IT was a beautiful, sunny day in late April when I set off for the Hermitage of St Anthony, in the Spanish Pyrenees, following not one of the two well-marked trails from town, but the detailed walking notes I had been given, along a less-trodden path. Up I climbed, along a narrow, stony track, the rush of the El Freser river below me growing ever fainter, the drop ever more vertiginous and confidence in my map-reading fast dwindling. I sniffed the air and inhaled a wonderful perfume of pine mixed with musty earth. ‘Rain,’ I thought… and then the heavens opened.
With considerable relief, I reached a mountain road, where two cars passed me, wind-screen wipers at a metronomic 120 ticks-per-minute, kindly offering lifts. ‘Persevere,’ I told myself, ‘how much…