Newbury Mountain Club Journal 2008

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8-17 August - Pyrenees

Present (in order of first appearance á Montagne): Dan, Andrea, Simon (aka 'The Jackal'), Bruce, Richard, Paula, Dave, Sarah

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents - except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Newbury that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness… and such a night it was when the forward party of the 2008 NMC Expedition set off. Myself and Andrea were driven to Stansted by Simon. Bruce and Richard S were heading out Saturday, and Dave and Paula Sunday.

Stansted was busy. My bag was overweight, having the stove and emergency supplies in it, so this meant re-packing a few of the heavier items in Andrea's bag. Now, at this point there begins a tale which will, like Alan's Wrong Trousers and Maggie's "He's been arrested" monologue, be remembered on meets and hallowed in the years to come. Third generation members will huddle around the glowing embers of a summer campfire and tell tales of the earlier pioneers who set the benchmark for those that followed.

With the weight adjusted (stuff taken out, bag given the all-clear at checkin, bag refilled with stuff out of sight and handed in at the 'oversize' desk without being weighed), we made our way to the departure lounge. Simon had a rucksack small enough to be hand luggage. Andrea had whatever it is girls feel the need to carry at all times. I had all the maps and guides in a roll top bag. We watched as our bags went through the security X-ray, with both Simon's bag and mine being shunted sideways for 'further investigation'. Security went through our stuff. The usual questions. I had an automatic pencil which had caught the X-ray eye. Simon had a rather large Swiss Army Knife. In that manner which must involve weeks of practice in front of a mirror, Security man said "Oh dear, Sir". Lulled into admitting guilt before the item was found with those "Did you pack this bag yourself Sir?" and "Do you know all the items which are in this bag?" questions, Simon was now faced with answering the rather tricky accusation of attempting to smuggle a weapon onto a plane. Time ticked on. The chance of getting a pre-flight pint was evaporating. More Security arrived. Andrea and I had to go, or risk missing the flight. Security girlie who had also now arrived assured us Simon would not miss his flight. I took this as a bad omen. And on a Friday fell all this mischance.

Sure enough, Simon missed the flight. Interviewed by CID, (nice cop/nasty cop), by the time it was all over the only flight of the day had long gone. Andrea and I tried in vain to see if Simon was on the plane, but the sour-faced Ryanair trolley dollies wouldn't tell us.

So we were now down to two. We were in Pau by 9:45am. It was a warm sunny day. A taxi and train ride later and we were in Lourdes. Lourdes is a strange place. Bernadette's claim to have seen a woman in a grotto whilst collecting firewood, rather than be dismissed as childish nonsense, has become a huge Catholic industry. Lourdes is second only to Paris for the number of hotel beds available and over 5 million people a year come to see the cave and take away the water which issues forth there. Trains, mainly from Italy, arrive in the dead of night and this begins a surreal pantomime of the grotesque, a spectacle worthy of Freddie Francis as nuns wheel away the chronically ill on stretchers…

North face of the Vignemale (3298m).
On the summit of the Vignemale.
Plodding up the Ossoue Glacier.
The Jackal has arrived - evening at Bayssellance Refuge.

But enough of Catholic tomfoolery. We had mountains to call upon. Two more bus rides later, separated by a dismal attempt at hitch-hiking we were, at just after 2pm, at the start of the walk to the first hut. This promised to be a leisurely romp up a valley, passing a lake or two. We made good time, stopping for a Coke at a small lakeside café. We stopped for pictures on a little footbridge (where Andrea collared a local couple out for a walk into taking a picture of herself and me. I am sure that the locals thought me very unromantic when we posed separated by what the Victorians would have called a Modesty Gap.) A little further on it began to get misty, which was a shame as the views on the approach to the first hut are impressive. We arrived at the Gaube hut in good time and had a beer. Andrea's vegetarian peccadilloes did not go down well with the hut guardian. Rolling his eyes in a typically French manner he was not impressed. But Andrea's winning smile softened his Gallic stubbornness and an omelette (the first of many, I presumed) was prepared. Not having had any sleep since Thursday morning I went to bed and left Andrea making friends.

