Bon Anniversaire

Venez, venez, vite” Jeanne thrusts the phone into my hand.  “Allemand” she says.  “Je ne peux pas le comprendre“.  I get it. There’s Germans on the phone and she can’t understand them.  As I take the phone, I panic thinking, I can’t speak German.  “Hello” I say hesitantly.  “Oh hi, you speak English, great!  We’re lost, how do we get to your place?”  We are in a tiny mountain village, St Paul D’Oeuil in the South of France. 

It’s my birthday!  That morning, as dawn broke, we set off to do a walk in Luchon.  Now one thing we’ve never got the hang of in France, is managing to arrive anywhere at the right time.  We always find ourselves in a delightful village when all the shops are closed or at the bottom of a mountain with no telecabines working. It looks as if we have done it again.  Our ‘French Dilemma’ we call the time between twelvish and twoish when everything closes. 

Our plans to buy the newspaper, have a leisurely coffee and then head up the mountain are abandoned. Instead we hastily pack lunch into a backpack and leap onto the telecabine, with two minutes to spare before it closed.

We have no idea what is at the top of the mountain.  We see mountain bikers hurtling down the bottom slopes and so assume, oh so wrongly, that it’s not very high.  The telecabine, swings its way upwards.  Just as I think we've reached the top it lurches onto a new system and up we go again.  By the third steep ascent we are surrounded by cloud and I am looking doubtfully at my shorts!

It is magical, mysterious and cold.  Far below is a town milling with tourists blissfully enjoying 35 degrees.  We've entered a whole new mystical world, tranquil and cool.  Clouds swirl by, one minute offering a tantalizing view of snowy peaks and the next an eerie misty curtain.

We discover a huge hotel, ski lodge and a couple of bars.  Ah!  “Une Grande Crème and une noisette s’il vous plait.” There are deckchairs arranged to take full advantage of the now non existent view.  I find myself giggling, it’s really crazy.  

We decide not to be put off by the fact that there is no view and that we don’t have a clue where we're going.  The path looks clear.  After a few moments we hear a strange sort of grunting noise.  

A family looms into view.  It’s bizarre!  They're English and they are trying to fly a kite.  No wind and on the sheltered side of the ridge, but still they persevere. 

We have lunch, we watch the cows and they watch us!

Finally the cloud becomes lighter, the sky blue and the whole vista is before us. 

We walk for a couple of hours, loving every minute.  Our trip back down is just terrifying as now we can see clearly just how high we are and what a steep descent it is.  Phew!

               

An effusive welcome greets us at Maison Jeanne. We love the lovely stone cottage and huge flowering garden and we love Madame Jeanne.  In minutes our bottle of champagne is on ice and we are enjoying a shower. When we venture down the creaky old stairs “Bif", the dog, comes bounding up to greet us.

Jeanne has set up a table in the garden with flowers and little bowls of goodies.  She's also booked us a table for dinner at the next village and scoffs at our caution at drinking and driving!

Just as we settle down to relax  Jeanne comes running into the garden with her "German" problem and hugs me effusively after I have finished on the phone.

Within minutes they arrive.  They eye our champagne and yummies but before we can say "Come and join us", Jeanne has whisked them away to their room.  She comes back 'tut tutting'  

"No don't share with them." She sniffs, obviously NOT her favourite people.

A few minutes later, Bruno comes rushing anxiously into the garden, explaining  "My wife who is hungry, must eat NOW!"  I tell him we're going to a restaurant in the next village.  He nods his head, turns and rushes away.  We see him usher a distracted looking woman into a flashy sportscar and they roar off... in the wrong direction.

We settle down once more to our champagne only to be interrupted by Madame Jeanne who respectfully introduces us to Pierre (from Paris in a whisper).  He is very suave and gently nods his head in greeting.

He nods, approvingly at our choice of champagne. We laugh and tell him that it's my birthday.  "And where will you eat tonight." He asks.  We look to Madame Jeanne who in a painfully small voice gives the name of the restaurant.  He's horrified.  "Non, this cannot be!"  He sends Madame Jeanne off to find the telephone directory (well it is France!) and within moments he has booked us into "a superb" restaurant only moments away.  At this point the German couple return looking flustered.  No they couldn't find the restaurant.  Pierre smoothly tells them he will book them into a "superb" restaurant.  "No! No!" Bruno exclaims almost angrily, "We must eat now, my wife she is hungry!"  

