Free Write -- The Backpackers

 

The prompt for our Tuesday Free write was six backpackers outside the tea room where we enjoyed croissants, tea and hot chocolate before starting to write. Our dog, Sherlock was taken home half way into the writing for stealing dog biscuits from my pocket. We live around the corner.

Rick's Free Write

The holiday trip to the south of France had the potential to delight or for disaster. Hugh, Laurie, their two daughters Bethany and Karrie and their husbands William and Jacques decided to go backpacking in the Pyrenees. 

It was Jacques idea -- he had grown up in the village of Argelès-sur-mer close by the Alberes section of the mountain range which divided France and Spain and the near-worshiped Canigou, the snow covered peak which rose out of the plains west of the village.

The ultimate goal was to climb to the summit of Canigou and build a small cairn with one stone from each.

Sleeping outdoors didn't rate high on Bethany's list, and when they passed the cozy-looking l'Hostalet boutique hotel, she suggested using it as a "base camp." The others, especially brother-in-law Jacques, chided her as soft and pampered.

After a cup of chocolate chaud and croissants at a village café -- seated outdoors, of course -- they hoisted their backpacks and set out for Canigou about a 30-mile hike just to reach the base of the mountains. 

Passing dormant farm fields, cherry trees and vineyards, it was slow going as mud collected on their heavy hiking boots.

It was almost noon before they reached the foothills of Canigou, and as they were crossing a small stream, Jacques slipped on a rock and went sprawling into the cold water. Hugh and William waded in to help him to his feet, but as they did, he let our a loud, anguished cry. 

Jacques could not stand on his left leg. "I think the ankle's broken," he said between gritted teeth.

As they waited at the side of the road for two taxis to arrive to take them back to the village (thank goodness there was some mobile reception), Bethany looked forward to the soft sheets and warm air of L'Hostalet.

D-L's Free Write

The six of them always celebrated Boxing Day even if only two of them were Brits. 

They met in the middle of the village and hiked up the mountain. This year there was no snow, no Tramontane wind. It wasn't warm, but not cold. Still, they might need their jackets, hats and gloves.

Their backpacks held the ritualistic picnic food. This was the 10th anniversary of their climb. It started the year after they graduated from Perpignan University, a six-month reunion.

Daniel and Daniella lived in the village. 

Jean-Marie and Marina had taken the TGV from Paris and had spent Christmas with the Les Dans. No one had been surprised when Les Dans had married four years ago.

Robert was divorced. He worked for Airbus in Toulouse. No one understood what he did.

Eleanor had flown in from London.

The walk had started more as a "why not" rather than a "let's" which was the way they had decided most things at uni. 

They had stayed in touch over the years, mostly over the internet except for their annual Boxing Day climb,

The lower levels of the climb was mainly on paths left from summer hikers.

During the walk, they seldom talked, waiting for their picnic spot, a meadow, which they reached by 11. 

Again following their tradition, the men spread the cloth, the women the food: sausages, baguettes, cheeses, olives.

As the chatted, Dan suddenly hushed them. A deer had appeared at the edge of the wood. Suddenly she bolted and disappeared.

"A bear?" Robert asked.

""They're hibernating," Jacques said.

Their Boxing Day walks were nothing special, except they were. Old friends sharing time together.