ns, deep forests, tilled fields and well-kept villages, their Romanesque bell towers framed in the golden corona of a late-afternoon sun.
The train crossed from Spain into France and made its final stop at Latour-de-Carol, close by the foot of the Carol torrent and the looming Carlit massif (according to legend, all named after Charlemagne). In the creeping twilight, the distant peaks appeared only as layered gray shadows. But after taking another train up into the Carol valley, and walking a few miles in the darkness, we discovered - notwithstanding a guidebook's promise of a good small hotel in the town of Porte - only drawn shutters, the dull clang of bells and lowing. As we approached, our flashlights and footsteps startled both shepherds and sheep and caused a spontaneous exodus from a large sheep trailer. We left the village in haste, and in the low esteem of the Porte shepherds.
Back in Latour, the proprietor of the railroad station's small hotel instructed us on climbing routes, trail markings, weather and the availability of lodgings.