left margin


As usual we had underestimated a tad, and it took me half an hour to get to the refuge. It was a depressing journey. As I came around the last corner I could see the refuge two hundred and fifty meters below, but by the time I had got half way down, first it, then both of us became completely enshrouded in mist. This, plus finding that the path basically followed a stream-bed made it a very soggy experience. The gardienne's hut was bigger than the refuge which was a bit of a shock, but finally pushing through the door was worse. The place was standing room only. My glasses produced an instant extra layer of fog, so I had to grope my way to the dormitory. By shuffling a few people around, and conceding to take the upper deck rather than the lower as per my instructions, I was able to secure four berths. I spread my stuff out across them, then went back out to meet Claudia.

Figure 25: Yet another stream, but this one is the path

As I set off back up the hill, a nasty thought occurred to me: the path was quite badly marked here, (ambiguously anyway), and that, coupled with the maquis bushes and mist, made the possibility of us passing as the proverbial ships in the night a distinct possibility. I reckoned I had at least ten minutes walking to do before there was any danger of this, but I called out anyway. She could not have been more than ten meters away.

It was still only about three o'clock and it was bliss. Instead of the usual too-brief period between arrival and needing to prepare supper and then get our heads down, we had several hours to just lounge, rest, read and doze. The only fly in the ointment was knowing that Alf and Martha were still out there in the ever-worsening weather. Finally, we must have dozed off, because we came-to to hear the gardienne telling somebody that there was no room left, and then Alf and Martha exchange rude pleasantries on the news. Claudia soon put the picture straight. They were soaked, their only consolation that before they'd even got their sacks off, the roof thundered with the sound of hail.

We set up drying lines, and while they spread their clothes out, I made soup. We spent a couple of hours discussing the error of our ways, the state of our luck, and our general state of health. More to the point, we discussed the options for the next day. There were two alternatives. The top route via the crêtes , or the low route via the Manganello valley (said to be one of the most beautiful in Corsica). Both these had the same refuge as a destination, which meant they both suffered from the same problem: the next refuge was half the size of this one, which was already the smallest we had been in. There was a third alternative. Take the low road, but instead of turning up to the refuge, keep going down to Canaglia, the first village off the route. We agreed to see what the morning brought, but it was clear that the morning would have to bring something considerably more promising than it had managed on any morning yet if it was going to persuade some of the party to stay on the mountain.

Figure 26: The resulting disappointing print


 

The sunset was nearly enough. A truly stunning display. The mist had dropped into the valley, leaving just enough high cloud to catch the bloody reds and purples of the sun's last rays. The sun was already below the mountain tops, leaving an orange glow which changed so quickly to the deep blue of the night sky on the other horizon that we could see the stars (an unusual enough sight on their own).

But this was no more than an ordinary stunning sunset might supply. No, the piece de la resistance of this theatrical production was the activity in the valley. Down below us, the storm was still raging. We could lookdown on the lightening flashes dancing in the boiling clouds. Another incredible photo-op which the resulting prints can only be a disappointment for.

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