Is this where it all started?

September 4-6. Bagnères-de-Luchon. The French Pyrenees.

Bagnères-de-Luchon in the French Pyrenees

Is this where it all started? My love of big mountains?
A little more than 28 years ago I came here with my older brother, Paul.
I was in training for an expedition to Indonesia, and a trip to the Pyrenees with others from the expedition had fallen through. I decided to go anyway and asked my poor, unsuspecting brother if he fancied a spot of backpacking.

The thermal baths at Bagnères-de-Luchon

I had done some backpacking. Paul, I think, had done none. Certainly neither of us had any experience of the sheer scale of the mountains we were about to haul our inexpertly packed and overladen rucksacks up.

The mascot we left behind, having decided it was a little too heavy to carry.

Getting off the train at the Gare de Luchon my eyes were immediately drawn to the two mountains at the head of the valley; Pic de Sauvegarde (2,737m) and Pic de la Mine (2,706m). The first time in my life that I had ever seen snow covered mountains in the summer time!
I was instantly smitten.
I just wanted to get up there and walk on the snow.

Inexperienced we may have been, but we would have drawn the line at carrying circular pop up tents like this group.

Paul and I spent a few highly educational days backpacking. We hiked from Luchon to Lac D’Espingo where we each pitched our tiny bivouac tents before turning in for the night. We woke the following morning to the most horrendous storm. Lightning followed almost immediately by the crash of thunder, which bounced around the mountain for hours, accompanied by torrential rain.
The noise was such that communication between our small tents was nigh on impossible.

The exact site where Paul and I pitched our tents all those years ago.

We spent that uncomfortable day about 90 metres below the Refuge D’Espingo in tents too small to even sit upright in. We could see the hut/refuge. It was even named on the map, but we didn’t know what a ‘refuge’ was (the clue is in the name Neil). Such was our naivety that we had no idea that we could have spent a very comfortable day drinking coffee at the refuge while watching our two pathetic tents bounce around in the storm.

Neil wondering where all those years went.

It’s only now, looking back on that day with the hindsight of 28 years, that I realise how stupid we were to suffer in our tents. Just a matter of 10 wet minutes away from warmth, food and comfort. I hope Paul doesn’t read this. I may be in trouble with my big brother again!

A beautiful old bridge strategically hides the ugly old dam at Lac D’Oô

Paul, stoic as ever, never complained once, or at least I couldn’t hear him complain over the storm.

Paul still hikes in the hills, though I’m not sure if he has ever been backpacking again.
Come to think of it, that trip is not the only time I have tried to break my eldest brother on a mountain. Surprisingly he doesn’t seem to have held either experience against me. Though I never get birthday cards. Hmmmm! Could the two be connected?

The waterfall at Lac D’Oô is 275m (902ft) high (twice that if you add the reflection!)

Fast forward a little more than 28 years and I have brought Mrs P to the scene of the crime… sorry, the place where my big brother Paul and I had our big mountain adventure.

Now I know why Mrs P has always wanted a mule.

After the storm Paul and I had descended to a place called Les Granges d’Astau (the road head), where he decided he was going to stay put and enjoy the sunshine that had by now appeared while I went back up, to walk on the snow.

Mrs P, failing miserably to look anything like my big brother.

28 years later, in 2021, my plan was to recreate that hike with Mrs P. We would walk from Les Grange d’Astau (1,139m) to the Refuge du Portillon (2,543m). A round trip of around 9 hours (7-7.5 if you don’t include sitting around eating sandwiches and watching the world go by).

5,100 ft (1,560m) of ascent later, approaching our high point, and the scenery is become more barren.

Mrs P and I set off at 9am and finally made it to the somewhat bleak Lac Portillon at about 2.30pm.

ASIDE:

The walk goes via Lac D’Oô at 1,507m. I had always wondered how to pronounce the “Oô” bit, so I asked the very helpful lady at the Tourist Information Office.

She said, “It is pronounced ‘Oh’ as in ‘Oh my word!’ Not ‘Oooo,’ as in ‘Ooooo. Look at that!’”

“Oh.” I said.

”Exactly” she replied.
ASIDE ENDS

Lac Portillon, our highest destination, was not as I remembered it. Too late in the year for the snow I was able to crunch through all those years ago, the lake is a cold place surrounded by steep cliffs and shattered rock. Three dirty looking small glaciers cling to the bowls above the lake, and, as the sun had disappeared behind clouds, the whole area seemed quite foreboding.
The refuge I remembered had been replaced with a much larger and rather characterless edifice above the old site. It was very quiet and I half expected Smaug or Bilbo Baggins to appear.

Lac Portillon (2,580m - 8,464ft) fails once again to win a “village in bloom” award.

Heading back down from the Lonely Mountain (Thorin Oakenshield looks like he’s lost a few pounds!)

Looking down on Lac D’Oô from above the waterfall one can’t help thinking “My knees!!!”

Back at the van (Yay! Gandalf appeared even if Bilbo couldn’t be bothered) at 6.30 pm we were pretty pooped. Straight(ish) back to the campsite, food and bed. A great day of reminiscing.

Beer and medals whilst Mrs P discreetly massages her knees.

We have hung around here in Luchon for a few days. Had one rest day (read: washing and shopping day)…

Neil, writing the blog whilst demonstrating terrible posture

…and one day of climbing.

Rock climbing: A gear freaks dream

It has been interesting to watch the change in demographic of campsite occupants over the last week and a half.
Gone are the children, the families in tents and the cyclists and hikers arriving for one night stays. They have all been replaced by the white behemoth motor homes. Each one bristling with satellites, bedecked with awnings, washing lines, multiple tables, chairs, sun loungers, dogs, cats and even caged birds . These are the homes of the retired pétanque playing French for a few months before the winter comes (when they probably all head for the south of Spain).
Speaking of Spain…

And then we snuck over the border while no one was looking.

…that’s where we are now.
Tune in next time folks as Mr & Mrs P are struck dumb (unless you count “Hola!”)