We leave them to it. We go upstairs to get our things and by the time we return the convoy of cars awaits us.  Madame Jeanne anxiously bids us all "Bon Soir" and we are off.  What a trip it is!  We squeal around corners, take sharp right hand turns up the mountain and then hurtle down again.  After about fifteen minutes we start to climb up, and up and up.  As the road climbs the road narrows and the few lights of civilisation are left behind.  

We are there!  A tiny doorway leads us into 'La Ferme d'Espiau" A rustic restaurant where the waiters greet us enthusiastically - especially Pierre de Paris.  I'm starting to wonder if he owns the place!

Not too many people, but I guess that road would put anyone off!  Bruno and "my wife who is hungry" have disappeared and don't return until half way through the meal.


We're seated, wine is served, as is a wonderful soup with crispy French bread. Pierre comes over to recommend the "Cote du Boeuf" but I'm well satisfied with local mountain trout.   When Pierre's beef arrives - its  huge chunks of bone with rare meat overlapping the the plate, so we smiled at our good choice.  (Tried to get a surreptitious photo).

The meal is great fun, the Germans eventually join us as do the waiters and Pierre (briefly).  A great night to remember - but we never did learn the name of "My wife who is hungry!" 

The frozen peas are slipping

The frozen peas are slipping, I juggle them to ease frostbite.  The baguette is getting squished and I am regretting buying a sack of potatoes.  Why didn’t I pick up a basket as I came in?  The supermarket queue stretches before me.  It hasn’t moved for at least ten minutes.  “Bonjour m’sieur.”  The words drift back along the queue. We hear about the weather, the harvest, the price of fish, until at last the goods are stored in the basket.  Now begins the cheque book fumble… yes a cheque book.  The elderly man at the front of the queue, slowly and quietly checks every pocket until with a flourish he presents his checkbook to be filled in by a smiling assistant.

The people in the queue smile as he checks each item and the total.  Finally he signs the cheque and hands it back.  There are more “Au revoirs M’sieur” and an exchange of “Bonne Journees” and then it is on to the next person in the queue.

This time an elderly lady, I watch as they go the same procedure, the only difference being the three quick kisses on each cheek.

I just don’t get it!  How can the French be so chilled out?  I put my now warm peas on the counter, smile in response to the “Bonjour Madame” and proceed to chat about the weather, the harvest and oh yes the price of fish… “Il est terrible!”

All roads lead to Lourdes

Haircut done and walk abandoned.... What to do now?  Roger had become obsessed with the English/French mountaineer Henry Russell.  We discover there is an exhibition of his exploits in the Castle of the Comptes de Bigorre,  in Lourdes.  The weather is heating up but up the hill we go, only to find they have never heard of Henry Russell.  Ah well, fate of us all I guess.  

We decide to visit the castle anyway.  A strange concept, gentry on one side of the stairway and locked doors keeping prisoners at bay on the other side.  The views from the top are amazing.  Lunch is munched among the miniature villages that have been recreated in the gardens and then rashly we decide to wander down and have a look at Lourdes itself.  

Our walk down is really pleasant, not too many people because of the floods and then suddenly we were in amongst it.  Its like a religious Blackpool, a sort of religious theme park, but sad because for so many people its their only hope.  The stats are 1 in 3 million people are 'cured' and of course the definition of 'cured' is fuzzy.  Not that I mind that, the placebo effect must impact and I'm sure lots of people go home feeling 'better'.  Its the tackiness.  The 'make a buck' kind of attitude.  People were desperately buying candles for 200 Euros and a litre of water from the spring for 100 Euros.  True they had lots of fountains where you could fill your container, but it all just seemed so dodgy.

Ah well I just don't get it I guess.

Apocalyptique

I pack boiled eggs, melon, strawberries, yoghurt, tea and of course, baguettes!  We’re off for breakfast en pleine aire.   We leave at 6.00am, when the mists swirl around the Pyrenees and the fields have a silent mystique of their own. 

We roll past Katrin and Gerard’s house, past Edward and Martyn’s closed shutters and head down the lane.  “Traffic’s bad as usual” is my feeble attempt at humour, as we look down a road, devoid of traffic, arched by trees and swaying corn on either side.

Cauterets is our destination.  Finally, we are off for a walk in the Pyrenees.  

I love the fact that when you plan an exchange, you have a certainty about what you will do and of course, it’s always so different.  Last year, in Cluses, we planned excursions, lunch in Italy, dinner and theatre in Geneve,  but ended up spending most of our time walking in les Alpes.  So this year our expectation was that we would be spending day after day walking in the Pyrenees… not so!

