After striking a "Bucket list" item off the schedule yesterday I became determined that the way home wasn't an anti-climax or simply the drive home. Nothing could have been further from that notion with what unfolded in front of me today.
N135/N137 the map calls it, the sign posts say Pamplona to Francia. The locals call it the Navarra pass. What it is in fact is a ribbon of high quality asphalt that drapes itself over some of the most breath taking and awe inspiring scenery I've ever had the pleasure to encounter. The road, if such a simple term does it justice, runs over the
Pyrenees and through the heart of the Navarra national park, mountains, valleys, rivers, waterfalls and forests stretching to the horizon that only serves to underline the brightest blue sky you have ever seen, are around every corner and corners there are a plenty. I'm not good enough at this to begin to describe the natural beauty of this place but I will try and describe the man made beauty that is the road. It twists and turns like an unspooled tape from a cassette reel, reminiscent of the Stelvio pass of James Bond and "Italian job" fame couple with the wild imagination of a 10 year old with access to unlimited Scalextric track. The inclines can seem ludicrous and the degree of the hairpins incredible, what I wouldn't have given to be in an E-type, a Daytona or other exotica, as it happened the van did just fine, you can't make a cup of coffee to stop and admire the view in a 1960's Ferrari.
I took nearly 3 hours to cover 70 miles and when I arrived at Saint Martin I found to to be, well, a ghost town. Saint Martin is a notable ski resort barely a mile inside the French boarder how ever as we all know it is smack bang in the middle summer and there is no snow, I don't mean not enough to ski on but none whatsoever. As a result the whole resort is completely empty, devoid of all life except for me and some goats with bells around their necks. I had a good explore of the complex in all its eighties glory and it really is empty although I did find the occasional light on, the place exuded an atmosphere that made it almost eerie, kind of like the Overlook hotel in the Shining only in reverse. As there was little to amuse me except the view I took it upon myself to try and find the best vantage point.....by climbing, OK, walking up one of the ski slopes under the shut down chair lift, it was hard work but worth it.
By the time I had got back to the van a couple of other motorhomes had arrived but only for lunch apparently, they hung around for a while but I was getting the impression by the time the last one left that they knew more about this place than I did. I left Pamplona without restocking my fresh food, eager to get some miles under me and convinced I'd pass something on the way, that was a mistake, no shops and nothing else even remotely open I had to rely upon my secret stash, I took the camping stove and gas bottle up to the balcony of what once appeared to be a very swanky apres ski lodge and cooked my super noodles like a king, a lonely king but a king none the less. They were OK, not really chicken flavoured as the packet suggested but OK. I packed up my kit and headed back to the van, smug that I'd made the best of a scenic but bad situation. And then it came. Fog. Like you'd never seen before, I'm not even sure it wasn't cloud but within minutes I could see no more than 2 foot in front of me. Remote deserted ski resort, fog and already a thought of a Stephen King story in my head, what was I to do ? Climb in the van, lock the doors and watch Xmen (thanks MBK) and hope that a clown didn't come and kill me to complete the hat-trick. I wasn't scared, honest. I got into bed with the sound of goat bells doing nothing to ease the tension.
I've just remembered the bar man in the golden room of the Overlook hotel was called Lloyd.
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