Returning to Happy Places (Reflections on Familiarity and Time)

 

The force of tectonic plates crashing into each other at the speed of deep time, rounded out by several thousand years of grinding glaciers, created not only the Pyrénéen chain but the great gash valleys that run up to its wall. From Luz Saint Sauveur, one winding gouge abruptly ends at the Cirque de Gavarnie, a majestic amphitheatre of granite and limestone layers that buckle and fold around each other.

I am returning to this happy place, its familiar grooves and peaks, largely because I haven’t had time to plot out and prepare a new route this year. But then mountains are like that Zen river no one ever steps in twice. Turn left instead of right, go up a little higher, at a different time of day, with different weather, and it’s somewhere you’ve never been before. By the time I’m at the base of the Cirque’s largest cascade, with dozens of other walkers, thunder is repeating itself rapid fire, echoing around the concave wall, followed immediately by lightening. Then it’s a race, storm versus human, and we run, in hiking boots, to the nearest shelter as wind, heavy rain then hail arrives. 

This Cirque, at this moment in time, is a landscape I’ve never met before: dark and moody and crashing turbulence overhead. A few hardy souls continue to go forward but I wait it out with a large hot chocolate. In an hour it’s over and I wander down, slightly damp, through humid forest and pasture, the river, well beyond Zen reflection, now a torrent to my left.

The rest of the week is unsettled, skirting squalls and thunder, and requiring the additional effort of on and off and on and off again rain jacket. But the clouds bring light and shadow into the valley, and rise and fall over the Cirque so that its outline shifts each day. When it clears a little I decide I should have a crack at Pic du Péméne, le petit if not le grand summit. It is the usual sharp incline from valley floor to estive plateau and then long lacets up to a ridge, a drop down the other side to skirt the small pic and rise to the ridge again, this time facing a steep rocky bulge to the top. 

I stare at it, decide against it as it’s hard to see where the path goes and if there is any scrambling or severe drop offs, and have a picnic instead as vultures and eagles soar past at the same level. I walk back to the foot of the bulge once more, without backpack and poles to see if lightness helps, but still decide against it. I have figured out that my fear is not so much the drop off but getting half-way up and not being able to get down again, which would be excruciatingly embarrassing.

But then, as always, someone appears, running up (really, running!); a local out for a stretch who has the advantage of growing up in this magical kingdom. I follow his lead, crawling up for the first few metres safe in the knowledge that he’s too far ahead to see me, but then eventually talking myself into standing. Catching up with him at the penultimate cairn, I decline the last 50 metres as the short crest ends in a sharp scramble with jelly leg inducing exposure. The view is the same.

Before he disappeared down the mountain my guide pointed across the valley to a notch in the skyline above the Cirque and recommended I walk up there. I thought I had misunderstood as the Cirque is 1500m (ish) at its highest, and from where we were standing, very much the vertical wall. But on the map this notch has a name, Brèche de Roland. It is legendary as a 100m high ‘door’ between France and Spain that can be accessed behind the Cirque following the contours of classic mountain terrain: long lacets through steep estives, then plateau, shorter lacets over steep rocky trails, plateau, then even shorter lacets across steeper scree shoved to the side by thawing torrents. Throw in fording a few gushing glacial streams powering their way down to the valley floor and it’s a fun day out. 

Initially following the lead of other hikers was a bad idea as it turned out they were 20-somethings who had been raised by Isards. I eventually found my own way following cairns, more or less, and after four hours, crossing a final ridge, the world as I had known it was now inverted: above the height of the main cascade on the other side of the Cirque; above the clouds that rolled up the valley; looking down on minute others looking up from where I’d been two days before in a storm. The upper layers of the Cirque, the tucks and folds of ancient rock, were in full view. An elegant refuge sat in an impossible position hanging onto the mountain side at the base of a steep moraine mass that people ascended and descended up to the brèche, to and from Spain. It is beyond words, beyond spectacular.

Despite the sense of deep time such places generate, at the scale of the human I only had 30 minutes to linger with rain predicted for 2pm. I asked the refuge guardian how difficult the descent straight down into the Cirque was and his response was pragmatic: ‘there is an immediate drop off the other side which you have to climb down and if you slip you’ll die’. So I’ll be going back the way I came then! Even with the best of maps, the unfamiliar is always a challenge; a metaphor, if you want to stretch it, for much of human angst. 

