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Being young and stupid I had the bright idea during the summer of 2007 that I would walk across the Pyrenees, the mountain range that separates France and Spain, from the town of Gavarnie in France to Huesca in Spain. Since all my friends are either unwilling to spend their money on adventure or unadventurous in the first place, I thought I would go alone. Having done a bit of mountaineering here and there, I figured that not a lot could go wrong.

After much poring over maps I chose my route, and took the train to the revolting town of Lourdes - as close to the mountains as the train could go. Famed for its holy springs, the town has become a vast tourist trap, with crowds of people on crutches and in wheelchairs bustling around run-down souvenir shops. I fled as soon as I worked out what time the bus came, and headed into the mountains to the town of Luz-Saint-Sauveur, where I had to change buses.

It was a bit of a wait, but I bought some (more) gas for my stove, and sat in an overpriced cafe with an ice tea as it began to rain. By the time I had made it up a sheer gorge in the bus to Gavarnie it was getting late, and the heavens opened. Being a rough, tough, mountain climbing sort I dived for cover to put on my waterproofs and consult the map without turning it to soggy pulp. Then, since the rain seemed to have no intention of stopping, I headed off through the town to find the campsite. I took a small pleasure in seeing 90% of the other walkers getting soaked, and luckily the rain stopped as I was explaining in broken French that I wanted "un nuit sil vous plait." 5 euros seemed reasonable for a plot perched on the edge of a hill, with the vast expanse of the Cirque de Gavarnie spreading its peaks above my miniscule tent. Luckily I didn't intend to tackle it head on, but it was still Big with a capital B. And I was already at 1300 metres above sea level.

Since the only restaurant in town didn't seem to like the prospect of serving a hairy English hiker, I bought a pizza from a mildly crazy woman who explained that she came from Henley of all places...well, 25 years ago she did. After a futile bid to ask for a pizza without cheese, I ended up with a vast soggy mess of tomato, cheese and ham. It was, of course, delicious.

The next day I woke early and packed my things up, feeling for the first time that perhaps my pack was a little heavy as it weighed in at about 23 kilos. Still, it wasn't long before I got used to it; neither was it long before I realised that

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