They call the route I took through the Pyrenees this morning the Napoleonic route, because it was Napolean´s favourite way to move his troops across the border.
Remember when Napoleon marched his troops into Russia and forgot to pack winter coats for them and they all died? Let´s just call that the SECOND dumbest thing he ever did. My guidebook referred to the first day as a ¨baptism of fire.¨ but it´s really not that bad. Which is to say that being baptised in fire (then having the fire put out with acid, and then being punched in the throat by your grandmother) wouldn´t be as bad as climbing those mountains this morning.
But then something magic happens. You turn around and look down the mountain you just climbed, and see all the sheep and tiny fairytale houses and it´s magnificent. Which is handy, because you can pretend to be stopping because you´re wowed by the scenery, when really you´re just trying to stop the heart attack that´s already in progress.
BUT I SWEAR I HAVEN´T EVEN CRIED A LITTLE BIT YET! So basically the trip is already a success.