Returning to the recently familiar but now in reverse, the boulders, roaring streams, steep moraine and lacets must be approached differently with gravity pulling downwards into clouds and out again. I disappear and am thankful for my GPS that continues to ping out a route. However, the predicted thunderstorm doesn’t appear apart from a few drops and one desultory rumble and I emerged into Plateau de Bellevue above the village in warm sunshine. 

After the usual routine of washing me and clothes I wander up to the world’s most beautiful bar, facing the Cirque by the stream, just outside the village, for tea and tarte de myrtille. Slowly all the walkers and riverside sitters thin out and dissipate as clouds thicken and time approaches evening. I sit and ponder nothing for an hour or two. It's a strange pastime, to hike to the top of things, sit for 30 minutes or so and then hike back down again. I notice the difference between through-hiking, when you need to get somewhere as justification for the effort, and up and back for no reason other than seeing something. In the meantime, the cloud finally comes down completely, and the Cirque, and pondering minds, begin to sleep.

Familiarity can of course be a very useful thing, particularly when not carrying a map. Having already walked the section from Gavarnie to Refuge Baysellance three years before, a section that is basically the walkers equivalent of an A Road, there were some vague landmarks imprinted in memory … a statue of Mary, a refuge … that gave a general sense of confidence I was walking in the right direction until hitting the familiar red and white balisage of the GR10. The walk along the valley and upwards was as beautiful as I remembered it: early morning cloud eventually cleared from the contours of a valley; reaching Barrage Ossoue and its familiar river plateau; and the knackering long lacets and rocky corniches with precipitous drops into valleys below.

But then, passing the familiar grottos carved into the hillside, with the refuge almost in sight, for some inexplicable reason other than just tiredness, I missed the clearly signed intersection and started following unfamiliar cairns towards the Vignemale glacier. Not seeing anyone behind me still didn’t register a warning and instead I dug in deeper until an additional hour of faffing about on scree slopes finally got me backtracking to the right turning. Arriving late at the refuge, tea and chocolate cake were required to ease the pain and indignity of stupidity but there was still enough light left to watch groups going up and down Petite Vignemale before sunset. 

As usual, the refuge was rammed (it’s one of the last Saturdays of the season) and a wall of noise. Two young women sit next to me and start teaching the group of older men in the corner how to play ‘pick up sticks’. Two Spanish on the other side play chess. There are card games, chatter, beer, coffee, beer. I knit socks. Dinner is in two shifts and I’m at a table of mostly Spanish who politely chat in English for my benefit. 

In the morning the wind is cold and strong and I worry about the Spanish who are climbing Vignemale today. Walking with my back to her north face feels a bit rude, but I am on unfamiliar trail again, over a boulder field towards col d’Arraille, well in sight at 2583m. Boulder fields require care, intense concentration, and ideally long legs, to avoid turning an ankle or sliding with loose rock into a ravine. The stream of narrative in the head has to quieten for a few hours and focus: three points on the ground, testing for movement, transfer weight, three points on the ground, and so it goes downwards over rocks, moraine, and lacets, lacets, lacets. Marmots occasionally startle me but they are fat and lazy from summer grazing and can’t be arsed doing any more than peeping a few times and loping away.

With my GPS strap broken, time was tucked away in a pocket and no longer readily accessible, but reaching Refuge d’Estom, beautifully positioned next to a lac at the foot of Pic de la Sède, I know I’m hungry and an omelette is inhaled along with the last of the cheese. Time then stretched out the walk down this final gash valley to Cauteret, with its racing cascades and soft forest; the sun roasting trail, becoming path becoming road, and the now familiar routine for finishing in a happy place: hotel, washing, a spa treatment at the Thermes, a glass of rosé, and reflection on having so little time despite the evidence of millions of years around me. 

