Making ends meet

Making Ends Meet

There is no better way to ensure a spell of unseasonably mild weather than to spend 200 euros having show tyres fitted. “Sod’s Law”, it seems, prevails.

And the day we bought them it snowed, confirming our decision to bite the bullet and splash out.

Indeed, our only concern on that particular day was whether we’d get out of the village and down to Oloron Sainte Marie where we had made an appointment with the tyre and exhaust outfit opposite Leclerc’s.

I found a besom-type brush in the barn which proved just the job for clearing the snow off the roof and bonnet after which, gingerly, we navigated the narrow, winding village streets where a slip would have inevitably met an unforgiving stone wall.

We succeeded, but half way down the road to the valley - la cote, as it’s known - snow turned to sleet and then to rain and remained as such for the rest of the journey. In fact, it marked the beginning of a thaw that, during the following 24 hours would clear all but the highest peaks of their white coat and even they looked rather threadbare.

The immediate consequence of the current lack of snow will be most keenly felt at the “Ski Nordique” Station just below the Col de Somport on the border with Spain. Being a major tourist amenity, it plays a significant role in the economy of the Valley D’Aspe, attracting visitors from both sides of the frontier. Those who depend on the seasonal work it provides will be kicking their heels, looking anxiously at a weather forecast that, at the moment, offers no solace.

The Ski Nordique Station at Somport with a good covering.

The two “downhill skiing” facilities, a stone’s throw away in Spain, with their machines that manufacture snow from water and blast it out over the pistes, will fare better. But, of course, DIY ski slopes come at a financial cost and they don’t hold the same appeal. Numbers will be down.

Lack of snow so far this winter can be attributed to exceptional “weather” but, across the chain, there is plenty of evidence that the “climate” has changed and, without venturing into the controversial territory of why this might be so, it is obvious that global warming is an issue here.

This can be seen most clearly by observing the retreat of the glaciers. As late as the summer of 1989 I remember climbing Pic Aneto, the highest summit in the Pyrenees, when access to the final granite pyramid involved an hour’s trek across a deeply crevassed terrain of snow and ice. By comparison, what we find today resembles more a mini skirt than a ball gown. What’s more, Aneto is not a one-off. Other great peaks in the range are, now, similarly attired while some have been disrobed completely.

Nowadays, conventional wisdom in the French Pyrenees is that ski stations below an altitude of at least 1 800m are no longer viable. Somport is at 1 600m.

For us, the mild weather has encouraged us to get out and about, making the most of areas that, normally, at this time of year, are inaccessible. One such, outing took us above Etsaut, a small village in the valley. It’s an area we hadn’t visited before.

The walk climbs steeply up the left side of the Ruisseau de Sadum towards the Pic D’Aygarry before crossing over at the Pont de Moulette where it begins Aneto and its glacier the equally precipitous descent on the other side. It’s not much of an excursion - about two hours in total - but the climb was useful in helping us back to full fitness after the Christmas holidays and, of course, it’s always interesting to visit new places.

It provided, too, an opportunity to see more of a village that we’d visited many times but only to stop in the square for refreshments or to purchase something at the friendly little bar and shop.

When we first came to the area in the 1980s the main valley road, traversed the village allowing businesses to benefit from passing trade.

With the opening of the tunnel,

The Pont de Moulette in spring-like weather

however, and subsequent increase in heavy goods vehicles on the route, it became necessary to build a bypass, the old road being far too narrow.

Economically, like most villages in the area, it survives on an unequal mix of agriculture and tourism. There is an aluminium paint factory near the Pont de Lescun, some quarrying and several small hydroelectric stations run by EDF. Otherwise, inhabitants of the Valley D’Aspe are obliged to descend to the foothills where, at Oloron Sainte Marie, there is a wider choice of employment, including the Lindt chocolate factory. Traditionally, though, pastoralism has been the main source of revenue with an output of specialist lamb and cheeses. But, like highland farming all over the world, it’s tough going. Steep land and small fields lend themselves less well to mechanisation; the transhumance and extremes of weather are only for the toughest, the most determined and, despite generous subsidies, it’s hard to make ends meet.

Some farmers have diversified, converting empty buildings into gîtes for holidaymakers to rent, but the season is short and, generally, tourism in the area appears to be in decline. And, as we come back into Etsaut at the end of our walk, the abandoned hotel next to the river bears witness to this.

Still, despite the drop in passing trade resulting from the bypass and the snowless ski station, the bar and the shop open and so, warm from our efforts and the balmy temperature, we take seats on the terrace and order alcohol free beers (dry January!) to cool down.

We are the only customers.

There is no doubt that it’s is hard to make a living here and the young will often choose to leave.

Consequently, this hamlet is typical in seeing a decline in population. It’s not a recent phenomenon, though, as statistics document a steady decline from its highpoint of around 450 during the first half of the 19th century to around 80 today. A study of population changes in Lescun tells a similar story with a slightly later peak of 1 571 in 1871 dropping to 189 in 2013.

In some ways this is the same process that many English villages went through before their recent resurgence. But there are some key differences.

In my native Dorset, for example, our small rural settlements prove attractive retirement destinations for baby-boomers with enough capital to compete in the property market, injecting at the same time significant cash into local economies. Retirement to the mountains, on the other hand, with transport difficulties, long hard winters and potential isolation, is only for the most stoic.

Added to this, there is less property available as the paysans de la montagne are well known for their reluctance to part with houses or land, clinging on proudly even when they are no longer in a position to take advantage of them. The agricultural traditions here have deep roots, not easily torn up, so that, up till now at least, they have resisted the gentrification and suburbanisation I witness back home.

