“What has happened to
the weather?” I think to myself as I pull on my sweater. Southern France in July and I all I’ve
seen is rain and cloud. At that
moment, a ray of sun streaks out through the clouds and to my amazement, the magnificent
snow capped Pyrenees are revealed.
Seconds later, the
weather clags in again and we continue along the devastated road. Yet another road diversion. Our Sat Nav “Marguerite” is clearly not
coping as she directs loudly and clearly “Turn Left, Turn Left… Whenever it is
safe to do so, make a U turn.”
Neither a left nor a U Turn is possible, as they would deliver us
quickly into the swirling, raging mass of the Gave de Pau River.
Workers wave wildly and call
“Attention! Inondations!” We
carefully edge our way along the as the banks of the river and the road
collapses behind us.
We are headed to Gavarnie to
do a short mountain walk. We’d
heard about the terrible floods in and around Lourdes but had been reassured that
the roads were now clear. We’d
stopped for coffee in Lourdes where all was well. The markets were open, baguettes, shoes, silly toys for sale
but looking back, it was very quiet with hardly anyone around. Amazement was the reaction from friends
as I’d described on the phone pulling into a parking spot, and grabbing a cup
of coffee with no problems at all.
It should have clicked.
Lourdes should be bursting at the seams with pilgrims.
Now we are on the road and
we can clearly see what Lourdes had disguised, a monumental flood. As we drive, I take swift photos of the
scenes of cars half buried in rubble and tree strewn river banks. The river rages reminds us of the snow
melt rivers in Colorado.
We make it into the town of
Gavarnie and we decide not to go back to Soubagnac tonight, so a Gite it is. The disinterested woman at the L’Office
de Tourisme waves vaguely behind her at an isolated house standing proudly on
the hill. “Mmmmm well it least it
won’t get flooded” I think. It’s
only later at night in the big old bed that I think of landslides, but by then
I have other things to think off.
We drive up an impossibly
steep and narrow road that winds up the hill. I’m so glad I’m not driving, but I can hardly breathe as we
turn each steep corner. Suddenly we
are there… “Soubayoo”. The sun has
now blasted its way through the clouds and the view is “incroyable”. Our eyes circle from right to left
starting with a spectacular view of a deep valley topped by a glacier and edged
by rugged mountains. To the left
is a huge ampitheatre of rocks, glacier and huge tumbling waterfalls, the
Cirque de Gavarnie, that we have
come to climb.
Our hosts come tumbling out.
Jean Pierre and Bernadette. He is
a tiny, man with an old hat crammed onto his head. He’s full of grins and good humour and she is shy and welcoming. They show us the room.
We walk up a bare wooden
staircase lined with photos. A
creaking door opens into a room frozen in time. A massive old bed, heavy dark
sideboard, table and chairs and a view of the mountains that has amazed for
generations.
“Regardez!” Jean Pierre
thrusts a pair of binoculars into our hands to show us the two mountaineers who
are carefully picking their way along the edge of the glacier. He explains to us that he’s spent his
life riding horses across the mountains, tending his cattle and sheep everyday
of the week, but two years ago when he sold his livestock he determined to
climb the glacier with his son, Paul.
It seems strange that it’s only two kilometers away but it has taken
this long to achieve his dream.
We explain we are only doing
a short walk. He laughs, slaps us
on the back and tells us to get going as the weather may change.
We pack our bag with
sweaters, raincoats and warm windcheaters…. Seems ridiculous in the boiling
sun. Gavarnie is yet another charming
French village, with restaurants straddling the river. Small stalls and restaurants proudly
sell, crepes, tarteflette, gauffre, and local delicacies such as sweet
aperatifs , nougat and chocolat.
The friendly sounds of “Bonjour Monsieur, Madame” mingle with the sound
of cowbells and the roaring river.
Along the way we meet more
and more tourists, mainly French or Dutch, with the occasional party of
Japanese dressed to the nines in “walking” gear and with the lost look of
tourists groups wondering why they came.
We stop frequently to oblige the request for photos of couples with the
cascades in the background.
Family groups stride along,
parents keeping an anxious look on their small children astride donkeys or
horses. “Seemed a good idea at the
time” I think to myself. As we
start to climb up the steep slopes, we pass red-faced overweight men bent over
their walking sticks breathing heavily.