 

(Gavarnie to Cauteret, September 2022)

 

Meeting the (Dutch) von Trapps

Cirque de Gavarnie is a natural wonder: 3000 metres at its widest, up to 1500 metres from its base, a 422m waterfall to round out its list of attractions, this natural amphitheatre has been carved out by the movement of the earth over millions of years. With just a 90 minute easy walk or donkey ride from the village to the foot of the cascade, it is unsurprising that in the summer season hundreds arrive daily to see this astonishing colosseum: bus loads of French, Spanish, British, and other assorted world travellers, scouts and school trips.

Among this maelstrom of humanity, let's meet the Dutch von Trapp family; a collective of four adults and six children ranging from three years old to tweenies, in all their tall, blonde glory (and yes, I know the von Trapps were actually Austrian but go with me on this one). 

I truly admire the effort of parents that want to bring their kids into nature, to march them up to a plateau to admire the view, even when the kids may not actually want to be marched to the top, are not that impressed when they get there, and can't wait to get back down because that's where the ice cream is.  

I appreciate that they might not have been used to so much ascent, even if it is Walking 101, but the von Trapp seniors were not put off by their children's lack of enthusiasm ... bless them. As I passed them on the way to Plateau Bellevue, they cheerfully ploughed on, accompanied by what I imagined was a Dutch rendition of 'These are a few of my favourite things'. 

I passed them again later that day, bundled into the nooks and crannies of shade next to a river, trying to manage their small humans' hunger, fatigue and the call of nature, which involved holding the smallest human over the stream so they could free flow their pee into it. 

At this point, just a gentle reminder of outdoor etiquette ... while I appreciate that Cirque de Gavarnie is a relatively easy stroll, with a hotel and three course meal at the end, giving it the appearance of an extension of 'home space', please don't let your kids pee in the pristine glacial streams that run past the camp site and through the village, that people bath in and drink from. It's public commons, not your own private toilet. The same goes for the man who's job it is to sweep up the crap left on the path by the donkeys ferrying people up to the Cirque. 'What a great idea', I thought to myself, 'collecting all the crap to put on someone's garden'. Mais non! His job is to shovel it straight into the same pristine glacial stream that, to emphasise the disgust, people drink from and bath in. 

Two days later I was really impressed to meet the Dutch Von Trapps again at Refuge Baysellance, a solid three hours for adults of upward hiking, along narrow, rocky paths with some steep drop offs. The three year old had been in a carrier but all the other kids had managed it under their own power. While missing their matching clothes made out of curtains, their infectious energy nevertheless took over the refuge, and children and noise bounced off the walls.   

I was less impressed that, due to a miscalculation by the refuge guardians of how many Von Trapps there actually were, I was relegated out of a comfortable bed in a room they now commandeered to the worst spot in the refuge: top bunk, under the slanting roof with only a handful of centimetres between head and hard surface, on the far side of a snoring man between me and the ladder down, with his wife and child's head on the opposite side meeting mine in the middle. Boxed in, there was no getting down to pee until everyone else was up in the morning, so I tried not to dream of pristine glacial streams. At breakfast, snoring man finds me, not to apologise for keeping me and everyone else in the dorm up all night, but to ask if his son can have his refuge slippers back that'd I'd accidentally put on in the dark, despite there being dozens of other identical pairs lying around that he could have used.

The Dutch von Trapps, on the other hand, having slept soundly in their own room, were gleefully up, packed, and ready to descend with what I imagined was a rendition of 'So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye' carried on the wind and fading out as they disappeared into sunlight and mountains sprinkled with saccharin.

[Note to self: to avoid the appearance of misanthropy best to wait till after a good night's sleep before writing notes, or think of a few of my favourite things 😇]

Finding a Home in Lourdes for an Oversized Candle

Backpack on and heading for France, I sat near four women from the Irish Traveller community on the London Overground. The youngest, noticing my backpack, asked where I was off to. ‘Hiking in the south of France, in the Pyrénées’. She recalled how beautiful it was in Lourdes when she was there, so I mention I’m passing through on the way to Gavarnie. And in that moment of connection, in the space of minutes in a public transit carriage in east London, a story of loss and violence and love and faith unfolds.

Could I put a flower in the river and say a prayer for a daughter, B. Could I say a prayer and light a candle for a 21 y.o. son murdered five years ago, as the family still fights for justice. A copy of his funeral service and photo is placed in my hand. Could I say a prayer for R., for the S. family, the D. family, for all Travellers. I’m given £10 for the candles. I refuse. It’s stuffed into my bag. Then another £5.

