We left our village of Montlaur last Saturday and have been
exploring the Pyrenees mountains for the past week. They form the southern border with Spain, and
one day we even ventured over the top and into Spain for a quick peek from the peak. Bruce found our accommodations
for Saturday night on-line before we departed Montlaur. It was a B&B in the small town of Axat,
in the foothills. It seems to be a phenomenon
that we pick a name on the map as a convenient place to stop – and then
discover that it is a very interesting destination where we could easily stay
and explore for days. Of course, the
enthusiasm of our B&B hosts for their area intensifies this phenomenon.
Au Quatre Saisons B&B in Axat, France. Note the Cathar cross on the wall.
Our hosts on our first night out were Brits, Paul and Val, probably in their 40's, who have been running the Au Quatre Saisons B&B for five
years. When we arrived late Saturday
afternoon, they put us up in the suite in the re-constructed attic. It was a pleasant space with leather sofas
for lounging and a wonderful view of high mountains, as well as looking down on Paul’s lime green
Deux Cheval car. Bruce and I have always loved these funky, quintessential symbols of France. Paul thrilled us by offering to take us for a
spin. He rolled back the canvas top and off we went, touring the small village, being
introduced to the hardware store owner as “my American friends”, seeing the
resto where Paul had waited tables one season, and pausing while he greeted an elderly friend. We heard about the pressures to keep a B&B full during the high season - like Maine in the summer. Val has kept her job in the UK and returns there every other week, working from Axat in the intervening weeks. Paul’s suggestions
about all the places that we “must” see convinced us that perhaps a second day
in Axat was in order.
The Deux Cheval car that we toured Axat in with our B&B host.
Alors, the next day we drove to the Gorges de Galamus, an impressively deep gorge carved by a small
river out of the limestone mountains. The road was narrow and required traffic directors to get the cars safely through. We
walked down to an ancient hermitage, built into the side of the mountain, where
there was a small chapel. Like so many of
the constructions in this area, it’s hard to imagine how they could have been
completed at these impossible heights, especially hundreds of years ago. I just googled the hermitage in the gorges de galamus, btw, and a you-tube video popped up of a drive through the gorge, with music!
The hermitage in the Gorges de Galamus
We didn't linger, as Paul had also suggested a tourist train ride through the mountains for a couple of hours in open cars. Our window at the B&B looked out on the tall viaduct that carried the train over the valley where Axat is located. As we rode along that day, the clouds hung low in the mountain valleys, and it was cool there but brightened up once we got out into the vineyard-clogged plain.
We left Axat on Monday and headed west, farther into the mountains. Along the way, we visited Montsegur, the ruins of a castle perched on top of sheer cliffs, way up in the hills. It was the place where the Cathars had made their last stand against the pope and the French king in the 13th century. Much of southern France is Cathar country, with lots of places where this beleaguered religious sect was besieged. Not surprisingly, it always ended badly for the Cathars, usually with their being overcome and choosing to jump into a burning pyre rather than renouncing their beliefs. Over 200 martyrs died at Montsegur, after holding out for 10 months. I believe that it's the only Christian group against which a crusade was waged. Pretty brutal times, but so were the times before and after. Now it's a peaceful place, high in the sky, the trail leading up to it surrounded by the most amazing array of wild flowers.
We burned off a few croissants climbing to the top of Montsegur.
That night we stayed in Fos, only about 6 km from the Spanish border, an area where FOUR languages are spoken: French, Spanish, Occitan, and Aranese. It looked quite different from the Montlaur area. The orange-tiled roofs were replaced with gray slate, including small spikes to slow the sliding of snow. The weather was gray and cool. Twisty, narrow streets led up to the spot where the Au Repos de Moine B&B clung to the side of a hill, nestled among other village houses. Again, our hostess was a British woman. Like Paul and Val the night before, Christine and her husband, Bert, had also turned an old, old house into a comfortable B&B. They both supplement their incomes by teaching English on-line to individual students. Bert was away sailing on the Spanish coast, but we had a lovely chat with Christine. She shared their story of coming to France, the fulfillment of a dream. But, after a serious health crisis, they are missing their British friends and family - and cozy, amiable British pubs - and may buy a canal boat in England and spend part of their year there and part running their B&B in France.
Looking down on the town of Fos and its river running through the valley.
Christine was just as knowledgeable and enthused about her corner of the world as Paul had been. On her advice, we ended up crossing over the mountains into the Spanish Val d'Aran, which Andrea had also encouraged us to see. It's a beautiful valley and the town of Vielha seemed prosperous and cheery, with lots of skiing condos spreading up the steep mountainsides and the swift-flowing River Garonne, in its infancy, swooshing down the middle. The King of Spain comes to ski in a town not far away. After lunch in Spain, on a sunny plaza next to a centuries-old church, we threaded our way back through the mountains to the French side, descending to a town that was preparing to welcome the Tour de France next week. Those riders will have their work cut out for them in this challenging area! We have been tuning in to the race on tv at the end of each day, watching the exciting last few minutes as these amazing athletes vie to cross the line and earn the yellow shirt.
