A month in the mountains

A collection of brief journal excerpts from a month spent in the foothills of the Pyrenees working on a farm.

10/08

Lourdes is strange. Every other building is a hotel or souvenir shop selling empty plastic vats ready to be filled with holy water. There isn't really a clear demographic - a mixture of monks, nuns and tourists scattered from around the globe. The atmosphere is odd. It is obviously a very important place for a lot of people but for the very same reason it is has been hugely capitalised on and the whole place feels like a big money-making scheme. It is surrounded by mountains and postcard scenery which doesn't accurately reflect what this place really is. Having said that, it is the first time in a long time that I have felt inspired to take photos. So I snap the faded hotel signs and the decadent fresco/murals which lie at the foot of the basilica. 

The hotel room I stay in has frosted windows facing the inside of the hotel. Three French ladies, one with a terrible smoker's cough, chat and wheeze until the early hours of the morning. Despite feeling exhausted, I lie awake and worry about the unknown that is ahead. I am woken up at 8.30am (which actually turns out to be 9.30am) by room service. I merci her away her confusedly and slowly arise. A fresh pair of eyes doesn't make Lourdes feel any more welcoming. 

12/08

Our host Laurence (a 50-something accordion-playing française) calls the French government la dictature. She is calm but also authoratitive. The day starts in the early hours when I go for a wee in the outdoor toilette sèche (a small wooden cubicle which overlooks the distant mountains). The sky is grey and bright and the only noise is the tinkle of cow bells (a constant noise I realise as the day progresses). Even though I don't know this place it feels safe and even though we are outside of everything (isolated in a new sense) I don't feel disconnected. I feel like I have shed a skin. We prepare the table for breakfast (pain et brioche) and one of the Airbnb ladies drinks her tea from a large bowl. Another lady dips bread in her coffee. The day consists of a fight with a bramble bush next to the house whose roots have sewn themselves beneath all the other roots and created a sort of inaccessible root metropolis beneath the soil. I am not granted access. I am covered in scratches and nettle stings and there are still bits of debris in my hair as we sit down for lunch but it feels refreshing to be so heavily in nature. Laurence has made a gratin and we pass a couple of hours in the garden. She is wise and explains why the "economy" we refer to is not really an economy (in short: it infantilises us, making us dependent on the state instead of there being a system based on real exchange, a need existing on both sides). After lunch I launch another crusade on the brambles but quickly give up to weed the more forgiving nettles instead. 

14/08

How to make yoghurt

1.Prepare your yaourtière and pots (if you own one lol) 

2. Put a teaspoon of yoghurt in each pot. 

3. Heat milk to 40 degrees and fill each pot up half way, then stirring each one.

4. Heat the remainder to 50 degrees and fill pots to the top.

5. Place lid on yaourtiere and put yoghurts in oven (or warm-ish place) overnight. 

15/08

We got caught in a storm in the mountains. Next to a petit lac we crawled under a boulder and ate our picnic - courgette cake, hunks of cheese, bread - accompanied bya personless dog who we threw our cheese rinds to. The rain grew heavier and we trundled through the wet, a light drizzle which very quickly became fat and wet and fast, and then formed itself into hail. I felt alive and skipped ahead until I found myself alone in the trees. Lightening struck metres away. I ran back to the others and we shaded beneath the canopy, the forest floor swiftly redesigning itself as a mudslide. By the time we reached the carpark the storm had subsided and the sky was blue again. I peeled off the wet layers and twisted my arms in the sun. I felt very small and big at the same time. 

17/08

Laurence has a special dessert that she makes. Fromage blanc, compote, vanilla ice cream, poppy seeds, melted dark chocolate, (optional: banana, crème de marron). The first day we had it as a special treat but slowly it has become a fixed attendee at lunch and dinner.

