In reply to RomTheBear:
About seven years ago, I spent an evening at Refuge Orto di u Piobbu on Corsica getting seriously trolleyed with a group of Bavarian lads and a couple of Frenchmen we'd met at dinner.
The gardienne was brilliant, and kept topping us up with the house red, and even managed to rustle up a small plate of cheese from the hut's depleted supplies when I got the munchies (it was a very busy season on the GR).
Late at night, when it really was time to retire to our beds, I got a tip ready to leave for her - but the remaining Frenchmen was very insistent that I must not, that it was something that just shouldn't be done. I was too drunk to have a discussion about the details of his reasoning, and just gave in. Do you have any insight on this, or was it likely to have been more about his personal politics?
(After that I realised I didn't have my headtorch, having originally intended to retire after food - and I could barely see. Or walk, for that matter. With the false confidence of the inebriated, I staggered down through the camping area, tripping over rocks, crawling through thorn bushes, trying to work out where my tent was without inadvertently wandering off the nearby cliff. Just as I was about to give up and sleep behind a small wall, I found it and crawled in beside my long-suffering girlfriend. She still married me, so I guess I got away with it - though it took some time for the thorn-gouges to heal!)