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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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FRANCE-SWITZ Haute route 2012

FRANCE-SWITZ Haute route: Chamonix to Zermatt 2012 July
The Haute Route from Chamonix to Zermatt is such a classic and famous high-level walk, you would think it would leave an indelible mark on my psyche, would fill me with waves of nostalgia for its beauty as many of the other paths I’ve done have the capacity to do, and yet, there is a certain something that is lacking in my emotional response to this route. It was filled with beauty, indeed, and we met some great people, but I guess the problem is that, unlike on almost every other trail we’ve done, we did not meet anybody at all who was doing our particular version of this route, and the friends that we made were only with us for two to three days at most before our paths diverged – a byproduct of the many options on the haute route. There was no air of shared excitement or pilgrimage; everyone doing it was pretty matter-of-fact about the task. It was just another route. Also, several people had guides, and it seems to be the case that people with guides form their own, closed circle and don’t readily mix with others. I have learned that beautiful scenery is only one of many components of a great walk.

Once we crossed into Switzerland, everything changed. Here is the first hut after the hotels at Champez du lac – Cabane Mont Fort. We felt it looked like something out of a fairytale, perched high there on that hill, and yet it felt strange. Not one person spoke to us. We wondered who was doing our route, as there had been walkers going in every direction from Champez, although nearly all of them were doing the Tour du Mont Blanc. Now our route had its own funnel. The hut was crowded, but we were alone.

Sunrise from the next hut, Cabane Pflafleuri. We still hadn’t made any friends, or met anyone who was doing the haute route.

Friends or no friends, the sunrise was beautiful. but the lack of friends made me realise that, much as we think beauty sustains us, we are, au fond, social animals, and beauty combined with meaningful human contact and fellowship is the best recipe for an enjoyable experience. Normally I make heaps of friends in the mountains, so this was a new experience.

After Cabane Pflafleuri we climbed up and over the Col des Roux, to emerge at a window revealing this beautiful valley, at the end of which  was our next cabane, Cabane des Dix. On the way, we made our first friend, a Parisian, Fabrice. At last there was someone else to share the joy of the journey with, to laugh with and to get to know.

Nearing the cabane des Dix

Rugged beauty, but nothing too challenging for a man with Parkinson’s Disease.

And there on a rock was the Cabane des Dix.

The beauty thus struck me as a lonely beauty, even though my husband was there with me. On other trails, the beauty remembered as the years go by is one that sits within the context of the camaraderie of the other friends we made doing our route. In addition, we have never found Swiss huts to be as friendly as their French or Italian counterparts, where ad hoc rough and tumble are more the order of the day. We didn’t enjoy the strict regimentation that came with the world of Swiss mountaineering, being told exactly which bed to sleep in, which table to eat at, and being rationed out one pat of butter, one tiny packet of jam and two slices of stale bread to furnish us for a hefty day’s hiking. The bread is always stale in mountain huts, but at least in most places it is plentiful

Sunset that night was a treat.


At breakfast, Fabrice ran into trouble with the gardien. He didn’t want one sachet of instant coffee for breakfast; neither did he want one tea bag. He requested hot chocolate instead (like I had somehow received, also refusing the other two items). He was told chocolate is only for children (me?) and that he had to imbibe an adult’s drink. He was not amused. We chewed our stale bread in discontent.

After the Cabane des Dix, you have a choice of two passes, both of which contain elements of risk and danger. One has loose stones with a big drop off. The other has monstrous ladders reaching into the sky. I wanted to take the latter, but had decided to take my husband down to the valley first, as neither pass was suitable for him. British climbers overheard this, and came up to me and offered to rope Bruce up, if I could get him over the glacier and the ice bridge with mini-chasm below it first. We set out ahead of them to enable this, and there was Fabrice, who also wanted to come with us. We appreciated his company as much as he did ours. This is a pass that is better negotiated in company than solo!! We were there waiting for the Brits (I think that surprised them), who roped Bruce up. He bounced up the ladders like an adept monkey: all he needed was the confidence to know that if he fell, he wouldn’t die, and, knowing that, of course he didn’t fall.

Approaching lac bleu with Fabrice
Fabrice wanted to visit lac bleu, reputedly very beautiful. I had been unsure, as it is on a chemin difficile. However, we were enjoying his company, so put lac bleu on the list, and brought our accommodation forward a bit so as to spend the time in his company (we never make bookings). Our paths would diverge next day, when we went back up to high ground, and Fabrice stayed low. It was sad parting. We’d had fun. I can still hear him at times telling me not to tread on the beautiful flowers in the field (when there was nowhere else to tread). I love a man who cares that much about flowers.

