Sunset time last Thursday. There in the sky was a large, puffy, bruise-coloured cloud, washed at the edges with a soft copper tint. As it swelled, it briefly developed brilliant aquamarine edges which had disappeared by the time I’d fetched my camera.
We watched from the window, we watched from the roof terrace. Then I grabbed Daughter Number 1 who was staying for a few days, and we marched up the hill together to the square outside the Church to watch the spectacle from there. Here it is.
As in England, so in France……
‘Whether the weather be cold, or whether the weather be hot,
We’ll weather the weather, whatever the weather, whether we like it or not.’
Indeed. Not cold. Not hot. Just wet, very wet indeed. Just look at those floods in England, Brittany and even the Var. We really shouldn’t complain when the worst we’ve had here is a soaking and muddy boots. Especially when, as on Tuesday, the downpours suddenly stop, the sun comes out and dries up all the rain, and we can get out and enjoy the views.
Christine took us out on a walk she enjoys, just up the road from her house. It’s great for these soggy times, because it involves walking on roads so narrow they can barely be dignified as ‘single-track’ – but they are tarmacadam, and therefore mud free – and on farmyard tracks used so often that they too are in decent enough condition. The sky was very blue: spring was in the air.
We passed Troye d’Ariège and the sheep farm we’d once visited, and then our path rose to allow us views of the Pyrenees before returning us once more to the valley floor, to la Bastide de Bousignac, and then back to her village, Saint Quentin.
She’d made a cake. I’d made a cake. We put each to the test. Hers was yoghurt and bilberry. Mine was a pear, almond and chocolate loaf, recently posted by the deliciously greedy Teen Baker. Which was the better one? Malcolm and Max diplomatically cast a vote for each, and they weren’t wrong. We all tucked in, feeling we deserved a reward after an hour or two eating up the kilometres in the warming gentle sun.
We’ve been wondering for a while how to commemorate our leaving Laroque. Not long now: we’re working towards mid-March. We thought some kind of party, but with weather so uncertain, some friends away in February or early March, the house gradually being more and more unpicked, and with no obvious alternative such as a village hall or room-above-the-pub, it was all a bit of a puzzle.
Then the walking group here in Laroque stole our thunder. Subtle hints came our way, and we understood that we were at all costs to keep Friday evening free. We realised that food was involved – of course, c’est la France – but other than that, were left pretty much in the dark.
Finally, the invitation became more specific. We were to present ourselves at the restaurant up the hill, Table d’Angèle, at quarter to eight, and don’t be late. So we did. And there were 22 of our friends, our companions on Sunday and many other days of the week, ready to greet us as we came through the door.
Democracy was abandoned for the evening. Choose where to sit? Not a chance. We were instructed to do as we were told, and ushered to the centre seats, the places of honour. So different from our very first community meal in the same restaurant, when we were pretty new to Laroque. People then were wary, wondering how hard it would be to cope with talking to their new English neighbours. This time, we were all laughing as we sat down together. It was a fine meal, entirely cooked and served by the immensely hard-working two-person team of Obé (named after Obélix of Asterix fame) and his wife.
We took our time. There was plenty to eat, and lots to talk about, but finally, we took our last mouthfuls. The evening was not, it seemed, drawing to a close. Yvette stood up, a parcel in her hand. It was this book:
They’d chosen it because they knew it would remind us of our home here. But they thought that it linked too with our Yorkshire home, as the textile industries play such an important part in the history of both areas.
Then Henri stood up. In his retirement he’s become a keen amateur painter, and his latest piece was done with us in mind. Montségur, local landmark and place of pilgrimage. Here it is: he’s presented it to us, and it will always have a place on a wall in our home, wherever we live in the future.
Henri had another trick up his sleeve too. He produced a large jar of ‘confiture de vieux garçon’. Not much jam about this. It was jar of red fruits macerated for several months in sugar and alcohol to spoon into a glass to both eat and drink.
We put a jar of Seville orange marmalade for each guest at the meal (hence that ‘marmalade factory’) round the table, with instructions on how best to enjoy it. We continued drinking, talking, laughing. Somewhere in among, Malcolm made an emotional speech. Blanquette de Limoux finished off the meal, and eventually, slowly, the evening drew to its close.