Total ascent: 655m


The sun was up bright and we were off by 8am, the superb view of the North face of the Vignemale dominating the vista from the hut. There are many fine climbs to the top, but we had plans of a more circuitous nature, like the early pioneers "the weak in courage is strong in cunning". The shape of the land kept the mountainside in shadow and we made good time. We spotted a group who were strong in courage climbing the face. After a short climb we were at the Horquette D'Ossoue (2734m). Our next hut was only a kilometre away. We dropped to it and after a Coke or two deposited as much gear as possible before heading out to conquer the Vignemale. This involves a slight drop, a traverse over some very steep bare rock and a long glacial plod. The total declivity is about 750m. It was late for starting such a climb and most of the day's ascensionists were on the return journey. But it was fun and our packs were light. My boots were giving me a little pain, but by loosening the laces it wasn't too bad.

Towards the top we got a mobile signal. This bought the news that 'The Jackal' (we had exhausted every possible joke about international terrorism, body cavity searches, etc etc) had caught the same flight as Bruce and Richard and was going to try and catch Andrea and me up. This was unfortunate as I had told the Guardian of the hut we would be staying at that night that we'd require a room for two. If there is one thing hut keepers don't like it is uncertainty.

The way onwards - the Upper Gavarnie Cirque and Breche du Roland.
Sunset over Pic Marbore.
Col des Sarradetes from the hut of the same name.
Moonlight at Barroude, looking at the Franco-Spanish border.

The last 100m to the top of the Vignemale is a steep, unprotected climb. The fact that the hill as almost empty was a bonus as the rock is very loose. There is no path and you just make your way, by the route you think best, to the top. We set off and without any problem or trouble were on the top of the Vignemale (3298m – highest French peak in the Pyrenees). The view was superb. Cloud inversion in the valley, peaks all around. The fact that the peak stands alone adding to the 'Made it, Ma! Top of the world!' feeling. The Gaube hut is visible from the top - 1250 metres below, but less than a mile as the crow flies. We rested for a while, Andrea made friends with the next party to arrive and eventually we set off back. Downhill was not so good on my feet. So it was a slow and leisurely descent back, but there was no rush, we drank in the views and stopped often. Back at the hut we drank a few beers and Andrea had a good look at the local talent.

We had dinner, a very good 3 course meal with fine soup and then, just as the sun was setting Simon arrived. He'd walked in the same way as us and added on the climb up and over the Horquette D'Ossoue, putting to shame Bruce and Richard who had opted for the night life, nuns and beer of Lourdes. We had a glass of wine or two, watched the sun finally slip beyond the horizon, the flickering beam of a headtorch belonging to one of the climbers who had been on the North face of the Vignemale as they settled down for the night on the summit and looked at the onward route.

Total ascent (for the summiteers): 1432m


Up at six, we ate little before setting off into the early morning sun. The day promised to be a long one. The Breche Du Roland, below which our hut for the night lay, seemed a long way off. The initial part of the day was a long descent along the voie normale to the hut. We passed several early groups making their way up. There are grottoes on this path, carved for Count Henry Russell so he could live on the flanks of his beloved mountain. His senility got worse and he had the locals blast more caves for him, just below the summit, so he could live above the glacier during the summer months. Today the caves are no more than foetid holes used by sheep and walkers for much the same purpose.

Irises were in bloom on the sheltered steep grass of the hillside and the sun was still behind the mountains giving a cool descent. Marmots called to each other and the views were fine. I had travelled this way in '92 and it is strange the way that the mind remembers clearly some aspects and vistas, but has painted over others. Like faces from the past.

This is the way, honest. On the approach to Sarradetes.
Waiting for the soup, Pic de Secres in the background.
On the Pic Sant Andre Ridge (2531m).
Upper Ossoue Valley, passing the locals.