We have spent our time exploring castles, villages and churches.  Drinking far too much wine, laughing, eating and socialising.  Can’t be bad.

But now we have taken ourselves in hand.  Swelling midriffs must be addressed. So off we go to walk at Cauterets.  Breakfast is at Aire de Pyrenees, where there is a stunning sculpture of “Le Tour”.  

It overlooks the Pyrenees, which as the day warms have shed their mist and stand out magnificently.  As we eat, we watch sleepy headed tourists, slope out of their huge campervans ”Home Alones’ as we call them, seeking strong, black coffee at the petrol station. 

Onward we move, faithfully following, Marguerite, our SAT Nav who has a tendency to avoid any major road and veers towards a farm track at any chance that she has.  So we had a wondrous trip, over hills, around lakes, switch back after switch back.  Of course I was driving.  We might take the Peage on the way back says Roger thoughtfully.

Our drive takes us through a delightful village, Luz St Sauveur, but no time to stop for French delicacies, walking is the focus for the day.  So up we go, the road skirts around the mountain, reminding us of the treacherous passes of Colorado.  Nearly there, when a French couple wave us down.  “Pas possible d'y aller la route est fermée.”  Sure enough, just down the track there is a Gendarme who explains patiently that the route is closed because of “inondations”.

So we wind our way down through spectacular scenery, now noticing that the river is raging and that the road has collapsed in part.

Ah! Ha!  Back down to Luz St Sauveur.  What to do?  Well drink coffee of course. une noisette et une Grande Café Crème, buy some yummy cheeses, meats, and wine and have a haircut! 

We meet the most wonderful man, Pascal, who is greatly amused by the fact that a man would trust his wife to describe the haircut that he wants… especially in another language.  He and I joke about what Roger wants and what I could be saying!  He does a great job though.  If you need a haircut this is the place to go!

We explains that we couldn't get through to Casternet.  He shakes his head and shows us photos.  We are amazed.  We had heard that Lourdes had had a flood but all the news was that it had been quickly cleaned up.  No word of old people dying, roads collapsing and villages left stranded though!  

On his advice we decide to leave walking in the Pyrenees for another day!

C'est La France!

Great guy in supermarket LeCrec in Toulouse.  He sure needed those skates to get around.  I went to buy a new external hard drive to replace the Time Machine I bought in Sydney.... amazing that you hardly ever see a computer store in the small towns.... or photography shops!

Maybe a new innovation for Sydney - just bring your bottle and fill up with fresh milk!

You can just bung your washing in the self serve while you do your shopping!

It actually means watch out for cattle grid ... not Canadians!

Not an address I'd choose!

Voisins Superb!

I am drenched by huge spots of warm rain.  My feet crunch as I twirl on the pearl white stones.  My senses are filled with the perfume of lavender released by the rain. 

As I twirl, my arms circle wildly.  I can see Martyn’s bright orange shorts flashing by as he hurls past me, arms raised.  We both take huge breathes of wonderful coolness at the end of a stifling day.

We are visiting “the boys on the hill” Edward and Martyn at their glorious house overlooking the Pyrenees.  We’d first met them at Katrina and Gerard’s place for dinner a few days before.  That had been quite an experience too.

Our exchange partners had wooed us with stories of their fabulous neighbours and after a couple of weeks we finally met them.  We were totally unsure what to expect.  As we walked down the lane, we saw Martyn’s hands first, as he waved them wildly, as he conversed in the ‘Franglais” we have all adopted. 

We’d already met Katrina on the first day, when she’d let us into the house and later when I went with her to choir rehearsals in the local village.  We were grateful for the fact that her Flemish background made her competent in several languages, including English.  Until now, we hadn’t had the chance to get to know her French husband Gerard, as he in the middle of the harvest season.  All we knew about him was that he was a seventh generation farmer ,who spoke no English.  We also knew that our exchange partners adored them both.

“Come, come for dinner.” She said.  “The boys are coming too.  It will be fun.”

And so we found ourselves walking up the narrow stairs, past the peacocks, ducks, geese, two excited dogs and a lazy swimming pool. The Pyrenees glowed in the purple sunset.

“Bonsoir, Bonsoir”  “Venez-vous.”  Gerard gives both Roger and I welcoming kisses on each cheek.  He has a sun glistened, brown smiling face and kind eyes.  Edward eagerly leans forward to shake our hands.  He is gentle, suave with a golden oxford accent.  Martyn a rugged, lovable character clothed in bright orange shorts and not much else, welcomes us with huge hugs and kisses.  I feel as if we have known them all forever.