Such a memorable evening. We’re touched beyond measure to have been so welcomed in Laroque, and that our friends chose to mark our departure with such careful planning and generosity. It’s unthinkable not to come back, and often. We’ve insisted too that they must all plan a visit to come and discover Yorkshire. Like the Ariège, it’s splendid walking country.
Thanks , Jaques and Yvette, for most of the photos. Mine seemed not to cut the mustard this time. Too busy having a good time I suppose
Loyal readers of my blog may remember a post from last March, which began:
Yesterday, I changed my mind. But nobody led me into a darkened room…..
I had my reasons after all. I was unlucky last year. I probably will never have the chance to do raquettes ever again. My Thursday walking friends wouldn’t set the bar too high. Everyone raves about the Plateau de Beille as a winter sports playground ….. These all turned out to be excuses rather than reasons.
A very mild winter means you have to climb pretty high this year to be sure of snow. The Plateau de Beille is high. 1800 metres and rising. The snow appeared at the roadside only during the last kilometre or so of a very dizzy 10 mile climb upwards. And when we arrived, the car park was packed, and every school child in the Ariège seemed to be there, muffled in ski-suits and excitedly fastening on skis. Which was fun to watch, but we were relieved that once we too had got booted and spurred, in our case with raquettes, and yomped just half a kilometre or so, we were in the wild and wide empty spaces .
And that’s where it all could have gone wrong for me. We came to a signpost: ‘Pas de l’Ours. 11km’. ‘Eleven k? With raquettes? I don’t think so.’ I was not alone in protesting. Anne-Marie and I wimped out and chose a 3 km pathway, and had a fine time chatting as we soldiered up an admittedly steep slope, safe in the knowledge that this challenge would quite soon be over. Resting at a cabane at the top, we were surprised to be joined by our friends. It seemed their journey had taken a different route to this point, and whereas we had 2 km to complete, they still had 10. Three of them had a bit of a think. ‘We’re coming with you’. And that’s what they did. We waved the other six goodbye and arranged to meet in three or four hours: slow stuff, snow-shoeing.
We had a fine time. We got back to base in time for lunch and watched the children on the nursery slopes and the huskies drawing sleds as we ate our picnic in the bright cold sunshine.
Then we discarded our raquettes and rucksacks, dumping them in the car, in favour of a snowy walk to see the views. It became windy. It became cold. It threatened to rain. But we weren’t on an 11km. route march, that was the main thing.
When our friends re-joined us, they announced that they hadn’t been either. They’d found a short-cut and taken it. Cheats. But it just shows. This raquettes lark isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Little and not-very-often seems to be the way forward. But next time, I’ll stay at home.
Click on any of the circular images to see the whole photo, and a miniature slide show.
I’ve been in a difficult mood all week. This down-sizing malarkey isn’t suiting me at all. Though I haven’t been down to the tip yet to excavate for my lost goods, it can only be a matter of time. I gave some books to a friend this morning, books dating from my student days, then took them back from him. ‘I will give them to you’, I promised, ‘but I just need a bit more time’. I haven’t read those books in 40 years. But I might.
So to distract myself, every afternoon this week I’ve set off on my self-imposed challenge. I want to see how many more short walks, each lasting two to three hours I can discover setting off from the house. We know such a lot already: at least four different ways to get to and from Léran, two to La Bastide sur l’Hers and several other shorter ones in the same direction. Walks to and from Dreuilhe, Lavelanet, Regat, Tabre, Aigues-Vives, Campredon, Patato (yes, really), Fajou…..
The area we’ve explored least lies westwards from Laroque. There’s a small and charming village called Esclagne about two and a half kilometres away as the crow flies. I reckoned I could find any number of ways to get there and back, and so far this week I’ve come up with three – and that’s not counting the road, obviously.
French maps (I need to whisper this, in case anybody French is listening) are not a patch on our UK Ordnance Survey maps, mainly because they’re hopelessly out of date. Paths peter out, if you can find them in the first place, because as in England, not all farmers welcome ramblers. Yesterday I scrambled under several barbed wire fences, and several more electric ones. Waymarking tends to be unreliable too. The path along the ridge leading from Laroque to la Bastide offers no possibility of going wrong. There’s a cliff-edge on one side, and thick woodland on the other. Nevertheless, it has trusty yellow waymarks painted on trees or rocks every few yards. But get yourself into territory where there are multiple five-lane-ends, or a couple of tracks that might or might not have been made by resident deer, boar and badgers, and you’re abandoned to your fate.