What I had not forgotten was the onward route. Whilst the majority of walkers and backpackers descend all the way to Gavarnie, George Veron in his guide to the HRP (the route we were following for this leg of the week) had devised a much more direct route. Veteran mountaineers will know that when directness is involved in the hills it will also involve some bloody hard work. We rounded a bluff and the bloody hard work was laid out before us. We stopped at a locked shepherd's hut  (Cabane De Sausse, 1900m) and had a breather. My boots were beginning to be torture. Simon asked if I was limping. I slackened off the laces and opened out the tongue. I remembered clearly that the climb was a chore and that this had been when I was a fit stripling. I kept this information to myself and we set off. The climb is pathless and over thick grass. It is important to arrive on the ridge above at the right point, to avoid some steep walls. But as Louis Armstrong once said, "we have all the time in the world", so halfway up we stopped on a grassy bluff and I offered to make some soup. Andrea spotted that the best before was May 2000 on my gemusesuppe and refused to have any, so we had to have the 2003 knoblauchesuppe instead. It was good, filled the spot and gave us the energy to finish the rest of the climb quickly. Andrea showing Simon and I up by arriving at the top first (Pic De Sant Andre, 2608m). The view was very good, but unfortunately showed us that there was still a way to go. The ridge was cold and undulating. We made a steep downhill (Col de Espécières, 2334m), ate a little more and plodded on back up almost as high as we'd just been (Pic Les Ports, 2476m) before dropping again to the Port De Bucharo (2270m). Simon learnt the hard way that contouring around does not always work out as one had hoped.

The Bucharo col has a road up to the top on the French side, an unfinished Franco-Spanish project from the 1930s to connect the countries. Because of this there are a fair few day walkers. I took my boots off and cleared the area. There was only a few km left and one last climb. We drank bucketfuls of water from a stream, and against the tide of day walkers coming down we slowly worked our way up, scrambling up where the path followed the bed of an icy torrent. But at last we were in the snowy final col. The hut was before us. With a newfound energy we covered the last metres and gladly dropped our sacks. Richard and Bruce were already having dinner so Andrea, Simon and I waited outside as the sun warmed the rocks with the last rays drinking a well earned beer or two. I threw my socks away as the pong was too much, even for France. It was, without doubt, the hardest day I have ever been on with the NMC. We did 1358m of ascent and covered some 18 km all under the glaring, unrelenting summer sun. No major peaks – but then as Robert Pirsig once said - "To live for some future goal is shallow – It is the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top". We ate our dinner in the second sitting and then all sat and watched the sunset over the Cirque de Gavarnie whilst drinking some dubious French red plonk.

The West is broken into Bars
Of orange, gold and Grey
Gone is the sun, come are the stars
And night infolds the day

Total ascent: 1358m (or 1222m for the arrivees)


It was a hot and uncomfortable night with the refuge packed with way too many sleepers. Richard entertained the entire room with his bedtime routine (very tricky getting into your jim-jams with only 6 inches of headroom). He cursed the hut, the mattress, the whole glorious hut experience.

When we went to bed the sun had been setting leaving a clear and starry night. When I awoke around 6am, there was the unmistakable low rumble of thunder. Outside the hut it was foggy and raining hard. Many of the campers and bivouacers had made their way into the hut and the dining room was filled with snores and black slumbering shapes. We got hot drinks and listened to the thunder. The rain got heavier, lightning closer and thunder louder. It all built up to a hail storm of Biblical proportions which was centred directly above the hut. Huge marble sized balls of ice pummelling the ground. We wondered about the folk still in tents and those just in bivvy bags. It was clear we were not going anywhere, and certainly not up to the Breche and to the top of the Cirque peaks. So we ate a little more breakfast and had more hot chocolate. Simon had a shave in the pitch black and severed his chin. At around 9am, all togged up in all the rain gear we had, we set off to drop into the valley below.

Bruce goes down the way he came up, Echelle de Sarradetes.
Richard is already at the bar - the team at the base of the Echelle.
Tiptoe through the wet grass to the nice warm bar.
When will the thunder stop so we can get out of here? Ref Sarradetes.

The route was very steep, Alpine in nature and was, unfortunately for Bruce and Richard the same route they had come up the day before. It looked like October. A bad day in October. It was cold and wet. But spirits were high. We passed the out fall of the Refuge toilets and as we descended the snow thinned out and the view of the famous Gavarnie cascades got better. The valley floor is 1000m below the hut and the distance walked to cover this drop is 2km. It is very steep. In the wet this made some sections rather dangerous. We took our time and after several superb and airy moments, fine photo opportunities and exposed scrambles we were at the base of the climb. We skipped gaily over the meadows to the Hotel that has supplied victuals to walkers and sightseers for over a century and sat down, pleased with ourselves, on the terrace. Richard remarked that the day before, when Bruce had led him to the same spot, he'd taken one look at the imposing rock walls of the Cirque and decided Bruce was either lost or mad. The way up to the hut is impossible to make out until you are practically at the base of the climb.