I find myself checking out my last First Aid course. Gradually we leave the roaring river
and houses behind and begin to climb.
It’s glorious, the steep cavernous rocks encircle us and the roar of the
waterfalls take over.
Ahead of us two serious
walkers with ice axes and a tent stride ahead chatting as if they are walking
along the High Street. We are
taking short stops now to gasp for breath, but it is exhilarating.
Finally the snowfield
that we have been aiming for is ahead of us. Just one small problem, crossing the river. It looks small, but has deep pools of
swirling water. “Don’t think about
it.” I tell myself. So off I go at
full pelt almost bowling Roger over in my determination to get across. I look back proud of my achievement.
This is the moment
the clouds open and rain thunders down.
Hastily we pull on rainjackets.
We take one quick look back at the river before heading off for the snowfield. I pause “Does it look higher now than
it did before?” I ask Roger anxiously.
Before our eyes the river is rising. A rock is visible one minute and covered with water the
next.
With no second thought
we are up and off…jumping from rock to rock and arrive at the other side
shaking water from our boots. The
rain pelts down and we struggle down the steep slopes, the path becoming a
stream and then a river itself. The
village is a welcome sight. We had
planned to eat dinner there and perhaps later have a glass of wine looking at
the splendid view from our room.
Instead we buy a frozen lasagne, salad, bread and a local wine and haul
ourselves up the steep hill to our gite.
We are met cheerily by
our hosts who offer us disgustingly filthy slippers to put on our feet. We smile and run upstairs to a hot
shower in our wet soggy socks.
The mountain view has
now disappeared into the thick swirling clouds. It’s only 6.30 but we are starving and so we decide to have
an early dinner and then to settle down to read. Jean Pierre and Bernadette have offered us the use of their
microwave and their dining room.
What we didn’t realise was that it was also the family room. It made for a very entertaining evening.
The family didn’t
speak any English so I spent my time between mouthfuls of food, translating
their enthusiastic answers to our questions. Bernadette’s family had lived there for generations. They had kept cattle, sheep and
horses. They traded with the
Spanish who were a mere hour and half walk over the mountain. In her grandfather’s day they were more
Spanish than French as they were their closest neighbours.
When Bernadette’s
parents died the house had been left empty for six years and it had slowly
started to deteriorate. Two years
ago they had decided to move back in and to renovate the house into a
gite. Their two sons Paul and
Gerard were helping out.
I looked around the
sparsely furnished room. The old
furniture and wood carvings loomed through the gloom. One son was hunched over his mobile phone, while the other
was researching guns on the internet.
Their daughter-in-Iaw Katrina was watching some French talent show,
while Bernadette and Jean Pierre took it in turns to amuse Claude, their 12
month old grandson.
By 8.00 we could
hardly keep our eyes open and to the great amusement of the family, who were
just starting to prepare dinner, headed off to bed.
As I lay down on the
old bed, a shaft of bright sunshine shone through the window and the peaks of
the mountain emerged clearly once more.
It felt like midday. It was
at that moment that I looked at the bed a little more closely. It was covered with thick quilts which
from the smell of them had not been washed for quite some time, years maybe. Gingerly I pulled back the bedclothes…
no sheets just old quilts.
I immediately started
to itch from imagined bedbugs. I
leapt up giving Roger the shock of his life. Luckily we had our own pillows and sheets with us and in the
corner to our great delight was a brand new children’s bed with a trundle
underneath. With the sun shining
brightly into my eyes I snuggled down to dream of swollen rivers, cascading
waterfalls and mountain peaks.
The next morning, we
were welcomed heartily by our hosts, who were wearing exactly the same clothes
as the previous day. I guessed at
the end of the day they just leapt into bed, maybe taking a moment to shed
their crocs, or maybe not! After
breakfast coffee, croissant and toast we reluctantly said goodbye to our
generous hosts, promising faithfully to visit again and headed home to
Soubagnac.
Please note blog not chronological.
Outside the Gite with our lovely hosts Bernadette and Jean Pierre.
I forgot to mention the picture of the donkey on the wall!
