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!