Touring Mont Blanc on foot

One day in 1981 - half a lifetime away - I began my walk around Mont Blanc. My companion was Bob Kyte, a man both taller and calmer than me. Our aim was to complete the Tour du Mont Blanc - a circular walk of 170 kilometres, through the outermost reaches of France, Italy and Switzerland. Our walk started in the village of Les Houches, at a railway station on the line to Chamonix, and then headed via mountain trails and cols to Courmayeur in Italy, Canton Valais in Switzerland, and then back into France and Les Houches. The hardest part of the walk involved plodding up the zig-zag paths which led from one valley to another. I discovered that Bob, with his long legs, could do this much faster than me. However, my shorter legs triumphed on the downhill stretches. The finest stretches of walking were along ridges and hillsides, such as those leading from France into Italy, and the high walk along and above the Chamonix valley. There were splendid views of the great mountain and its glaciers. Across the valley, you could hear the gunshot-sound of the ice cracking.

We slept in small hotels and hotel dormitories, barns and mountain refuges. The most Spartan was the refuge at the Col de la Croix du Bonhomme at just under 2500 metres above sea level. This rose like a gaunt ruin through the mist. Sleeping was in bunk beds in a mixed dormitory. Everybody slept in their clothing. The toilet was a shed a little down the hill, with a hole in the rock. But there was a hot meal of vermicelli soup, and I slept well. The next day we slept in the best accommodation: the far more luxurious Rifugio Elizabetta Soldini, across the border in Italy. This was warm, had comfortable bunk beds, civilised toilets, good food, and stupendous views.

On the way, we met the people of Europe: two Basque lads in a shelter above a gully of snow; a middle-aged Swiss couple with a rather camp son; and numerous jolly Belgians. Before we began the walk, Bob and I took a bus into Chamonix. Our fellow-passengers included a group of German walkers, dressed in a sort of walking uniform. As they looked with delight at the mountains around them, they began an enthusiastic song. The rest of us in the bus looked on with embarrassment. But with hindsight, I believe the German were right - the beauty of the Alps can not be described with words, only with poetry and song. I do, however, have some photos taken by Bob.