Les quartiers

Les Quartiers

It had been snowing half-heartedly for most of the day but, with temperatures peeping into the positive, nothing had settled. In fact, water had been dripping from the roofs and draining from the hillside above the house.

Consequently we took the decision to set off for the Cabaret Evening at Estos, just the other side of Oloron.

Somehow, I had managed to get roped into performing the same comic tale that I’d told at the Maison de Montagne in Lescun and Kathy, Alf, Oddvar and Candelaria had volunteered to come along in order to provide moral support. Indeed, Kathy had agreed to drive.

We were,though, it must be admitted, slightly disturbed to see, when we met at half past seven in the evening, that a thin layer of slush was beginning to form on the road but, after brief discussions, we decided to leave anyway.

Resolve melted away far faster than the snow, however, when on the third hairpin down from the village we found ourselves in a blizzard crawling, if not a a snail’s pace, then not much faster.

Alf didn’t think it would amount to much but offered to do the driving anyway using his 4x4.

Gratefully we accepted and, after returning to the village to change vehicles and launching out on the journey for a second time, we felt a bit foolish to discover that,half way down the Cote de Lescun, snow had turned to rain and the roads were hazard free.

Forty-five minutes later we arrived late for the show but, as expected, true to experiences of similar events in the area, it hadn’t even started.

So that was all right.

The evening was organised around two local choirs: one a large group of older people and the other an all-female ensemble with an obviously lower average age. Between their performances we were treated to some comic sketches, a bit of story-telling, a guitar and vocals rendition of a Leonard Cohen song (in french) and some four-handed piano playing, remarkable because of the tiny size of the keyboard used.

I guess the audience was made up mainly of family and friends.

These were people with a strong artistic an cultural sense. Some were local but many had moved to the area from other parts of France only to sniff each other out creating networks based on shared interests.

There was also a significant percentage of “foreigners”, such as in our own party, as well as the Czech woman who sings and works at the Somport Ski Station and the English four-handed pianists.

It was a good evening. The atmosphere was open and friendly, supportive and appreciative but, with anxieties about the road conditions nagging at the back of our minds, we felt obliged at half past eleven to leave them to the dancing. … No snow, nor even rain at Estos. Nothing at Oloron. Just before Sarrance it started to rain. But so what. It wasn’t until we neared Bedous that the drops thickened, become whiter and, as we crossed the Pont De Lescun and began the zig-zag ascent, we found not tarmac but snow.

Now Alf has lived in Lescun all his life. He’s had plenty of experience of driving on snow and, as he began the difficult last few kilometres, he decided to entertain us by describing all his near misses.

He then declared that he wanted to see if he could get to the village without using the four-wheel drive, at which point the passengers in the back suddenly become silent.

But all goes well until the second bend when the back of the Duster shimmied from one side of the road to the other.

“Feel that?” asks Alf. “It’s slipping.” However, he remains in two-wheel drive mode.

It’s worth mentioning here that the route up to then village is rarely protected by walls and there is a good chance that any vehicle leaving the road will tumble, roll, even briefly fly, down up to three hundred metres of rocky terrain.

At the next bend Alf passes me his compact camera.

“Here,” he says. “Take that. I often see wildlife when it’s dark… Oo! Feel that… sliding.”

We keep expecting him to shift into four-wheel mode, just to be on the safe side. But no. We continue with our precarious adventure, coming across six inches of settled snow covering the steep road.

“You see,” he announces, at last. “It’s gripping better here. That’s because the snow is colder.”

It’s clear that I have a lot to learn about snow and, in particular, driving on it. But, judging by the sighs of relief coming from the other occupants in the car as we reach the village, I must have a chat to Alf about carrying out experiments with nervous passengers on board.

You can see how, in the past, it must have been for the folks of the village. With no road until 1930 the only links with the outside world would have been via mule tracks leading either down to the Vallée D’Aspe or over the frontier to Aragon and, many times I’ve heard it said that there were more contacts with the people of Hecho, across the border, than with their French neighbours down below.

It also helps to explain, I think, an inbuilt isolationism born out of a proud and hard-won heritage.

