Day Two. Refuge de Furfande (2293m) to Ceillac (1639m) 10 miles 1066m A, 1720m.
How to stop people snoring.
It’s quite impossible to stop a determined snorer without resorting to dynamite, you can try a bucket of snow-water first, but sometimes that doesn’t work. However the good new news is that for the more user friendly aficionado of the ‘let’s-stop-the-world-from-sleeping’ technique, there are a few tricks to try. A loud cough is often sufficient to make them turn over, or getting-up to go to the loo followed by the accidental torchlight swung across their face as you try to find your bunk again. Followed by that mad personal rush to get back to sleep before they start again.
But let’s face it, at the end of the day it might just have to be the dynamite.
Dormitory etiquette at Alpine refuges- some comments
That first night I discovered why the option of a red light on your head torch is so good- my Pretzl, great and rather ancient as it was, only had (it died last autumn, thus ‘had’ rather than ‘has’) a bright to very bright white option.
Favourite Wife’s ‘cheapy’ from Blacks had red – so much more dormitory friendly in the middle of the night! (unless trying to deal with the aforementioned snorer) A new head-torch with red light is on my ‘have to have list’.
Having arrived so late we were engulfed in darkness when the generator went off at ten fifteen, and had to search the dormitory for a couple of mattresses unoccupied by sleeping slumberers, my searchlight received a few annoyed grunts, but the snoring stopped!
When not to take a shower in the Alps
We discovered a couple of oddities at this first refuge – they only allow showers in the evening, as horrified Favourite Wife discovered next morning when she found them locked.
It is worth finding out the rules the night before, although it’s quite likely that you will be arriving in plenty of time to ablute before dinner.
Being of the smellier variety I was unperturbed and scampered on down to breakfast – no, I lie, I could barely stagger after the day before.
What to eat in the Alps – a health warning.
Breakfast was our next cultural shock- you may have the same bowl-like receptacle for your coffee as for your cereal; and yoghurt flavoured coffee does not taste good – so be warned!
If you are at all conscious of healthy food then be warned, almost every refuge we have stayed at when Nordic Walking in the Alps, has consisted of fast burn white bread, high GI cereals, and jam, oh yes and long-life fruit juice. Some of this is understandable given the location, but it would surely not be too hard at some refuges to offer slower burn bread and cereals, and natural yoghurt.
Two exhausted Nordic Walkers stagger on.
We were seriously in a state of shock the next morning, the guidebook had warned that it was a tough first day, but the ViewRanger app on my iphone. (do link) confirmed that our ascent was more than twice the height of Ben Nevis and in fact with the descent involved, we had gone up, come down and gone up again, and some! So just about every part of us was protesting as we shouldered our sacks.
Now, where was I? Ah yes, leaving Refuge de Furfande on a very cool summer morning. We departed as God ‘gently turned up the dimmer’; the mountains near and far became clearer, and patches of lingering snow glowed pink as they were kissed by the rising sun. We passed a beautiful alpine lily, ‘the first of many’ I thought; it was the only one of the tour, and devoid of petals on my return.
I was glad of my down jacket as we headed downhill across the alpine meadow carpeted with alpine flowers- we’d counted a hundred and fifty four varieties the previous day, and I eventually gave up counting at three hundred and thirty three towards the end of the trek.
Passing through Les Escoyères
The path traversed the side of the valley, along a strange ledge where the cliff-like side of the mountain above lay on one side and the river-gorge fell away on the other. Large boulders from the cliff above lay along the ledge, precariously, and the way wound between them before taking us down amongst countless pine and larch, through the high altitude hamlet of Les Escoyères nestled in a sun-filled enclave between the trees. Small vegetable patches and bright flower-filled gardens. Neatly cut logs stacked in regiments, topped with weighted-down corrugated iron, and under overhanging rooves. Increasing warmth.
The way zig-zagged more and more in reflection of the steepening valley wall, we remained hidden from the world by serried ranks of pine-trees until we reached the valley floor some 1400m below.
Memories of the Lord of the Rings.
