Some people started hiking it...

Or, "This is the hill that never ends, it just goes up and up, my friends..."

That's a word I need to learn, 'hill.' And 'mountain,' but I think that's la mons. To-day's hike really wasn't too bad, but we hit some really difficult and tiring spots toward the end, which was all uphill, and rocky. We took the low-level route, which was (as should be obvious) an alternative to the high-level route offered, which would have led us through the mountains again. It was just the numerous trees and the plenty of shade, and the relief that it provided for our sunburnt necks and arms, and the fact that we'd have plenty of mountains to climb later, that made our decision. But, truly, was the last part tough!

But, we've reached the refuge, and all is well. It's up in the sky and in the clouds, literally. We ate dinner outside on the deck to-night, and as we ate and talked we could look out over the valley (through which we had just climbed) and could see them rolling in toward us, these whitish-grey, massive (yet amorphous)... beasts. And they were cold, too, the clouds, and wet. And any time you may look around you'll have even chances of seeing things clearly, or through a fairly dense fog. And the mountains are cold, too, much colder than I'd planned for.

And can you believe the nerve they have, that after charging €4 each for camping (in, as the guidebook says, a campground where "abundant insect life flourishes..." joie...) they want to charge an additional 3€50 for use of the stove! Give me a break. We only want to use it for four minutes to heat sixteen ounces of water to boiling. So, we did. We used it anyway without paying, and no-one stopped to ask us what we were doing or to demand that we pay the fee.

The bathrooms are as I have never before seen them. I have only heard of such bathrooms before; heard of them as they were in far-off lands (like the one I'm in...). Basically... it's a hole in the ground, surrounded by a shack, with a piece of grey tubing leading to the hole, with a faucet attached to the top end. So, you have to stand to do everything (unless, I guess, if you really want to sit down, but I shudder (no, I literally just did shudder) at the thought). And standing to pee isn't so bad for me, or Chris, for that matter. But I can imagine it would be for the ladies. And I still have to poop, which I've become accustomed to doing sitting down... But no, one must stand and then sort of half-squat to poop.

And I hadn't pooped in two days, so I definitely had to go... so I went. And did I mention that you have to bring your own toilettes paper? Yeah, and... you can't put any of it down the hole you poop in. You must put it in a garbage can next to the door (which (both bag and door), by the bye, also happen to be next to you, because, as I said, you're in a small shack). There's a sign posted near the door warning you so. Nothing, nothing must proceed through the small open space in the floor (excepting fecal waste matter), "not paper, not nothing," lest hell break loose. Fecal hell. There's actually an area between the sixth and seventh bolge of the eighth circle of hell reserved for toilettes-hole sinners. It's called the Palace of Poop Punishments, just like the philosophers' palace (the 'good pagans') up at the top of hell, near limbo. The sign said so.

And beside that, all the douches were broken. Or, presumably so. The whole douche-house was boarded up and had cement cinder blocks in front, blocking the way, so maybe someone died in there, or something, and they're just trying to keep the disease at bay. Who knows.

Way-layed by a fern

Or, "This is the trail that never ends, it just goes on and on, my friends..."

Water. I need water. I'm out of water. All I want is water. I don't care if I never eat food again, all I want is water. Please. S'il vous plait.

We travelled twelve kilometres horizontally to-day, and 2250 metres vertically. And it was intense. The first half was comparatively easy, but still a work-out. The second half, however, right after lunch, may have been the most taxing experience of my life. Basically, we climbed up the side of a mountain, and it was a sheer face. And it came out of nowhere, too; so, it was the great shock of the travail that made it even more unbearable. The sun was constantly at us, beating us down, burning our skin and making our sweaty clothes and our sweaty bodies all the readier for dust and stones to cling to. We spent a good hour and a half climbing up one side of the mountain, almost unceasingly vertically, only to descend a short while on the other side and then climb up three even more difficult slopes. When we finally cleared it all, it had been about six hours on the trail, and we had gone through most of our water. Our guide book gave the time on the trail to be seven and a half hours, which meant that I'd have to ration out my remaining half litre over at least another hour and a half, if not longer.

I ran out about forty minutes later, and the trail was as rocky and full of as many climbs and descents as it had been before. By the end, when we finally found (the) refuge, I felt about dead. I felt about dehydrated. Really. When we got there I drank a litre of water right off, maybe in about seven minutes. I think I began to understand what it means to thirst to-day.

Along the way for the first half, I jokingly (emphasis on jokingly) tallied how many times I nearly died. I think it came to something like three or four. But on the second half my tally got too high and I lost count, and I realised that I was in serious peril at almost all times for the duration of that second portion of the day's hike. The potential for easy death was very nearly always there, with the exception of only a few passes. The times that I either slipt and fell, or was scrambling and partially lost my balance, or was scrambling and just couldn't make it (but in the end very narrowly did), and therefore came seriously close to dying were near a dozen. Seriously. And I think the guide book mentioned that we'd have to 'scramble a little' for this section.

But the first half really was amazing, and all-in-all this first section of the trip was marvellous. The sights, of course, have been stunning; but who would have thought otherwise, we are on a mountain-island in the Mediterranean. There were a few passes, and this great, hilly, grassy, cresting mountain slope (where we ate lunch), where the wind was magnificent. It was one of the greatest things I've felt, and has only been rivaled by the mighty winds I've (now) felt at sea. The wildlife (wild?) has been fun. There were cows, all in a pack, coming down the path to the waterfall (miniature) and pool at which we were resting, once. And we saw a number of goats (which are what I think the GR20 'trails' were for that second (terrible) half: goat paths with red and white paint) while climbing the really rugged parts of the mountain. Not to mention the insects. There are very many bugs here, quite a few of which I've never seen before.

The refuge itself, at which we stayed, was only okay. It had good enough services: there were functioning toilettes, douches, and drinkable water everywhere. And the gas stoves were free, which is good. But at the same time, the whole thing was set on a great hill, full of stones, and brush and shrubbery, and lots of cow and horse poop (and a handful of cows and horses, too). And, by the time we got there, it was nearly full, so it was rather difficult to find a spot to camp. And it was cold, much colder than I thought it would be.

And you know, the funny thing is that once I did have that litre of water, I did actually want more than just it, and I did care if I ever had food again. In fact, I was pretty hungry. But instead of eating right away, we took a four-hour nap. We woke up around 21:00 and had our camp-food: dehydrated, heat-up-some-water-and-add-it-to-the-bag lasagna. And it tasted delicious. We took care of all our hygienic business and then went back up to our tent ('up', as in, 'way up on the stony, shrubbery-and-poop-filled hill that we had to constantly walk up and down just to get anywhere'). I got my flashlight out and read Voltaire's essay, Policy. It was okay. But he didn't stack up to Rousseau.