They ask me if I’m not afraid on my own and for some reason I say: ‘My god is with me’. As an agnostic I appreciate faith but I have a difficult relationship with the idea of god so I have no idea where that came from. The train pulled into my stop, it was hugs and kisses all around and we were away in different directions.

And so I found myself, the next day, jogging down to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes, between my night train pulling in and the 90 minutes before my bus to Gavarnie. Having passed through the city many times and never looked inside, I have long been curious about the power of this place and its ability to pull towards it the collection of humanity always waiting at the station: pilgrims and religious orders, the ill and infirm, the desperate and thankful, all hoping for a miracle.

I arrived just as the complex was opening at 8am and having done no preparation I realised I had no idea where I was going. With the river Pau running on the right, the almost empty promenade at this time of the morning was dominated at its end by the gothic structure of the Basilica Notre Dame du Rosaire. Going by past visits to Cathedrals I figured the candles would be in that general direction and sure enough, in an excellent demonstration of how cultural reproduction works and the lasting power of catechism classes, underneath a vaulted walkway to the Basilica were self-service candle stands with honesty boxes for the money.

I like lighting a candle when I’m visiting a church but at most I’ll stick a euro in a tin and buy a tea light. This being Lourdes, £10’s worth of candle was about 60cm long (I donated the remaining £5 although it did cross my mind that the Catholic church was already raking it in charging £10 for candles and didn’t need any more … note ‘difficult relationship with God’). Carrying my cargo into the Basilica I found the usual tealight altar but nothing that resembled a place for a two foot long candle.

Back out again I could hear singing further down the complex so wandered around the Basilica, bolstered by seeing a few other people carrying giant candles in that general direction. And it is here, not in the grandiose church, that I stumbled on the actual grotto where Bernadette Soubirous saw the apparition of the Virgin Mary in 1858. The rough hewn cave set a few metres above the ground now holds a more solid statue of Mary, while the lower alcove houses a small altar for priests to conduct outdoor services to the hundred or so mostly elderly pilgrims seated in serried semi-circles in front (in this instance, an Italian tour group).

Set below the statue of Mary was a metal ‘tree’ with oversized candles. This, I thought, must be where my candle goes, so I join the queue, inching my way forward. As I got to the front I held out my candle as an offering to the priest who looked somewhat bemused as he held out a bread wafer as an offering to me. Realising I had just gate crashed the Italians holy communion service I took the wafer and moved to the side still clutching my candle, and remembering the admonishments of a past boyfriend’s mother that as a Protestant I should NOT be taking the body and blood of a Catholic God (note ‘difficult relationship with God’). Too late now.

Spotting the Italian’s tour guide I asked if he knew what I should do with my candle. He quietly took me aside and pointed to some half dome sheds across the river, wishing me ‘bon camino’ in the process (I still had my backpack on at this point so he thinks I’m on my way to Santiago de Compostela, the famous Way of St James pilgrimage from France to Spain).

Across the footbridge, the candle sheds held hundreds of lights, hopes, and wishes. The Sanctuary has that feeling of places where people have prayed again and again, thousands of times, for uncountable years, for relief, more than happiness I’m guessing, from the suffering of this mortal coil, and heaven knows it’s been a shit few years. Facing death or illness or trauma or grief, wanting to die peacefully looking into the face of a god, take comfort where you can. If it’s believing that a virgin mother of a Jewish radical called Jesus appeared in a grotto in southern France and that she will help, so be it.

For the women on the train, my task is done. In the half an hour or so I’d been floundering around the Sanctuary the number of pilgrims had now swelled to hundreds and soon would be thousands as tour buses began to appear at the front gate. I find a quiet place for the candle. I find wild flowers and place them in the river, with H.’s funeral service left under a stone so he’ll always be carried by the water. For B., for R., for H., for the S. family, the D. family, and all the Travellers, may you be safe, may you be well, may you be at peace.

May the road rise to meet you,

may the wind be always at your back,

may the sun shine warm upon your face,

the rains fall soft upon your fields,

and until we meet again

may [whichever God or Universe you choose to believe in] hold you in the palm of [their] hand.