What goes around….
The 08.41 from Oloron arrives in Bedous a little late and, I notice, a bit grubby. But, after waiting thirty-six years for this particular passenger train, it doesn’t seem to matter. There is a sense of jubilation along the platform that rather surprises me as I am aware that there are many in the valley who thought the whole project of re-establishing the railway was a waste of money. Once the decision had been made, largely due to the enthusiasm of Alain Rousset, president of the newly enlarged region of “Aquitaine, Limousin, Poitou-Charentes” , work to rebuild the line was carried out at a breath-taking pace. For this we must take our hats off to the original engineers and craftsmen who, at the turn of the century, built tunnels, viaducts and retaining walls of such quality that, a century later, they required hardly any extra work in order to conform to modern standards. For the line to function in the twenty-first century it needed to comply with European norms of health and of safety. So, for example, along the valley, where the road and rail come together, advanced technology had been employed to eliminate the risk of HGVs toppling in front of an unstoppable train. The station is disability-friendly with textured paving on the platform for the visually impaired, timetables in braille and trains allowing wheelchair access without assistance. A notice board provides phone numbers advising the public of how to report a problem. Alain Rousset on the platform This morning, passengers disembark to the sound of a choir belting out a traditional song in Béarnaise. Cameras are clicking; people are clapping. An all-female theatre group from Pau, mobs Rousset in a parody of rock star groupies. They line up to kiss him, reach out to touch him as he passes. In his turn, he performs like a consummate politician, smiling, going along with it, even though he is on his way to a TV interview, live from the platform. The vision, he says, is to drive the project all the way though to Spain. With freight trains and people going directly to Saragossa, he describes the project as an “investment of the century”. It’s a risky vision, he concedes, but insists that it’s value will be judged in the long term, not over a few days. In the station yard, the people of the valley and beyond have turned out in force in order to represent their businesses, their organisations (such as the Friends of Canfranc Estatione), local industries like EDF hydro-electric, forestry, tourism and, of course, there is the buvette. The end of the line… for now?
The train turns round and heads back to Oloron. And, like many people here who thought the railway had gone forever, I find myself feeling not simply pleased but more optimistic. Today, I detect, the world is just a little better than yesterday. Forty-eight hours before, I had woken up to the opposite sentiment. Britain had voted to leave the EU. Incomprehension, anger and anxiety filled the house like a black mist. The politicians and pundits were obviously as stunned as we were and equally unable to make any sense of it. Here, however, life continues, dictated as ever by the seasons and the weather. With a wet spring followed by a warm early summer, the grass has grown tall. This is a crop. It has to be harvested and turned into winter fodder as quickly as possible. It’s part of an enduring cycle that provides a living for those who work on the land but also, one way or another, feeds us all. Having been witness to the annual rhythm of work here for ten months now, I can’t look at a piece of cheese in the supermarket without thinking that somewhere, someone was up at the crack of dawn to milk, cut hay or engage in any of the myriad of farmers’ tasks. Likewise, a piece of lamb or beef on the butcher’s counter. Agriculture is the industry most closely bound to natural cycles and, though , there are occasions when certain aspects of it trouble us - over intensive rearing of animals, for example - you will not find that here. There’s respect for the soil, too. One day I see a meadow full of diverse grasses and wild flowers. A few days later I come across the same field rolled up into hay. What a rich mix that must be! What a diet for the cows and sheep and goats! And so unlike the monotonous diet of rye grass fed to may of the cattle in Dorset. I cannot deny, though, that even here, there have been changes. Thirty years ago hay-making was more of a family affair. Even the smallest and steepest parcel of land would be harvested. Sometimes the tool of choice was the mechanical faucheur which resembled a giant lawn mower with the chopping teeth we see in hedge trimmers. And,when this was inappropriate, there was always the scythe. The crop would be gathered up with the use of wooden rakes before