A mountain journey. Hiking the GR11 from Isaba to Villanua


Day one: Thirst

Leaving the safety of our two guides behind us, we (mum, Daniela and myself) shouldering our heavy packs (weighed down with un-necessarily vast amounts of food) set off along the winding road into the mountains. To our left scree and lichen spattered rock, rose sharply, while to our right a forest of pine and beach shaded the banks of the Rio Veral and the sun hot summer blazed down on us.


Eventually we reached the end of the road and began to climb, the path became rocky and treacherous and the stones had a red ocher color, as if stained by iron. Lizards scurried out of our way. And the line of gray mountains like jagged teeth drew around us. I began to sweat profusely. Sweat dripped of my nose, splashing on the ground. Sweat filled my eyes making them sting. Sweat drenched my clothes till theywere sopping. I was overcome by a powerful thirst.


At length we reached the first landmark on our map, a hat, no more than a broken, burned out stone ruin. Here we stopped for lunch, a hearty meal of chorizo ​​(sausage to my mind no other can compete with the rich fatty flavor of true Spanish chorizo, which is cooked and eaten hot ), baguettes, cucumber and wine. It was a meal that shocked other hikers whose fare was mostly limited to water and dehydrated foods.



After lunch we kept climbing. My thirst had not abated but with every step it seemed to grow worse and my mouth felt unquenchably dry. It was around this time that Daniela began to question whether I was drinking all the water supplies, and only being half way through the first day, whether it what wise. I had already drunk two out of our five bottles, we were now high in the mountains and there was no tap marked on our map.


We passed the tree line and walked through a beautiful landscape of alpine flowers, small birds, grasses, lizards and bees. Soon however this landscape gave way to more rock and wind swept grass. Fatigue began to set in on our soft pink bodies. Our huge packs cut into our shoulders our rests became longer and more frequent, while the path became ever steeper and more treacherous. My breath came out in loud gasps and my was mouth dry as I begged the others for more of their precious water.


Meanwhile vultures and ravens circled ominously, as we walked the narrow ledge like paths around the steep precipices. Daniela what the fittest, lithe as a mountain goat, she led the charge, followed by my panting self. But poor mum, poor little Huhu was dropping behind; the steep up hills were taking their toll on her and she was lagging further and further behind (though she was very tough sleeping without a tent and being rained on more than once).


We came to the second hut a tin shed on a kind of small plateau. Exhausted though we were, we all agreed that there was something unpleasant in the bleak prickly landscape, infested with scurrying marmots (thesis large cat-like ground squirrels, active for only three months of the year, are everywhere in the Pyrenees) that we did not want to make camp but decided to push on.


And so we did, toward a high saddle between the two peaks, hoping to make it before the yellow sun rolled over the western mountains toward the dark and deep Atlantic. My mouth had become so dry that I began to chew on leaves and sticks with the goal of salivating and thus bringing more liquid to my mouth.


We reached the high saddle just as the first shafts of evening were beginning to illuminate the mountains in a rose light. We were rewarded for our trouble with a spectacular view of the valleys and sharp gray mountains before us. Herds of chamois gamboled through the grassy land. The rare white vultures that the Spanish call Alimoche circled in the darkening sky.



It was here we took a seemingly clear trail leading to our left. The path however petted out, and when we reached the soft alpine meadows we were lost in the ailing light. We were rescued by a camping school group, who pointed us in the direction of the right path. Here, clear springs bubbled out of the mountainside and we filled our water container with the fresh water. We drank deeply. We camped on a soft, grassy terrace. We ate our hot food, while we watched the twilight play on the faces of the mountain cliffs to the sound of the wind and the distant bells of the Pyrenean feral horses. The night was clear the stars were bright.

