Adapting

Adapting Passing the neighbour’s house I hear shuffling sounds and the unmistakable clunk of log against log. He is rearranging his winter stash, organising stacks of dry, almost dry and new wood. I can’t see him in the gloom but I call a cheery bonjour anyway.

“Ah, John!” he replies emerging into the light. “Bonjour, ça va?”

“Il y a de la neige sur le Pic d’Anie,” I announce, to which he nods knowingly. “Ça commence,” he says. “Ça commence.” *1 And there is definitely a note of resignation in his voice.

It has suddenly turned wintry and for the first time we felt the need to light the fire provoking anxieties about whether we had bought enough wood to see us through. During the night it had rained in the village but dawn revealed that at altitude there had been a different type of precipitation.

Looking to the south east from our balcony we see right across the Valley d’Aspe to Les Sesques, a peak weighing in at an impressive 2 608m of altitude. This morning we could clearly see it plastered with a fine layer of snow. Likewise the Pic d’Anie which, at 2 504m is the highest mountain in the Cirque de Lescun.

I leave my neighbour to his seasonal task and continue down the street to Alf’s house where we are in the process of improving his insulation against the cold.

A couple of days ago we set out on a trip into the mountains with some friends who live in the next village. Our destination was the high Val de Serrios in the range near the Pic d’Aspe which gives the valley its name. Starting the walk through the forest in summer conditions we were soon peeling off layers of clothing as the temperature rose.

Pic d’Anie seen from the back of our house Arriving above the tree line we came into full sun and saw, for the first time, the dark spiked ridge of peaks above and to the south, looking like a giant set of the worst teeth ever. And here and there, in gullies and on north faces was the unmistakable splattering of early snow. Already the sun was at work on it causing wreaths of mist to lick the slopes and hang over the high combes. We, however, next to the Lac d’Estances, still basked in warmth, though, as we began our ascent to the next ridge, we thought it might well be for the last time that day.

Somewhere on the mountainside we lost the sun but concentrating on where we put our feet along the rough path, and applying ourselves to the physical effort of the climb, we were not too aware of the drop in temperature. Each of us was, no doubt, distracted by our own thoughts until one of the friends drew attention to something on the ridge above.

It was an isard. No… two!

These creatures, commonly found in the Pyrenees, are a type of deer supremely well-adapted to their mountain environment. They move around their rugged habitat as easily than a shopaholic in a department store. And, as if to prove it, suddenly they are on the move, race-rattling down the rocky slope at a rate that would break every bone in a human body. They don’t stop until they are

out of sight and we are left speechless.

At this time of year they are already developing their winter coats - thicker and slightly paler in colour. They will spend their time outside, descending as the white stuff

arrives but also able to survive by scraping away snow to scavenge for hidden morsels of vegetation.

They are also, as it turns out, less likely to run for their lives at the first sight of a walker and below us we discover a vary casual male, quite content to pose for the camera.

At the crest of the hill we turn down into a small valley of rocks where, our friends say, marmottes are invariably to be found. In fact, he tells us, he has never been here without seeing some.

Until today.

I am not really surprised. Two years ago the population was hit hard when, even at modest altitudes, snow persisted way into June.

A type of rodent, marmottes live in burrows rather like rabbits coming out to graze on the summer pastures.

It’s during the months of abundance that they breed and accumulate enough body fat to allow them to survive the long period of hibernation.

But, of course, there are limits to how long they can live from their own resources.

We speculate that their absence indicates that they have already entered into their winter stasis, although I argue that it makes no Two young marmottes

sense to hibernate before the snows arrive and when there is still food to be had.

The discussion takes us up the next slope and into the Val de Serrios.

It is here that we get a real taste of winter.

The blast of glacial air as we pass through the narrow cleft at the entrance to this high basin is enough to dispel the worst hangover. With cold mist hanging over us and a wall of snow ahead we have passed from summer to the coldest season of the year with hardly a nod to anything in between.

It’s exciting but it takes some getting used to.

Val de Serrios Another thing I’m having trouble getting my head around is the change of angles.

Where I live in England we have hills, but they roll gently. Birds usually, fly above us and I see woods and fields pretty much horizontally.

In Lescun the world has been turned topsy turvy, helter-skelter, upside down.

Here vultures gliding way above the ground appear below us. The forest twists through impossible angles so we see them, almost vertically, from above or titled at 45 degrees, not just once but here and there and all over the place.

Land is above and below and impossibly

up there in the sky. Up and down are concepts that have to be revisited.

And our position in the village exacerbates the problem. Just about as high as it’s possible to be in Lescun, we see the world from above - the jumble of forested slopes; the ragged horse shoe of mountains and the plunging depths of rivers - we are aware of them all. Closer, we see the tangle of houses and chaos of roofs that protect the inhabitants.

Architecturally, the houses of Lescun have been adapted to the climate and the life style of those who lived here. (And I use the past tense intentionally.)

The chaos of roofs To begin with, we need to look at the roofs.

Take the church, for example. The shift of angle at the eaves conforms to the local pattern designed, like a ski jump, to shoot snow away from doors and windows. Some roofs even have spikes and bars projecting from the slates in order to prevent the white avalanche from landing on the kids.

The classic Lescun house, like Alf’s, has three levels. The barn forms the ground floor where, during winter, cattle would have been housed and protected while at the same time convecting their body heat up to the first floor where the family lived. Here, the wood fire and the bustle of family life generated warmth in itself, insulated and retained by the grenier above where, during the summer months, hay would have been carried in and stored as winter fodder. Windows were kept small to keep the house cool in the summer while preventing heat loss during colder periods.

It was the perfect solution for surviving the climate.

Nowadays, however, lifestyles have changed and I know of no family in the village that houses animals under the house or stores hay in the roof space.

That time has gone.

And so I walk down the street to help Alf insulate his house because there is nothing in the draughty space above his living area and certainly no animals beneath.

The wind whistles though the grenier and cold air seeps up from the barn. It’s a total disaster. He has to readapt to the present just as his forebears did.

It’s a dirty and dusty job. For years, nothing has been changed here, It’s like a ramshackle museum - shelves stacked with artefacts that noDetail from a a traditional family house

one recognises, yet have remained, undisturbed and rusting away for perhaps half a century.

But we get on with it using, of course, the latest products to insulate the living area from the barn and from the empty roof space. And when we look at the bill for the materials we wonder briefly whether we should bought some cows for the barn instead.

We know that winter is coming. Everyone we meet warns us that it will be hard. We have ordered more wood and expect a delivery within the next week or two.

But we have options.

With food in the freezer we could stay put - hibernate like marmottes. We could go down the mountain like the isard - perhaps visit our daughter in the Tarn et Garonne; or, maybe, we’ll get out our snow shoes, put chains on the car tyres and stick it out..

We’re not sure yet.

*1 Il y a de la neige sur le Pic d’Anie - There is snow on the Pic d’Anie Ça commence - It has started.

November 3rd 2015