being tossed onto square tarpaulins, bundled up into fardeaux and heaved onto strong backs for transportation back to the grenier, often directly above the living quarters of the family house. Today, however, as everywhere else, if it can be mechanised it is. Fewer families farming, a reduced agricultural population and tough economic conditions dictate a different approach. Farmers look lonelier, more isolated, in their tractors and, across France, young men who have taken on the family farm have resorted to the internet to find a mate. There is even a TV programme L'Amour est dans le pré (Love is in the meadow) - a kind of rural Blind Date which attracts high viewing figures. One activity that is definitely a family affair hereabouts is the start of the transhumance. In the autumn I wrote about the end of this practise of exploiting the high summer pastures but, now, we are Carrying a fardeau up to the grenier (circa 1985)
about to witness the beginning. This year, as I wrote previously, the winter has been relatively mild and, with grass pushing up quickly behind the thaw, it’s likely to be an early start. It hasn’t begun yet, but preparations are already underway as we discovered on a walk up through Labrénère toward the Col de Pau. The plan was to descend down a remote valley where, in the past, there have always been surprises in the flora and fauna department. But, on arriving at the Cabane de Bonaris, at about 1600m of altitude, there were, in fact, three surprises waiting for us. The first we encountered was a grey-haired female we’d met a few times before down in the village. She was mooching about the area around the huts, poking her nose into everything that tickled her fancy and generally making a nuisance of herself. My first thought was how the hell did you get here on your own? But that would remain a mystery as, in her characteristic way, she rushed over and started rubbing herself against me. It was Lila, the dog who loves mountain walks more than her owner loves mountain walks and, consequently, adopts anyone who looks like they’re off on a hike. Quick to spot a rucksack, this individual. So we would probably benefit from her company for the remainder of the day. At the same time, a group of young people were busy around the main shepherd’s cabane and a couple of older guys were hanging around a smaller structure not far away. We greet each other. I ask the apparent leader of the group of youngsters what’s going on? On the way up we’d seen the rescue helicopter and I enquire what it was doing. “Ah… that was us,” he replies. “We came up in the chopper.” “That’s why you don’t look as sweaty as I do,” I joke. He smiles and goes on to explain that the helicopter will be coming back soon loaded with the equipment needed for a season in the mountains… gas bottles for cooking and heating the sheep’s milk, batteries for electric fencing, pots, pans, gas burners… The list is extensive and even includes Reunited with Lila firewood. “It can be cold up here,” he tells me, “Especially at the end of the season.” “And the sheep are coming up later?” He nod then adds, “Not sure when. Soon, I expect. It depends on the weather.” “So, how many sheep are coming up?” I ask. “I have about three hundred.” (Crikey… he can only be about sixteen!)
“And are they milkers?” “Most of them… for the moment,” he said, and went on to inform me that, at the beginning of the season, they would be producing between 400 and 500 litres of milk each day. It would be the shepherd’s ( or in this case, shepherdess’s) job not only to milk them (by hand) but also turn the produce into cheese during the course of the day. My initial response of astonishment, however, was drowned out by the noise of an approaching aircraft. “Take your hat off,” my young friend advised me. “Move back. Hang on to your rucksack, too. Move back… further!!” He’d obviously been here before. The down draught from the helicopter was far greater than I had imagined. Hovering in with a net full of mountain farming paraphernalia, the boy guided it accurately onto the courtyard of the cabane before releasing the hook which enabled the aircraft to spin around and disappear to pick up the next load. Unfortunately, I had positioned myself downwind of the water trough where the spring-fed pipe flowed into the stone tank. The flow, much to my surprise was blown out horizontally providing me with an unexpected shower.
Left and above -The heliportage arrives
Shortly afterwards, I fell into conversation with one of the two older men who was curious to know where we’d came from and where we were going. I explained about the lost valley which, of course, was not to lost to him, lost only on the tourist map. “Ah!” he responded ominously. “I just sent about twenty brebis (sheep) up there.”
