There is a place were
the yellow and red ribbons of the Catalans flutter in the high sunshine round a
statue of the Virgin. This is the story of how we got there and of the
fireworks that followed.
We reached the Pyrennees
by train mostly, a track bound journey split only by the Channel, but at
Tarascon the rails stop and at last the paths point up. So we teetered off with
our big rucksacks sometimes hitching and sometimes walking, down the road and
up the valley, through the empty village with its boarded up cafe to the foot
of the zig-zaggy road which on average at least aimed up the hill towards Spain. We slowed the pace to a plod on the steep grades,
hands on hips and leaning forward to avoid being nailed to the cross of the big
sacks. Then at the end of a 1500 mile search for sunny hills the sky darkened
to a deep grey and it began to rain. Not just a shower, but a persistent hill
rain we both knew from the sacred ground of the West Highlands - this was definitely not in the plan. The drizzle
seeped through us until we reached the hanging valley at the top of the zigzags
where we camped. To the south, lightning flickered around the hidden peaks that
we aimed to reach the next day. It did not look promising.
But the morning and the
day that followed were flawless. Guinness ripped open the tent door and my eyes
opened to the darkness of the flap against the hard stars. He groaned and
coughed and retched and spat the stove into life filling the tent with the
odours of meths fumes and powdered milk. The smell drove me deeper into the
sleeping bag and when eventually the steaming bowl was placed on my chest I
could only demure and reach for the tea instead. “I’ve put in apple flakes to
give it some taste.” My dirty look made no impression but once the tea was down
and the fur was out of my mouth I could stand outside for both the oats and the
apple flakes. There was enough light from the stars to make the head torches
pointless and when I did turn it on it seemed intrusive, bouncing light off the
weird shapes of the beehive shepherds huts of the Orris de Pujol. We had
considered spending the night in them from the safe distance of a Glasgow pub but close up they were sheep fowled and spooky.
By the time I had finished the oats, his impatience was the only thing not
packed and he boiled slowly as I bumbled into my climbing clothes and threw my
gear into my sack. But when I eventually shouldered the pack he beamed broadly
at me. “Are ye right?” Aye, I was right. Today had been a long time
coming.
We walked up the deep,
blue shadowed valley at dawn as the pink light touching the spires above turned
to bright white and scrambled up shallow rock ribs to a snow filled cirque. We
stopped and snacked on cheese and bread while still in the cool shadows and
watched the sun slowly flood the snow bowl. Then we unstrapped the axes,
shouldered the packs and struck out across the snow. We climbed over our first,
tiny bergshrund onto the face of Montcalm which continued at a comfortable
angle of rock and grass for a couple of
thousand feet before easing out to the granite boulder field of the summit. The
air was thin and the rocks glared in the sun making the top hard to obtain but
at last after five hours we were there on the summit of Montcalm complete with
its fibre glass bear and bear cub. You wonder who thought that one up.
Then we were off - the usual story of a summit hard won and
quickly discarded - down the back of the hill to a high stony col and then
slowly up the narrow ridge of Pic d’Estats before crossing at some undefined
point into Catalonia and Spain. On the summit, we flew the Saltire in the sun
and carried out our usual ritual of Calvinist handshakes but the experience was
different to all those other narrow places we had aspired to in our own
country. Here the sun shone with an anger and the people who came before had
erected crosses and a tiny statue of the Virgin, all decorated with yellow and
red ribbons. There were plaques and photos and prayers. The Catalans celebrated
their summits while we revel in the dourness of our hills decorating them with
either funereal cairns or strictly functional trig pillars.
But you can only stay
for so long and take so many photos before you have to leave and we quit Catalonia after less than an hour. Our route led back over
Montcalm and at the col we met a large family of Catalans dressed almost
entirely in black. There were young boys and girls, middle aged men and even an
old woman. Perhaps a funeral party perhaps carrying a plaque to the summit for
a newly lost brother but whatever the reason the grandmother had trekked to a
height of 3000 metres in the heat of August. We could only exchange puzzled
greetings and pass on by.
So that was Spain - hot and full of tourists.
