Читать книгу A Walk in the Clouds - Kev Reynolds - Страница 22

11

A PYRENEAN MAESTRO

After spending days climbing routes on Pic du Midi in the late summer of 1984, Alan Payne and I moved on to the granite peaks of the Balaïtous massif that loomed to the east. Bold, solid-looking mountains that carry the Franco-Spanish border, they dominate a wild, lake-spattered landscape around which a few simple huts are located.

We caught sight of Refuge d’Arrémoulit as we edged along the narrow and exposed Passage d’Orteig two hundred metres above Lac d’Artouste. A tiny blob of roofed stone, it was dwarfed by slabs and boulders that lay among tarns at the foot of Pic Palas. From a distance it appeared deserted, and when we eventually arrived at the door our initial suspicion proved correct; the hut was deserted – apart, that is, from the guardian, who appeared from the shadows rubbing his eyes with no attempt to hide the fact that he’d just fallen out of bed. It was mid-afternoon, and Alan and I had been on the go for six hours.

‘Bonjour,’ yawned the guardian. ‘You look hot.’

It was hot, and heat from the early September sun bounced off the smooth granite to emphasise the fact.

‘Any chance of a beer?’

‘It’s in the fridge,’ said the guardian, and led us round the back of the hut where several bottles were submerged in a spring-fed pool. He handed one to Alan, another to me, and took one for himself, then pulled a penknife from his pocket and yanked the top from each one.

Never did beer taste so good.

Rucksacks slid from our backs to lean against the wall, and with sweat-stained shirts draped over rocks we lowered ourselves to the ground to relax against the front of the building – with a second bottle waiting to be drained clutched in our hands or held against a burning brow. I’d drink this one slowly, to allow the flavour to settle.

After a few short, monosyllabic questions about where we’d come from and were we planning to stay the night, the guardian fell silent and let the afternoon’s peace settle around us.

Trapped in a landscape of stone and still water there were practically no sounds. No birds sang. No streams gurgled. No stones clattered into a far-off gully. If it had not been for the blood coursing through my veins, the only certainty that I’d not grown deaf was the distant thrum that spoke of the Earth spinning in space.

After some time a shadow moved across my face. Opening one eye I saw the guardian slip quietly into the hut and was vaguely aware of his bare feet padding on the stone floor. Moments later he reappeared, carrying a flute in his right hand, its silver dazzling in the sunshine. Choosing a rocky perch above the nearest small lake twenty paces from Alan and me, he settled cross-legged, like a bearded maestro facing an audience full of expectation. I nudged Alan, and when he opened his eyes I nodded towards the flautist, who now had our undivided attention.

This would be good – imagine! Big bold mountains reflecting the sun, an azure lake, a mind at peace fully receptive to the subtleties of some lyrical composition. The acoustics would be interesting here at 2300m; the music would echo across the lake to produce a delayed stereo effect. It would be a unique experience; one to savour. A solitary flute to serenade and soften a harsh wilderness. Mozart, perhaps? Or something modern?

I took another sip of beer, leaned back against the hut’s wall and closed my eyes again. Then held my breath as I pictured the guardian raising the instrument to his face, one elbow at right angles to his body. He’d moisten his lips with his tongue, then launch into his repertoire.

But the peace of the mountains was rudely shattered – and with it our anticipation – as the guardian, a musical novice, practised his scales. Over and over and over again.

The flute screeched, and badly constructed notes spattered on warm granite slabs and scratched at our ears. It was an insult both to music and to the natural harmonies of the landscape. So we drained our beer and scampered to some far corner of the mountains where the scrooping could not be heard. And silence returned.

We understood, then, why the hut was empty.