The day after the cabaret we wake to a foot of snow on top of the car. If The morning after the Cabaret we’d known how the weather would turn we’d have stayed at home. But there you are. As it worked, out it was OK. In the middle of the morning we receive an unexpected visit from one of our neighbours who is a member of the Lescun Pompiers. Max belongs to that elite group of able bodied men and, these days women, who are the first port of call when disaster strikes: chimney fire..? They’ll be the ones to put it out. Heart attack..? There in minutes with the defibrillator. Broken leg or even lost in the mountains..? They’re your chaps. A part-time volunteer force, they provide a front line service to the commune of Lescun and, when needed, further afield in the valley, and an annual tradition across the whole of the country is the Pompiers’ Calendar. A fund-raising activity, they are sold throughout the communities they serve, though I notice that at the same time they wisely take the opportunity to educate their fellow villagers. And, this year, the focus is how to help if you come across a road accident.

Of course, we are are happy to support our local team with a donation and invite Max in for coffee.

The conversation meanders through a range of subjects: how long will we stay in the village; how his business is faring; Brexit and his own views on the European project. And then he surprises us with a proposition.

“Some of us were thinking about having a community meal for the quartier,” he says.

We respond positively but can’t help thinking it odd that, in a village of one hundred and eighty inhabitants, there are quartiers.

Some of the Lescun Pompiers “Oh yes,” he says.

“So which quartier do we live in?” At this he wasn’t quite sure but thought it might be Le Quartier de L’Eglise as we are close to the church.

“It’ll have to be in summer though,” I suggested at which Max, looking out of the window at the white landscape beyond, agreed and added: “Maybe in June before everything gets busy.”

“Good idea,” I replied. “We could use the garden?”

After Max had moved on to his next calendar sale I stood at the window looking over the rooftops trying to imagine how the village might have been divided. How many quartiers were there? Along what lines were they divided up? How did they come about?

Life here is like that: the more you find out, the more questions come to the surface; the more you know, the more realise what you don’t know.

One thing I thought I knew was that my pneumonia had been licked but I needed to put it to the test and the heavy dump of snow presented me with an opportunity explore my limits in a session with snow shoes, or racketeering as it has come to be known in our private franglais speak.

Although more snow had been forecast, the following day dawned still with careless daubs of pale blue across an unphotogenic, grey sky. Not a perfect day, but a half chance.

Kitted out with warm clothes, boots and gaiters and carrying racquettes we walked up the L’ Abérouat road to the point were the GR10 branches off on its cross-country wanderings to the refuge.

The GR10 is one France’s long distance footpaths, the Grande Randonnées, with this particular trek taking a mid-altitude route through the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. From

late Spring to early Autumn it is a popular trip. Outside that period, however, the days are too short to be sure of completing each leg and, as on this day, snow will render progress exhaustingly slow.

Indeed, almost as soon as we had quit the lane, we encountered depths varying from 60-100cm.

Snow shoes and walking poles were going to be essential yet, even with their help, each step would sink between 10 and 20cm into the loose structure of the covering. It was hard going and within 15 minutes of labouring uphill we had stripped off gloves and superfluous layers of clothing.

This was certainly not going to be a walk in the park, we concurred… it was a sporting activity.

Just what I needed.

One thing you quickly learn about racketeering is that it’s much easier to follow than to lead. Thee first in line will already have compressed the snow with the result that, providing those behind can exploit the same footsteps, they will not sink in so far, thus requiring significantly less effort to move on. The trail-blazer, on the other hand, will expend energy compensating for the unpredictable shift of weight as the snow shoe sinks in a little or a lot while tilting to one side or another depending on the Racketeering can be fun! angle of the terrain and hidden, buried obstacles.

Further effort is then required to extricate the racquet at the same time as trying to avoid using it as a snow shovel.

It’s not for everyone, this activity.

Normally, the lead would rotate in order to spread the work-load but, on this occasion, I was so stubborn and so determined to see what the motor would do that I pushed it as far it would go, ignoring offers from others to take over as “front man”.

One hour into the climb I was drenched in sweat; the muscles in my legs were burning but the lungs were back to normal.

I was reassured.

Eventually we came between the rocky outcrops below the Pic D’Ourtasse and the remote farm belonging to Francois and Franck, cousins of Alf. Immediately the dogs started barking and not long after that, no doubt because at this time of year few passers-by are expected, Franck appeared the door, cup in one hand, cigarette in the other.