Our descent reversed the
ascent - down the rocky face of Montcalm, over the snowfield, down the rock rib
and then a quick jog down the valley to the tent. It was hot and still in the
valley and I had fantasised hard about the stream by the tent. It had been
freezing when I collected water the previous night but now it would be just
right. I reached the tent first, trotting happily down the path and dumped my
rucksack at the tent door. By the time I reached the stream I had stripped to
the waist and was seductively removing my sweaty bandana for my date with the
wee burn. It was still cold. In fact it was way too cold for anything other
than a token immersion of the top of my head. Luckily, Guinness was far enough
behind to miss the pathetic spectacle and I was able to get away with a quick “very
refreshing” through clenched teeth. The tent was packed away and we headed down
laden once again with huge sacks. Our new smiles and suntans made them more
bearable but no lighter.
We veered off from the zigzags
to follow a path down through the woods. The late sun dappling the path ahead
and the living greens of the leaf canopy above. We reached the road as the sun
dipped behind the hill and the shadows brought out a horror of clegs - massive
horseflies with green eyes. We still had shorts on and had to resort to
waltzing down the road together, turning in circles and slapping clegs from the
others legs. So it was that as the first car came round the corner we were slapping and stamping and leaping
about with our huge rucksacks on and screaming ”Die ya wee numpty” at the
surface of the road. I stuck out a speculative thumb but was greeted by a look
of horror from the young woman in the car as she accelerated passed. You could
not blame her. When we heard the next engine we got our act together, smoothed
down our hair and smiled. The white Renault van screeched to a halt and we
piled in the back. The guy driving had very little English so while Guinness
tried to chat to him in pidgin I concentrated on the big wolfhound which had got
up of the floor of the front passenger seat. It kept making a low, throaty
growl when I moved so I adopted the policy of shrinking and staying very still.
After a long mile or so it seemed to succumb to my limited charms and jumped
over the seat and laid its head on my lap. Nice doggy. Very nice doggy. Any
move still resorted in a growl but I was more concerned about the latest insect
experience of the day which were making themselves obvious on the dogs head.
Eleven scratchy miles passed and we were dropped in the middle of Tarascon
outside a cafe.
“Nice guy” said Guinness
as the van departed. “I’d love a wolf hound.”
“Aye, right enough” I
replied wiping the slobber off my bare leg to look for fleabites.
We drunk the two best
beers that have ever been drunk and headed for the campsite. I was dead beat
and with good reason and my feet were beginning to throb so badly that I swore
I could hear them. Bed seemed like a good option.
But Tarascon was in the
grip of a summer festival and the day was not over. As we neared the campsite we realised that entire
town was blacked out and suddenly we were in the middle of a huge, silent
crowd. From the direction of the wee castle on its rock in the middle of the
town came a booming voice with a long stream of French in which I thought I
caught the words “Star wars” or even “Sterrrgh Werrrghs” Then the music started
and the Force was definitely with us. A single stream of sparkles flew up from
the castle ramparts and ended in the most almighty bang and then all hell let
loose. If fireworks are your thing then
the Tarascon Festival is the one for you. Never mind that it’s a poky, wee
French town - they are more than happy to send their entire annual budget up in
smoke in one balmy August night. It was awesome. The whole thing lasted an hour
and was accompanied by a bizarre soundtrack which was lost on us tourists. “Look
Skywukerrrrgh ... Obee - wchann Kenobee... Le Force” The show got even better
when the big rockets started falling to earth and set fire to the scrub on the
castle rock. Pretty soon there was a good blaze going right under the castle
walls and it looked like this was the start of a night to remember. Then the
sirens started and fire engine appeared and a wee guy could be seen flitting
about in the light of the flames battering at the burning bushes. The hero of
the hour but the surreal commentary still continued
“Crhann seuluu...bang.. Derth Vederr ...bang”.
What a night - we decided to go for a beer.
And so it was that at
somewhere around two in the morning we got reached the campsite with a half
empty bottle of a last very expensive biere and a tricolour to go with our
saltire. It was a fine tribute to the Auld Alliance that had required Guinness
to swing from it with all his weight before it gave way. The French had
actually padlocked the ropes so we had no choice - have they no sense of
tradition?
So that was Tarascon and
the wee, winding path up to Catalonia. It was a good start.
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