A good walk

A Good Walk

We knock at the door of the Maison de la Montagne and push on in without waiting for an answer.

It has been raining all day and the short journey from our house to the ancient stone building next to the Marie was enough to make us uncomfortably wet. We certainly weren’t going to stand around in this weather.

Inside we find, as usual, a warm welcome. Nichole hurries to help us out of our wet clothing and takes our contribution to the auberge espagnol . This is an informal party, or get-together, where everyone brings along something to eat and drink which they share with all present. There is never, in my experience, any attempt to co-ordinate the food. In theory we could end up with twenty plates of rice salad or worse still, twenty desserts. But it never happens and, miraculously, there is a wide choice and plenty for everyone. Our offerings, on this occasion, are chocolate brownies and a good bottle of Bordeaux.

There are a couple drawbacks with the auberge espagnol, however. Firstly, it’s finger-food, which means that, say, spinach, roast squash or green beans are definitely off the menu. Even salad is a stretch too far when eating standing up, with your hands. The second is that lots of generous, excellent cooks invest a lot of time in it and it’s difficult to say no when presented with a second slice of delicious pumpkin tart by an enthusiastic guest.

The result is, of course, that one tends to eat a bit too much and not necessarily healthily. But, so what? It’s only now and again.

This is the second such soirée we’ve been to since arriving in the village.

The first was a farewell do for the couple retiring from running the village shop. The current event, however, is simply social.

Six to eight people have arrived before us; some we know already but there are some new faces, too. A log fire is fully alive in the grate and paintings of mountains along with ancient artefacts, such as a long wooden-handled ice La Maison de la Montagne axe and a pair of dilapidated snow shoes, lean out of the stone walls to see what’s going on.

We do the rounds, shaking hands, kissing, and introducing ourselves where necessary. It is going to be a good evening out. More folks arrive with an ever expanding buffet spreading out across the large tables.

During the summer months the Maison de la Montagne provides accommodation for visitors to the village, usually those staying for one to three nights. It’s more of a refuge than a hotel. That said, the standard of comfort and the welcome would surely warm the heart of any traveller at their

journey’s end. At this time of year, though, with few hikers and adventurers turning up, it is open only by appointment and as a convivial meeting place for villagers to get out and meet.

Pierette arrives and I observe as, unremarked, she sets up an electric piano.

Victor has been sitting on the edge of the fire place for a while, now. A teacher at a local school, he is rendered unforgettable by his handle bar moustache, long hair, pointed nose and round spectacles.

Without warning, Pierette strikes up with a couple of questioning chords that silence the gathering not necessary in my case as I have a mouth full of pumpkin tart. She continues with a vague hesitant melody evocative of some time in the forgotten past.

It is then that Victor begins his story with musical notes weaving in and out of his words…

“A long time ago in a poor village there was a poor house inhabited by a poor woman…”

Victor is a conteur. He’s a story teller. And he has everyone’s attention.

This is not the first time I have met him and I quickly understood that he is a gifted and charismatic narrator. His tales are based on traditional stories, always with some kind on philosophical or moral insight attached; as in one story where Death, through trickery is stranded up an apple tree and the curate comes to complain because, since there is no longer any fear of dying, his parishioners don’t bother to attend Mass.

What makes his story-telling remarkable, however, is that he uses two languages. The main one is French but phrases and sentences of Bearnese are judiciously dropped in, sometimes with a little mime or a quick translation to accompany them. His aim is to get his audience to understand without noticing the introduction of another language. And, somehow, it works.

I once protested that I could never manage Bearnese as it was nothing like French. He begged to differ, asserting that both are derived from Latin and that the similarities were obvious, at least to him.

The local dialect has grown up with a bit of a silver spoon in its mouth. Widely, acknowledged as a branch of Occitane, the language of the South of France, Bearnese survived more robustly thanks to the fact that the Bearn existed as an independent state for nearly three hundred years from the mid thirteen hundreds through to 1620. During this period it existed, not only as a a current tongue, but as written language of law and administration.

The Table des Trois Rois, as legend has it, is the place where the three kings of the Bearn, in France, and Aragon and Navarre in Spain, met up. I’ver never been able to find out why they met but, having been to the La Table quite a few times I can only assume it was to admire the view.

As a political concept, Le Bearn no longer has any significance. It resides in the Department of Pyrenees Atlantique a vestige of another epoch.

Culturally, though, it retains an important meaning for many of its inhabitants and, in recent years there has been a resurgence in interest in reviving the language which, as recently as 1982, was spoken by 82% of the population. Locally, Victor is a a key protagonist in this project, teaching Bearnese to primary school children from Bedous and the villages on the surrounding plane.

But back to the story-telling.

After having delivered my own story, I began to feel a return of the appetite that had deserted me while waiting for my turn. The tarts and the pastries were circulating freely so I took full advantage of them while Victor launched into his second tale about a man who had three donkeys and, even after the entertainment came to an end, plates continued to arrive proffered by enthusiastic cooks urging me to try their home-made contribution to the auberge espagnol. It would have been rude to refuse, so I didn’t, and left the soirée feeling unhealthily over-fed, vowing to the make tomorrow a salad day.

