From Pyrenees to Pennines

A hoarder vindicated

The downsizing continues. We’ve become accustomed to discarding ancient birthday cards, messages sent to us to our last day at work, and even our school reports from the 1950s and ’60s. We’ve come to expect gales of laughter from friends who don’t share our hoarding instincts and who observe our inner struggles with astonishment (yes, that’s you, Kalba).

So what happened this week? I thought it was time to get rid of my sewing box. I thread a needle maybe twice a year when a button falls off or a hem comes adrift. So why do I need about three dozen reels of cotton in every colour you can think of, miscellaneous hooks and eyes, multi-coloured embroidery thread, a clutch of thimbles, a box of rusting pins and two darning mushrooms, all inherited from my mother?

All the same…. those reels of genuine cotton from the 1950s – no polyester mixes here , those cards of thread in various shades of tan , all the better to darn your stockings with, and even those hooks and eyes are all pieces of history. I thought the friends I keep up with on Facebook might like to see them. I posted these photos:

And within minutes I had an urgent request from that militant non-hoarder, Kalba, that I should give them to her, swiftly followed by a similar request from another friend. Daughter Number 1 weighed in, as I knew she would, swiftly followed by Daughter Number 2. Son has been strangely silent, but daughters have agreed to share custody of the cotton reels. Three more people joined the conversation, and started waxing nostalgic about darning mushrooms. Then someone else pointed out that the factory producing the hooks and eyes had been part of her childhood neighbourhood, but had been closed for decades, and more people joined in to celebrate the almost-forgotten skill of darning. A further request for the contents of my sewing box came from America, and a school friend whom I’ve not been in touch with for years made contact.

One way or another, my battered old sewing box has awakened memories, provoked recollections and conversations, and generally livened things up. Just as well I didn’t dispose of it years ago. There’s no chance of its being discarded now. Apart from anything else, you just look some of these items up on eBay. I’m sitting on a small fortune here.

Snowshoes IV: absolutely the very last episode

Loyal readers of my blog may remember a post from last March, which began:

‘I’m not doing raquettes (snowshoes) ever again. Never. If I ever show signs of changing my mind, lead me into a darkened room, talk kindly to me, and sit with me till the feeling passes.’

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 .

Children arriving: all togged up

Getting organised.

Children get away from a day at their desks.

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.

The B team set off.

Tired already.

Nearly at the end of the journey.

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.

Can you see 3 different sets of animal tracks?

Perfect prints. But of what?

Bigger beasts.

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.

The end of the day: cold, windy, but still good to look at.

Click on any of the circular images to see the whole photo, and a miniature slide show.

The Windy Hills

About a year ago, someone suggested ‘Les Collines du Vent’ – the Windy Hills – for one of the Sunday walks with our Laroque walking group. The appointed day came, and it rained – a lot. We re-scheduled. The day came again, and it rained – a lot. We re-scheduled. The day came yet again, and it was foggy, a real pea-souper: the kind of fog that almost any Frenchman confidently assures us blankets London every day of the year (any Frenchman who’s read Charles Dickens that is).

And so it went on for five or six attempts. Today though, it didn’t rain. Nor was it foggy. In fact it was sunny until we left the Ariège and approached our destination in the hilly countryside in the Aude outside Castelnaudary. Then it became rather grey, though not menacing enough to stop us in our tracks. What DID nearly stop us in our tracks was the wind. The countryside here is rolling and open. The idea of any walk in the area is to get up there and stride from hilltop to hilltop. But that wind! It gusted and blew. It snatched us off-balance. It whistled through our trousers and tried to grab our hats. And it was only doing what it apparently does almost every day of the year. No wonder our path led us past a windmill during the afternoon.