Bruce swimming in the freezing lake.
The next day we climbed back up into the snowy stuff again. The hut we had chosen was higher than on the official route, but we wanted to be there as the views were said to be good. It was truly amazing. Below is Bruce in the early stage of the climb.

And below again, he is sitting looking out at the most amazing view I have ever seen from a hut. This hut sold nice cakes, and we had a tasty dinner, even if we were told exactly where we had to sit and with whom we were permitted to talk.

Cabane de Moiry 

Sunset was pretty spiffy

Early next morning, I was up, as usual, to photograph whatever there was to see. Lots of climbers were setting off already.
Leaving this hut next morning, I had one of my less happy experiences of the trip. We had to cross a  band of ice about 20 cms wide, with a big drop into frozen realms below. I got Bruce to wear our one pair of crampons, so I was in shoes with little grip, and carrying his pack which is way too big and which threw me off balance a little as my back is very small, so it came down and bashed my legs. I didn’t have it done up in case I fell into the lake below and needed to rid myself of it, so it swayed around and the ice was slippery. I was shaking when I’d finished this bit.

View from the cabane Bella Tola, two nights later
Down we went to a dam where the lady didn’t want to serve us. There we met our second friend on this trail, who was also denied service. I can’t remember why. Perhaps we were not there in regulation hours. Somewhat hungry, the three of us set out up the steep pass, each at our own speed. I like to treat a mountain pass as a decent workout. It can be cold waiting in the wind at the top, but I just can’t resist a nice fast climb. When Bruce joined me, our new friend was a speck in the distance, and I was frozen, so we didn’t wait, and plummeted down to the valley (Zinal) where we were staying the night. I think that’s another reason why this route doesn’t thrill me as much as many others. Too many nights were spent in hotels (very nice ones) in valleys rather than in huts high in the mountains, which is where I want to be. Mostly, we were high in the middle of the day, and down low for the part of the day that matters. I’d prefer it in reverse, but it wasn’t possible, as the huts weren’t there.

Climbing toward Meidpass
The towns at the bottom are quite small by town standard, but big enough to lose friends in. We didn’t see the friend we’d made until the next day, after he’d finished and was hiking without his pack just to finish things off. It seemed a rare thing to be doing the whole route.

Bruce near the Weisshorn on our descent to Gruben for another valley sleep. The weather was changing. I didn’t take any photos at all in the final stages of the trip, as clouds closed in, and there was no point taking photos of Zermatt in anything other than ideal conditions. I used to live and train there each year during racing season. I have myriad photos of the town dressed for the ball.

Senecio doronicum

Flowers in the fields near Cabane Bella Tola. The flowers between Zinal and Zermatt were numerous and glorious.  By then, the route had dropped out of the rock and snow and was primarily in the high pastures.
It was fun for me to walk part of the Sierre-Zinal race that I used to compete in – run in a daze reading my body and the bodies of my competitors, concentrating hard, monitoring breathing and energy. Now I could just relax and sniff the flowers and enjoy things at a more leisurely pace.
Alas, Zermatt and Taeschtal were anticlimaxes for me, as I knew them so well, and they were drab in that grey outfit they chose for our arrival. No matter. The point for us hadn’t been the arrival at the end, it had been the journey, and we had seen many wonderful mountain sights.
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ITALY-SWITZ Tour de Monte Rosa 2014

The Tour de Monte Rosa

The Breithorn from the glacier

Heading for Theodul Pass – the mist hadn’t descended at this stage
Twice I made plans to do the Tour de Monte Rosa. Twice I tossed them. Many more times I looked at my Cicerone book about the tour and kind of shrugged and dismissed the idea of doing it. Why? First, it made the crossing of the Theodul glacier into such a big deal I didn’t think I could get my husband across it without either a guide or harness and ropes that I didn’t want to lug for the rest of the trip (or both). Second, it made the whole thing sound rather unattractive, so that even if one overcame the glacier, one was not, so it seemed, rewarded with beauty as a result. However, I’d bought the book as the idea of circling Europe’s second highest mountain had appeal, and I’d done TMB four times, and the haute route and more. I wanted something new. The book sat on my shelf as a kind of challenge. I was sick of having it there and decided that this year was its last chance. We would set out and go as far as we would go. If we failed we’d give up forever. If we succeeded, then … what? We’d see what lay the other side of this terrifying glacier.

Arriving at Rifugio Theodulo. Hoorah.