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Day Two: The Valley of Horses

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Early next morning we woke and had a breakfast of muesli and milk powder and discovered that where we had slept were old stone ruins, so old, that all that what was left was the grass covered outline of what could have been a house and a small circular structure. Perhaps they were the dwellings of medieval shepherds, or buildings from even earlier, structures of the ancient Cro-Magnon peoples, the ancestors of the Basques that lived here before even the Celtic speaking peoples came out of the east, and who left only weathered dolmans and cave paintings behind. Or Perhaps, as Basque legend tells, they were the Jentilak, the benevolent hairy giants of old who never moved from the mountains and who disappeared beneath the earth when a star foretold the birth of Christ.

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Our bottles filled with fresh water, we had an easy enjoyable hike down the valley to the river below. Insects buzzed, butterflies flitted, and brooks bubbled. At length we began to come close to a river, a tributary of the Rio Aragon, and we wove our way through fields of bracken fern. We had lunch at a bend in the river where we took a cooling dip, sharing the swimming hole with baby frogs while the mother frog sat mummified on the rock in the hot sun. After lunch we followed a long stretch of dusty, dirt road. Wind writhen beach forest to our right, and the bending line of the river, glinting in the hot afternoon sun, to our left. As the cool of evening was beginning to replace the heat of the day we reached the end of the road and climbed steeply clambering over rocks for about on hour until we came, just as the light what dimming, and our bodies were beginning to break, into the Valley of Horses.


The Valley of Horses is a long tear of flat grassy land broken by a sluggish curl of water. Spread across this alpine plain were hundreds of horses and cattle. The horses and cattle of the Pyrenees are not technically wild. They have bells, so that the herdsmen may track them through the mountains (and many of them, horse and cow, will end up in a sausage). On the other hand the horses and cattle of the Pyrenees can not exactly be called tame. They wander whither they want, without fence or gate to check them. They breed As they wish, without the control of men. And in summer they run across the mountain ridges, their manes and tails blowing in the chill wind.



I must admit that I have a fear of large animals, horses, and cattle particularly, and there they were in the failing light, the vast herds spread across the plain while the ringing of the bells echoed in the hills. We had to walk through them and it was getting late. We were exhausted. But they did not bother us and we camped with another hiker on the edge of the Valley of Horses. It was, we realised not the cattle that are the worry, but the horses. The cattle are placid enough, but the horses are curious of people, They run in herds, they meet other herds, they kick and fight. We fell asleep and woke to the sound of bells, the deep mooing of the cattle, the whinnying of the horses and the thunder of their hooves. That night in the Valley of Horses, I faced my fears.



Day Three: The Field of Blueberries

The next morning dawned. And mist began to roll thick and fast through the hills. You could see it racing into the valley – a dense white cloud.




And soon we began our hike for the day. Keeping tight so we would not get lost amongst the dense damp fog, like the hobbits in the barrow downs, or run into some savage bull, for we heard amongst the mist, always, ringing bells. We climbed and climbed and as morning gave way to late morning the mist cleared. And we arrived at a popular high alpine lake, close to the boarder with France.



Here, both French and Spanish tourists congregated to observe the phenomenon of this glacial lake. I personally did not get a pleasant feeling from it. The rocks were sharp and red, strange large fish circled within, and it was filled with an unpleasant kind of weed. Nonetheless we went for a swim and it what refreshing enough. We filled our water bottles at a nearby spring and continued our journey.DSC05229


Blocking our path eastward were a pair of young bulls attempting to mate with the cows on the path itself; carefully we went around. We ate lunch in a stunted mossy beech grove and then took a wrong turn that nearly took us to the French boarder. But once we corrected our path we entered into what was probably the most beautiful part of the journey. First we walked through steep alpine meadows. Sheep grazed and the large rocks, which covered the landscape, appeared as if they had been placed there by the Jentilak. We left these steep meadows behind and came to the eaves of an ancient beech forest. The forest with its moss-clad splendor had a kind of magical feeling, and though my feet throbbed with pain, there was something revitalising about the very trees themselves, which seemed to give me the energy to keep going. We tracked along the steep mountain cliffs and came to a waterfall splashing off the mountainside. We reached slopes of scree and shingle, where shallow rooted mountain flowers and herbs bloomed – irises, buttery word, and lilies, raspberries, crocuses, and red currants. Eventually our weary feet took us away from the open cliff faces and ancient moss-filled beech forests and into fields full of wild blueberries and here we threw off our packs and made camp.




