Le nettoyage des chemins

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aurignac, centre equestre aurignac, French attitude to litter, french pyrenees life, French village community

Each year in April, the members of the Aurignac riding club, the local walking club, the tourist office and anyone else who fancies joining in meet up for a day out with a difference. The lovely network of paths on the hills behind the town were originally largely laid out by the members of the riding club, and the tourist office contributed signposts and maps, so everyone feels an almost proprietorial interest in keeping them open.

Before the off.

Although Aurignac has very little in the way of a litter problem, there’s an annual excursion of volunteers armed with gloves and bin bags who walk the paths, collect any rubbish, remove branches and overhanging brambles and generally tidy things up.

This year, we were pleased to be around at the right time and happily joined in with the group of local residents and children. Jean Francois from the local ironmongers provided his four donkeys, to carry rubbish, picnics and any small children unable to last the course, and members of the riding club joined us on horseback.

We set off in the unusually warm Spring morning, eyes peeled for errant rubbish. The children proved the most eagle eyed, and were soon running ahead and coming back with bits of old plastic blown in from neighbouring silage clamps. In the way of actual rubbish there was very little – the odd scrap of paper or plastic bottle – and once a few items had been added to the

Getting ready to go

donkey panier there was plenty of time to stroll and chat with members of the group.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michel, president of the riding club, was responsible for trimming back errant brambles on the paths

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The children were very enthusiastic collectors, and were disappointed to be told we couldn’t take two discarded car tyres with us (we later collected them by car).

Our route took us from the car park Forail, through the ancient stone porte de Benque which leads out of the town from the main street, past the old disused abbatoir, and up to the cross, the highest point of our journey. By this stage, two of the donkeys were carrying tired children as well as supplies for lunch!

We followed the path towards the nearby hamlet of Peron before climbing up towards the ridge, past the Lion rock and down across the main road towards the prehistoric rock shelter that’s a feature of the town’s history. After a three hour hike, during which we did manage to fill four rubbish bags between our group of twenty, we headed to the other side of the hill and up to the Col de Martin for lunch with the feeling of a job well done.

 

 

 

In true French style the rest of our group produced a three course meal from the donkey paniers, and soon wild boar pate, charcuterie and some wicked eau de vie were circulating freely. Our own contribution of lemon drizzle cake attracted suspicious glances at first, but once our French friends had overcome their native reluctance to eat English food it went down very well.

Monty, one of only two dogs in the group, collapsed for a rest and only perked up when it was time to frisk the picnic area for leftovers.

 

 

Back at the car park, one little girl was clearly keen to take her new donkey friend home, if only he’d fit in the back of the car.

There was a great community feel about the whole expedition, and somehow it’s hard to imagine such an event taking place in the UK, particularly with such enthusiastic younger helpers.

As we miss out on many of these community events, we were glad to be able to join in this one, although Monty found it all rather hard work and fell asleep in the car going home. Or possibly that might have been due to too much charcuterie.

 

 

 

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The market at Montbrun Bocage

French markets are justly famous worldwide for the range and quality of their produce. In smaller, rural areas, the farmers and artisans sell their produce directly, so the stalls change according to the season.

During our time in France, we’ve been to many markets, as I love them – armed with a shopping bag (I do have a wicker basket, but am a bit self-conscious about using it), I like plunging into the medley of stalls and coming out with all sorts of surprises – white peaches, black radishes, homemade soap or honey, fresh eggs and raw milk. The stallholders are all extremely knowledgable about their products, and will advise on the best area and method of planting your newly purchased plants, or how to prepare and cook any type of foodstuff. I also love discovering the surprises of the area, from walnut products such as oil and cake in our part of the south west, to the apple juices and Calvados of northern France.

Some Dutch neighbours of ours have always been enthusiastic about a particular market at Monbrun Bocage, about an hour’s drive from our house. “It’s really different, and there’s a lovely atmosphere,” they promised us. The market’s on every Sunday morning almost without fail, and they told us stories of going on Christmas Day to find a happy community atmosphere of hot coffee and festive cheer.