We spend the evening drinking copious amounts of wine while swapping stories which start in French, move to English and end up in the usual “Franglais” and lots of laughter.  They are indeed “Voisins Superb!”

Our meal starts with the famous Foie Gras.  I’d been nervous about eating this, having heard all of the horror stories of factory force feeding.  Of course, this is Fois Gras country and we regularly pass a farm that has thousands of ducks… just waiting to be fed… force fed!

Gerard assures us that his ducks are just greedy, no factory force-feeding here.  Martyn flicks his eyes heavenward and says with a straight voice  “You just have to try darling, it’s like an angel on your tongue.”  We all laugh, but he’s right, it‘s an amazing taste.  Gerard has also prepared smoked wild boar – incredible, especially when accompanied by those irresistible French baguettes.

We discover that ‘the boys’ were the first on the hill.  Martyn discovered the house on the internet and fell in love with it.  As no one else was living on the hill he thought it would deliver the solitude they craved.  Unfortunately, the price was just too high.  Working life took over and it was only, about a year later, when they finally had a break from filming that they returned to find that the house was still on the market and the price had been reduced.

That was the beginning of their love affair with a beautiful old house. 

Meanwhile Gerard and Katrina, had met while playing Petanque, and a love affair of their own had grown.  They decided to build a house for themselves where Katrina could keep her animals and they could sit out on the Terrasse and enjoy the magnificent views.  Katrina animatedly tells us how she planned the house on the computer and now together they are gradually building their dream.  “I sat up there, on the roof” she gesticulates wildly “fixing the tiles.”

 It’s not finished yet but its looking splendid. 

I have got into the habit when we are home at Soubagnac, of walking down the lane with my little bag of veggie scraps  ‘Pour les animaux’.  Every time I make sure I call out my customary ‘bonjour!’  Inevitably, Katrina’s head pops over the terrasse and she calls me in to see her latest bit of handiwork.  One day new latticework, the next a new garden patch.  Truly amazing.

Around 10.30, I’m thinking it’s been a long day and all that.  But here is Gerard.  He has plates full of Magret de Canard , which have been smoking on the BBQ.  They are fantastic for me, but for poor Roger who is almost a vegetarian, it is all too much.  The rest of us tuck into our delicious Pink flesh while Gerard returns Roger’s to the BBQ. 

Glasses are refilled as if by magic, toasts are toasted and bottles tossed into the recycling.   The stories get longer and louder. 

At about 12.30, Katrina, delivers her wonderful banana profiterole, accompanied of course by lashings of wine.  More stories, more laughter and as the peacocks, cry out their mournful tune we decide its time to head up the dark lane, aided by Gerard’s trusty lamp, to our house on the hill and to stumble gratefully into bed.

And here we are two days later, having lunch with the boys.  We are resolved to look after our livers, and to be home at a reasonable time.  Obviously it was not to be!

We arrive at midday.  Their house which they have been renovating over the past 9 years is gorgeous.  Martyn takes us through each room telling us its history.  It had been owned by a Dutchman who had made a perfunctory start on repairs, and finished with a flourish of orange, blue and green beams before deciding, it was all too much.

They have created beautiful rooms, adorned with furniture and props from their various film and TV productions.  A cupboard from “Foyles War”, Stephen Fry’s walking cane (much coveted by Roger), dinner service from Bertie and Elizabeth, as well as Edward’s family heirlooms, medieval chests, photographs, sculptures and paintings.

Where there were fields before there are now carefully planned and sculptured gardens, vegetable patch and Oh yes a half built swimming pool waiting for Gerard to finish.  There are great plans for a Moroccan patio, pigs, chickens and vines. 

We sit under a large canopy of grape vine, eating fresh melon and prosciutto, followed by creamy potatoes from the garden and roasted chicken.  Around 7.00pm we get around to dessert, Edward’s freshly made ice cream and a Gateaux d’Amour  that we had bought at the local patisserie.  Its hot and sultry and we are lazy…. And then gloriously came the refreshing rain to energise us all once more. 

Goat's cheese a la maison aux puits

Nico the wonderful chef sent me this great recipe... so easy but fantastic!  Try it.... or go to Corde sur Ciel and taste for yourself!