The weather brightened, and we had wonderful all-round panoramas. Sadly we couldn’t quite see the Pyrenees: distant mists saw them off. And in the early afternoon, we had evidence that we really were the tough guys we thought we were, battling through that wind. We were overtaken by a battalion of the French Foreign Legion in training. Though admittedly they were all additionally burdened by enormous rucksacks that must have weighed 40 kilos. And guns. If you’ve read ‘Beau Geste’ you will remember that this band of soldiers is recruited from foreign nationals who wish to serve in the French army (don’t ask….). Coming from different countries, different cultures, the men are put through very challenging training designed to build their esprit de corps. We noted that Marcel, our leader for the day was putting us through a similar programme. Though at the end, he offered us a large slice of the Galette des Rois which he himself had made. We’d already had our usual lunch time bonanza of wine-and-cake-sharing. But nobody refused this last additional treat. We felt we’d earned it.

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A new look for an old blog.

Back in 2007, family members funded the trip of a lifetime for me. A whole month in India: a country I’d wanted to visit since my teenage years.

I wanted to keep them in touch with my travels. I wanted my friends too to know what I was up to. So with great difficulty, since I was and am no geek, I started a blog. If I knew then what I know now, I’d never have chosen the blogging platform I chose to use. When I revisit it, I find it clunky and cumbersome. So I decided to transfer the lot to WordPress.

Here it is. and you’ll recognise the first few sentences of its front page post.

It makes a change from winter in France or in England. It certainly makes a change from the freezing conditions being endured by my American readers. But worry not. Next time, we’ll be back in France again.

By the way, I have just understood from one of my readers not too far from here that it wasn’t clear you have to click the link. Click HERE if you’d like to look at my new-improved-old-travel-blog, SouthIndia 2007.

Is this France? Or India? Actually, it's the view from the window of my hotel in Pondicherry back in 2007. — Is this France? Or India? Actually, it’s the view from the window of my hotel in Pondicherry back in 2007.

A Kings’ cake and a poor man’s feast

Epiphany, 6th January. Today’s the day when here in France we’re supposed to eat Galette des Rois – Kings’ Cake, because this is the day when, according to tradition, the three kings arrived to visit the baby Jesus.

When I went down to the baker’s this morning, I found there were two sorts on offer. Should I chose the yeasted brioche style more popular down here? Or should I go for the layers of puff pastry filled with almond cream? I couldn’t help thinking that Madame was nudging me towards the puff-pastry option, and that suited me fine.

A galette, a cardboard crown, a fève.... and just a few buttery crumbs — A galette, a cardboard crown, a fève…. and just a few buttery crumbs

As you share it out, one of you will find yourself with a fève in your portion. This used to be a bean, but these days it’s usually a little china trinket. And there he was, in the very first slice I had on my plate, a little yellow-uniformed fellow on a plinth inscribed ‘le pompier japonais’ – the Japanese fireman. Lucky me. I got to wear the cardboard golden crown supplied at the baker’s and proclaimed myself King For The Day. Which was fine as far as it went. I’m still waiting to be dressed in fine robes and whisked off in a sparkling limousine to some red carpet event. It’s getting on for bedtime, and so far…. nothing.

I did get to commune with a kitchen full of odds and ends however. I found half a stale ‘bio’ baguette, and half a Livarot cheese that was uncharacteristically disappointing from the very first mouthful. Though it wouldn’t find a place on the menu of any Royal banquet, I decided on a version of an austerity dish that’s always popular in this house.

Savoury bread and butter pudding

Ooops! I almost left it too late to take a snap of a crunchy crust of baguette nestling in its cheesy, eggy blanket.