The market stocks organic and handmade products, from food and plants to pottery and wood carvings. In the summer, it’s a popular tourist destination, with coachloads of people coming from as far as Toulouse. Although it’s raining on our chosen Sunday, we decide it’s high time to check it out for ourselves.

The village of Montbrun Bocage is a pretty place, set by a river and full of attractive old buildings. The market takes up the whole of the village square, with some stalls set up under the medieval covered marketplace and the others huddling round the edges. There are several stalls selling plants – mainly vegetable plants, but a huge range of herbs and flowers as well. One lady is selling handmade earthenware pots; I buy a little round plant bowl for three euros, with the intention of planting it with herbs.

One stall is selling joss sticks, and despite the drizzle the scent rises and mixes with the smells of coffee, pizza and other hot food on sale at the little kiosks.

The food stalls are mostly under cover. Honey, dried herbs and gourmet coffee, baked goods, jams, charcuterie, fruit and vegetables, olives, cheese, even sushi…..I buy a pack of dried verbena leaves for making tea and some dried oregano, and Mike adds a jar of mango chutney – the first time I’ve seen it in France – and a selection of little cakes. I have a long conversation with the stall holder as I select some white violets – as they apparently like shade, I’m going to plant them under our acacia tree in the garden.

We spot our Dutch friends and stop for a quick chat, before heading over to a trestle table that serves as the market’s coffee bar. Everyone here knows each other – there’s much shaking of hands and exchanging of news going on around us as we sip our drinks.

There’s a bit of a hippie vibe to the market as a whole – as well as the more usual market fare, there are also stalls selling embroidered clothing, embellished with little mirrors; incense and essential oils; and intricate silver and turquoise jewellery, and I think this is what contributes to the market’s reputation as ‘something a bit different’. There’s a lovely, friendly, community atmosphere, and we see several stall holders joining forces to mind each other’s stalls.

There are several dogs roaming happily under the crowd’s feet – all seem to be on their best behaviour, but with all this lovely food on offer, we’re glad we’ve left Monty in the car. Next time, we plan to make a day of it, and visit the market for picnic food before walking with him alongside the river.

For more information on the village and the market, visit www.montbrun-bocage.com.

The Spanish Grand Canyon, Ordesa Valley

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dogs Spanish National Park, hotel Ordesa, Ordesa valley Spain, Spanish Grand Canyon, Spanish National Park, Spanish Pyrenees

“I’m on the top of the world, looking down on Creation…”

I don’t normally break out in spontaneous Carpenters’ songs, but the Ordesa Valley is really something to shout about. Known as the ‘Spanish Grand Canyon’, it’s every bit as imposing as its larger namesake in Arizona, but considerably less crowded and touristy. We’re spending the day walking along the valley floor,  then climbing the cliff to complete a circular route and hopefully maximise the views.

It’s towards the end of October, and the weather couldn’t be better. The sky’s a clear, sharp blue and there’s just the suggestion of a frosty nip to the early-morning air. Packing the sandwiches I’ve hastily assembled from provisions bought in the nearby town of Torla the night before, we leave the Hotel Ordesa and drive the short distance to the carpark to start the walk.

We’re surprised by the number of cars in the car park – this is supposed to be the off season – and there are quite a few people heading for the path. We haven’t been able to find out prior to the trip about the official attitude about dogs in the national park – in the French national parks they’re not allowed at all – and we’re relieved to see information boards showing that Monty’s welcome, as long as he stays on a lead.

We have a smallscale map of the route and a walk book with us, but we’re still relieved to see that the path is very well-defined and clearly signposted. In fact, for the first half a mile or so, the path is suitable for disabled access. The sun streams through the trees, highlighting the autumn colours.