Ingredients

Goat's cheese (roll cut into thick slices)

"Roquette" salade

1 granny Smith apple , rasped (thick)

4 table spoons of walnut oil

the juice of 0.5 lemon (citron)

fresh thym

50 gr. walnuts

salt et pepper

honey

slices of fresh toasted bread (same diameter as the chees)

Method :

place the slices of goat's cheese in a prehaeted oven , 180 gr C , with each 1 half wallnut on top

put some leaves (much) of fresh thym on top and some honey .

put into the oven for 8 minutes

prepare the salade : oil and juice of lemon in a bowl , apple into it , salt and pepper .

mix the dressing with the salade ,, put on assiètte (plate) , toast in the middle

get the cheese out of the oven and season with a little bit of salt et pepper , cheese on top of toast , crush the rest of wallnuts and sprinkle them over the plates .

That's it , you can allways give it your own swing.

How good is that!

La Maison au Puits - The House of Wells

What an amazing find.  Two fantastic hosts, the perfect spot to celebrate our 40th.  Nico and Christianne, were a Dutch couple who relocated to Corde Sur Ciel four years ago.  On the first evening we had dinner magnificently cooked by Nico including an amazing Zabaglioni cooked at the table!

They catered for ten guests... On our visit six from Australia. 

A few awkward moments during dinner as one of the guests expounded the virtues of Tony Abbott!!!  Luckily I was able to put her right on that one!  

Let those wedding bells ring!

“Well let’s give it 12 months and see how it goes.  Famous last words spoken on 7th July 1973.  We were 22 years old and had been living together for 12 months.  It was our wedding day, neither of us really had any doubts but we were afraid that our life would change.  40 years later here we are celebrating in Corde Sur Ciel, France.

We awake at 6.30 to a glistening day.  We set off over the hills to try to photograph the hill city tinted pink by the rising sun and surrounded by swirling mist.  We bump along the narrow country track in our brand new Citroen.  The directions we’ve been given are vague and when we end up at an almost derelict farm teaming with dirty grinning children, we know we have taken a wrong turn.

“Oui monsieur, à droite puis encore à droite, merci, merci. Bonne journée, au revoir!”  We turn around take an even narrower cart track and there it is the medieval city in all its glory. 

I find myself reflecting on how it was forty years ago.  There was a great sense of student life ending.  I was worried I didn’t even have a dress to teach in and trousers for female teachers then were most definitely NOT allowed.  We had no car, no money but a real yearning for travel. 

We were starting our new life in Liverpool, England with a borrowed car (My brother’s), a rented flat and great hopes.  My immediate problem was what should I get married in?  Regulation student gear, black cord trousers and T shirt wouldn’t do.  Getting ready to travel down to my home town Sheffield where I was getting married I was worried.  My bridesmaids seemed somehow to have sorted themselves out and had matching hats and dresses and even matching shoes.  I had nothing.

In desperation, I went into the large department store in Newcastle… Fenwicks.  I had never entered the hallowed doors before.  Twenty pounds a term even in the seventies, rarely allowed for brand new clothes.  Somehow I had scraped together twenty pounds, an enormous amount to spend on a wedding in my view. 

I wandered around, fingering the plush, flouncy dresses and teaming veils that cost fifty pounds and to my horror even more!  Too late to pull out now, mum had been baking apple pies, sausage rolls and cakes for the last week.

I was immediately intimidated by the whole surroundings.  I spent my time dodging around the clothes racks trying to avoid the inquiring eye of the saleswoman.  But desperation won out.  Panic was rising and I was relieved when she finally pinned me down.  “Can I help you?” she said in an officious voice.  To my amazement I found myself blubbering out my whole problem.  “Do you have anything suitable?” I said.  “It doesn’t have to be white or anything, just something nice…. and cheap!”  With her eyes fixed firmly on my trim waist she made the decision that I wasn’t pregnant, just one of those crazy students and maybe she should help me out.

To my amazement she smiled,  thawed and started asking me all about the wedding.  Now I have to say I hadn’t given it enormous thought.  Mum seemed happy to rush around doing stuff and I just sort of nodded without taking much interest. 

With great authority, the sales assistant took the grey, hippie looking dress out of my hands and led me into the changing room.  Within minutes I emerged with a slim white, hooded dress.  It fitted amazingly and only cost ten pounds!  I put away the thought that it was a week’s rent and handed over my money.

Within minutes it is packed in a bag and I am hitching my way down the A1 to Sheffield... and to a new life.

As I sit watching the air balloon float over Corde Sur Ciel, I think this weekend away is probably costing more than my whole wedding, forty years ago.  It was a great wedding though … and so is this weekend!

Don't let the bug beds bite!

“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!