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Day Four: Return to Civilization.

The next day brought us out of the wilderness and to the ski resort town of Candanchu. How people can build something so ugly in a place so beautiful almost beggars belief. Candanchu can only be described as a horrible eyesore on the landscape, on offense against good taste and to the mountains themselves! A large stretch of concrete, bordered by the razor wire fences of a military base welcome the wanderer coming from the GR11. The town itself consists of large block like hotels and expensive pubs that resemble prisons. Coming from our camp among the fields of blueberries this town was a reminder of the world outside, the imposing structures of the Spanish government, who since Franco’s time have been suspicious of the mountains on their northern border.

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We drank some beer in this history-less place and hurried on our path south. Following the line of a major road and the Aragon River, we walked through pine forest and dry scrubland. We passed old bunkers, leftovers from the civil war, and hill top castles built at the time when the Moors themselves came this far north. Into the lower-lands we went, following the route of the old pilgrimage to Santiago. We passed through the towns and villages. And as the altitude fell the country became lusher.


We passed through a lost world of ancient stone terraces and buildings, crumbling and reclaimed by the forest. We made camp by the river and built a fire. We had left the mountains. We felt sad, bereaved as if we had lost a friend, a cheerful bubbly friend that had led us though the mountains.


Thunder rolled through the mountains and rain lashed down on our camp. The next day we would cross the bridge of Pilgrims through the narrow ancient stone streets of Canfrank, and on, through Villanua to the dry dusty plains and canyons of Arargon, a bleak, infertile and eroded land, and on to the green valleys of Basque country where our journey had begun.




story of the little river

I was sitting by the playful Panke River
swift and shallow, cold and murky,
when a girl climbed from it’s stony bed
Her skin was bright like winter’s snow
Her hair was green like watercress
Her eyes were blue, like the endless sky
She climbed up onto to the red brick wall
And sat beside me, wet and still
When she spoke her voice was like
The little torrent, bubbling, crackling, slight

I am the spirit of Panke, little daughter of the Spree.
Long ago I danced through forests cool and dark.
And beasts of every size and shape drank from my sparkling depths
The birds build nests along my banks,
while fish leapt through my liquid electricity
The deer came, and aurochs too beneath the beech and willow

When men they came, they worshiped me
They came from the mountains and the sea
To wash themselves in my sweet spring so I might heal them
And to little me they left offerings of gold and silver

The city grew along my banks, and farms where forest was.
Through winters long and dark, I froze and once ran red with blood
The men with cranes and shovels came.
Culverts, bridges, factories, pain
Then they turned me into a drain
My skin was blackened with the soot
My water brown with oil
My spring dried up
And my tears like acid burned.

but here I am, my skin is bright
my hair is green
I am alive
And birds and deer return


Six floors, no balcony, nineteenth century Berlin flats.
one gang of bickering Turkish brats.
twentyseven square meters, 2 windows, 8 walls
two coal burning ovens and a slate gray sky,
a slate gray coffee and a slate gray mind.
one plastic, yellow bathtub, three wooden cups
and a red, painted tui beside a rowan branch.

one cold autumn wind, scarf, shoes, hoody.
one thousand rough-cut, well-worn cobble stones
six floor soot stained facades.
 five gangly gipsy women; they do not beg here; they beg where the money is
three German red faced drunks, Prost! Prost! Gesundheit!
the gaudy Turkish shops.
two euro fifty, two pieces of bread, fives slashes of meat,
four scoops of salad, one squirt of herb sauce
danke schön, bitte schön

three Muslim ladies only their eyes to see
one Somali German he came here to be free
a Turkish man is singing, its beautiful to hear
an unkindness of crows, a twitter of sparrows
the abandoned factories
one dried up healing spring,
and one playful little river flanked by weeping willows