We had a beer, lunch, more beer, another beer and a beer for the road. After two hours of beer we set off, heading on an easy path towards our next hut and also to where Paula and Dave would be meeting us. Serendipitously, after most of the climbing had been done, in a delightful wooded glade, we came to a chalet which was serving drinks and cakes. It seemed almost impolite to pass by without making a purchase so we sat down and ordered some drinks. French cider was on offer, at 5€ a glass. It turned out to be 5€ a 75cl bottle. So we had a try of the Brut one, then of the Demi-sec one, back to the Brut... Paula arrived down from the hut so we had to have another to celebrate. We said goodbye to the two perplexed chaps running the little chalet and swooned our way up the last 200m to the Refuge Espuguettes (2027m). Dave was back at the refuge after a walk almost up to the col behind. The refuge wasn't too busy, save for a lamb of only a few days old which had been 'adopted' by the hut wardens (surely, this being France, so as to be fattened up for the pot). We drank cheap red wine and passed the evening with hilarity, jocularness and merriment. Wine is good for you – even the Bible says so. Vinum bonum lætificet cor hominis.

Total ascent: 433m (or 662m for the arrivees)


The day started cold and bright. We had a late breakfast and then headed west from the hut to conqueror the little-climbed but finely placed Piméné. The route from the hut is straightforward and the summit can be seen from the hut. It is well placed as it stands back from the main Pyreneean range, thus offering good views east and west along the main range. We made good time up the beginning slopes, the uphill not too bad on my feet. The path soon made the ridge and here we elected to follow the ridge slowly gaining our 2801m target. The cloud was moving in, but not enough to cause worry. Andrea, Simon and I looked back to the distant Baysellance hut. Eventually we made the top. The views were not as good as they could have been as the weather was not playing ball, with low cloud obscuring the highest peaks. We had a little to eat and headed back, unfortunately the same way as up. Dave struck off down the path lower down causing concern with some of the group as he lost height on seemingly the wrong side of the hill. Dave and I hatched a cunning plan to follow the ridge as far as the Horquette d'Alans which looked do-able from where we were. Bruce and Paula decided to head down to the hut so Dave, Andrea, Simon, Richard and I continued along the narrowing ridge, up and down over the bumps till we reached an impassé. We looked at the way ahead, looked at the rather large drops on either side of the ridge, ummed and ahhed about continuing. Simon went further for an even closer look, but in the end we decided it was impassable. So, back the way we had come and down to the hut. My boots had now ground my big toe on the right to jelly so I took it rather slowly.

Morning ablutions, Spraggett-style. Refuge Espuguettes.
Contouring along below the Pic de Gerbats.
Summit of the Pic de la Gela (2851m)
Cider Hut Rules.

Back at the hut for early afternoon, it was decided that we needed showers. It happened that the cider hut had hot showers for a couple of euros, which was all the encouragement we needed, oh, and the cider. We went down to the chalet, relaxed on the grass and drank bottles of cider as vultures wheeled overhead. The hut was run by a local mountaineering club so I asked about routes up the Astazou peaks. Local knowledge flowed forth as fast as the cider and after a most pleasant afternoon we headed on back up to the hut. A party of school kids had arrived filling the place up; we drank wine, watched the cloud ebb and flow in the valley below us and later, after much wine, were entertained by Richard and his bedtime antics. We were laughing so much that we were keeping the school kids awake…

