Points on the map

My original summer plans included a 6 week trek along the Pyrenees, the chain of mountains that separate France from Spain. I decided to cancel this trip so I could progress with the research work for my walking tours business, but I decided to do a one week walk along the highest part of the mountains, and have just completed this.

The Pyrenees are preferred by many to the Alps, due in part to their less-developed and less commercial atmosphere. Culturally and historically they are also more interesting; they are home to at least three distinct cultures (Basque, Occitan, and Catalan) each with its own language, and today are a bastion of those who want to preserve their regional cultures. One sees graffiti written on street signs proclaiming Basque or Occitan independence, and the names of towns and villages are often written (on the French side at least) in French and Occitan. Langue d’Oc, or the the language of Occitania, is the old language of the south of France. Historically, there were two main languages in France, the Langue d’Oil which was spoken in the north of France, and the Langue d’Oc. The north won out over the south, and its language prevailed. Modern French is the Langue d’Oil. The south of France, much like the South in the US, guards its culture and customs fiercely, and is always suspicious of interference from Paris.
This gives the south in general and the Pyrenees in particular a distinct feel; with a great pride in local customs and culture.
I walked through the high valleys and mountain passes to arrive at Gavarnie, probably the most famous spot in the Pyrenees, and with the predictable numbers of tourists from every nation. The Cirque de Gavarnie is a magnificent amphitheatre of rock that forms the Franco-Spanish border and towers over the small village of Gavarnie. I camped for a few days next to a mountain hut above the village, and spent a few nights at a gite d’etape (hostel type accommodation) nearby, doing day hikes. The hosts at the gite d’etape served up wonderful home-cooked meals each night to a clientele of hikers and climbers. Each day the different groups would go off to climb another peak or trek over another pass. Each evening they would return, buzzing with energy, devouring the 4-course meals amongst excited discussion of the day’s adventure. It reminded me much of IAC trips I had been on. At one point, someone told the story of two woodcutters they knew from a local village who would go up in the hills each day, talking with them their packed lunches, and 5 litres of red wine. Each evening they would return, the 5 litres of wine all gone. Thirsty work, cutting trees.

The Cirque de Gavarnie

One day took me on a hike up to the Spanish border. I trudged up, occasionally spotting marmottes, the small furry animals that live above 1800 metres in the Alps and Pyrenees. Equivalent to the Prairie Dog in the US, they made a high-pitched cry when I approached, standing up on two legs to investigate this strange invader of their territory. At last they would run to their holes and dive in.
It wasn’t until I had actually reached the border, which is not marked in any way, that I could see Spain. It was noticeably drier than the French side. Indeed, Spanish shepherds still bring their cows over the high passes each spring to the French side so their cattle can spend the summer on the green pastures. This interdependence of communities on the French and Spanish sides goes back centuries. When the French-Spanish border was finalized in a treaty in the 1860s an exception was granted to the communities here. In times if war or conflict, the communities could cooperate and aid each other under any circumstances. Even if the people on the Spanish side were under attack by the French army the French villagers could aid their Spanish brethren!

At the border, I gazed into Spain. There was a simple mountain track descending down the valley to a small road at the bottom. After only a few metres I was approached by a tourist. He pointed to the mountains and spoke in full speed Spanish. I hunched my shoulders to show my lack of comprehension. He continued. I wasn’t sure what language to speak; I knew he had come from the French side like me.
Around were the high peaks of the Pyrenees, not as high as those in the Alps, but impressive mountains all the same. The great Vignemalle, Pic du Midi d’Ossau, and Monte Perdido, or the Lost Mountain, which stands at 3,355 metres on the Spanish side.

Following my Pyrenean walk, I descended from the mountains to the warm foothills south of Toulouse. My destination was the Haras Picard du Sant, a horse farm run by an ex-Parisian which raises the Merens breed of horse. I visited the farm to meet its owner, and discuss the possibility of taking small groups of visitors there, on ‘rural experience’ holidays, where they could learn about the horses, learn to make traditional jams and other foods, and perhaps take part on the bi-annual ‘transhumance’, the spring and autumn moving of the horses to their summer pasture. Every year, the horses are lead on a three-day trek along country roads and through villages to the Pyrenees, a distance of about 60 kilometres.

Merens horse farm

The farm, with the beautiful black Merens horses was enchanting, as much for the passion with which it was run by the mother and son team, and by the stunning views of the Pyrenees.