Patrimoine (heritage) amongst these proud montagnards counts for something, and so we observe families, whose forbears farmed here decades ago, retaining property which they use as a summer residence. Alongside these, and the tourists, there are other families who return, like house martins, to spend their vacations with parents, grandparents and great grandparents with the result that, during July and August, the population of Lescun increases ten-fold.

Naturally, this presents something of a challenge, but also, of course, an opportunity for the village shop. Running the business requires flexibility of staffing, stocking and opening times. So, like the izard and the marmottes living high up above the tree line, it is necessary build up a layer of fat during the good times in order to survive the lean months.

The previous proprietors managed this difficult juggling act for several years before deciding to move on but, to date, no-one has been found to take up the challenge and the building remains as desolate as the hotel at Etsaut.

* Another day, another walk… that’s how it is at the moment during this waiting-for-winter period.

This time we head out to the Plateau de Sanchez, a few kilometres from our house and a couple

of hundred metres higher. Again, the walk takes just two hours or so but, at this time of year, it can be a rewarding outing.

The last time we were here it had recently snowed and the white and the light and the blue of the bright sky were almost overwhelming. I remember stopping every hundred metres just to stare - to stare and to preserve the images I saw as memories or, of course, as photographs.

Today it is different.

The drizzle and the grey and the low hanging cloud inevitably dampen our spirits. The great walls of the Billare, no longer defined in sparkling runnels and crowns of white, are dark, streaked with rain and snow-melt running like mascara down the face of a distraught woman. We continue, though, making the best of it.

But there is always something. And today the “something� comes in the form of a bird: the gypaete barbu. What a creature! It is, to flight, what Django Reinhardt was to the guitar - a virtuoso.

Gypaete Barbu To see it glide, effortlessly contouring the relief, come almost to land then, with an adjustment of angle, a tilt of the tail and two lazy wing beats, soar up, draw circles in the middle distance before disappearing over the crĂŞte is to witness perfection.

Yet this is not an arrogant creature. Despite a wingspan of up to 2.85m and an aerial prowess that makes the common griffon vulture look pedestrian, in the family of carrion birds, it is last in the pecking order. It is obliged to be patient. For, while the first-comers squabble over the tenderest parts of a cadaver, it must wait. And while the second wave rip apart the remaining flesh, it calmly hides its mettle. Only when the crows have picked over the skeletal remains will he arrive to claim his meal of choice - the bones.

Tiny ones he will swallow whole, while others will be carried high above the scree to be dropped and shattered into a mess of shards and marrow on the rocks below. It is a laborious feast - an unlikely way to keep body and soul together.

Surprisingly, around this time of year, the Gypaete Barbu lays its eggs, normally one but occasionally two. An eyrie of perhaps two metres in diameter is built on a ledge of the most

inaccessible cliff - in this case, probably the austere north face of the Billare - where, if two young are hatched only the strongest will be reared, with either the sibling or a parent ejecting the fledgling into the fatal void. Ruthless, yet loyal, a pair will mate for life.

People in the know tell me there are only three breeding pairs in the Valley d’Aspe. Like their human neighbours, it seems, they have found a way to survive but it’s precarious, a delicate balance, and one which is threatened by factors beyond their control.

Similarly, if we believe that iconic indicator of national prosperity - attendance at the January sales - it appears that the people of France are still reeling from the external shock of recession.

On a recent visit Pau, the large town situated where the mountains meet the plain, we found ourselves, once again, the only customers. Not, this time in a bar, but at the Musée des Beaux Arts which were visiting to see their fine collection of fin du siècle paintings. For two hours we had the place to ourselves and wondered whether, perhaps, the people of Pau weren’t interested in cultural diversions or maybe, for some reason, the town had been evacuated, forgetting us. But emerging into the light of day and making our way down to the main square where the big stores attempt to claim our attention by… well, being big, I saw plenty of people around, though not the Saturday crowds of bargain hunters one would have expected in any large UK town. It was all very low key.

Despite this, it has to be said that Pau is quite a remarkable town. It is the birth place of Henry IV of France who came to the throne unpopular because he was the wrong kind of Catholic but later gained approval by his concern for the ordinary folk of his realm. Along with his faithful side-kick, Maximilien de Béthune, Duke of Sully, he transformed agricultural practices, encouraged education and stabilised the economy. Famous for declaring that all his subjects should be well-off enough to eat chicken once a week, he sounds to me like an all round good guy, one that would be useful to have on the team today.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t a view shared by everyone at the time and he wound up brutally assassinated because, in spite of his achievements, he was still the wrong type of Catholic.

The real tea shop on the Boulevard des Pyrenees Uninspired by the lacklustre stores in the centre, we head for the Boulevard des Pyrenees which runs along the South side of the main town. High above the river and the railway station it affords panoramic views of the chain from the Pays Basque, through Bearn to the “Hautes Pyrenees”. It’s a major tourist attraction which did not go unnoticed by the french poet and politician, Alphonse de Lamartine, who said that…

"Pau has the world's most beautiful view of the earth just as Naples has the most beautiful view of the sea.”

And half way through our appreciation of this most beautiful view we come across a little business that has carved out its own unlikely niche in the economic wilderness.The “Isle au Jasmin” sells tea, real tea, perhaps a remnant of the time during the Belle Epoque when, like Biarritz, it became an enclave for the well-off English.

Taking advantage of the warm afternoon the proprietors put deckchairs out in front of the shop where customers are able to pour tea from a pot into china cups then sip it while gazing at the mountains. And, within thirty minutes or so, the place is full, the waitress flustered and rushed off her feet.

Business here, it seems, is booming.

January 14th 2016