Steve Taylor - The Boy and Me: A Pyrenean Adventure

It seemed a somewhat low key start to our big adventure. Descending from our 2nd floor council flat at 9.30am we stepped out into a deserted neighbourhood. The morning rush over; workers at work, kids at school and all the dossers and dealers still in bed. There was just a solitary pensioner eyeing us over with a look of puzzlement and suspicion as she returned home from the local shop with the morning paper. We werent part of the everyday scenery in this Liverpool suburb.

No fond farewells for us. No tearful goodbyes. No big send off. We tottered down the quiet suburban street crushed beneath enormous backpacks. My son Michaels pack towered above him. From behind he resembled a sort of huge walking wardrobe. His backpack was gargantuan, although I put much of this down to his poor packing skills and a series of luxury items he had insisted in bringing along. His sponge bedroll was strapped to the top of the pack and was leaning to one side, which gave him the appearance of some sort of leaning mobile tower that was in impending danger of tipping beyond its point of balance and crashing to the ground.

It was a bright, warm and sunny morning and the estate was devoid of life except for a solitary battle scarred black tom cat lazing in the morning sun on a garden wall. Our presence did not disturb his slumber and we passed by seemingly unnoticed. In contrast, when we turned the corner into Forthlin Road we were confronted by the regular melee of tourists crowding outside Paul McCartneys former home. They had just alighted from the psychedelically coloured Magical Mystery Tour coach taking them on a tour of the Beatles former homes and hang-outs. From the looks on the mostly Japanese and American faces outside of what to us was no more than just another council house, (the only give-away being the small metal plaque next to the garden gate); we were a source of some curiosity. They eyed us up like we were part of the show, another mystery on their magical mystery tour! To an outsider both parties probably appeared equally alien in this environment. A peculiar sight in the midst of a Liverpool council estate without doubt. A father and son kitted out for a Pyrenean adventure and a group of tourists, armed with digital cameras and mobile phones, taking photographs of a post war terraced council house. We passed on by, somewhat bemused by the hush that descended upon the group, and left them to resume their Beatles Tour with our appearance and purpose remaining unexplained. We turned the corner onto the main road to wait for our bus.

After a short wait we struggled onto the number 86, attracting the attentions of yet more pensioners who were taking advantage of their free off peak bus travel. The twirlies, as they are referred to in Liverpool. The name derived from their plaintiff call to the driver upon flagging down the bus on which they were not supposed to use their free pass until after 9.30am, Am I too early? Which when said quickly translates as am I twirly?

We alighted some 20 minutes later outside the Lewiss department store and made our way to Liverpools Lime Street station for our 11.09am train to London Euston. Possibly because of our attire we felt rather conspicuous but I doubt whether our teetering forms received more than a passing glance. The distance from the bus stop to Lime Street station was probably little more than about 400 metres but it was enough to make both of us even more aware of the significant weight of our packs, each of which wed weighed on the bathroom scales at home before leaving.

It hadnt dawned on me at the time that the simplest method of weighing the packs would be to weigh ourselves with and without the packs and then deduct one figure from the other. However, thinking about it later, the combined weight of me and my pack would have exceeded the maximum 20stone on the scales and probably bust the thing. (I could have used Michael!) Instead we faffed around trying to balance the packs on the scales, struggling to ensure we didnt let any bits overhang onto the floor, trying to minimise the degree to which we supported them and hence some of the weight, whilst struggling to prevent them obscuring the scales measuring display window. They each weighed in at just on 20 kilos, (44 pounds), without water. The water we would need to carry on a daily basis on our trek could add a further 4kg to each pack. We each carried a 3-litre hydration pack and 1 litre bottle, which were both currently empty.

The seeds of doubt, which had plagued my private thoughts throughout the planning of our trip, were being nurtured and cultivated once again. The short walk from the bus to the train station made me doubt we could carry these monstrous sacks as far as the train let alone up and down one of Europes major mountain chains for six weeks. I could barely carry the bloody thing down the street without my legs buckling. Michael seemed unperturbed. I kept my thoughts to myself.