“Hey,” he called up, his strong Béarnaise accent detectable even in one syllable. I waved hello and pushed back the hood of my ski jacket so that he might recognise me.

“John… Kathy… Come and have a coffee,” he shouted jovially. “Come in the warm.”

I looked ahead at the slope beyond. There was evidence of avalanches - nothing major, nothing in any way life-threatening but, still, slides of snow you wouldn’t want to tangle with. I would have liked to get across the next bit before the sun made it even less stable but, on the other hand, it’s

always good to be sociable. So, we worked our way down the hillside to the tiny house in which Francois and Franck lived.

This pair of bachelor brothers has carved out a living from farming at a time when others have foundered. Keeping animals of their own, they also act as professional shepherds for other flocks, sometimes in Lescun and sometimes, in the case of Francois, on the plane towards Bordeaux.

Unstrapping the snow shoes and propping the poles outside, we stepped into the warm fug of a room that was kitchen, dining and living room all in one. Franck lit the roll-up that had been dangling from his mouth just as his brother did the same and we were obliged to tolerate the heat, the humidity and the smoke which for them was the norm.

Normal life to us exists in a world far away from here in a place of which they have no understanding. They, like John-Pierre Lauzart, had never been abroad. They have never left this small corner of France. And though, daily, they watch the news of wars and terrorism, of scandals and politicians’ gift-wrapped promises, they understand only the impact on their own small universe.

And this I cannot fault.

It is a philosophy that, mostly, will see you through a life.

So it was, that within the embrace of a welcome reserved usually for members of the family, we settled down to coffee in a space that, like most homes, provided clues of how the occupants live.

And here the time-settled clutter of well-used cups and pans, farming magazines and worn-out coats, fading photographs alongside someone else’s sea-side memorabilia, the cracked mirror, the box of half used medication and the amateur veterinary implements bore witness to a kind of life; a life, perhaps, most characterised by the absence of a woman’s touch.

We talk about farming.

Lambs have been born. The males and rejected ewes will be sold at the Easter market.

The new calves, too, both male, will be fattened up to sell and, yes, the belier (ram) will need replacing soon.

But then again…

“We need to scale down a bit. We’re not getting any younger.”

And there follows talk of back problems and winter chills, coughs and colds and being A manech ewe and lamb getting ready for the Easter Sale laid low by mystery bugs that always seem to arrive, somehow, just as the wind changes. And then the conversation moves on to local news and, in particular, the latest controversies.

For though, when we stand above the village looking down over its cluster of habitations and beyond to the well-kept fields that lap like a tide against the natural protective walls of the Cirque, and see a community apparently in harmony and at ease with itself and its history, we understand that, alas, this is not the whole truth.

All small communities, including for example, the rural idyl in Dorset on which, for this year, we have turned our backs, are prone to divisions and clannishness.

Lescun is no exception and, owing to the adversarial structure of local politics where two teams compete for dominance, it is in some ways worse.

“The village shop has closed. No-one to take it over. Whose fault is that? Well, if you ask me..!”

“The voting scandal? Outsiders sticking their noses in where they’re not wanted. Of course they can have their voice in the local elections. They were born here. Don’t qualify? Rubbish. What do you mean you can only vote if you pay local tax? Says who?

Seductive as the warmth of the welcome may be and salacious as the gossip may be, I am mindful of the sun outside loosening the layer of snow on the slopes below the crête. We make our excuses and return to our excursion with the shepherds' dogs joining us for a while as we begin the climb back up the slope. “À plus,” calls Franck before adding, “They should leave it to the people who were born here!” And, strangely, I felt he had forgotten that we, too, were outsiders; not only had we “parachuted” in but, heaven forbid, we were foreigners.

In Lescun, this kind of acceptance from the traditional agricultural community is not unique, but it is rare enough to be worthy of comment. In our case it has been earned over years of being here, talking and listening and listening and talking, until the locals began to say “well they’re not that bad… for foreigners” and later “I think they’re alright” and a lot later “surprisingly, they are alright” .

We are, in a way, known.

And, while we would like to think that acceptance in the community can be achieved in this way, through respect as it were, it has not always been the case, for Lescun, along with the rest of this part of France, harbours a dark secret.