There is one french social institution that I have admired for years - the Apero, which is short for aperitif. It corresponds to the early-evening-drinks of the British middle classes, except that it is a custom enjoyed by all. Basically, l’apero provides a time honoured opportunity to meet and have a chat with friends, acquaintances or people you’ve just met. It’s OK to invite the new neighbour, the friend of a friend, the log delivery man or your best mate round for drinks and nibbles with the understanding that they won’t stay too long. As a social tool for getting to know people it is very time efficient and cost-wise, good value for money.

As invitations are frequently spontaneous, it is necessary to keep a few supplies in stock so you can offer a choice. Beer, whisky, white wine or porto, a sherry-like drink, are all good. Peanuts, olives or one of the factory-made nonsenses to be found in the apero section of any half-decent french supermarket, are all adequate. Your guests won’t hang around long enough to eat or drink very much so, generally, they won’t get drunk or pay too much attention to what’s on the menu.

“Don’t forget we’ve been invited for an apero,” at Denise and Marc’s tomorrow,” Kathy reminded me as we reached our front door and took shelter from the foul weather that had persisted throughout the evening.

We had met the couple, of about our own age, on only one previous occasion but already we knew they had renovated a rambling Bearnese village house down in the valley and that Denise was a talented and generous cook. They were a good natured, open-hearted pair.

And honestly, I didn’t think much more bout it, certainly not imagining that it would have any impact on my plans for a light-and-healthy eating day. We would arrive at about seven and be away by half eight at the latest just in time for a light snack and an early night.

Little did I suspect we were heading for what came to be known as the endless apero.

About half the guests were already settled around the expansive coffee tables by the time we arrived with the others not far behind. And, before long, about a dozen of us were enjoying the convivial atmosphere lit by the roaring wood stove. Spread out, ready to taste, were three delicious looking examples of Denise’s cooking. The first that caught my eye was the endive leaves cradling a light, cheesy sauce. Just the job, I thought and, without hesitation, quickly devoured a couple of them.

The mini pastries, which I would describe as small, decadent cornish pasties with their foie gras and smoked salmon filling were too good to resist and two of those, too, soon disappeared followed by a few olives and several irresistible toasties. Perfect apero food - not too much to fill you up but sufficient to absorb a glass or three of excellent Jurancon.

Lost in conversation with the other affable invitées, I was slow to notice that Denise had disappeared in order to give her attention to the barbecue she had going on the terrace and before long was presenting us with a tray of chicken pieces that had been marinaded for half the day in a secret recipe. Of course, we were all urged to sample this particular delight.

Now Mollière famously wrote that one should “eat to live, not live to eat” but this, I’m afraid, is far too simplistic a maxim. The real problem is when one starts eating to make someone else happy, and this was the dangerous territory into which we were all now venturing. Of course, the chicken was fabulous which made it even more difficult to refuse a third helping. And our eight-thirty departure time had plainly gone out of the window.

Still, I reasoned, we must have surely have come to the end of the apero. Time to plan an acceptable departure and deflate before before going to bed.

I hadn’t banked on the cheese course.

When your host has gone to obvious lengths to procure a range of local and exotic cheeses it would rude not to acknowledge their munificence, wouldn’t it? At least three would have to be tasted, requiring, naturally, a little bread and red wine with each sample.

But it was the dessert course that really did it. Or should I say dessert courses?

I had heard through the grapevine that Denise was a gifted pastry chef and, just to prove the point, she presented us all with four of them - not a choice of four, oh no - four for every stretched-tobreaking-point one of us.

I did my best; I really did. I managed three and a half before running out of pastry stamina.

It was time to go home.

“You know what,” I said to Kathy as we drove the zig-zag climb back to Lescun. “What we need tomorrow is a good walk.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “A good walk!”

Following the recent snow and rain, the day dawned blue with errant clouds wandering the sky looking for others with which to gang up.

Le Billare, its faces etched with snow

Above 1 500m of altitude, the massive remained plastered with snow, so our excursion would have to be lower down. We decided on the tour of Sanchez which would take us round a medium height pasture with views of mountain rivers, forests and the currently inaccessible peaks and, after a breakfast of fruit only, we set off with more than usual enthusiasm.

Leaving the car at the Caillou de Cure, a giant limestone boulder dropped out of the pocket of the last retreating ice age, we began climbing the track on the western edge of Sanchez.

Looking, back to the East, Les Sesques revealed that, judging by its dense cover of white, that side of the valley had been hit far harder than the Cirque de Lescun.

All along the rutted trail pop-up streams appeared coursing down from the slopes below the Billare where days before they had been neither sight nor sound of them. And the river below boiled and blasted its muddy-water-way through the forest’s V-base on its way to the Aspe.

Les Sesques bearing the full brunt.

To the South and the West great peaks loomed in and out of the clouds, their faces furrowed by white lines fearing the winter to come. And with every muscle-earned step up; with every lung full of chill mountain air and each new awe-inspiring vista the excesses of the past two evenings diminished.

Arriving back at the car we discovered ourselves stuffed full of to the spiritual and aesthetic gunnels but emptied of of the drowning weight that over-consumption brings.

Then, on the journey back to the village, one of us tempted the question: “What’s for supper?”

And we both burst out laughing.