Family and friends

Family and Friends

“You choose your friends but you don’t choose your family” - at least, that’s the conventional wisdom. But it has never seemed like that to me. OK, the family bit is, I think, pretty much correct.

But friends? In my experience they just sort of turn up. Like Lila.

We’d left the family on the ski slopes at Candanchu, just the other side of the border with Spain.

We’d done our bit by financing the day at the cost of an arm and a leg; had spent the morning making a digital record of the event and offering encouraging affirmations at every minor achievement. I think we had hoped to see big smiling faces - evidence of fun. But, while our daughter and her husband appeared to be having a whale of a time, the teenagers remained inscrutable. Perhaps they were busy concentrating on the teaching of the ageing Spanish ski instructor who, in my opinion, was doing quite well with his pigeon french, or maybe they were mentally composing their next posts for social media. Hard to say.

Anyway… it was time to leave them to it.

Back in Lescun, towards the end of the afternoon, I felt the need for some exercise as we had done little more than stand around all day, so I settled on a walk up to the Crete D”Ourtasse above the village by taking the ridge rising steeply from the Kiosk.

It was on the footpath just before the Kiosk that I came across Lila hanging around looking for something to do.

I’d seen her once before, a couple weeks earlier, standing in the village square looking rather lost and I remembered thinking how appealing she looked with her sad eyes and shaggy grey-blond hair. On that occasion she had wandered off indifferently but now she seemed eager for attention gazing at me with a hint of longing.

I bent down and caressed a few wayward locks that hung over her eyes and she responded by sniffing my shoes. At this stage, of course, I didn’t know what she was called but a quick inspection of her leather collar revealed a chrome disk engraved with her name.

“Lee-lah,” I tried but she was unresponsive and it was only when I called “Lie-la” that she showed any interest.

I am not, actually, a dog-lover but now and again I come across a creature that surprises me with inexplicable charm and, as I set off up the ridge with Lila bounding ahead of me, I began to think that this might be one such occasion. I could be making a new friend.

With still quite a lot of snow around the dog delighted in throwing herself onto her back while squirming around, legs in the air, before suddenly leaping upright again and shaking the sparkling crystals out of her coat. At other times, appearing to have smelt something under the thick white crust covering the hillside, she would frantically start digging only stopping to thrust her snorting muzzle into the excavation. And when she wasn’t engaged in either of these activities she was careering up, down and around the ridge with an unmistakable canine grin spread across her face.

Sometimes during the outing she would respond to a call - “Lie-la!” - come running to be caressed; sometimes not, indulging in, I supposed, her version of selective deafness.

Perhaps it had been a mistake, I reflected, as we reached the top of the Crete and Lila galloped off into the trees that created an arboreal tangle on the far side… perhaps it had been a mistake to take the grandchildren to the Cabanes D’Ansabère. For some strange reason, the prospect of a two-hour uphill walk in snow shoes didn’t immediately have them jumping for joy. And even after I’d explained that we’d be able to explore two shepherds’ huts and get up close to the famous Aiguilles they remained unmoved.

However, they didn’t ask me, as I thought they might, whether there would be wi-fi at the cabanes.

So I was wrong about that.

Initially, as we made our way up the track in freezing conditions, I felt rather put out by the, generally negative response from the teenagers.

Trudging along, sullen-faced, I failed to comprehend how any human-being could not be moved by the beauty of the winter landscape. I felt like someone who had come up with the perfect Christmas present - the present you are absolutely sure will be loved by the recipient. It is the choice of gift where, for once, there is no doubt that you’ve got it spot on.

Lila Yet, as they pull off the ribbons and the wrapping paper you are confounded by badly disguised wrinkles of disappointment, a sudden dulling of the eyes.

But, then again, why should they like what I like. You can’t force people to appreciate stuff just because you do. So, while I stand admiring the great limestone cathedral of the Grande Aiguille and history-laden spire of the Petite, they have snowball fights, make a snowman and have a go at building an igloo.

I have obviously, in a dash to pass on my own passions, forgotten what it is to be young.

Lila weaves a network of doggy tracks around the route down from Ourtasse then follows me along lanes and tracks back to the house where, for a while, we both sit outside in the sun.

I don’t think dogs have opinions about much, unlike people. People are full of views on this and that, beliefs about whatever and shedloads of preferences from the colour of socks to the best wine to go with grilled turbot.

And, if it were true that you do choose your friends, then you would expect them to be people with whom you have a lot in common - enough overlaps of views and beliefs and preferences to avoid conflict. They would be, in fact, people like you.

So why, as we sit down for dinner on a cold February night with snow clouds threatening, do we find ourselves in the The forced march to Ansabère

company of a Norwegian ski fanatic called Oddvar, his Argentinian girlfriend and travelling companion, Candelaria, who makes baskets and Oliver Willoughby-Browne, retired member of parliament for an English home counties constituency?

Both Oddvar and Candelaria are young enough to be my children. I can’t ski and, while I like wickerwork, it doesn’t quite do it for me as an art form. The Norwegian’s level of fitness and boundless energy leaves me feeling both breathless and wistful and his girlfriend’s ability to speak at least four languages while winning over everyone she meets makes me wonder what I was doing in my youth. As for Oliver, though we come from opposite ends of the political spectrum and have quite different views of the world, I envy and admire his confident bonhomie and easy way with folks. We have a great evening, we Lescunois immigrants.

For there is one thing that negates all differences and establishes an immediate bond - it’s the love of this wonderful place in the mountains of the Pyrenees. And I am reminded of the story of Henri Barrio (see last letter) who, after he had escaped from the Nazis walked all the way back to the Vallée D’Aspe to be sheltered for the rest of the war by his friend, the shepherd, Pierre Bourdieu. The latter, a fervent royalist, would have liked to see the monarchy restored to France, while Barrio was a committed communist.

After a while Lila drags her sun softened body into action and wanders off down the street. Like a good guest, like a good friend, she knows not to outstay her welcome.

March 4th 2016