Mont de Gez

The morning was warm enough for breakfast to be served outside. Mont de Gez climbs to 1097m, towering above the hotel and I've been looking up at its grassy summit from the moment we arrived. Forrest was still looking after his Achilles niggle and had also picked up a bit of knee pain from over 5000m of climbing in our 3 cycling days. It's not something he's done before. I've quite an edge on experience there. So, I left him to chill while I popped up the mountain. I thought I'd be easily up and down in an hour. As it turned out I had to get a real shift on to make the top in 35 mins, running the less steep sections. It was a lot further than it looked, plus my legs were complaining. The panoramic view from the top was spectacular and a great way to bid au revoir to the high Pyrenees.

In a rush to get down and not keep Forrest waiting I somehow managed to choose a different path to the one I'd taken up and got completely turned around in the thick forest, with paths and tracks leading in many directions. I did that usual thing of convincing myself I was going the right way when the truth was that I'd come off the opposite side of the mountain, ending up on the road we'd taken down from the Col de Spandelles - although it took a conversation with two passing Brits on a tandem to ascertain that. I didn't have a clue. It made more sense then to carry on down into the town, where I met Forrest at the Patisserie we'd made our regular stop. Classic Dad, apparently!

I've grown fond of Argelès-Gazost and would love to return. Last night we enjoyed a fabulous pizza there and then watched the Euro final in a bar full of Spanish. Oddly, neither of us were that invested in an English win. We enjoyed the mastery of the Spanish opener and then Cole Palmer's strike, seemingly almost inevitable once poor HK had been removed. We're simply a much better team when playing catch-up with younger, more creative, faster strikers on the field. Of course, I know nothing about football. Forrest and I were so exhausted from our cycling that we were hoping for a winner before ninety minutes, just to enable us to get back to the hotel and into bed. It didn't really matter which team the goal came from. I guess I've never been much of a nationalist, except when it comes to cricket against Australia! It was actually fun to witness the Spanish excitement and shake everyone's hand at the end. They were the best team of the tournament by a good few country kilometres.

Back to today, after Forrest found me at the Patisserie - covered in sweat after the walk that turned into a 6 mile run - we stopped at Lourdes for lunch - an odd place, rather run-down, lots of shops selling tourist tat in a way you don't see so much in France - before catching our flight home from Carcassonne. As usual, the most painful part of the trip was getting home from Manchester Airport. It should be a national scandal that Manchester is so poorly connected to Leeds. These are the north's two big cities. There was no direct service. We had first to stop at Manchester Piccadilly to catch a Metro Tram to Manchester Victoria, then a train to Bradford Interchange where our service stopped. I walked to Bradford Forster Square to get the last train back to Ilkley. Faced with another two trains himself, Forrest threw in the towel and got a taxi home.