(serves 2)

Butter the base of a shallowish baking dish
Cut and butter thick slices from a baguette or other loaf . I usually find 2 slices per person is enough.
Grate or slice some cheese you’re trying to get rid of and use it to top the bread and butter. Usually I use a hard cheese like cheddar, but the Livarot worked just fine .
Arrange in the bottom of the baking dish.
Beat together 2 eggs, about 150 ml. milk, or milk and cream, or milk and plain yoghurt (this really is about emptying out your cupboards and the fridge), and season. Today I added a teaspoonful of grainy mustard and a handful of chopped parsley, but it could have been chopped chives, chopped chilli, some crisply fried bacon pieces…..
Pour the eggy milk over the bread and cheese and – this is important – leave for at least half an hour for the bread to absorb the liquid.
Bake in a hot oven (170 degrees fan oven) for about half an hour till puffy, risen, and with a rich golden crust. Eat immediately, with an astringent salad of bitter leaves to counteract the richness of the dish.

Actually, it’s not remotely sophisticated, but I don’t think those three kings would have turned up their noses at this meal after all those days and nights trekking across the desert to find a baby in a stable. But we still have a slice or two of Galette des Rois if they’d prefer.

Striding into the new year

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.

It’s not so hard, walking through fields.

And there’s Esclagne, just ahead.

The Pyrenees are never far away.

That group of trees was often in view.

The nearest I came to a traffic jam in Esclagne.

Since this is a French village, electric wires are part of the scenery.

There’s Laroque, just below.

… back through the woods…

.. and just at the end, some old man’s beard.

My old school hat.

School panama hat: signed by all my friends before becoming a museum piece. Or I could have done as some others did, and thrown it into the Thames.

The fact that I can show you a picture of what remains of my school hat, some 55 years after I first wore it, tells you a lot about me. I am a hoarder. I have books that have come with me since childhood, wallets full of photos from places I can no longer identify, mementos from holidays that were reasonably unmemorable, scraps of wall paper from houses I no longer live in. I keep step ladders deliberately paint-spattered from the occasions I used them when house-decorating because they tell a story of my changing tastes, and remind me of former homes. I’m impossible, and I know it.

It has to stop. We’ve lugged furniture and possessions half way across Europe to furnish and personalise our home here, and we’re determined that we’re not going to ship the whole lot back. The house here has conspired to feed my addiction. It’s … ‘ow you say? ‘Deceptively spacious’ . That means that almost every – large – room has cavernous cupboards. There’s an attic with 3 rooms begging to be stuffed with my junk, an outside workshop, several inside storerooms. I’ve had no incentive to change.

But when we return to England we’ll be looking for a home of modest proportions. It won’t have more than one spare room. It certainly won’t have a cavernous outhouse. The rooms are unlikely to be enormous. So we’ve both taken a grip, especially me.

Yesterday, I threw out that hat. I sorted through all those precious paintings my children made when they were under 10 or so, and have kept just a small selection from each of them. I threw out boxes of tiny black and white photos peopled by unknown old friends, and junked all the letters I wrote home in my very late teens when I was an au pair in Italy. Actually, for the first time since those days, I read through a few, and then I couldn’t wait to destroy them before anyone else realised what a pompous brat I was.

Now we’ve got the difficult bit. We’ve put aside a whole book-case full of fiction that we probably bought in charity shops in the first place. No: that was easy enough. Now there are all the books we’ve loved since adolescence, the seminal works from university days, the much-loved reference books which may in some cases be outdated. There’s all my history of art books with wonderful reproductions, Malcolm’s language stuff, my vast collection of cookery books. Of course we won’t get rid of them all. But some must go. Last time we did this, 20 years ago, we were leaving our large house in Leeds. We sold a large selection of our less-used books to a second-hand book dealer. A week later, I was down at his shop, buying quite a few of them back again.

If you need a new bedtime story, we may be able to help.

The stuff we’ve so far discarded is, if suitable, bagged up for Secours Populaire here in Laroque. The rest has been dumped in one of the town poubelles: municipal dustbins. Don’t be too surprised if in a couple of days, you find me at the tip, desperately scrabbling through the rubbish awaiting transportation to landfill as I hunt for my old school hat.

Destined for Secours Populaire .... or landfill. — Destined for Secours Populaire …. or landfill.