Total ascent: 1079m


Well, the plan had been to climb the Astazou by an exposed but cunning route along the upper terraces of the Cirque. Ropes were only needed if you were to slip on the narrow path. But, for whatever reason we found ourselves heading down, via the hotel at the base of the Cirque to Gavarnie. I don't think anyone really was that bothered. As we walked along the pine fringed path to the hotel we met the Guardiens from the cider hut, coming up the path laden with very large and heavy looking rucksacks. Motioning over his shoulder with his thumb the one chap said “Cidre!! vous avez bu de tout le cidre!!” We thanked them for bringing more up and promised to pop in later. Back down at the hotel we ordered an early lunch, ate well, drank well and it was then decided by some to head off on the tourist path to the very base of the cascades which fall in a series of ribbons from the upper terraces of the Cirque. Some elected to stay on the terrace of the hotel and have a few more beers. The Cirque de Gavarnie is one of the busiest tourist sites in the Pyrenees. Hordes of folk walk the 4km from the village to the hotel to gape at the view, take a few pictures and then head back. Many choose not to walk, but to let a donkey do the walking for them. This means that for a group of hardy mountain types the walk into the village is spent in appalling company. The main reason for going to town was to get cash and for me personally to get some new footwear. My card was broken so Richard offered to buy me some trainers. And a fine 26€ he bought me too. Getting money proved to be problematic, but Bruce announced he was willing to open the Banque de Bruce as he had come out with a wedge of bills to make Ozymandias blush. So, everyone moneyed up, we retired to a bar to spend some of that wealth. All that remained was to climb the 700m to the hut which being on a good path and me having a nice new pair of stout trainers we made in good time. We called in at the cider hut, had a few bottles to see us up the last 200m and made our way back to the hut. At dinner we were given a free carafe of wine in thanks for all the others we had bought…

Total ascent: 725m


We headed off at 8:30 with the prospect of warm showers at the end of the day. The first part of the day was a walk up to the Horquette d'Alans which we'd almost got to a few days earlier. It was colder and overcast which kept the pace brisk. From the col there is a long downhill following the Estaubé valley. But I decided that as it was a short day and the previous two had not been taxing, the group should have a go at visiting the tiny Refuge de Tuquerouye which is nestled in the col of the same name. On my last visit it had been a tiny, damp, cold, dark and somewhat unpleasant hovel. Getting to it involved a steep climb. Bruce, Simon, Andrea, Dave and I set off. Bruce turned back, Simon went off on a tangent. We followed the faint path and over a boulder field, old snow filling the gaps in the boulders. Simon popped out from behind a boulder ridge some distance away. Now, the best idea for joining us was to lose a little height and cross over to us on the rock, but intrepid Simon decided on the direct approach, even if it was across the top of a 60' 45° ice and snow slope. Boldly and then more cautiously, Simon made his way forward. Andrea, Dave and I watched with growing horror. However, Simon returned to the safety of the rock, but armed himself with two fangs of rock and stepped again onto the snow. Great Boldness is Seldom Without Some Absurdity and how right Bacon was. Still expecting a death slide to oblivion we watched again in horror as slip followed slide. The rocks did their thing – at least Simon was able to retreat in safety and take the safe way over to us. Non Semper Temeritas Est Felix, the motto of the hour.

Descending from the Vignemale over steep ground.
The team on the summit of Pimine (2801m).
Great Boldness Is Seldom Without Some Absurdity.

Before Simon joined the main party, I decided to set off for the Col. Dave and Andrea waited for Simon. The way to the col was steep, and partially snowed up, but a ribbon of scree was free from snow and had the makings of the way up. With ice axe I was able to make a safe passage to the top. The little hut has been refurbished and three bemused French lads were having lunch when I got there. But no time to waste. I quickly descended taking advantage of the gradient to glissade where possible on snow and scree and rejoined Andrea. We ran back and caught Simon and Dave – the others having set off to warm up – we'd been almost an hour. Now all we had was a long drop on a good path to the valley and a short climb to the end of the day. It began to rain on and off. We made the lake at Gloriettes and then contoured around the north flank of Mounherran before picking up a good old mining road which led us to the little hotel at Maillet. We had a warming drink or two, showered, ate a good and hearty meal and drank more. The aged owner, in between making some kind of local Gentian liquor, mapped out the best way for the next day's route on several post-it notes. Clutching these like Alain Quartermain we went to bed.

Total ascent: 715m (or 1189m for me!)


It had snowed on the tops in the night. We paid our rather large bill (oh, those liqueurs were nice though) and set off in the cold. The first part of the day was up to the roadhead along the tarmac. The cloud was grey and it was getting colder. The head of the Troumouse valley is a great bowl of undulating pasture, dotted with small lakes. Supposedly a pleasant place in summer. To reach the start of our climb meant a long traverse to the opposite side of the bowl, and from there a careful bit of route finding to ensure the correct line was taken to the top and the Col de la Sede. To miss the col would have been quite dangerous. But we had Monsieur's post-its and my previous knowledge of the route so we couldn't fail. The cloud broke enough to be able to see the col and the post-it maps were uncannily accurate. The climb to the col, when seen from below and afar, looks impossible. The angle of the rock, for it is rock over which the way lies, looks too steep. But up close the rock is seen to be in steep short terraces, making upwards and onwards progress a delight. Like the steps to Alamūt, to الموت and the Assassins guarded by a single bowman (well, I thought it was anyway). At the top the way opened out and we found ourselves on a broad ridge. We followed this up further, with mist swirling around below us obscruing the precipitous face of the west flank of the Pic de Gerbats. Many years ago I had looked over this edge and seen on a wafer thin terrace path an old man happily walking along. But not today.