My thoughts turned to The Lord of The Rings, Frodo, Sam and the others as we scampered across the road, crossed the river and plunged back into the trees. The path took us steeply upwards towards the next hamlet. Small patches of wild strawberries grew in the moist shade of the deciduous trees that occupied this part of the gorge, bejewelled with tiny red orbs that tasted of heaven, and then we burst out into the bright sunshine.
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Alpine rules of thumb when Nordic Walking.
As promised in the guidebook we came upon a small gîte in the village of Bramousse, oh dear it just happened to be lunchtime! Laying aside our packs and poles we, ordered un vin blanc et un bier, rested our exhausted legs, and revelled in a lunch of omelette, salad avec frites, all originating from the garden.
It was here when chatting with a German couple we learnt the maxim that a thousand metres was the wise ceiling for a daily ascent, and to take a rest day every third.
I was banned from a siesta, so donned my rucksack, unslid and adjusted my Leki poles before trudging off uphill. The path took us on a forest track through open woodland, alongside a running stream to a meadow with a small hamlet of ancient houses, and brown cows, their bells tolling in primitive rural harmony as they browsed the vegetation. They expressed mild interest before continuing the ‘Alpine Symphony’, the musical cadences drifting up from the meadows long after we and they were out of sight of each other.
We re-entered the woodland, now less dense than earlier but still ancient pine, the path here was much more a footpath dawdling though the woodland, with occasional breaks where the lush pasture swept away to join that whence we had come.
We were nearly as tired as the day before and my heart beat loudly in my ears, indeed it seemed as if my body failed to hold the sound, I was sure unseen others could hear it echoing from the surrounding hills. Aware of my great ancientness and feeling particularly unfit after yesterdays ‘stroll’, and feeling my heart could not maintain the rate without failing, I set in place the practise of taking one hundred steps and pausing for fifty, occasionally stopping longer for a chunk of energy bar and slurp of water.
I cannot adequately describe the simple beauty of such places, the variety of flowers, the way the streamlets run noisily where they have cut through the grass, the ancient trees, and behind us the vista of jagged grey rock of the peaks we had shared the world with yesterday.
The Col de Bramousse (2251m,) was the lowest and possibly the gentlest col we encountered on the entire trek, more a continuation of curve until it went down rather than up. We stopped some metres beyond, found a gentle hollow, and chewed the last of the walnut sourdough, cheese and tomatoes, watched as an ‘ultra-fit’ strode up the track from the direction we were headed, and set off in the direction from which he had come.
Despite the muscle ache, no, ache is too weak a term, pain perhaps also understates the feeling, there was no point on the entire trek when we did not appreciate the beauty of creation that lay in front, below, above and to the sides, it was just awe inspiring – even to a grumpy old git like me.
The path steepened as the alpine meadow gave way to forest, and we descended precipitous zig after precipitous zag, until we reached that wonderful point where the knees detect a lessening of slope and the valley floor, carved by glaciers a couple of years before yours-truly was born, spreads out wide and flat before us..
When it came to finding the gite, there was a happy combination of map, Wayfinder App on my I-Phone, and Google maps, resulting in our going to the right place rather than searching the entire village !
Our resting place that night was in the village of Ceillac, Les Baladins Gite Auberge (1693m) was a dream come true; fish for Favourite Wife’s supper, only one couple sharing our dorm, (they became the first friends of the tour), en-suite loo, shower, and good comfy beds.
Les Baladins Gîte Auberge, Ceillac – our place of recovery.
I sat outside in the afternoon sun, in that slightly soporific state that follows a good but hard day, freshly showered and dressed in number ones, drink to hand and viewing the map. Favourite Wife gently brought into the conversation that there was room for us the next night as well. This was not part of the martial plan, but with a surname like mine I heed early signs of mutiny, so the suggestion was instantly agreed to by instantly favourite Favourite Husband. It did in fact make sense, 3500 m (11,000 ft) of ascent and nearly as much descent, over a two-day period, far exceeded the advice given by both the German couple we had seen at lunchtime, and by our bodies.
And so to bed.