The surrounding peaks were wrapped in light clouds as we started the steep descent from Puigmal, one of the many spectacular peaks in the Pyrenees mountain range, which forms a natural border between France and Spain.
We were just below the summit when I first heard the thunder. At first, it sounded like nothing more than the rumble of an empty stomach, so I dismissed it. We’d made it about halfway down when I heard the thunder again. This time the sound was deeper and more threatening, and the clouds were lower and decidedly darker. We were heading back to the small mountain resort in Vall de Núria, from where, just like the majority of other day hikers, we had followed the steep, well-trodden path to Puigmal in the early afternoon sunshine. We really should have started in the morning, as we knew that storms were most likely to develop in the afternoon. But, tucked away in the mountains, Vall de Núria was only accessible by the rack and pinion railway or on foot. So, in the morning, it had seemed like a good idea to walk to Núria from Queralbs before climbing Puigmal. It was a plan that would allow us to add not one but two new routes to the guidebook we were researching.
Jacint and I have been living, walking and travelling together for some 17 years. We were known to walk several kilometres just to get to the trailhead if there were no other means of transport available. The trail we’d planned for that day wasn’t too long, but because of the elevation we would have to gain, it was going to take us most of the day. I wasn’t concerned – I was more than happy to spend the whole day on the trails in the Pyrenees. We packed plenty of food and carried enough water to last the whole day. We also stashed a waterproof jacket and a warm layer at the bottom of our packs, just in case.
After the second peal of thunder, we quickened our steps through one of the rich alpine meadows, where cows spend the summer months grazing. When we had crossed this pasture on the climb up, a mother and calf had stared at us uninterestedly, continuing to munch away at the grass. But now they were sheltering together behind a boulder. The iconic Pyrenean chamois that we’d spotted on the rocks during the ascent were gone too, as were the other hikers. The sky was getting darker and darker.
There was another loud thunderclap just as the buildings of Núria came to view, and the first fat raindrops landed on my cap as we reached the pavement near the monastery. We ran past the small campsite, where a young couple were vainly trying to stop their small tent from getting blown away. We found cover beneath the small roof of an information board and donned our waterproof jackets. Within minutes, the heavy rain forced us to press ourselves against the board as we tried to avoid getting soaked.
In the winter, a small ski resort attracts visitors, and in the summer, hikers can choose from the several trails that wind their way up to the peaks that line the Spanish-French border. There is a hotel and campsite to cater for people who want to spend more than a few hours in this magical place, but the majority of visitors reach the mountain resort after a scenic rail journey from Ribes de Freser or Queralbs, where they then return on the same day.
Prior to 1931, when the rack and pinion railway started operating, Núria was only accessible on foot. On that warm August morning, we followed the ancient Camí Vell de Núria, which was once only used by pilgrims and shepherds. A section of the GR11 long-distance trail that traverses the Pyrenees runs together with the Camí Vell, so the path is frequently marked with red and white stripes. The trail is fairly popular. Most people either walk up to Núria and return to Queralbs by train or take one of the trains in the morning to Núria and then follow the Camí Vell back to Queralbs.
We climbed the narrow path steadily alongside a river, passing some waterfalls, and couldn’t resist stopping frequently to take myriad photos. We arrived at Núria three hours after we parked our campervan on the outskirts of Queralbs.
After stopping for an early picnic lunch, we left the mountain resort and continued on the signposted trail to Puigmal. We traversed alpine meadows and crossed mountain streams with views that would linger long in the memory. Then, after a final steep zigzag, we reached the summit. Just a few metres shy of 3000m, the peak of Puigmal was a perfect vantage point. The 360-degree panorama was dominated by rugged mountains. A handful of hikers were leaving the summit just as we arrived, so we had the views to ourselves. But because we had planned to walk all the way back down to Queralbs, we couldn’t hang around for too long. We left the summit at around 3pm, descending beneath gloomy skies, and just made it back to Núria before the storm started in earnest.
Gusty winds soon turned the rain into pelting hail, and the information board no longer provided sufficient shelter for us. “We should run to the church and wait this out”, suggested Jacint. Ermita de Sant Gil, a small 17th-century stone church, was closer than the town’s bigger building that housed a shop and restaurant, as well as the hotel attached to the sanctuary.
We spent the next hour or so in the church while the storm battered the valley. It was too late to book tickets for one of the last trains leaving from Núria, so Jacint stood in the church’s doorway, nervously checking the dark sky every few minutes. We knew that as soon as the hail stopped, we would have to leave the safety of the church and start the descent to Queralbs if we wanted to make it back to the campervan in daylight.
The dark clouds slowly drifted away, revealing the surrounding peaks covered in white. The grass by the swollen lake was carpeted with hail and the remains of the cafe’s parasols had been flattened in the wind. Our breath was visible in the cold air. I was wearing both my fleece and my waterproof jacket, with my frozen hands dug deep into my pockets. Only a few hours earlier at this very same spot I’d slapped another layer of sun cream on to my sweaty face.
Hailstones crunched beneath our boots as we started the descent alongside the raging river, which now carried branches and shrubs. According to the original plan the descent from Núria to Queralbs should have been quick, for numerous reasons. Firstly, it was downhill, and we wouldn’t need to spend any more time taking notes and photos, as we had done during the ascent. However, progress was slow. The rocks were wet and slippery and we had to watch our step. At some sections we walked through grey-white slush. There were no footprints, and we hadn’t met any other hikers. It seemed that everyone had else managed to get on the train in Núria.
I might not have taken any notes, but we had to stop to take some photos of the aftermath of the storm. The picturesque waterfall that we’d passed in the morning had turned into an angry torrent, and in many places the river left its bed in search of a new course. Shrubs lay flattened beneath the weight of the hailstones. It was easy to see why people can get into trouble, even in the summer, in the Pyrenees.
It was nearly 8pm by the time we reached Queralbs. The shutters were firmly closed on all the stone houses, the narrow streets scattered with small branches and hail melting into huge puddles. An elderly man shovelling hailstones in his vegetable garden nodded hello as we passed his house, but the other residents remained in the safety of their homes. This ancient mountain village must have lived through some wild winter storms.
A few days later we were back at Vall de Núria to climb another mountain, located right on the Spanish-French border. Summer had returned. There were no signs of any ice, the river had subsided, and the calm water of the lake was again dotted with rowing boats. Once again, we left the day trippers that stayed close to the town’s amenities, this time climbing Pic de Finestrelles. We traversed the ridge with uninterrupted views and descended on a grassy slope towards Núria. Following a fresh mountain stream downhill, we encountered playful marmots, which we watched with fascination. With far-reaching views and perfect weather conditions all day, it was hard to believe the sudden deluge that had beset us on our previous visit in this picture-perfect landscape. But that sums up the Girona Pyrenees – a place where natural beauty and drama meet, and occasionally collide.
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