Holidays and village fetes

Holidays and Village Fetes

While, in mid July, British schools are still open, working their way through a timetable of sports days, end-of-term productions, academic reports and what-have-you, their French neighbours will have packed away their books and shut up shop weeks ago.

The holiday season is, now, in full swing.

Many will be off to the beaches of the mediterranean or the Atlantic. Not far from here the resorts of Biarritz, La Rochelle and the Basin d’Arcachon will be bursting at the gussets. Ice cream will be devoured by the truck load; Moule Frites, Steak Frites and just Frites will be served up in shovels and enough sun cream to fuel an entire power station will be spread over acres of sun-grilled skin.

Campsites, hotels, apartments, gites, caravans and camping cars, B&B and chambre d’hôte - you’ll be lucky to squeeze yourself in unless you’ve booked months ago.

This is gold for the entrepreneurs who mine the seams of tourism. And it’s not much different here.

On the village square, outside the Hotel Pic D’Anie, sunshades are sprouting like cartoon mushrooms; picnic tables have appeared outside the village shop encouraging hikers and, indeed, anyone with a few Euros to spare, to stop by for breakfast or for a midday snack. In the epicerie itself there are long queues as the swollen number of residents stock up for the day. Down at the campsite yellow, blue and green fabric shelters emerge miraculously as though from the earth itself and, in the blink of nature’s thermostat, streets that have been almost empty for nine months are ringing with the cries of children, the tip-tap sticks of the elderly and the unfit, or caressed by the shadows of strolling couples.

So, who are these people who have turned their back on the sea-side?

In the summer, there are many who return to their family home. In France, unlike in Britain where the first impulse is to sell an inherited house, perhaps to pay off a pressing debt or to finance retirement, the tendency is to hang on to it partly because of the different social conditions but mainly because of lower housing costs.

The result is that more people keep the old farmhouse or cottage, sharing the running costs with their siblings, thus retaining it as a kind of time-share for relatives. Families whose grandparents farmed the mountain pastures will be revisiting their roots, making contact with others who share a similar history. Today, maybe, they come from Bordeaux, Toulouse or, often, further afield only to reunite here where there remains some sort of contact with the land of their forbears.

These vacancies may go out into the mountains but, more likely, they will stay around the village an antidote to the wear and tear of their modern lives.

Others will be on the move. The village is situated on two of the long-distance footpaths which cross the Pyrenees: the HRP (The High Route through the Pyrenees) and the GR10 ( a slightly lower traverse from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean). These hiking routes have been brought about by a European initiative, so that, now. whether you find yourself in Portugal, Luxembourg, Spain, Holland or a host of the countries, it’s possible to pull on your boots and set out on a serious leg-stretch.

Refuges, gites d’etape (gites set up for short stays, usually overnight) and campsite exist all along the trail with several option available in Lescun. With their hefty rucksacks and sun burnished faces, these hardy visitors are easy to spot. Seen stocking up at the village shop before setting off on the next stage of their journey or bathing sore feet in one of the village water troughs, they are as much a sign that summer is here as the swallows stitching invisible thread through the evening skies in their hunt for food. We see them, early in the day, beginning the long trudge up to the col de Pau (3 hours from Lescun) or following shady lanes over to the village of LHers, stoicism and determination, engraved unmistakably in their usually, but not always, young faces.

Though the going is undeniably tough, it’s not all hardship as demonstrated by one of the most surprising encounters along the route.

“Cafe Beloute” is a tiny house, restaurant and refuge with places for just four people to sleep over and we stumble upon it just off the GR10 - a steep forty-five minute slog from the nearest track.

Cafe Beloute At 1100m of altitude, we sip our coffee while enjoying views across the Valley d’Aspe or down into the wild forest, with its back-drop of sheer grey and orange cliffs.

The building had been abandoned after it was badly damaged by fire as a result of farmers losing control of an écobuage (see Setting Fire to the Mountain). It was purchased by a couple who set about restoring and developing it.

Carrying most of the materials up themselves, camping out and drawing on support from friends, they managed, after much blood sweat and tears to create this miniature oasis of welcome and repose way out in the wilderness. Francois, one of the owners shows us around the garden where, out of site of the cafe tables, we come across two meticulously well-tended vegetable gardens which provide food for themselves and, more importantly, the cafe. There are soft summer fruits, too and, as I notice

that crumble is on the menu, I make a note to try some later. Two donkeys, which I assume are used to carry up supplies, are grazing in a small meadow but my guide tells me they are too lazy.

By the time you’ve caught them, bridled them, loaded them and goaded them into walking at their snail-like pace you might as well carry the stuff yourself.

No wonder the owners look so fit.

“I’m getting a bit of a problem with my back, though,” admits Francois. “I carried a fridge up once…

Shouldn’t do that sort of thing.”

So, after and excellent omelette and salad, a glass of rosé and delicious desert, we offer to help out by taking down some empty bottles for recycling.

All around, now, the Estive is in full swing.

This silence of seasons past has been replaced by the jangling cacophony of bone and wood on tin as sheep and cattle, once again, graze the mountain pastures. The shepherds are reacquainted with their summer accommodation, their dogs set to work and the flies are back. The taons, or horseflies, are the worst. Abandoning their recreational activities on fresh cow pats, they arrive unnoticed on exposed skin, detected only by their sudden and painful sting.