Andorra: a winter break

Funny place, Andorra. It’s where we went to satisfy our desire for a ‘white Christmas’ and it’s one of the smallest nations in Europe – only 468 sq.km, and tightly wedged between France and Spain. It’s a mountainous place – every bit of it is between nearly 3000′ and nearly 10,000′ high, and only one main road linking France and Spain drives though the country. All other roads off peter out as they reach the small communities they serve.

It’s a principality, jointly ‘ruled’ by two ‘princes’. One is the Spanish Bishop of Urgell, the other the French President, currently François Hollande, and yet it forms no part of the European Union. It used to be extremely underpopulated: it only had some 6,000 inhabitants right up until the 1950’s. Now it has more than 85,000. But these new inhabitants aren’t indigenous Andorran baby-boomers. They’re incomers from principally Spain, Portugal and France, but also Britain, Italy, and more recently Russia. They come because Andorra’s a tax haven, because there is no income tax and goods are cheap, or because they love to ski: Andorra has some of the most reliable ski-fields in Europe.

And this is what makes Andorra a funny sort of place. Much – most – of the building is relatively new. It has very fine Romanesque churches, but little else that counts as historic buildings.

The Romanesque church at Aubinyà glimpsed through a village gate

So most settlements, even quite small ones, consist mainly of blocks of flats clustered together, often clinging apparently precariously to the edges of hillsides high above the valley floor. And everyone knows that Andorra is Shopping Central. People come in their thousands from France and Spain to stock up on – well, most things – and every weekend sees long lines of traffic from both countries as French and Spanish citizens flood into the supermarkets to load up with cigarettes – particularly cigarettes – alcohol, electrical goods, groceries, clothing…. before facing their own country’s customs who take a dim view of those exceeding their allowances.

Snowy Andorra

Near the French border.

More snow

Nevertheless, away from the towns, Andorra is beautiful. The mountains climb almost vertically skywards and this means that every road that leaves the valley bottom will zig-zag upwards with one hairpin bend after another. From our apartment in the tiny settlement of Aubinyà we could see a supermarket almost below us. We even thought of walking down to it (well, I did). When we came to try to shop there, we discovered we had to zig-zag to the valley, zig-zag back (left) to the nearest town, Sant Julia de Lorià, turn hard right and drive a kilometre or two to get there. Most journeys are like that. But it means that wherever you are, you will have fabulous views of craggy mountain sides cloaked in forest, or for much of the year, dusted or deeply covered with shimmering snow. Much as we loved the view from the window of our apartment, though, we wondered if eventually, we wouldn’t feel somewhat hemmed in, having no long distance views.

The view from our window

Another view.

And another. That’s a vineyard you can see below.

We had a lovely Christmas break, Malcolm, Emily and I. Many of our memories consist of eating out: it’s easy to find good Catalan cuisine , or anything else you fancy really at a very fair price. Skiing’s not our thing, but we enjoyed the brisk, sharp cold and the glaring whiteness of the snow set against the sombre green of the coniferous forest. We’d go again, but have no desire to join the many thousands of ex-pats from many nations who form much of Andorra’s day-to-day population. We’ll keep it as it was for us this time: a scenic and relaxing place for a break from routine.

Sunset seen from our window. And yes, far below you can just see that so-near-yet-so-far supermarket.

Bones Festes!

The church in our little hamlet, Aubinyà

A quick post from Andorra to wish you all Happy Christmas. Here we are in Andorra, half way between Laroque and Barcelona, to share a snowy Christmas with Emily. Except in this part of Andorra there is no snow. Just rain , rain, mist and more rain. But we did arrive, unlike many English-bound travellers from the continent, and we haven’t been flooded, unlike many people in southern England and northern France. So we’re very lucky. I hope you too are having a lucky Christmas.

The view from our window this morning. It's really not so bad, is it? — The view from our window this morning. It’s really not so bad, is it?

The morning after the night before.

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.