Into the Wild: A Hiking Adventure in the Pyrénées

These days the impregnable ramparts have been reclaimed as a breakneck climbing wall and parkour course, complete with pegs and zip wires.

“They kidnap journalists here,” our guide Sylvie threw in casually, motioning to us to huddle by a “Beware Explosives” sign. Among its many sidelines, the training unit will gladly “rough up” war correspondents, ostensibly to teach them how not to get kidnapped but, in case the worst happens, how to cope in a real-life hostage situation. “They go without food, there’s music blasting constantly so they have no idea whether it’s day or night… it’s no walk in the park.” Although, Sylvie added knowingly, the sleep deprivation and rough-housing pale in comparison with the gruelling survival bootcamp SAS-style rookies are put through. “They sleep five hours a week, we see them sometimes in town wolfing down pasta when they’re done. They look a right state.”

The 17th-century Puits des Forçats. Photo: Sean Cameron

After years of cordial if frosty cohabitation between townsfolk and the regiment, Sylvie eventually convinced 1er Choc to allow the public into the soon-to-be UNESCO-listed stronghold year-round, in between drills or, as the case was for us, at the tail end of one – the formation breaking up just long enough for the commander to greet her with a peck on the cheek.

“We settled it over a drink,” she downplayed the whole affair. “I barged into the office, asked them when combat training was and worked around it.” She did far more than “work around it”. Not only did she successfully (and virtually single-handedly) mastermind the fortress’s UNESCO World heritage bid in 2008 but she “borrowed” the regiment’s divers to spruce up the fortress’s rubbish-strewn 17th-century Puits des Forçats (Well of the Convicts). A life-size torture contraption, and one of just three such wells left in France, it was used to discipline insubordinate soldiers, who were forced to tread on its hamster wheel for 12 hours on end to draw water up the 28m shaft.

And the elite divers scrubbed up more than sludge. Amid the 4m-deep flotsam were unearthed centuries-old doors, shoes, four antique well buckets, chicken bones… and a few cats and dogs. On that nugget, the blast of a trumpet called us back to order. The military was reclaiming the base for now. Off, then, to the perched village of Llo for a leisurely dip in its (blissfully pong-free) sulphurous hot springs, hooked up, it turned out, with underwater music. I could get used to this hiking lark…

French is strictly interdit in the Catalonian town of Llívia. Photo: Sean Cameron

IT’S OFF TO SPAIN WE GO

Border flip-flopping is not just a quirk of history in these parts; to this day, it’s an occupational hazard. So we discovered bright and early the next day, when the Yellow Stripe Road stopped dead at a rather battered sign informing us we’d stumbled into Llívia – España (!). Following the Treaty of the Pyrenees in 1659 (it really does have a lot to answer for), Spain ceded 33 villages of Cerdagne to France, including its historic capital of Llívia. But the Spanish ruler cried foul, arguing that Llívia was in fact a “villa” (town). Louis XIV grudgingly agreed to hand it back and the slate-roofed nook has been a Spanish enclave (or exclave, depending on your perspective) entirely surrounded by France ever since.

Llívia boasts one of the word’s oldest pharmacies. Photo: Sean Cameron

With Estelada flags uttering against blush-hued stone houses and a strict no-French-spoken policy in most bodegas, it is a firm bastion of Catalonia. Buying sun screen at the pharmacy soon descended into a fraught game of hand miming and garbled Castilian; while at the bakery in the cobbled market square, patriotism reached full tilt with neither French nor Castilian allowed. Not just a mere historical (and geographical) hangover, Llívia is a living cabinet of curiosity and, among its many claims to fame, the birthplace of one of the oldest pharmacies in Europe thanks to the bountiful supply of medicinal plants sprouting in every corner of the Pyrenean nook. Although closed since 1926, you can have a nosey at the Esteva apothecary’s collection of intricately painted 18th-century pots and tumblers neatly laid out in replica display counters at the local museum.

Llívia’s town hall. Photo: Sean Cameron

SWEET STENCH OF SERENITY

Stuffed to the gills with sugar beignets – as far as we could make out – we dawdled the half mile or so back to the ‘border’, ready to play peekaboo with those pesky yellow dashes en route to the nearby Bains de Dorres. Unlike their stink-free neighbour back in Llo, Dorres’s Roman Baths pack quite the whiff. Handy if you are directionally challenged. Eye-watering, eggy wafts guided us right to the front gate. Framed by the Canigou massif and purported to heal every ill imaginable from rheumatism to chicken pox – according to a fellow bather, whose pockmarked son splashed about in the shallow pool oblivious to the widening circle around him – the 19th-century baths are a sensory potpourri, an odd blend of nose-wrinkling torture and sheer sybaritic bliss. That is, until the sweet release of olfactory fatigue. Under strict orders not to shower, to allow the natural minerals to work their soothing magic, we hit the road once more floating on cloud nine – and stinking to high heaven.

Follow your nose to Les Bains de Dorres. Photo: Sean Cameron

CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN

The following matin was the start of our adventure proper, heralded by an almighty downpour after days of glorious sunshine. No more getting spoiled rotten (literally) with mid-afternoon dips, lazy sun-dappled strolls and befriending pooches – our doomsday supply of rations drew quite the pack of pets on our travels. No more sightseeing. Just us, a map and Mother Nature. We would head off into the wild, accidentally trudge through rivers and eventually conquer the Pic Carlit, the Pyrénées-Orientales’ highest summit at 2,921m.

The glittering lakes of the Boucle des Étangs. Photo: Sean Cameron

Geared up to the hilt for the gruelling 1,000m climb, we inched our way up the Boucle des Étangs du Carlit – a loop of crystalline lakes snaking around the mountain’s still snow-dusted approach. Slow but steady, we scrambled over the boulders carpeting the valley, pointedly ignoring the stream of limber pensioners, children and one flip-flopped teen (I kid you not) overtaking us at every turn. Spying a group of burly lads taking one look at the crumbling scree and hightailing it back to the col, I seriously considered calling it quits. Reading my thoughts, my partner nudged me forward in an uncharacteristic feat of bravado, just as a strapping gent of at least 70 (a conservative estimate) pelted past us, sparking a mini avalanche of tumbling rocks with each stride. Oh boy.

Almost vertical, shale sliding underfoot, we went into full-blown hand-climbing mode. Clinging on like limpets, scared stiff to glance up or down, we hauled ourselves to a craggy ledge just shy of the needle-like peak. Then, we drank it all in. Miles of lake-studded valley stretched ahead of us, framed by ribbons of mountains. Short of Champagne to toast our epic clamber, we broke out the Babybels.

City bumpkins un – Cerdagne nul points…

The view from the top of the Pic Carlit. Photo: Sean Cameron

CERDAGNE ESSENTIALS

Marion’s self-guided hiking holiday was organised by Purely Pyrenees. The walking and cycling holidays specialist provided detailed maps, step-by step itineraries with various levels of difficulty, as well as luggage transfers between hotels for a worry-free journey. To find out more, go to www.purelypyrenees.com

WHERE TO STAY

Hôtel Corrieu, La Llagonne
Chambre d’hôtes Cal Miquel, Llo
Le Château Brangoly, Enveitg
Hôtel Les Bones Hores, Lac des Bouillouses, Mont-Louis

From France Today magazine

Marion and her partner, Sean, after their epic climb