High, and mighty lost in the Pyrenees

While the pints were poured, we pored over the official French government Institut Géographique National map of the Pyrénées Atlantiques and planned a journey that would take us to new Pyrenean pastures. For the hiker who likes plenty of diversity along with challenging mountain paths, the Pyrenees comprise the finest terrain in Europe. Previously, we had followed much of the GR10 long-distance footpath that snakes along the range from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. The finest waymarked trail in mainland France offers a formidable mix of serious walking - including side-trips to 3,000-metre peaks - with a rich variety of flora and fauna, culture and cuisine. We particularly enjoyed the cuisine part, a consequence of the way that each day habitually ends with a descent to a pretty village equipped with a two-star hotel and an all-star chef. But we wanted to find out more about what lay across the frontier.

So far, so bad, we quickly concluded when the real thing began. All we had learned during the course of the morning was that - if, indeed, we were in Spain - it was every bit as misty and miserable as France. Mick and I had known that this would be a long day, and that the best way to conserve our strength was to start as high as possible. At this end of the Pyrenean chain, they don't come higher than La Rhune. This mountain, due south of Biarritz, is a favourite destination for French daytrippers. The reason: it has a venerable rack railway that hauls them, and us, to the summit.

Since the frontier between France and Spain follows the Pyrenean watershed, the highest point along the ridge, it follows that La Rhune lies on the border.

Over a third pint in that pub, we mentally deployed the mountain as a springboard to exploring Spain's Basque Country. From the summit, we deduced, we would see the elegant curve of France's Atlantic coast, the corrugated shoreline of northern Spain and the line of the Pyrenees rising to the east, marching magnificently to the Mediterranean. That was the theory. But as the first funicular of the day clanked upwards, with noon fast approaching, the fog sidled in and clung like an unrequited lover. We could barely make out the monument commemorating the visit of Empress Eugenie to the summit in 1859.

The hike was, by definition, downhill from here. But despite the assistance of gravity, some of the following nine hours were to prove perplexing, stressful and exhausting. The frontier itself is marked by a series of pillars. These tablets were never designed to waymark a path; rather, they are legal pieces of masonry that delineate the official carve-up between France and Spain, one side marked F, the other E for España. From the summit, it was impossible to make out the next pillar along.

"I'm sure it's around here somewhere", I said as we strayed further and further off course. Soon we were scrambling and sliding downhill through thick brambles. Now and again we encountered what looked like a trail, and followed with false optimism what proved to be an increasingly vague track until the undergrowth closed in on it, and us. Eventually, the ground flattened, and a farm building appeared through the mist. Spain, we concluded from the look of the place: it was in rather more agrarian disarray than you would expect on the northern side of the line. But by now the sun was burning through the last layer of mist. Being lost suddenly seemed unimportant. We were in a valley that was shaped perfectly to accumulate sunlight. The only signs of human habitation were large, handsome houses whose wooden skeletons - the colour of ox blood - stood out from milky, whitewashed walls. The traditional Basque houses are mirrored on the north of the frontier - a line that cuts through an ethnically homogenous region.

The Basques, had there been any around, might have smiled at our ineptitude. As a race they are consummate explorers and would have found the route from La Rhune to the Baztan Valley a breeze. En route, they could also have deciphered the Basque signposts, each of which carries an impenetrable collection of rare consonants that would, were they permitted, constitute a match-winning turn at Scrabble. Xabaloko Aparkalekura, for example, is apparently an invitation to a car park. Mark Kurlansky, author of the inspired work of anthropology, The Basque History of the World, calls the tongue "the language from the moon".

The palette of the rural idyll that we were wandering across was pleasing on the eye, but even more gratifying was a flash of red and white that Mick suddenly spotted on the trunk of a tree. These horizontal stripes denote the route of the Gran Recorrido 11, the Spanish counterpart to the French GR10. On track at last: this was the path we needed to follow for a dozen kilometres.

Hiking can be joyful, and so it proved for the next three hours. Sunshine filtered through a delicate canopy of beech trees, and the track proved gentle on our feet as we climbed and descended in equal measure. The world seemed harmonious and serene - except for some bizarre structures that looked like left-over special effects from The War of the Worlds. Every so often we would pass beneath a cabin that rose up on stilts to reach the roof of the forest, designed for hunters of wood pigeons, of which perhaps a million are massacred each autumn.

With only a few deviations and hesitations we emerged 12km later at a high-altitude clearing. Here, we left the long-distance footpath to find our way down to the Valle del Baztan.

Like several other Pyrenean enclaves, this valley is semi-detached from the rest of Spain, with a unique system of self-government broadly based on consensus. Mick and I would never fit in, because we could not even agree on which was the best way down to the village of Ariskun. With the sun threatening to desert us, we took the middle way, and promptly ended up scrabbling through another thicket of thorns. Scratched and not a little grumpy at the prospect of missing dinner intensified, we clambered out into open country and spied a church spire. Saved by God, or at least His building contractors.