Still, Esclagne is mounted attractively on a hill top. You can see it once you’re in the area, and if you haven’t managed to track down a suitable path, all you have to do is choose fields with not-too-cruel fencing, not too boggy, no bulls in sight, and walk. It’s a chance to come upon herons startled from their familiar deserted feeding ground, make friends with affectionate donkeys, or simply enjoy the views.
Esclagne has some 115 inhabitants. Even such a tiny village qualifies for a mayor and town council, a town hall, and a community notice board filled with all kinds of official pronouncements. The inhabitants are no longer dominated by farmers and agricultural labourers, but townies looking for a peaceful retirement. Unlike their British counterparts, they are not resented. They haven’t priced the country folk out of suitable housing. There’s been enough and to spare since the first world war, which emptied the villages of their menfolk. Those who weren’t killed often didn’t return, preferring to make an easier living up in the more prosperous north. Still, it’s not a lively village. There are almost no children living here. I did spot a traffic hazard though: a busy group of hens all foraging around the traffic signs warning of (a) a 30 k.p.h speed limit and (b) speed bumps.
So that was Esclagne. I consulted the map, found yet another path worth exploring, and after 10 minutes or so found myself dumped once more at the edge of a wire-fenced stubbly field. Never mind. I could see Laroque ahead of me at the bottom of the hill. Just point myself in the right general direction and head home. Another successful walk.
I don’t celebrate the winter solstice. From my point of view, what’s to celebrate on the shortest day of the year – and the longest night? But the day after: that’s a different story. Now the days get just a little bit longer, the nights a little bit shorter, every single day till the middle of next June. So today was the day to jump cheerfully out of bed and enjoy the clear bright sunshine, lasting a whole 5 seconds longer than yesterday. Come and join us on a brisk morning walk.
We’ll start from the Lac de Montbel, walk along the water’s edge to the hamlet of Les Baylards, and then climb up to the ridge that leads through the woods, overlooking the Plantaurel and the more distant Pyrenees, towards Mireval. Back down the hill through Villaret. This is a tiny hamlet on a single track road, but it charms me every time with its old blue enamel sign, ‘Poids Lourds’ – ‘HGV this way’. Back to the car, and we’ll be home in time for lunch, with an afternoon’s sunshine still ahead of us.
We’ve all heard of Janus, the Roman god of beginnings, endings and transitions. He’s the one with two faces: the grizzled lived-in one looks back towards the past, while on the other side of his head is the younger version, looking with optimism and hope to the future. He puts himself about at this time of year, and indeed gives his name to January.
He’s been putting more energy at the moment however, into clambering inside our heads, mine and Malcolm’s. He’s got us at our own game, as we look both forwards and backwards at every moment
The grizzled half of my head is fully occupied in reminiscence. It doesn’t even try to understand why anyone would want to look at a future in England. It thinks about our walks, particularly our Sunday walks with our Laroque friends. What scenery! However characterful, green and lovely English scenery might be, nowhere is going to provide the snowy summits of the Pyrenees as a backdrop to every walk. And there’s something about those midday picnics too which I’m not expecting to see repeated at an English walker’s lunch spot. The aperitif that gets handed round, the bottle or two of wine, two or three home-made cakes, coffee and digestif….. And last Sunday, a mid-December Sunday, it was so warm that one of our number stripped off his tee-shirt to get the sun on his back.
The grizzled half of my head realises that tomorrow’s concert with the choir will be my last one ever and makes sure that my eyes mist over and my throat constricts as I try to follow the music. It points out that those summer evenings spent in our back yard over a leisurely meal and glass of wine are now things of the past. Those moments with friends, those trips to explore, discover and re-discover the area we’ve called home these last few years area are all but over. Grizzled Janus is holding all the cards when he’s in the mood. He knows very well that we’re finding it tough to say ‘Goodbye’ to all this.