Our route for the next day is to follow those ski lines.

The mist lifts, but the sky still looks menacing
We were not the only scared ones. If you surf the web, you’ll find questions by other intimidated people, and every traveller I met doing the route who didn’t have a guide wanted to know how it was: was it as bad as it sounded, did they really need a guide or a harness and rope, etc? Others opted to start just after the glacier and finish in Zermatt, just before it, so as to avoid it. I decided that we would begin in Zermatt and do it first so that it wasn’t hanging over us the whole trip. If we failed, there were other walks we could do. And with that philosophy, we tentatively set out, happy to be underway with a real pack at last, but apprehensive about what lay ahead, especially as the weather was not looking good, and it worsened as we climbed.
By the time we reached our lunch spot at Gandegghütte, which normally has a brilliant vista of the Breithorn – but today had a good view of our feet – rain was starting to fall. We got in just in time. The rain had until we’d eaten our Penne Arrabiata and drunk our warming hot chocolate to clear. It didn’t, but it switched to snow, which I’d prefer any day.

The view after dinner

Wildflowers in the valley next day
Now, one of the things the guidebook insisted on was that if one is so foolhardy as to go on the glacier without a guide, one should at least never go in cloudy conditions when dangerous crevices would be hidden. The people at the information centre down below, however, had told me not to worry, so I didn’t let the fact that we couldn’t see faze me, although I grew less comfortable when visibility was so reduced that I couldn’t see which way was up. The ground was totally invisible to me, and I found it rather eerie – but that was only the very last, steep part. For most of the route where we were on the glacier, we could see enough to follow the tracks made by skiers, and the clouds even parted now and then in the first section.

Descending after Colle di Bettaforca to a different view of the Monte Rosa

Campanulas in the grassy valley down lower 

Marmot near Rifugio Gabiet
After we left the security of the hut, I could tell by Bruce’s facial expression he was worried, but I was confident about what I was doing – namely, taking him on the route for as long as I was comfortable about our safety, and turning back and returning to the Gandegghütte the minute I felt threatened by the conditions. We hit a section that was steep enough to have Bruce a bit uncomfortable, but not enough to make him want to back out. I could hear him panting, but we were at 3300 metres asl by this time, so that was hardly surprising. I went on to kick him some more steps in the snow. (He has Parkinson’s disease, in case you’re wondering about this guy that lets me do everything. He can’t help it.)

 Still below the snow line, climbing towards Col d’Olen

Ibex above Col D’Olen

Me, having fun running down the ski slope
Suddenly, and completely out of the white, my feet touched flattened ground. If I took two more steps, I would be descending over the other side.
“Bruce,” I screamed with delight, “I must be on the pass. The ground here is flat.” He was thrilled. Grimace changed to thankful smile as he fought the altitude to join me.
“The hut is supposedly two minutes in that direction,” I continued, waving my hand off to the right where the theoretical hut was to be situated. It was not manifest. Off we set in faith, and sure enough, in 1 min 50 a door appeared about two metres in front of me. We had arrived. We felt as if we’d attained the impossible, and were totally elated. I didn’t care if we couldn’t do another step on the TMR. Just to have achieved this seemed like victory enough at this stage. It wasn’t that it had been hard: on the contrary, it had been dead easy. It was just that our expectations of success were so very low that it had felt like mission unreachable. Anything more was a bonus.

En route to Rifugio Pastore, day 4

Dawn on day 5, from Rifugio Pastore
Gradually the hut gained more people, and we got to chat to three Spaniards and two Belgians who had done the route clockwise (as opposed to our anti-), and who were able to tell us a bit about what lay ahead. Again, our guidebook was quite pessimistic, too often (so it seemed to me) complaining about the scenery not being pretty enough. These people, however, told me it was wonderful, and that was without getting views of the Monte Rosa, as it had been raining for them all week. A Belgian wanted to show me his photos to prove it. It was nice to meet with some enthusiasm for the route. Because of my guidebook, however, I only half believed them. Que sera, sera. The future would become ours to see.