We sat in one of the station cafes eating baguettes and drinking coffee. Our first sample of foreign food! Ha you dont have to go to the continent for continental food these days! It felt rather strange that there was no one around to see us off, but all family and friends were either at school or work. In contrast to the quiet of our council estate we were now surrounded by the hustle and bustle of Liverpools main railway station, Lime Street, but here we just blended in with the other travelling public. Everyone was going about their own business unaware of two more travellers amongst the crowd. Why would they be? I wanted to walk up to people and say, excuse me, do you realise that me and my lad are about to embark upon probably the toughest long distance walk in Europe? I resisted the temptation of such a ridiculously embarrassing encounter and sat and drank my coffee.

Getting on the train was a challenge. Theyre not designed to accommodate backpacks the size of a small family car. We both careered down the centre aisle of the train in pinball fashion bouncing from side to side off alternate passengers as we encountered each row of seats until, a dozen sorries later, we reached our pre-booked designated places either side of a table. We were in a quandary over where to stow the backpacks. The luggage rack at the end of the carriage was full and the spaces beneath the seats were not tall enough, or wide enough. The alternative, the overhead storage areas, were available but, considering it was all I could do to get my pack off the ground and onto my back, the prospect of getting it above head height seemed remote to say the least. I envisaged myself straining under the weight, bulging veins and eyeballs, toppling backwards, pack still held high, the combined load of my 17 stone frame and accompanying pack crushing the old biddy in the opposite seat. I didnt relish the ensuing paperwork so we opted to double our seating allocation, I daresay much to the annoyance of the other passengers, and dumped our packs on the seats adjacent the window.

The journey to London Euston was uneventful. I spent the time going back over the all the items wed packed and trying to establish whether wed missed anything important. Bit late now, I thought, but at least whilst still in the UK it would be possible to replace any omissions without too much hassle. We talked about our journey; trains to Portsmouth, via London, then ferry from Portsmouth to Bilbao in northern Spain. All pre-booked and pre-arranged. Then Then, for us our journey entered the unknown. We hadnt booked any transport from Bilbao on to Hendaye, the small French coastal resort on the Spanish border, which was some 40-50 miles east of Bilbao, and the starting point of our walk.

I suppose this would be a good time to inform you just what it we were setting out to do. My son Michael and I were planning to walk the length of the Pyrenees, the mountain chain that forms a natural boundary between France and Spain. Michael, who was 18 years old, had only just completed his A levels and, in contrast to the stress of his academic studies, or more accurately, lack of studies and the stress accompanied by the prospect of academic failure, he had been quite excited about the prospect of our adventure for sometime. However, at this stage I must point out that Michael is not really the type of person for allowing his emotions to surface. Ive never quite been able to work out whether he has inherited some of my laid back characteristics or whether his relaxed attitude is down to a more common male teenage lethargy, which seems so prevalent amongst his age group. Probably a bit of both! After much deliberation, we, or more accurately I, had decided to opt for the HRP, (Haute Randonee Pyrenees) or Pyrenean Haute Route as our preferred coast-to-coast passage. Michael was just looking forward to the adventure and had been quite content to leave all of the pre-planning to his dad. The alternative long distance paths, the GR10 (France) and the GR11 (Spain) had also been given serious consideration but there was something about the challenge of the HRP which appealed to my sense of adventure. The Haute Route had been devised in the 1970s by a Frenchman by the name of George Vron but from my study of the various Pyrenean maps it was a route that appeared to have many variations. Furthermore, the route described in our guidebook (Pyrenean Haute Route by Ton Joosten) was not always the same as that marked on the map, nor was it the same as described in other HRP guidebooks. In addition it was not a GR route and hence did not have the benefit of the red and white paint flash markers, which guided the walker on these trails, except of course where the trails coincided which was repeated many times along the way. All in all it was more of a concept than a long distance path. It straddled the French Spanish border from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean generally seeking out the higher ground, but not always. From what I could gather, whilst not adhering to the highest ground at all times, it was a true mountain trail, largely avoiding the small centres of population of the Pyrenees and seeking out the wilder more remote regions.