A trip to the semi-wild

Drive a few hours north of Berlin and you will find yourself in the least populated province of Germany (still heavily populated by NZ standards). It is a land of lakes, wolves, wild boar, fields, meadows, and German villages.grainAn ear of wheat, ripe and ready for harvest.

butterflyA painted lady butterfly alights on the dry stalks of ripe wheat.

mistletoeCircular clumps of parasitic mistletoe cover this poplar, sucking its sap and possibly causing some branches to die.

grassgrass seeds unfurl on an open meadow at the edge of the forest

camouflagedThe field ends and the dark, boar-infested forest begins.antsA band of furious ants ravage the carcass of an unknown thing on the forest path.squirrelA red squirrel dances a territorial dance on a scots pine, in mixed beech and fur forest.toadThe common toad, with dry cool skin hops across the forest path.lightstreamShafts of light illuminate the smoke from our camp fire as it wafts through the under story of young beech trees.

avocadoA well sliced lunch.



Daily scenes from Berlin


A view from the street outside our house: a social centre has been tagged with “Free Gaza.” The street is in Gesundbrunnen the most multicultural kiez in Berlin (only 35 percent German). Gesundbrunnen was founded around a natural spring close to the Panke river and it was believed that it had healing properties. In the nineteenth century rapid development saw the construction of factories as well as neogothic and neoclasic architecture along the Panke. The construction of the factories caused the spring to dry up and an electric fountain now stands in its place.


A view of the Panke river as it flows through Gesundbrunnen. It could be somewhere in the wild but this beautiful spot is five minuets from our house and in the middle of one of Europe’s most populous cities. The red brick factories behind the Panke have long been decommissioned, and they are now mainly artist studios. The chimneys no longer belch black smoke but stand like odd towers, monuments to a bygone industrial age. For such a little river the Panke (29km) has its own history and traditions it even has its own folk dance, the Panke Polka. But these traditions are slowly being forgotten and the youngest member of the polka club is in her fifties.


Make love; why not? This potentially political banner hangs above a balcony in Neukölln.


“Happy Junior,”A chinese-vase juggler prepares to show his impressive skills during the Berlin street performance festival, while his “proud parents” look on. Plenty of magic shows, juggling and impressive acrobatics for all.


A mechanical, remote-control horse bends its head down so that the children may stroke it and enjoy their petting. Meanwhile the fire-breathing wing-flapping dragon reclines on a pedestal behind it.


Hot days. As over thirty degree heat strikes the city, Berlin residents cool off in what ever way they can, including the public fountains in Alexanderplatz.


Neptune watches while cranes work reshaping Berlin’s landscape, in a reminder of the constant development which is changing the city. Prices are skyrocketing and apartments are hard to come by as development pushes people out of what were once effordable enclaves. Even the flea-market shows signs of gentrification, no longer a place to find cheep stuff for your house, more a place to buy imported garments and gaudy trinkets.


In a similar vane the bonanza has clearly not helped everybody, this is not a view of a slum in Mumbai it is a slum in the heart of Berlin. With up to a hundred and fifty people and growing this 12,000 square metre area is packed with shacks and tents. It has one water pump but no proper sanitation or toilets, and cooking is done on open fires. Although the space is a positive social experiment and the fact that it has been left to grow by the authorities shows an unexpected tolerance. The fact that space in such a shanty town is in demand is a damning vision of Europe’s growing inequity.