 “False route”, day 5 – but utterly worth it for the views

The path after the pass (Passo del Turlo), day 5
During dinner, our little cluster debated the whereabouts of the Matterhorn, most of us reckoning that it lay roughly in the direction of the bar, whilst one Spaniard insisted it was out the window. Lo and behold, it decided it had had enough of our uninformed debate and the clouds parted to reveal it leering in at us. Resounding victory to the Spaniard. I couldn’t believe how huge and close it was. Dessert was ignored. Out our group dashed to photograph this wonder. Bruce and I climbed higher and stayed out until our fingers were numb and the light had all but faded. At 3340 metres a.s.l. it gets pretty cold. The Spanish-Tassie-Belgian cadre then sat and gazed at beauty for another half hour in the warmth of the hut, our seats pushed against the glass. “This is the best TV show in the world,” I said in awe, and they agreed. Ironically, we later found the Danish group of 11 sitting around, gazing at the real, techno variety, watching soccer. I guess they differed.

Final sunrise, from Rifugio Oberto Gaspari
Next morning was clear as we headed out, hungry after a “breakfast” that had been as bad and as meagre (not even any bread) as dinner had been delicious and plentiful the previous evening, following ski tracks down in a big arc with a snowy Monte Rosa off to our left, the Matterhorn to our right as we descended several hundred metres before rising again (with a huge descent and then rise to follow that), ultimately dropping from 3320 to 1860. As on every day, we alternated snowy vistas with green fields abundant in swathes of colourful and delicate wildflowers as we ascended over passes and descended to the valleys in between. In almost every hut, dinner was a celebration of delicious food, offered in multiple courses with seconds always available, and breakfast was often a pretty dismal affair. If you scored a bit of cereal it was pretty amazing. Juice even more so. For lunch, we mostly waited until we’d arrived at our destination, which we did by lunchtime on most days, and ordered delicious soup and sometimes a tart. That gave us the afternoon to explore the area surrounding the hut (and do a hand wash if climbing had extracted a nasty smell-toll on our clothes).

Early morning, Rifugio Oberto Gaspari
On one day (day 5) shortly after beginning, two people moving at a good pace came to an intersection in the path at almost the same time I did. We met and chatted and, as our paces were similar, kept together, talking and laughing as we went. I was aware that the distance between me and Bruce was widening, but I also knew the Danish group was moving near him, and that he was about the median speed of that group, so continued talking and laughing and climbing with my new friends. It was fun to have some company. There was a Norwegian up ahead who knew what she was doing, so we had no reason to check our location. After about 40 minutes or so, the Norwegian stopped for a sit-down, but we didn’t want to, so on we went. My new friends did stop for a bit, but I was still full of the joy of climbing, so decided to go on without them for a while, having seen from above that they were now following on.

Back into the mist; last morning.
The long and short of this story is that ultimately I had climbed an extra 500 metres to a different and wonderful high point that gave stupendous views over three of the Monte Rosa glaciers. I realised I had erred but hoped the Americans I had been chatting to would soon join me, so ate a peach and drank a bit (water plus scenery) whilst waiting for them. When they didn’t appear, I went back down and after about 100 ms descent, found them. We were relieved and delighted to see each other. I went back up to the top with them, and then we began the long descent back to a fork in the track that had been so covered by a stream that it had not been visible. The Danes, with the benefit of a guide who had done the walk a week before and who knew it well, didn’t have the same problem. The wrong track had actually been far more obvious than the right one, and there was no sign to indicate a fork. Now we were chasing Bruce. Rick was mildly upset, as his guide sheets said this was the longest day, and we’d just made it two hours longer. Anyway, we worked together, they providing me with nuts, raisins and tuna, and me kicking steps for them and encouraging them through snow that tested their comfort zone. We made a good team, and caught Bruce and the Danes just as they were stopping for afternoon tea.

Our penultimate day was our last day in Italy. We had adored the whole thing and I was sad to be nearing the border with Switzerland and the end of our trek. The map for this day showed contours so close together they almost presented a pure brown front. Bruce was feeling tired from the previous day just described, which had, indeed, been very long even without an extensive detour, so he decided to miss the contours and take a téléphérique that happened to go to a spot near our hut. I was happy. Now I had a solo hike done at my own pace up a nice steep slope, time to dream and enjoy the scenery, to take in the smell of the forest and the sight of that day’s face of the Monte Rosa, to enjoy the clear streams and to see how many marmots and ibex I could spot and nothing else to worry about.

The mist clears to give us a glorious view of the golden madonna in Passo Motto Moro
I cut the advertised time in half, so when I saw a building ahead, I assumed it was actually the middle station for the cable, and was so convinced I had another two hours to go that I had to read the name of the hut three times to confirm for myself that I had, indeed arrived. Rifugio Oberto Gaspari. Last hut. It was bitter sweet arriving. That afternoon we explored the area of the pass, and I took Bruce over the start of the descent that worried him from above. The practise made him feel much better. Parkinson’s is a huge hindrance to confidence when it comes to descents on slippery snow on paths that don’t actually exist. (His “path” is often merely the steps I kick for him. A person without Parkinson’s mightn’t even think about the danger of falling, but falling is always a possibility if you have this disease, so thinking of the consequences is not amusing).

