Day 37 – Right then, it must be time to come home . . .

Now we can turn and head for home. Something strange and unexpected has happened. It always does when we’re over here. Without exception.

It’s 10.30pm. We’re now relaxing with a coffee. Warm and dry. 6,000 feet up at Font Romeu – Pyrénées. It’s a huge ski resort. 20,000 local beds await those in search of the white stuff. It’s not white stuff time of the year – usually!

This morning’s leaving temperature – a cool 32C. Aiming to rise to it’s giddy heights later – as per the previous few days. We need to cool off. As we climb it gradually drops to a cooler 18C. Then levels out at 20C on arrival. Perfect walking temperature. We go through the usual pitching up procedures. Hook up Beastie to the electric. Turn on the gas. Open a few windows to let some air in . . . . etc.

Lovely site. Good facilities. Two heated outdoor pools overlooking the opposing mountains. It’s what we expect from a Huttopia site. Beastie’s got a nice level pitch. Site only opened for the season today. We’re second to arrive.

We semi-tog up into walking shoes and decide to take waterproofs with us. At the top of town the sky becomes more overcast behind. The main road through is a downhill 1 in 12. We continue down. Apart from the traffic it’s all very quiet. The odd pedestrian here and there. Many shops closed. The summer season hasn’t yet got fully under way.

On the return leg we take a short detour. The air fills to the brim with thunder. Lightning flashes fail to scatter the lowering blankets of cloud. Loud and unusual clatterings join in. It’s as if a local steel band just can’t quite get their act together. All drummers vying to be heard simultaneously. Every metal object near to us is being orchestrated, creating one almighty symphonic din. White objects are being hurled down with huge force. Hitting anything and everything that gets in their way. Thor is having a bad hair day.

It abates. Perhaps that’s it. All mouth and no bite. We call in to the tourism office. We’re after some local walking loops. Just as we leave, the orchestra starts up again. Slowly at first. Like Torvel and Deane’s Bolero. We stand under cover, mesmerised as thousands upon thousands, then, millions upon millions of hail stones per second perform a unique song and dance ice show. Opposite, local cars nose dive urgently into a free underground car park in fear.

The road and pavement whiten. A new landscape is painted in front of our eyes. The performance rises to a crescendo as painter and orchestra seek a finale. But this hasn’t been scripted. It’s improvisation at it’s highest level. Problem is they haven’t rehearsed. Neither knows where the ending is or when to reach it. Like a needle stuck in an old 78 they play the same old, same old, same old. Unable to finish what they started. No one to give them a nudge.

A young man with no shoes appears. Wearing a blue bucket for head protection. Makes a dash for it. A dog trapped over the other side of the road is confused. The road is now a fast flowing ice river. His owner calls and calls. He hops this way, then that. Searching for a way to reunite with his master’s voice.

Thirty minutes pass. Pavements four inches white and sludgy. The storm hasn’t. Lightning and thunder continue to rattle our cage. We decide to go for it. We make it to the next covered section. We’ve gained fifty metres and a few bumps. Not quite saturated, but working on it.

We need to get to the brow of the hill, then down into camp where Beastie awaits. A pregnant pause in proceedings is required. A brief interlude fools us into making a further dash for it. Not a good idea. We gain another 50 metres upstream. We’re being battered. Pulverised and hammered into submission  We need Clark Kent to come and whisk us to safety. We huddle under a nearby tree. It’s not shelter enough. Heads, shoulders, knees, thighs, calfs, bombarded from all angles. A fir tree offers more respite and we duck under. Shivering and soaked to the skin. We feel bewildered. Sense of humour still intact – time for a photo.

We’re now shivering. Thoroughly drenched to the skin. Might as well be naked. Or perhaps not. We are British. Our stiff upper lips just the tip of the ice berg. We can’t stay put just to be discovered 10,000 years later, like a couple of fossilised ice lollies. It eases ever so slightly. Now’s our chance. We make it to the brow of the hill. Freezing, swirling slush gushes higher than our ankles. Oh what fun!

Heads ducked with arms covered for added protection scramble onto the site. It looks different. We get disorientated and take the longest route back to Beastie. Safety beckons. We climb on board relieved. Looking forward to a hot chocolate. As you do in June. No chance. The raging torrent outside is also inside. Who left two central roof windows open? Moi!

Three inch layer of compacted hailstones jam the sealing lips. It’s virtually impossible to close them. Towels, tea towels, odd cloths, socks all put to use on the floor. Bowls and buckets juggled from one deluge to another. We were fighting fires of a wet kind. A further two hours until we were watertight.

All together now . . . Phew!

You Tube videos links to follow SAP