The first stage of the walk seems surprisingly crowded, and then we notice how many of our fellow hikers are slung around with professional-looking camera gear. Despite the polite little notices (translated into three languages) urging walkers to stay on the path, many of the photographers are diving into the woods to capture the light effects of the sunlight, or immortalising interesting fungi on tree trunks. We didn’t realise, but apparently this area of the national park is as rich a hunting ground for wildlife and landscape photographers as Yosemite is for Ansel Adams. Monty gets very excited and starts trying to dive into shot whenever someone points a camera vaguely in our direction. As we’re moving at a fair pace, we soon outdistance most of the crowds while I ponder on the correct collective noun for a pack of photographers – a paparazzi?

Although the path’s started to climb and turned more stony underfoot, it’s still easy to follow. We’re climbing up alongside a river, and pass a number of spectacular waterfalls. One in particular looks man-made, as though it’s coursing down concrete steps, but on closer inspection the steps turn out to be great shelves of naturally-carved rock. Monty’s far too interested in where the dull roaring noise is coming from, and I haul him back as he sticks his head through the protective railings.

We’re seeing fewer and fewer fellow hikers now as we climb deeper into the forest. Up ahead, there’s just one group of three people, and they’re making slower progress than us so we’ll soon be past them. As we draw level, I see why they’ve set a slower pace – one of the hikers is swinging himself along happily and expertly on aluminium crutches, his wasted legs trailing beneath him. Considering we’re now pretty high up and covering some difficult terrain, this is  impressive and we both stop complaining about the steepness of the climb and move on feeling humbled.

Every so often, there’s a gap in the trees and we catch glimpses of the most incredible views. The slopes flame with autumnal colour, and distant waterfalls tumble like silver ribbons.

After a couple of hours of climbing through the forest, with only the occasional snapshot of a view, we emerge into a natural amphitheatre, with a shallow river flanked by towering cliffs.

So far, we’ve been following signposts to ‘La cola de caballo’, or Horse’s Tail, and it looks like we’re arrived – the waterfall really does look like a white horse’s tail flowing over the rocks. Just above us is the Brèche de Roland, a gap in the mountains marking the border between the two countries – we’re now only a few hundred yards from France. Legend has it that the brèche was made by Charlemagne’s nephew Roland, as he cleaved the mountains with his sword.

After a brief stop for lunch, we cross the river on stepping stones. Monty leaps easily from one shallow stone pillar to the next, forcing me to hop awkwardly as I try to keep my balance, but we both reach the other side safely. The path’s starting to climb again now, round the shoulder of the hill, and we seem to be the only people left. Straddling the path is a sign warning us not to attempt this path after 1pm in the winter; a quick check of my watch shows 1.30pm but we decide to press ahead anyway. The extremely treacherous and steep descent needs to be attempted in the daylight, but with another seven hours to go before nightfall we feel we’ve got a good margin for error.

After a short, steep ascent the path flattens out again and winds through the forest. It’s getting cold now, and we’re glad of the thermos of coffee we brought from the hotel. Now we’ve got some height, there’s a fantastic view back down the valley we’ve just climbed.

Birds of prey soar above us as we climb, breaking the splendid isolation with shrill cries.

The drop to our right is completely sheer, plummeting straight down in an unbroken line for hundreds of yards. I keep a tight hold on Monty’s lead, but the surface we’re walking on is broad and safe and he’s getting tired now and happy to stay close to me. The path is deceptive, twisting and turning ahead of us – we can’t see how we’re going to get down such a sheer drop as we’re now almost directly above the carpark.

We reach a viewpoint, jutting out over the cliff and bordered by a sturdy wall – then, apruptly, the path turns downhill. It’s incredibly steep, like walking down a flight of stairs, and the recent wet weather has left a loose shale of stones and leaves. Mike and I look at each other in horror – according to our walk book, this section should take us an hour to descend, and an hour of this loose, uneven surface will be very hard work. In the event though, it’s not too bad – we soon find a rhythm, and the path soon loses the steps and descends by tight little zigzags instead, which are easier on the knees. After a brisk 45 minutes of descent, we emerge, slipping and sliding, into the woods above the carpark.

