afternoon we climbed a different tower of smaller dimensions, and Bruce was able to climb that one with us. We used our day well, and I also did a kind of circuit around some other mountains. We all explored the lake below us. There is plenty to do in this area, and I want to return with hired ferrata equipment and do a whole lot more next time. The Drei Zinnen used to be the Italian-Austrian border (it is still the linguistic border), and has a great deal of historical interest (as did the Cinque Torri and the area around Rifugio Lagazuoi). It is shocking and amazing to look at a scene so spectacularly beautiful and try to imagine soldiers fighting for their lives in the same spot. My daughter and I explored some of the soldiers’ tunnels when we were here in another life to race up the paths.
 
The Drei Zinnen (Tre Cime) – waiting for sunset.

Day 7. Exit. Always sad, but I like to leave an area wanting to do more. We had beautiful weather for our departure, and waved a reluctant goodbye to the three chimneys. For me, this was one of many goodbyes to these rocks, as I used to race in this area. They are old friends with many happy memories attached. I’ll be back.

The object of our quest: die drew Zinnen or Tre Cime.

 

Dawn from the hut
Paternkofel (we climbed the bump next to the summit) and our lodgings
Farewell Dolomites. Early light as we bid goodbye.