HRP

The Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne (HRP) starts simply enough: feet in the Atlantic, on a beach in Hendaye, next to the casino. A photo, and off into the Basque heat. From there, the trail wastes no time showing its teeth. Days stack up, the landscape shifts slowly: some roads, grass, mud, then a mineral world, steep climbs, endless descents, cairns everywhere, and paths that seem to stretch on forever. For the unprepared, it’s chaos. For me, it was also chaos — but a kind I wanted to embrace.

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This hike, crossing the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, was more than a physical challenge. It was a long conversation with the mountains — one that could be as beautiful as it was harsh. Early mornings meant waking in the damp, or sometimes in sunlight with a sweeping view; afternoons pushed my patience, and above all my body, to their limits; evenings brought a mix of relief and exhaustion. The landscape changed constantly: pastures and fog gave way to rocky ridges and vast, open panoramas. Every day held its surprises, good and bad.

Behind the apparent discomfort lies a kind of luxury. The time to take in the landscape, to think — but also to think about nothing beyond the day’s route. A simple life.

The HRP also brought connections. With people met along the way, in mountain shelters, in refuges. Coming from everywhere, sometimes from other continents.