I knew enough about the transhumance to understand that these would be dry animals which, having finished milking, would be left out on the mountain to graze throughout the summer. I did, however, fail to grasp why this might be a problem. “There’s a patou with them,” he added and, immediately, I got his drift. It was the third, and least welcome, surprise of the day. A patou is, admittedly a very impressive animal. But they can be aggressive. First introduced to protect flocks against attack from wolves and bears, they now serve little purpose other than as a status symbol for shepherds. They’ve become fashionable. And despite the fact that numerous members of the public have suffered bodily harm from the bite of their powerful jaws, it is still seen as nothing more than a trivial occurrence by the powers that be. The National Parc des Pyrenees has put up comedy warnings to hikers with little cartoon drawings showing how to manage encounters with them. Quite honestly, though, the advice is useless, as I discovered a few years ago while out in the mountains alone working on my guide book. Traversing the flank of the frontier ridge at the eastern end of the cirque I noticed a flock of sheep on the hillside. Moving round them I also spied the characteristic shape and colour of a Patou.
Parc National de Pyrenees showing us the humorous side of being attacked by a dangerous dog Keen to avoid a confrontation, I started descending the slope, even though that meant negotiating much steeper ground. Unfortunately, this wasn’t enough for the dog which came charging down the hillside, growling and barking as it came. The fifteen minutes that followed, I have to say, were very frightening. With no help at hand there was no option but to stand and face an animal that, frankly could have killed me if it so wished. Fortunately, the herd of sheep eventually of moved on and, when they were far enough away, the Patou rejoined them leaving me quaking in my walking boots. On the day of our excursion past the Cabane de Bonaris, given the presence of a Patou in the valley beyond, we decided it would be prudent to abandon our objective and consider a plan B.
I know very well that shepherds have a job to do and that sheep play an important role in maintaining access to the hills, but we share the mountains and, therefore, need to find a way to reconcile each others’ needs. Just as back home, with economic and and political turmoil combined with a sudden increase in racist attacks, the news only served to emphasis our failure to do exactly that. It was the end of the month. Time to pay the rent. This is usually a lengthy process involving sitting at a kitchen table and indulging in a prolonged session of chat and gossip. Our landlord and landlady are a delightful elderly couple, so these regular visits are happily undertaken. Significantly, with certain family matters weighing heavily on their minds at the time, they had not followed the news and, while across the rest of France, was scarcely another subject of conversation than Brexit, Pierre and Marie were completely oblivious. There was, however, something Pierre was very keen to me to see. For this we had to go outside. “Look here,” he says pointing from the top of a wall down to his vegetable garden. “Look at these citrouilles!” And sure enough, just below us, were the some splendid plants. They had been grown from seed that came from our garden in England and in Pierre’s richly composted soil, they were doing spectacularly well. We had given them to him earlier the year - Crown Prince - a very tasty variety of pumpkin, grown during the season before we had covered up our own vegetable plot in order to come away to France. I would like to think that, maybe, there was something symbolic in this exchange. For, it seemed to me, wrapped in these simple acts of planting, harvesting, sharing, there was something connected to the timeless cycles that govern our lives. Fanciful? Perhaps. But, for a moment at least, a ray of light pierced the black mist. So what about plan B? One of our group at Bonaris was feeling under the weather and decided to take the same route back along with, surprise, surprise, Lila. Our friend, Mike, on the other hand, was keen to repeat a route that we’d walked together, for the first time, a couple of years before. This involved climbing higher and traversing the hillside to a point where we could join the ridge between Labrénère and the next valley to the East. The route starts off easily enough but, despite having followed it together in the past, we were surprised by the complexity and the seriousness of the terrain. In this remote environment the few paths that existed were vague. Success required negotiating a series of small peaks along the ridge. Sometimes this would involves scaling them in order to access the easiest way forward on the far side. At other times, traversing the flank of the outcrop provided the best way on. Added to that, there was an abrupt outcrop, forming a thirty metre cliff that could only be passed by locating an unlikely passage down to the right. With a slip almost certainly resulting in fatality, judgement was crucial. It was certainly not the day we had planned. And, I suppose, there was a lesson there. We can go back to past successes, times when we believe was better. But and but and but … One thing is certain - it will never be the same. Sometimes it is the world which has moved on, sometimes it is us with age or circumstances or, more likely, a change in how we see it. One thing is absolutely sure, however. You know what I mean - that old adage about turning back the clock.
7th July 2016