Just below Passo Motto Moro

On the final morning, after an exceptionally good hut breakfast, we set out nice and early – we had to reach Zurich via Zermatt this day. However, the ice was absolutely solid and as frictionless as a metal slippery dip. In addition, despite a glorious sunrise providing memorable photos, the clouds that had sat below the mountains for my paparazzi efforts had now risen to meet us, and once more we were in a whiteout. I couldn’t find the via ferrata that had been so handy the previous day, and we lost time while I fumbled around trying to get us on the exact route we needed. It was all so simple when you could see. Anyway, at last we found the ferrata and used the steel ropes to prevent falling backwards as we climbed. Passo Motto Moro, that we were heading for, has a beautiful and huge golden Madonna holding her hands out in a peaceful and welcoming gesture towards Italy, her back, perhaps symbolically, turned on Switzerland, a land that strikes one as being more interested in economic than spiritual matters.

We lingered a long time in this pass, playing, taking photos, fooling around. We didn’t want to descend, as descent marked the end of Italy, the end of our walk and the end of our whole trip. Besides, we needed to give the snow a bit of time to soften enough for me to kick some steps. Neither of us fancied a slide of several hundred metres for a record breaking time with crash at the end. I think Bruce found this route testing to the edge of his scare-limits.
I will be back, as I adored it, but I fear it will have to be solo next time. I’m so glad I gave the route one last chance before giving up on it, and that Bruce got to experience its unique beauty before his Parkinson’s made something that challenging an impossibility.

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SLOVENIA Via Alpina 2010.

Slovenia. Via Alpina 23 May – 2 June 2010

Trieste, our beginning. An excited me explored the silent city before dawn.
This is a glorious route my husband and I, together with our daughter and her husband, followed from the Mediterranean coast in Italy (Trieste), east into Slovenia, and then north to near the border of Austria.

It wasn’t as if the Via Alpina was a “dream come true”: I had never heard of it before my daughter suggested we do it, but it sounded like a good route when I did my web and book research. Maps were impossible to get from here, but Kirsten said she could get a few in England where they were living, and that we’d buy the rest in Trieste or along the way.

Despite many champion orienteers and rogainers in our group, directions constantly eluded us on the first few days. We were not alone in this problem.

That was a great plan, but on arriving in Trieste, we discovered that Italian shops only rarely opened, as it was a Saturday, or a Sunday, or a strike day, or a Saint’s day. So, we departed almost mapless (having also not been able to get from the airport into town for the same reason the day before … and we would encounter the same problem at the end when trying to return to get our bag of left gear). We nearly left foodless, but managed to find a panificio that made up for absolutely everything by the wonder of its wares. Weighed down with far too much because we could resist far too little, off we set into the mountains to the east of Trieste. Farewell Mediterranean.

Matavun world heritage caves – wonderful!
 
Near Idrija (where there is a YHA)

We climbed quite a lot and thus earned the feast that we flamboyantly spread out on a table in the forest at lunchtime. Delizioso. Now the packs were much lighter!

Also near Idrija

As I researched before I left home,, I had read a few references to caves on the first night after one had crossed into Slovenia, at Matavun, but didn’t think much about it. Caves don’t necessarily turn me on. We arrived at the town of the caves hot and bothered and almost without accommodation. The only place that offered beds in the place on the map (which could not be called ‘town’) had an owner who was hiding from the neighbours and kind of from us, until he found out that we were walking the Via Alpina, when he made us more than welcome, and even invited us to a party at his place that night as we would get no other food. Not only was the dinner wonderful, but we had fun at dessert time passing a huge bowl of chocolate mousse around the circle; the deal was you took a spoonful (own spoon) and passed it on until it was all eaten. Sometimes conviviality fails Aussie health and risk assessment standards, but we’ll opt for bonhomie any time. We had a blast.

Near koča na Ermanovcu
Slovenia, like Tassie, has a large percentage of beautiful forest.

Because it had been so hot, we had headed straight down to the river on the map the evening before, with swimming and only swimming on our minds. The river was magnificent and the deciduous forest a wonderful lush green. Over dinner the caves had yet again scored a mention, so we agreed to check them out in the morning. They’re World Heritage caves, and for a good reason and they wowed us!! (So did the lunch afterwards. It seemed like this was going to be a good trip for eating.) It was also a great trip for costs. So far, everything was a price that more than pleased, and that was to continue for the whole way.