Compass and map were forgotten as we sought the footpath of least resistance through deepening gloom. Nine at night is no time to arrive at the only hostal for miles. But the landlady - who was also the grocer and restaurateur - served us in her dining room (aka the village pub) with aplomb and a tasty, rustic cena (supper) that almost defeated us. We finished it only thanks to generous refills of a carafe of deliciously ordinary red wine.

Lucky this time, then; but if you want to lose weight, don't bother to diet. Just come walking with Mick and me, or at least emulate our map-reading skills.

Simon Calder and Mick Webb flew from Stansted to Biarritz on Ryanair (0906 270 5656; www.ryanair.com). The airline serves other useful Pyrenean gateways, including Pau, Carcassonne, Perpignan and Gerona. They are the authors of 'Backpacks, Boots and Baguettes: Walking in the Pyrenees' (Virgin Books, £6.99).

ON THE WAVES: LEARNING TO SAIL IN THE CANARY ISLANDS

The only people ignoring the flying fish skimming the seas around La Gomera are apprentice crew who, like me, obediently try to follow their yacht skippers' instructions. A week's sailing school from one of the smaller Canary Islands will yield a guaranteed tan, a relaxing adventure holiday and a hard-to-fail first certificate in sailing.

"Competent Crew" is the kindergarten qualification awarded by the Royal Yachting Association (www.rya.org.uk). More than 12,000 people take the entry-level course annually at one of the 1,100 RYA-approved schools in the UK and abroad. So, if you don't fancy freezing in the Solent in February, you can earn your sailing spurs as far away as Australia, South Africa, the Caribbean or under the short-haul permasun of the Canaries.

The four-hour flight is sufficient to swot up on the official 70-page manual (think Dorling Kindersley) on which you might be tested later. But even if you arrive at the marina a nautical novice, no one gives a flying fish. The emphasis is on fun. When Nick, our skipper/instructor, asks what we want to do in the week, a consensus across genders and ages emerges rapidly. His pupils want a great escapist time, to view the marine life and coastal scenery, to sample Canarian food and wine, to get a bit of a tan and even earn that certificate.

So we begin with a safety briefing around Alexandra, the Bavaria class yacht (sailing's Volkswagen) which will be home for six nights. School opens with a language class. There are no toilets, beds or kitchen - only heads, berths and a galley.

After a hearty icebreaking dinner ashore in San Sebastian, the island's tiny capital, a night's sleep, a hot marina shower and breakfast on deck, the serious business begins. If all you have ever done is pedaloed or punted, there is nothing that compares to taking the wheel of a 36ft yacht for the first time. Nothing touches the exhilaration of taking the helm with a 22-knot wind behind you, the summit of Tenerife's Mount Teide ahead, an ocean swell below and a blue sky above.

While getting the feel of the boat on the first couple of days, the nautical vocabulary is gradually absorbed. To keep pecs and tummy in trim, keep volunteering for winching duties as "going about" (changing direction) requires sails to be set with sheets (ropes) hauled in on a different side of the boat. You can keep your fitness levels up with a lunchtime swim, snorkelling off the back of the boat or even taking an early morning run across San Sebastian's volcanic sand beach.

Each day at sea begins at 10am and ends with mooring at around 6pm. After the stowing of kit and reconnecting of power and water lines, those in the sailing-as-sunlounging school of yachting can seriously pursue their interest.

While gentle circumnavigation of La Gomera's 80-mile rugged coastline is hardly a stormy Southern Sea crossing, the achievement for the novice mariner is very satisfying.

One night tied to little Santiago's harbour wall requires learning how not to make mooring lines snap against the falling tide. Another night at anchor at Valle Gran Rey gives us a chance to rev up the two horsepower outboard motor for a dinghy trip ashore. From a bar high above a deserted beach you can watch a fabulous sunset over neighbouring Hierro island.

If the trade winds that took Columbus from San Sebastian to the Americas decide to drop, Alexandra's diesel engine will get you in close to inspect the Fingal's Cave-like rock formations at Organos, the gravity-defying goats standing at right-angles on a cliff face or to follow a family of dolphins.

You can hear but not see the creatures on the four-hour night sail. A new moon, Tenerife's neon glow, lighthouses, channel buoys and other boats are the only reference points. The dark hides the red face of anyone stupidly mistaking the lights on the huge Fred Olsen ferry potentially on collision at 40 knots for those of a stationary small fishing boat. I could have walked the plank for that.

Six days on board cover the 14 points of the RYA course and you proudly receive your Competent Crew certificate. It may not have Dame Ellen MacArthur signing you up for her next odyssey immediately, but it's a great way to embark on the sailing adventure.

Julian Eccles

Julian Eccles travelled to La Gomera via Tenerife South airport with Monarch from Gatwick for £140 return. A 15-minute, €20 (£14) taxi transfer took him to Los Cristianos port where a Fred Olsen Express ferry (€44/31 return) delivered him 30 minutes later to San Sebastian harbour, immediately adjacent to the marina. A week's sailing course with Canarysail (www.canarysail.com) costs €845 (£600) covering breakfast and lunch on board, soft drinks, wet-weather gear, sheets, blankets, RYA booklet, sheets and towels.