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The Long and Winding Road from Pauls to Caro

I was staying at the Alberg dels Ports in Pauls in a six bunk bed room on my own. Paid the dormitory rate unall but nobody else there. I set up a washing line across the room from a top bunk into the bathroom (I usually carry a fair length of parachute cord). Some of my gear was stinking so I washed it in the shower, hung it on my line. Dry by morning. Two cereal bars, lots of water and away at 8am. The walk today was marked as ‘severe’on a GR7 website. The overall climb was 5200 feet over only 14 miles so it was going to be tough. I was heading for a Refugio, like a Youth Hostel type thing, in Caro, a tiny hamlet high in the Dels Ports National Park. Me being young and that.

I promised myself that I’d follow the GPS route and not get distracted and lost. I’d got enough batteries for my GPS to last two weeks non-stop. It was a cool morning and the first rise continued for four miles up to over 4000 feet. Higher and higher the views, as usual, got greater. Looking back Pauls glowed in the morning sun.

I missed a turnoff the main path, which I hadn’t spotted on the GPS. However by the time I realised I was going wrong I had reached a new rough road climbing up the mountain which was signposted as the GR7. I followed it and thought it must cross the track that I’d missed at some stage. There could only be one pass over these cliffs.

This route led me up to a farm, which like all buildings in the mountains, was uninhabited. But the crops were recently maintained so it wasn’t deserted. At this altitude the almonds weren’t developing, they were still in bloom. A good couple of months behind the valley.

Outside the farmhouse was an amazing dining table and seating made out of tons of slabs of limestone. Fantastic.

That was where the charm ended. The road in was open but the whole of the estate was surrounded by metal fencing. Even the tracks that were identified as public rights of way were blocked by the fence, although folk had climbed over and bent it in frustration. I headed along a high terrace in the farm towards my GPS track. To get there I had to get under a hole in the fence and drag my gear through, and drop down to a dry stream bed. I climbed up the far side which was steep and covered in gorse which tore my legs, but I couldn’t use my machete to cut the gorse as I needed both hands to climb the steep bank. By this time I’d passed the path marked on the GPS. Bugger it. The GPS was wrong!

I climbed carefully back down the bank and up to the fence, which was too high to climb at this location but proved bendable enough to force forward and crawl over. Serves the get right for blocking legitimate rights of way. I walked past my illegitimate one over to the far side of the estate to try to find a way up the mountain. Long story short – it took me an hour and a half to fight through pine, gorse, fencing and brambles to get up to a path over the mountain. Pissed off? The views chilled my ill humour. Looking back and looking forward.

The route after the pass was down and up a number of high ridges and when I thought I was not far off Caro I bumped into the only person I was to see all day. Another walker coming in the opposite direction. He told me I’d only done 5 of my 14 miles. It had taken four and a half hours. Cheers mate. Climbing up in the heat with a rucksack was draining. And this route climbed a thousand feet more than Ben Nevis. There he is again, the old comparator mate Ben.

The route was a killer. But an inspiration.

And way down below over to the right in the distance was the Ebro delta. Glorious Espana.

The Iberian Ibex do a funny kind of whistle cum chirp to warn each other of unwelcome company, and I can recognise it now. These beauties adorned the skyline.

The route became an exposed tiny path along a mountainside which was funnelling up strong winds from below. I took my time along the next 3 miles, determined to keep my footing. But these views were my reward.

Me and nobody else. Here in this high and windy but stunning landscape. I drew every long straw in the book.

I was sinking. I can do the Yorkshire three peaks in ten and a half hours, it rises the same height and is ten miles longer. But here in the heat with a rucksack every step up drains the sweat out of you and pumps the heart like Ginger Baker.

As the sun was dropping, after 10 hours trekking, the path dropped down to the Refugio, which was shut. I called the number and a lady said the manager was on his way. I was the only person staying there, so my six bunk bed room was all mine – again.

This is my mate Peter. He’s Catalan and probably the best cook in these mountains. We communicated in a lot of French, bit of English, bit of Spanish and not much Catalan. As long as you understand each other it’s ok.