You can’t blame the males for this, though, as with their feeble chewing gear they don’t have the capacity for it. The girls, however, possess mouthparts designed to inflict serious damage.They are formed into a stout stabbing organs with two pairs of sharp cutting blades, and a spongelike part used to soak up the blood that flows from the wound. Contrary to what you might think, they’re don’t engage in this activity just for fun. They need the protein in order to produce eggs and, consequently, even Paragliding in the Valley D’Aspe more taons. Delightful… but there’s not much one can do about it. So anyone out in the mountains at this time of year will either have to climb higher to where there are no animals or simply put up with it.

Of course, now it’s holiday time, there are many more people about. Apart from those with family connections, and those just passing through, there are thousands who come to enjoy, for a week or two, a stay in the Pyrenees. For some this means admiring the range from a distance, perhaps from the terrace of a village bar in the company of a cool drink. Others, more adventurous, will be engaged one of the many mountain sports that the area has to offer. So, whether your thing is rock climbing or caving, paragliding or white water rafting, mountain biking or hill walking, you are bound to find yourself with company during July and August.

But the range of activities does not stop there. Ornithologists and lepidopterists and are out in force. Those with a passion for painting, photography or maybe a taste for tramping the range with a hired donkey or mule for a companion, are frequent visitors. And I once met a pair of scientists whose idea of a top holiday was two weeks in the mountains studying the “mid-wife toads” that have taken up residence in one of the lakes in the Cirque… all so far away from the tranquil

months between September and June when, often, out in some valley, on the boney spine of a ridge or perched on top of one of Lescun�s peaks when we felt we had the mountains, occasionally even the world, to ourselves.

And though, during July and August, we move over to make space for the holidaymakers - the people from across the world who have made their own A couple trekking with a mule brief pilgrimage to the Pyrenees, there is no resentment. Their money is essential for the economy of the region and their love of the mountains is to be respected. The temporary loss of solitude is a very small price to pay.

The influx of summer visitors, however, is not the only indication that the estive has arrived. It is, as in England, the season of the village fete.

Traditionally, I suspect, there was a very practical reason for these bacchanalian feasts during which populations would travel from one isolated community to another, not just to share the celebrations, but also to match-make young couples. Villagers in the past were well aware of the need to avoid inbreeding. Blood lines were carefully followed and even today any villager in Lescun will be able to describe precisely their relationship with other members of their extended and distant family. But new genes and new alliances were always good news.

In our village, the timbre of village events has shifted a bit towards what I would call gentrification.

The village meal and the ball continue yet, alongside these traditional activities we find a growing diversity of Cultural (big C intended) events. So, during July and August, in this tiny village at over 3000 feet of altitude, one has the opportunity enjoy an exhibition of ceramics then, three days later, a rock concert. There is a jazz evening on the village square and, if you are so inclined, you can take part in a world dance workshop. Later the same day an outdoor cinema will show an ArtHouse film called La French which might just get you in the mood for a programme of international folk song at the end of July. And so it continues into the next month until the 15th when, for some bizarre reason I have never understood, the holiday season ends.

Over in our neighbouring village of Borce the village fete takes on a more-time honoured flavour.

During the day, an assortment of activities, mainly aimed at the youngest members of the community, take place. But it’s not until about 7pm, way after the time our English friends have tidied away the tea things, packed up the plant stall, the tombola and the children’s games, that it really gets going.

Of course, there is the buvette with its apparently never ending supply of fizzy beer and barely drinkable wine. And yes there is fruit juice or water if these are your preferred tipple. The village meal is served from a huge cauldron and this year its a choice of traditional Spanish stew (prepared by an English resident) or a veggie option. Both come with a hunk of bread, a generous

slice of local cheese and, for desert, a nectarine or a peach… this to be shared with friends or indeed strangers at one of the tressle tables arranged on what is normally the village carpark.

But it’s the music that’s the main thing. Four bands have been booked so it’s non-stop from 7.30 pm until about two in the morning. And the young and the fit from the valley are there to make the most of it while, at the same time, rubbing shoulders with children and older folks.

The first group takes the stage - a bunch of local youngsters with a penchant for reggae. They’re good and the initial bunch of dancers are soon doing their stuff on the bear-pit terrace where the stage has been erected. We hold back on hoofing it for a while, content to meet friends and exchange banter. The second group comes on just as the light begins to fade. It’s classic rock. Drums, base and an incredible guitarist/vocalist. Reminds me of Cream - Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker.

The set progresses as darkness falls. A group of local hippies have taken off their shoes and are gyrating their way to, in my view, potential back problems. But they’re having a whale of a time, as is the granny dancing with a toddler. A bunch of eleven or twelve-year-olds from the children’s home up the road are hurling a florescent toy into the air, then rushing off to retrieve it from the crowd.

I look up to see the peaks above Borce subdued into benevolent shadows as the first stars appear to compete with the bands own light show.

Different generations enjoying the first band The bulbs around the buvette glow. Lights come on at a neighbouring house where they have erected giant silhouettes of a saxophonist and a trumpet player in the windows. Some people are still eating.

Older people are dancing now.

It’s summer.

August 2nd 2016