This rather more bourgeois shanty town is located close-by, along the banks of the Kreutzberg canal. Here there are water tanks, solar power, comfortable looking caravans, gardens, a stage and a composting toilet system. There is also an open fireplace, and a bar. Established in 1991 built in the former no-mans-land between East and West. This community has thrived and maintained, a very different and undoubtedly more exclusive social experiment than the slum.


The Wolf Game


Pre-christian grave in basque country

Basque Country is probably my favourite place in Europe. Not only is the food amazing, and the people welcoming, but this northern corner of Iberia, has a wild feel. The land is mountainous and rocky. The forests are lush and full of moss. Wild horses and feral cattle roam the highlands. Vultures soar on thermals, scouring the land for carrion. The wild Atlantic Ocean lashes the coast. And wolves return from the east. The stone, fortified Romanesque-villages, their churches like castles, appear to merge with the landscape. Basque country is a land with a proud folk history and culture. It is home to Europe’s only pre Indo-European language and their folk history is imbued with the narrative of fierce resistance to foreign rule. The beautiful mountains and valleys evoke the image of the Basque outlaw, his beret, his rifle and his wineskin. It was when traveling in Basque country that we learned to play the wolf game.


For the game you will need:

  1. At least nine people
  2. A pack of cards (or a pen and scraps of paper)
  3. An open fire, hot food, plenty of wine and a remote location (optional)
  4. Good acting skills and a vindictive disposition

To begin the players must nominate a narrator. The narrator then randomly and secretly gives the remaining players a card, allocating their roles. Players are divided into 3 wolves, 1 child, and 1 witch; the remaining players are farmers.

The narrator then introduces the first phase of the game, and may say something like, “darkness falls on the village. The shadows lengthen, and the village goes to sleep.” All the players then close their eyes.

The narrator introduces the second phase: “But something terrible is happening in the village and wolves have come down from the mountains. Wolves open your eyes!” The three players who have been dealt a wolf card open their eyes, and the player dealt the child card may try and sneakily look while pretending to still have his or her eyes closed. “Wolves,” the narrator continues, “choose a victim to kill and eat!” The wolves decide silently among themselves who from the village they will kill.


“Wolves are you sure?” The wolves nod.

The narrator introduces the next phase: “wolves close your eyes. Witch open your eyes.” The players follow the narrator’s instructions. “Witch, you must know who has been killed.” The narrator points to the hapless victim, which could be the witch theirself. “Witch you have the power of life. Will you bring this person back from the dead? Know that you can only do this once.” The witch nods or shakes her head. “Witch, you have the power of death. Will you kill another of the village? Know that you can only do this once.” The witch shakes their head or makes a sign of killing and points to a victim. “Witch,” the narrator closes the phase, “close your eyes.”


Final phase: “Dawn comes to the village, the cock crows and with it terrible news. Somebody in the village has been killed, torn to shreds by ravenous evil wolves. Everybody open your eyes!” All the players open their eyes and the narrator points out the person/people who have been killed in the night. They then leave the game, reveal their role and get some wine. The remaining players must then all discuss among themselves who is a wolf, and should therefore be killed. If consensus cannot be reached, a majority vote is sufficient to eject the unfortunate victim from the game. The narrator should not intervene in the discussions. Once the victim has been decided the narrator speaks: “the people of the village have spoken. You, stand accused of being a wolf. Do you have anything to say in your defence?” The victim of village justice speaks once in his or her defence. “Would anybody like to change their vote?” If there is still a majority that favour the killing of the victim then the person is removed from the game and their identity is revealed.


The phases of the game are repeated until either all the farmers have been killed ensuring a wolf victory or all the wolves have been killed ensuring a farmer victory.

Additional roles

1: Hunter: the hunter acts as a witch and has his or her own phase; the hunter cannot bring a player back to life, but can once in the game kill one of the village.

2: the lover: the lover acts as a farmer but with one additional role. He or she writes on a piece of paper one of the group. If he or she is killed then the person whose name is written on the paper is also killed.



Veröffentlicht unter Spain

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