Setting fire to the mountain

Setting Fire to the Mountain and “Up,up ’e pops”

The wheel of seasons grinds inexorably on even though occasionally it appears to stand still and, now and again, turn backwards.

Over the three weeks which we’d spent in England, however, in Lescun at least, time has had its weight firmly on the accelerator and, driving up the now familiar road from the valley, we enjoy the lime green haze of new beech leaves while, here and there amongst them, the flushed buds of birch and the lost-cloud blossom of wild cherry insist that Spring is here.

Spring has arrived, chasing the snow line ever higher. And the field, where a month ago we sledged on a layer a metre deep with grandchildren shrieking their childish joy, is now just green, yet not quite green as the farmer has been in with his muck-spreader, speckling the new grass with hopes of a profitable year.

The fly in the ointment, if that’s what it is, is the lazily drifting cloud of grey and nicotine-yellow smoke insinuating its poisonous fingers along the far side of the plateau. We watch it carefully, hoping to be spared its toxic fumes. For over in Lhers, once again, they are setting fire to the mountain.

They call this the écobuage and it’s been going on for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. It’s purpose is to rid the slopes of unwanted vegetation (bracken, in particular) in order to enrich the soil, encourage the growth of grass and thus extend the summer pastures. The normal season for this practice is from the end of October until the end of March although, in mountainous areas, this may be extended to the 30th of April at the discretion of the local mayor.

Each department has its own rules governing the use of écobuage and, here, in the Pyrenees Atlantiques, they are meticulously laid out in twelve articles. So, for example, anyone intending to set a fire must apply to the Marie, for permission, one month ahead of the intended action, Four people must be present; the meteorological conditions must be stable; a sign giving due warning must be posted… and so on. The problem is that the rules are seldom adhered to and farmers pretty much do what they want despite the the prospect of clear penalties laid down in law.

And the consequences are potentially The mountain burning (as seen from our balcony) severe: lighting an unauthorised fire - up to one year in prison and a fine of 15 000€; an unauthorised fire that gets out of control and damages life or property - up to 15 years in the jug

plus 150 000€; letting an authorised fire get of of control through negligence - two years inside and a fine of 30 000€.

Hereabouts, I’m told, no one has been fined and, despite one accident last December when a badly managed écobuage set fire to the forest requiring teams of pompiers to work for two days to bring it under control, despite even the deaths through asphyxiation of five walkers in the Pays Basques, no-one has been obliged to spend time behind bars reflecting on their actions.

What’s more, it is far from sure whether the practice achieves its objective. One thing is sure, though, the pollution from the burning vegetation, with its power to block out the sun and draw an ashen pall across the landscape, is noxious.

Shut the windows. Shut the doors. Stay inside.

The next day dawns bright and clear. The fires have exhausted themselves, the smoke dissipated.

A good day for a walk.

The last time we ventured onto the Lestremau circuit, on the far side of the plateau, we struggled with a metre of snow barely supporting our weight, even with racquets. The views of the white summits had been magnificent, however, with leafless trees allowing us to enjoy them more or less without interruption.

Today, by contrast, just a month later, the succulent new growth forcing from every twig restricts our gaze on the Cirque, allowing just glimpses for much of the way and it’s only when we reach a clearing on the edge of the forest that the full splendour of the mountains is revealed. The snow, of course, has vanished and in it’s place we discover pools of flowers erupting from the thaw: wood anemones, hellebores, pulmonaria, spring squill, primula and many more.

It’s an impressive show, particularly when one recalls that some of these plants have survived both fire and ice.

Pulmonaria pushing through the charred bracken The red squirrels are out and about, too. Invariably camera shy, they nonetheless give the feeling that, with their hide and seek behaviour among the branches, they are simply teasing us. Although we know them as red squirrels the colour of their coats can vary from almost black to a gingery brown and we come across examples of both on our walk.

Although they do not hibernate they are less active during the winter relying on their cache of food to survive the lean months, sheltering in their dreys. Constructed using leaves and moss, they may be situated amongst branches, a hollow tree or even an old woodpecker nest.

They are omnivores and, although we normally think of squirrels feasting on nuts and berries, they are also happy to devour insects and snails.

Today they are particularly active and we pause several times to observe them.

Sciurus vulgaris, or red squirrel, playing hard to get Looking down on to the Plateau de Lescun from a section of our route that forms a natural belvedere, it is striking how quickly the landscape has changed from the tired yellow and beige of winter grass to the succulent emerald of revived pastures.

At this time of the year the flocks of sheep (brebis) will still be spending their nights inside, suckling those lambs that have not already been sold. During the day, however, they will be out on the hill taking advantage of that first flush of growth. Their offspring, on the other hand, must be patient. It will not be until evening when they have the next opportunity to taste their mother’s milk.

Their reunion will be a noisy affair. Kept in what amounts to a lamb-nursery all day long, they are hungry and perhaps anxious by this forced separation. When the ewes are herded into the barn it all kicks off. Parents and children set about creating a cacophony of sound which diminishes only slightly when the gates of the kindergarten are thrown open and the youngsters spill out. It reminds me of the end of a school day when some children hurl themselves into their mothers’ arms as others, intent on doing the same, get distracted by their friends and prefer to play. A few appear to have difficulty finding the door.

Later in the day we come across our favourite shepherd, Jean-Paul Lauzart. At ninety-three you can find him sitting patiently surveying the sheep which, he claims, would bugger off all over the place if he wasn’t keeping an eye on them. After our three week absence he seems as almost as pleased to see us as his dog does, a black and white collie, that makes a bee-line for Kathy and me, desperate to be caressed and tickled and generally made a fuss of.