But Janus has two equally potent faces. The young version is optimistic and cheerful. He points out that we’ve never fancied growing old, much less infirm in France, and this is the moment to get involved in life in Ripon, a community where we already feel comfortable, but where there is so much more still to discover. Much of what we most appreciate in France is available to us there too: wonderful walking scenery and an active community that welcomes people who want to join in. Theatre and concerts will be within easy reach and we’ll be able to mix small-town life with easy access to bigger towns too. And do you know what? I’m going to appreciate those English summers, if not the winters so much. I can’t be doing with those days when the temperature is in the high 30s: and I used to be a sun-worshipper. It’ll be good to return to speaking English and to understand most cultural references : though I expect we’re dreadfully out of touch.
Dear two-faced Janus, you’re a terribly mixed up sort of chap. We expect to be terribly mixed up too. We made a decision, and we believe it’s the right one. But we don’t think we’re going to get through the next few months without periods of excitement, periods of mourning, periods of confusion. Often all on the same day. It’s probably all going to be a bit exhausting….. and it might end in tears.
Our Thursday walking friends opted for a day with raquettes today: snowshoes. Earlier this year, I’d vowed never to indulge in this particular form of masochism again. So we didn’t.
But the idea of walking near crisp white snow, with views from the clear air of a mountain top across to wooded slopes cloaked in snow, and as-yet uncloaked valley bottoms, appealed. We’d pop up to Mont d’Olmes. That would do the trick. It’s the nearest place round here for winter sports, so maybe we could watch some of the action, and sit down for a bit clutching a strong shot of coffee or a mug of hot chocolate.
That was the theory. We always forget how far away our friendly neighbourhood mountain really is. Once you turn off the main drag to follow the road that goes only to Mont d’Olmes, you still have 8 miles of climbing to do. Soon the sides of the road were boundaried by walls of snow, while the rocky mountain sides to which the road clings were home to packs of giant icicles and glassy pillars of ice, and still we drove on upwards.
And then we dumped the car. As discussed, we weren’t equipped with snow shoes, so we chose to finish our climb using the road. We passed the chalets hired out to holiday-makers, all clearly shut up, the stairways to their doors still buried deep in the snow. The only people we saw were tradesman in the area to do running repairs or make improvements for the hardly-started season.
And then there we were. Mont d’Olmes The Resort. Like most ski stations that aren’t really up and running, it was just a bit depressing. It’s focussed on a few shops and a hotel that look exactly like a suburban ’60’s shopping centre. And nothing was open: not even a single bar. A few snow buggies were zipping around, their drivers busy with routine cleaning and maintenance. The slopes themselves were scoured with the tracks left by weekend skiers. There even were a couple of skiers. But they had to manage without benefit of ski-lifts or any of the other infrastructure that would have made their day out less labour intensive.
Great views though. White sparkling mountain sides above, more sparsely covered rocky crags below, and a shockingly blue sky. And we had the place almost to ourselves. It’ll be a different story at the weekend. The car parks will be full, the bars, shops and restaurants busy, and above all the slopes will be crowded with hundreds of locals enjoying their very own neighbourhood winter playground. Unlike us, they’ll be joining traffic jams on the way both up and down the mountains. We got what we needed. A decent walk in the sharp cold air, some deep-and-crisp-and-uneven snow, snowy peaks outlined against a clear sky, and a bit of peace.
Like every commune in France – apart from those who’ve lost everything in flood, fire or time of war – Laroque has shelves, yards and yards of them, of municipal archives. In the main these are bound volumes of directives from central government relating to the Ariège. There are also endless files of copies of forms relating to hatches, matches and despatches, licenses for liquor, permission to drive carriages, horseless or otherwise, toll roads, road improvements, land sales, local disasters such as landslip and flooding, records of meetings, residency requests, paperwork relating to shops, artisans, workmen an apprentices, immigrants…. all human life is here. That’s before you realise there are bundles of engravings, daguerreotypes, photographs…..
They aren’t indexed.
Laroque’s Commission du Patrimoine, of which I am an enthusiastic but fairly useless member (I have no Tales of the Oldest Inhabitant, no competence to research French documents, no skills in artefact restoration or in industrial archaeology) has realised this situation must change.
An early job is to trawl through the central government volumes, which date from the early 18th century, and extract any information relating to Laroque. I can help here. It’s a question of skimming these volumes for relevant entries.