The whole walk has taken six and a half hours with a short break for lunch, and although the majority has been easy going, it’s been very hard work in places. We’re pleased to see that the visitors’ centre in the carpark is open, and we collapse gratefully on the picnic benches outside for hot drinks and pastries. Monty sags into a heap and is instantly snoring; we rouse him gently to get back in the car and cover the short distance back to Torla for dinner.

The Ordesa Valley, Spanish Pyrenees

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driving from France to Spain, hotel Ordesa, Ordesa valley Spain, Spanish National Park, Spanish Pyrenees, St Lary Beilsa tunnel, Torla Spain

Our home in France is close to the Spanish border, so there’s a whole new country tantalisingly close on the other side of the mountains, around 70 miles away. Coming from an island nation, I’m still childishly delighted by the idea that we can just get in the car and casually drive into a foreign country – driving from England to Wales just doesn’t cut it, frankly. The trip takes around an hour and a half, and many of our friends and neighbours make frequent journeys to top up with Spanish essentials such as olive oil, or just to take in some different scenery.

Although Spain’s so accessible, we’ve been in France for two and a half years now and never made the trip. In October, we decided that it was time to take the plunge. The timing was mostly driven by the fact that we wanted to visit the beautiful Ordesa Valley, billed as ‘the Spanish Grand Canyon’. We’d carefully planned our visit so that it was after the main tourist season, but we’d still be able to catch the stunning autumn colours in the national park.

With the hotel booked and the hiking boots packed, we loaded Monty Spaniel into the car and set off from our home towards the ski resort of St Lary, a favourite haunt in the winter. Of the two tunnels through the Pyrenees, we’d decided to use the St Lary/Beilsa route rather than the Luchon/Veilha tunnel, as it brought us out closer to our destination of Ordesa.

The border crossing was very understated, with little to indicate that you were leaving the country, and no form of border control. The only person we saw was a bored-looking workman in a fluorescent jacket, leaning on his shovel in the internationally-recognised style and counting the seconds until midi. He barely looked up as we swept past, driving to a foreign land.

The drive through the tunnel took less than ten minutes, and we emerged, blinking, into….Spain! To my great excitement, the countryside on this side of the mountains did indeed look very different, the slopes far more thickly wooded and looking less stark than the French landscape we’d just left.

Ordesa is part of the national park, and we were hoping to drive through the park itself, a feat that’s only possible between October and March. Outside these times, visitors leave their cars at the nearby town of Torla and are loaded onto buses for the journey.

It was another hour’s drive to the turnoff for the park, and I amused myself by trying to make sense of the Spanish roadsigns. I failed. There’s no compromise here, no attempt at a gradual acclimatisation for newly-arrived visitors by listing instructions in both French and Spanish – the Spanish have simply said, “You wanted foreign. It starts now.”

When we eventually found it, the little windy road through the park had the most amazing views. In several places, the cliff above us overhung so sharply that it was like driving through a tunnel, and I had an unpleasant sensation that bits might be about to fall off.  Heavy drips of water fell splashily from the cliff edges above us onto the roof and through the open window; I wound it up hastily. The cliffs on either side were patterned in thick stripes of red, black and grey stone, reminding me of liquorice allsorts.

After an hour’s drive, during which we saw no other cars (fortunately, as the road was so narrow), we emerged back out onto the main road near Torla. A pretty, medieval town, Torla is the gateway to the National Park. We were staying in the Hotel Ordesa, half a kilometre outside the town, a modern building just outside the park, and dwarfed by its towering mountainous backdrop.

The hotel was clean and modern, but I was completely thrown by the fact that the receptionist spoke no French. As we were so close to the border, I assumed it would be a second language here, but the second language actually seemed to be English.

Weary from the journey, we ate a simple but excellent value meal in the hotel restaurant, which looked a little tired compared to the rest of the building. The staff were unfazed by my requests for a vegetarian meal, and cheerfully produced salad, cheese and local pancakes. The following day, we were planning an all-day hike through the national park and along the cliffs, so after a quick walk into Torla (which took around 15 minutes), we decided to call it a night.