He gets up from the folding stool (how decadent!) that I’d not seen him with before. We shake hands and he exchanges kisses with Kathy. Small talk is over and down with in seconds as JeanPierre launches into a tirade against time and old age.

“If only,” he says. “If only I knew how quickly it would pass.”

“I know what you mean,” I reply.

“But you’re young!”

“Not as young as you think.”

“When I was your age I was up at dawn, often before dawn.

Farming… animals…family… it was all I thought about.”

“And now?” I tempt.

“Now I am much slower than before. I can’t do what I could before. I cannot make the same effort as before…”

Jean-Pierre Lauzart, nonagenarian and philosopher I try to inject a bit of humour. “Old cars never perform as well as new cars.”

He laughs.

“But, if I were an old car, I could change the motor. I could get a new carburettor, a new water pump… new wheels!”

We both laugh.

“It’s a shame we can’t change the carrosserie (bodywork), though,” I add. And Jean-Pierre launches into a story about someone he knew who had his leg amputated and replaced with a metal one.

“He said it works better than the original.”

And I, in a flippant mood comment that he had better make sure that it doesn’t become magnetic otherwise every time he passes a saucepan…

He liked that and continued with his own fantasy. Something about metal detectors that I didn’t quite get but chuckled at all the same.

We stood in silence for a while and, for something to say, I commented…

“Still, there’s a lot more grass now.”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “But it’s not that good. Here the soil is clay. Over there…” He pointed across the valley… “the grass is much better. Too wet here. Not the same.

Over there the quality of the grass is different. Better soil.”

It seems that in Lescun, as elsewhere, the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.

But, whatever the shortcomings of the grass, it seems to me that the quality of the cheese has taken a step up since the arrival of Spring. It’s somehow creamier, smoother, even more delicious.

Spring, with it’s new produce, has also turned up in the little market in Bedous, down in the valley.

During the cold months the stalwart stall-holders come week after week and in all weathers with the usual winter fare, plus the dodgy stuff imported from the plastic cities of southern Spain. Now, however, we’re into something much more authentic… Peas like little green fish are spread out on the tables and, after interrogating one of the producteurs (grower) I establish they were actually grown outdoors, rather than under glass. In England, I tell him, because I’m under the illusion that he might be interested, we’ve only just planted the seed.

“Ah…” he replies, enigmatically. “England.”

Asparagus is in season, too. I buy a half kilogram bunch for 3€ and a few new potatoes which are already available in the South West of France.

For supper it’s scrambled eggs with smoked salmon served alongside the new spuds with butter, salt and pepper along with a generous helping of steamed asparagus. Kathy takes the snapped-off ends of the spears and magics them in to a superb soup for the following day.

What’s not to like?

But it gets better.

Succulent prawns for lunch and strawberries from Lot-et-Garonne that add a touch of acidic punch to our usual fruit breakfast.

And the funny thing is that here, as opposed to where I come from in Dorset, people don't think of themselves as foodies, they just live it, day to day. There is a lot of talk about quality and taste. And for these folk, many of whom make their living producing something to eat, quality trumps consideration of price every time.

Spring is also a time for tidying up. And the ash trunk behind one of Alf’s barns has to be pulled out before the seasonal repairs to the roof can begin.

We join the two cousins Franck and Francois attempting to extricate the offending lump of wood.

Time after time we attach the wire cable, and the tractor to which it is attached strains as the spinning wheels dig themselves into the mud of the wet track. But the tree stays put. Eventually, we all give up and admit that it’s just too bloody big and heavy.

Alf tries to cut it into bits with his chain saw but the bar is too short and he ends up with an ash tree with piercings.

(The following day Franck returned up with a bigger chainsaw and before we knew what’s going on he was sitting on a pile of tree slices below the barn.)

Looking pleased with himself?

Not a bit of it. He has that enduring expression that describes neither joy nor disappointment, neither pain nor pleasure. It’s an expression that Problem-solving activities at the barn represents an attitude to life that has enabled generations of families to survive here.

So, as is the custom in these parts, we congregate at Alf’s in order to celebrate the achievement with an apero. But, after the host has poured the drinks, he is suddenly distracted by something in the world beyond the window.

“Il y a une huppe,” he announces. ““Il y a une huppe dans le jardin.”

In other words: there is a hoopoe in the garden.

We clammer to see.

It’s a stunning-looking creature with a punk hair-do straight out of the seventies and a lethal weapon of a beak that, he plunges repeatedly into the soil hoping to skewer worms or grubs. The jaws, I later learn, are so powerful that he is able to open the beak even when buried in the soil.

He’s a Spring visitor on his way north from Africa and, although it’s possible that he may stay around to breed it’s more likely that he’s just passing through.

Upupa epops The latin name for this bird is, curiously, Upupa epopas and, as Kathy and I watch his frantic activity stabbing the ground then jerking his head up to scout around, we agree that he is aptly named as “Up,up ‘e pops” again and again.

So there we have it - a taste of Spring in Lescun.

This morning, though, I woke felling cold.

Something had changed overnight and, going downstairs in the morning to make the tea, I feel the need to drag on an extra pullover. As usual, I check the view and, looking out of the window, I see new snow on the peaks.

The wheel of seasons had juddered to a halt and, just this day, had clunked backwards one notch.

April 26th 2016