Three of us sat down on Friday morning in the old Council Chamber of the Mairie, with its wall decorations showing noted politicians and industrialists, as well as allusions to the all-important textile industry. We had dusty piles of leather-bound volumes on the table in front of us. We turned to. It was fairly dry repetitive work, so we kept each other amused by reading out things that caught our eye. There were tales of Mayors drummed out of office (not from Laroque, no of course not) for inappropriate drunkenness. There were the lists of clothes to be supplied to those children raised in institutions, and the money made available for the care of each child.
I was intrigued to learn that there was in the 19th century, a single training school in the Pas-de-Calais in the north of France for would-be shepherds. Why would you spare your 16-year-old son to go to the other end of France, at some expense, to acquire his training (though there were no fees), when he could be back at home learning on the job? There was a similar mining school in the east of France.
We were good though. We completed our self-appointed tasks. We found Laroque mentioned throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, as all other communes, in connection with, for example:
Despite moments of tedium, this was a fascinating morning. I was privileged to inspect these old records, and to gain a little more understanding of life during this period, and an appreciation of just how far the long arm of the state, whether imperial or republican, extended.
We were Christmas shopping in Toulouse yesterday. A day in this, the fourth largest city in France, is always a treat. It’s affectionately known as ‘la ville rose’, because of the predominant building material, a deep pink brick. Elegant long tall terraces of town houses, public buildings, hidden courtyards wait to be discovered and re-discovered on every visit. We have so much more still to find and explore. There are fabulous churches and museums, wonderful and often quirky independent shops, appetising restaurants and bars to suit every budget and taste. The River Garonne and the Canal du Midi pass though the city offering a feeling of space and fresh air.
And yet…..
By about half past three, we’re footsore, weary and confused like Aesop’s poor dear Country Mouse who decided the simple, yet safe country life was preferable to the riches and dangers of life in the city. We want to go home.
I was always a city girl. Raised in London, I had a childhood enriched by Sunday afternoons at the Natural History Museum or frenetically pushing buttons at the Science Museum. We’d go to watch the Changing of the Guard at Horseguards Parade, nose round hidden corners of the city, still scarred in those days by the aftermath of wartime bombing. We’d go on our weekly shop to Sainsbury’s: not a supermarket then but an old-fashioned grocery store, with young assistants bagging up sugar in thick blue – er – sugar paper, or expertly using wooden butter pats to carve up large yellow blocks of butter. If we were lucky, there would be a Pearly King and Queen outside collecting for some charity.
It was Manchester for my university years. I loved those proud dark red Victorian buildings celebrating the city’s 19th century status as Cottonopolis, as well as the more understated areas once populated by the workers and managers of those cotton mills, but developed during my time there as Student Central. I loved the buzz of city life, the buzz of 60’s student life.
Then it was Portsmouth. Then Wakefield, and Sheffield, and Leeds. City life meant living with up to 750,00 neighbours. And I thrived on it. I never felt too far from wide open spaces, yet a short bus ride brought me theatres, cinemas, exhibitions, shops, choices of schools for my children. When we moved in 1997 to Harrogate, with a mere 75, 000 inhabitants, it felt small.
Then we came to the Ariège, to Laroque, population just over 2,000. The largest town in the whole area is Pamiers, with a mere 19,000 inhabitants. How could we still think of Harrogate as really rather tiny? So we needed to change the way we saw things. We’re accustomed now to at least recognising most of the people whom we see round and about. We enjoy the fact that we count many people in the community as friends, and that we all turn up to the same events. We relish the space, the more relaxed pace of life, the sense of belonging that we have here.
Now, as we plan our return to England, the idea of the clogged roads of the Harrogate rush hour is unattractive, the busy streets unappealing. Ripon, where we more recently lived is much more like it: 14,000 people. But we ask ourselves – is even a town this size too big and scary for Country Mice? Should we continue as we’ve started? Perhaps we should look at Galphay, Gargrave, Greenhow or Grewelthorpe, average populations about 400? Or Masham, about 1,250? All of these are near our centre of gravity, Ripon.
So much to think about. But wherever we end up, we’ll still want the odd sortie to The Big City. Toulouse hasn’t seen the back of us yet.
Photos 4, 5, 6 0f the Toulouse series; the Pearly Kings and Harrogate’s Valley Gardens courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
You must be logged in to post a comment.