From Pyrenees to Pennines

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.

The lakeside walk

First view of Montbel

Disturbed reflections

Undisturbed relections.

Boo! Boue – mud: a constant presence at the moment.

A solstice sky.

Winter ice.

Coots in a hurry.

Midwinter tree.

Bookend cows.

St. Hubert’s the patron saint of hunters. No wonder he has a cross round here.

The Pyrenees, seen from the wooded ridge.

Last view of the lake.

HGV this way.

Janus

Janus in the Vatican: an image from Wikipedia

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 Pyrenees: always there. The constant backdrop round here

Apéro anybody?

Towards the end of Sunday’s picnic

View from the picnic spot, near St. Julien de Gras Capou.

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.

Ripon Canal in spring (Nigel Homer, geograph.org.uk via Wikimedia Commons)

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.

Thwaite in the Yorkshire Dales (David Dunford, geograph.org.uk. via Wikimedia Commons)

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.

The winter playground up the road

View from the car on the way up to Mont d’Olmes

Icicles en-route

Sun-stipples snow

Ice pillar

Our car park for the morning

Above us only sky… and snow

Welcome to Mont d’Olmes!

The ski run

And…. the ski run

Mont d’Olmes, the resort.

A snow buggy takes a break

An early visitor to Mont d’Olmes has already left.

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.