No Way José - we are forced to return, above the Horquette d'Alans.
At the bottom of the Grande Cascade, Cirque de Gavarnie.
If you look closely, you can see our hut for the night.

We stopped for a brew and drank either coffee or fruit and herbal tea. All that remained now was to ascend the Pic de la Géla and find the way down to rejoin the path on the far side. The views from the Col de la Géla were superb. The cliffs here are some 400m tall and the refuge we would be staying in that night was visible in the valley far below. The wind as up and the air cold. We posed for airy photos and climbed the short distance to the peak – 2851m and the high point for most of the party. We rejoined the path in a col at 2439m. The map distance between the two is under a mile. All we had to do was find the way down. Pic de la Géla is a pyramid of rock with some rather large and dangerous cliffs and exposed ridges. Not the place to find you have descended along the wrong line. Careful route finding over scree and snow was the order of the day. Tricky at times. Once off the loose rock we could have a short rest and pick up speed to the col. From here it was a short walk, passing the base of the Géla cliffs with the summit a vertical 500m directly above us, to the Refuge de Barroude. The refuge was quiet, full of babies and nappies. We had a few drinks and waited for dinner. Whilst doing this I thought I'd check the bus timetables for the morning and found that I'd made a slight error. The original plan had been to walk the short downhill to the Ski Station at Piau Engaly and there catch one of 3 buses. But closer attention to the timetable showed that the buses only ran when the Ski Station was open. The nearest bus stop where a bus would actually be was over 20km away. I broke the news to the group gently with the opening line "I might have made a cock-up…"

The hut guardian suggested auto-stop but I could see doubt in the eyes of some… the best laid schemes o' mice an' men, gang aft agley…

Total ascent: 1235m


We were up early just in case our thumbs were not up to scratch. First we had a long, 7 or so mile, downhill to the roadhead. Once at the road we decided to walk the 1.5km to the first village and see if there was a bus timetable as hitching was still not a promising prospect for some. The timetable confirmed what we already knew, so we set off on the long walk. Thumbs out, we strung out on the road hoping for a lift. Dave and Paula were at the back, Bruce, Andrea and I in the middle and Simon and Richard out in front. We passed some local kids hitching, who were taking the sedentary approach to the affair. We plodded on. Andrea and I hung back from Bruce and got a lift from a Spanish couple who were off to the market in St Lary Soulan – the town with the buses. Shortly after we came up behind Bruce and the couple stopped again – even though room in the car was getting scarce. They decided, when we passed them, that Richard and Simon were two too far. So we arrived in St Lary Soulan. Dave and Paula were there already, having bagged a lift in a motorhome shortly after thumbing commenced. They'd been in town almost an hour. There was a bus, heading for Lannemezan where we could catch the train to Pau, but we thought that Richard and Simon would never forgive us if we caught it, so we headed into town to wait for them. The arrived in time for a late lunch having walked the whole way. Something about their hitching technique was obviously amiss. So we ate, caught the next bus, caught a train and so found ourselves in Pau. I had pre-booked a hotel, described as 'centre ville' but not quite. Sarah, who was holidaying further down the Pyrenees, had driven (quite a considerable distance) to say hello and join us for the night. We all did the three S's and got ready for a night on the town as it was Bruce's birthday. Bruce chose a Moroccan restaurant and a very good choice it was too. Richard spent half the evening looking at a large group through an alcove before having to be told it was a mirror, he then noticed that out of 50 odd folk in the restaurant not one actually had a plate of food in front of them. We drank of nectar and dined on Ambrosia and retired to the hotel sated and replete.


We caught the plane home. The Jackal was allowed back into Britain.


Dan Unwin
(photos by Dan Unwin and Andrea Postles)

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