Setting out from koča na Ermanovcu
Climbing higher

 

Still the map to reality relationship is confusing. On the way to Crna pest.

My pictures will try to hint at some of the other places of breathtaking beauty that we found. Despite all my web trawling, nothing prepared us for the amazing colour of the water (or the friendliness of the people we encountered).  I guess I should also add that anyone we met walking the trail (= , to be honest, one other couple) had the same trouble we had trying to match the map with the ground with the couple of odd markers that we found. This was not a track where you could pop the brain in the back pocket and have everything come to you. The first couple of days were the worst.

Near Ukanc bridge

 

Same.
Magnificent forest the whole way (when we weren’t above the tree line). Climbing to Dom na Komni.

 

From just outside our refuge at Dom na Komni

Any time we found someone to ask their help, the person abandoned all other tasks and devoted themselves to getting us back on track. We, and the French couple we met, were even given lifts to places we were seeking as it was easier to drive us than to explain. When we ran out of food at Petrovo Brdo, the guardian got his brother to shop for us and run the stuff up to his hut.

Black lake, which wasn’t black at all.

 

Nearing Triglauf, the highest mountain.
Our route was supposed to take us up the west of Slovenia along the standard trail, to the west of the highest mountain of Slovenia (Triglauf, which I had every intention of climbing) and on into Austria. However, an overabundance of snow and the closure of all huts in the northernmost section, together with the fact that my husband needed a dentist meant that we went as far as Triglauf but then doubled back through the snow and headed east through different mountains and then did the last bit to Bled by bus (where my husband was treated superbly by the hospital).
 
Bled

 

Radovna valley, where we both walked and cycled.

 

 

 

River tranquillity.
Bled was so magnificent, we hired bikes and explored more rivers and gorges and a different national park. We took an unconscionable number of photos, ate a fury, and did more walking and running and cycling. We thoroughly recommend the Via Alpina and its offshoots.
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FRANCE-ITALY-SWITZ Tour du Mont Blanc 2009.

Tour du Mont Blanc  14-21 June, 2009
Day 2. Climbing Col du bonhomme

 How many parents are lucky enough to share a mountainous walk of several hundred kilometres with a child and partner? I’m sure we’re not the only ones, but we do feel amongst the privileged few. What is fixed in my happy reminiscences is not really a scene or event but the fact that we were all sharing it together – that we were showing our daughter and her husband something we really loved, and that they were “receiving it” with us.

Day 2. Same col, higher up  
Apart from the joys of walking and talking, or of gazing at wild animals together, sharing meals high on a mountain top gazing out at infinity or laughing together with new friends in the huts, if I try to select special moments, I guess two stand out.
 

Day 3. Setting out after the hut in col de la croix du bonhomme

 

Day 3. Early

 

Day 3 Ranunculus amplexicaulis  Above Motets 

One is of my daughter and her love of photographing wild animals. In the Shetland Islands, she took about 400 shots of puffins (so says her husband), and here she tried to equal that record with both marmots and ibex. It is funny as a parent to see your own proclivities repeated in the habits and hobbies of the next generation. I love marmots and ibex and photography, but stop after about 15 shots. I find it endearing that our daughter just keeps on going.

Day 4. Above Col de seigne
Day 6 Heading for Col grand ferret
Day 6. Playing in the snow the other side of the col

 

Day 7.  Ibex near lac blanc
 

The second is that of our final morning, and what a finale!!! We had climbed to the hut at Lac blanc in falling snow – wonderful, gentle flakes of it – but now I was sleeping in the kitchen (because of snorers). It was still pitch dark when I heard someone moving and I feared I was about to get into trouble. However, the noise was from our daughter getting dressed near me rather than in the room where she might disturb people. “Dawn will be here soon, mum” she said. I rolled up my mat and quickly dressed to join her. There in the steely sky was a white world around us, with the sharp peaks of the Aiguilles du midi thrust into the darkness; Mont Blanc lay beyond. Clouds filled the valleys below. We were very high, and it was magic. For the next four hours we alternated between being outside and photographing the most beautiful sunrise I have ever witnessed, and dashing inside to try and warm up – it was quite a bit below zero out there!


Dawn from lac blanc

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Playing in the snow before we descended
And the good news for us was that K and K still had one year left at Cambridge and that we would all do another long walk, same time next year – the Via Alpina. I had a whole year to draw up the plans.