Here, in Lescun, just below the church there is a part of the village, developed now with a few more private houses, that was once the clearly defined Quartier des Cagots.

These people, the Cagots, were, quite simply, outcasts. Regarded, since the thirteenth century, on a par with lepers, they were the equivalent of the the Indian untouchables, the Dahlits. And, though, during the establishment of the French Republique, it was decreed that they should be treated as equals, their persecution continued here and no doubt elsewhere, into the twentieth century.

Their tormentors believed, or more likely pretended to believe, that they carried disease and for this reason they were forbidden contact with farm animals or food to be consumed by their fellow villages. They were obliged to take water from a Cagots’ Source and were even banned from walking bare-foot on public thoroughfares.

Though Christians themselves, adhering to the Catholic faith, they were made to enter church through their own door - still present in Lescun.

They were baptised using a designated font (a good example exists still in the cathedral of Sainte Marie at Oloron) and were served communion at the end of a long wooden spoon.

To touch someone, let alone marry, outside their pariah community was completely taboo. To be born a Cagot was to die a Cagot.

To add to this, no doubt due to a deprived life-style, they were small of stature reaching, according to the One of the last Cagots families (1962)

french anthropologist René Collignon, researching in the latter part of the nineteenth century, a maximum height of 150-155 cm.

Surprisingly, however, up to the fifteenth century, certain of their womenfolk were revered as Sages Femmes, performing midwifery and exploiting their knowledge of the medicinal properties of plants.

A dangerous occupation it must have been, for such skills were regarded as one step away from sorcery… fine while things go well, but should they not..?

The men. too, developed their abilities, though largely as a reaction to the restrictions to which, for centuries, they were shackled. Unable to work in agriculture, they turned their hands to practical trades, working with inanimate materials such as wood and stone. Cagot expertise with marble and stone-carving along with carpentry, coopering and wheel-making, became widely recognised and, during the fourteenth century, the construction of the Chateau de Pau under the direction Gaston Fébus, Lord of the Bearn, was largely due to their labour.

But, however useful they may have been to the wider community, they were still looked down upon and treated little better than slaves. Yes, they had their place in the village, but they were not of the village. They had their place in the community yet they were apart, pariahs, outcasts.

Today, the French express regret at the treatment of the Cagots while those who maintain their bloodline may keep quiet about their origins, understanding that it is a long and ignominious story but believing, too, that it should be buried and forgotten in the past.

Church roof built by Cagots at Monein not far from Oloron Sainte Marie There is no doubt that, in a modern state such as in France, discrimination in the form suffered by the Cagots is no longer tolerated by society at large nor by the law in particular. In daily life, however, the petty prejudices voiced derisively in such expressions as outsiders, foreigners, strangers or parachutés, it flounders on.

And, on this theme, I can’t help but recall a local anecdote that came my way some weeks ago…

A group of woman who live in Lescun decided it would be a good idea to plant flowers in the unused verges around the village - strips of land next to the tarmac of the road where grass, brambles and other weeds had established a toe hold.

Perhaps they should have tried their plan out on some of the older locals before setting forth with trowels and packets of seeds; perhaps even they should passed the project by the local council in order to obtain their seal of approval; but energised by their enthusiasm and emboldened by a certainty that everyone likes flowers, they forged innocently ahead.

They next thing that Pascale, one of the key movers and shakers in the group, knows is that an angry neighbour is providing the door knocker with a thorough workout.

“That’s my land you’re stealing! You’re taking my land! You outsiders coming here with your city ways… nothing but trouble. We do things our way here and we don’t need people coming from outside telling us what to do. Flowers! Flowers… if I want flowers I’ll plant them myself. You people… you parachute in and try to take over. Well, I’m not having it!”

Pascal apologises.

The next visit is from the Mayor.

“I’ve had a complaint about the flowers. Mme. Dubeton doesn’t want flowers.”

“I got that,” replies Pascale.

“The land between the road and the wall of her property belongs, it turns out, to her and she doesn’t want flowers; she wants stones. So I’ve arranged for a mason to deal with it.”

And so, within a week, Pascale comes across the builder at work by the side of the road.

“So you like flowers?” he says. “I heard the story.”

“Everyone’s heard about it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” says the mason without a flicker of emotion.

The work of a Cagot?