For the first time in our whole year away, we didn't have a place reserved for Tuesday night. Luckily, many French towns have tourist offices with publications listing area accommodations. And, to our delight, B's cell phone worked! So, we made a few phone calls and ended up in the spa town of Capvern-les-Bains. We hadn't realized it before, but this region has many spa towns where, one hundred years ago, wealthy folks came to bathe in the hot sulfur waters that burble up out of the ground. Our accommodation was an old hotel, fairly spartan actually, but adequate. The next day was chilly and drizzly. Alas, I couldn't convince Bruce to "take the waters" at the spa down the road. Instead, we continued on our way.
The misty castle that our room in the spa town of Capvern looked out on.
Our destination, which we never got to, was a tiny hamlet far to the west. A few years ago I had given Bruce a book describing the work of a Belgian surgeon during WWII. He had set up a phony lumber business there in order to cover his real work of getting people, who were in danger of the Nazis, over the mountains and out of France. After the war he had emigrated to the USA and settled in Boston, where he became a renowned researcher at Mass Eye and Ear. Alas, these twisty mountain roads slowed us down and put the kibosh on that idea. We finally decided to stay put in the pretty town of Oloron-Ste-Marie for 2 nights. It was located at the confluence of two rivers - and also the confluence of two trails on the pilgrimage route leading to the Cathedral of Santiago de Campostela in northwestern Spain. The town boasts its own historic Cathedral of St. Mary, on the UNESCO Heritage list. And we found a wonderful little creperie that we visited both nights we were there.
Oloron-Ste-Marie
Carving on the doorway at Cathedral of St. Mary in Oloron-Ste-Marie
So that brings us to Friday, yesterday, the day that we were scheduled to return our trusty leased Peugeot to a dealer in Bordeaux. We were up early in order to travel up the superhighway and have the car back by noon. This is our first visit to Bordeaux, and we are already loving the grandeur of the buildings and the lovely warm color of their sandstone, as well as all the cozy little nooks for outdoor cafes, the open and airy feel of this riverside city, and, of course, the wine culture. Coincidentally, it is located near to where the River Garonne - which we saw far up in the Pyrenees - empties into the Atlantic Ocean. Today is Quatorze Juillet, France's Independence Day. No dancing in the streets, as I remember from 43 years ago, the last time I was in France for Bastille Day. Instead, Bruce and I watched a BMX bike riding competition in the park (preparing for a Tour de France future?). Fireworks are scheduled for this evening. The adventure continues!
Christine was just as knowledgeable and enthused about her corner of the world as Paul had been. On her advice, we ended up crossing over the mountains into the Spanish Val d'Aran, which Andrea had also encouraged us to see. It's a beautiful valley and the town of Vielha seemed prosperous and cheery, with lots of skiing condos spreading up the steep mountainsides and the swift-flowing River Garonne, in its infancy, swooshing down the middle. The King of Spain comes to ski in a town not far away. After lunch in Spain, on a sunny plaza next to a centuries-old church, we threaded our way back through the mountains to the French side, descending to a town that was preparing to welcome the Tour de France next week. Those riders will have their work cut out for them in this challenging area! We have been tuning in to the race on tv at the end of each day, watching the exciting last few minutes as these amazing athletes vie to cross the line and earn the yellow shirt.
For the first time in our whole year away, we didn't have a place reserved for Tuesday night. Luckily, many French towns have tourist offices with publications listing area accommodations. And, to our delight, B's cell phone worked! So, we made a few phone calls and ended up in the spa town of Capvern-les-Bains. We hadn't realized it before, but this region has many spa towns where, one hundred years ago, wealthy folks came to bathe in the hot sulfur waters that burble up out of the ground. Our accommodation was an old hotel, fairly spartan actually, but adequate. The next day was chilly and drizzly. Alas, I couldn't convince Bruce to "take the waters" at the spa down the road. Instead, we continued on our way.
Our destination, which we never got to, was a tiny hamlet far to the west. A few years ago I had given Bruce a book describing the work of a Belgian surgeon during WWII. He had set up a phony lumber business there in order to cover his real work of getting people, who were in danger of the Nazis, over the mountains and out of France. After the war he had emigrated to the USA and settled in Boston, where he became a renowned researcher at Mass Eye and Ear. Alas, these twisty mountain roads slowed us down and put the kibosh on that idea. We finally decided to stay put in the pretty town of Oloron-Ste-Marie for 2 nights. It was located at the confluence of two rivers - and also the confluence of two trails on the pilgrimage route leading to the Cathedral of Santiago de Campostela in northwestern Spain. The town boasts its own historic Cathedral of St. Mary, on the UNESCO Heritage list. And we found a wonderful little creperie that we visited both nights we were there.
So that brings us to Friday, yesterday, the day that we were scheduled to return our trusty leased Peugeot to a dealer in Bordeaux. We were up early in order to travel up the superhighway and have the car back by noon. This is our first visit to Bordeaux, and we are already loving the grandeur of the buildings and the lovely warm color of their sandstone, as well as all the cozy little nooks for outdoor cafes, the open and airy feel of this riverside city, and, of course, the wine culture. Coincidentally, it is located near to where the River Garonne - which we saw far up in the Pyrenees - empties into the Atlantic Ocean. Today is Quatorze Juillet, France's Independence Day. No dancing in the streets, as I remember from 43 years ago, the last time I was in France for Bastille Day. Instead, Bruce and I watched a BMX bike riding competition in the park (preparing for a Tour de France future?). Fireworks are scheduled for this evening. The adventure continues!
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