20/08

How to cook a gallette

1. Place your bilic on a table or flat surface with a tea towel underneath to catch les déchets. 

2. Break an egg into gallete mixture and mélange in.

3. Grease the billic well.

4. Place one ladle of batter onto hot greasy billic.

5. Use wooden device to make a circular shape with batter.

6. Wait for your perfectly circular gallete to crisp up slightly and then slide the wooden spatula horizontally under the gallette and flip. 

7. It's topping time! Crack an egg (make sure you cook it properly), grate some cheese, toss some ham on or maybe even a few mushrooms.

8. Fold gallette.

9. Put on plate and serve with cidre if you want the Real Breton Experience™.

10. Bon app!

24/08

Another journée libre, another semi-hike. The night before Samuel makes Spanish omelette and Laurence bundles us off with bread and chocolate. En route I zone out and we stop in Lourdes for a boulangerie break and the others joke that we've arrived. I momentarily believe them before recognising the strange ambience and crusty hotel signs. It is another hour or so to the destination. We pass through quaint towns which all sort of look the same and not the same at the same time. The roads start to wind and the gradient steepens. We park in a layby near the entrance and walk back down to a path which leads to the river. We sit on boulders which interrupt the current and Leo divides the omelette into 8 pieces, wedging 2 slices into a morceau of baguette to make 4 extremely large sandwiches. We eat and listen to the water. I drop some omelette in the river and watch it disintegrate. 

After this énorme déj I'm not keen on a hike but we set off, past the car and through the entrance. There is a cable car which would lead directly to our destination and Bárbara and I share sheepish looks. The price however is not tempting at 15 euros and so we confidently set off in the wrong direction for several minutes before U-turning. It is cold and crisp in the mountains but the sun is still strong and so the walk is relatively strenuous. As a distraction Leo tries to teach me "Le tourbillon" from Jules et Jim which Samuel mistakes for Aqua's 1997 hit "Barbie Girl". 

The destination is a shiny blue lake nestled between the peaks. We all want to swim but are disappointed and surprised to find absolutely no-one in the water. Someone jokes that it's a mirror. We walk around it's circumference to a little bay the other side. Fellow walkers sit by the edge, half-clothed but suspiciously dry. I take off my shoes and dip a toe in. It is really freezing but also too late to back out of a swim and so, with little time to think about the consequences, we disrobe and run into the big blue mirror.  

26/08

Spanish phrases that don't translate well

Con guitarra es otra cosa - With a guitar it's something else

Estoy llena como una ballena - I am as full as a whale

Cuando se cierra una puerta, se abre una ventana - When a door closes, a window opens

29/08

In the mornings we eat brioche on the terrace, loading it with homemade jam which the wasps swarm for. The jam is so runny it creates a kind of juice which seeps through the bread and settles on your plate, ready to be dipped in. There is also homemade yoghurt in petit glass jars from the yaourtière. Everyday it comes out a different consistency, sometimes forming a web with the spoon. In a kilner jar sits the compote (in other words the jam's sugarless sibling) for those seeking out a more stoic breakfast. 

Yesterday we were sent to buy some cheese from a local farm. We got lost in the tiny chemins, which although named, remain completely anonymous to any outsider. The farm reminded me of when I used to help with the lambing at home - it had the same homey manure smell and several rustique dogs scampered around the yard. The lady, wearing glasses with only one arm, invited us into the kitchen where she presented us with a semi-circle of produit fromage and another smaller, softer package which she warned us would need refridgerating immediately. This mystery cheese would turn out to be a kind of creamy curd which we ate atop bread at breakfast the next day, along with the jam juice. The lady at the farm was eager to talk; to know what kind of work we were doing, where we were from etc. Her accent was thick and flat - the usually plummy "on" sound replaced by a more open "ah". She seemed as if she hadn't spoken to anyone for a long time; eager to listen, to have us inside. 

31/09

It is our penultimate journée libre. The sun is shining when we wake up and Bárbara and I wander down to breakfast, sleepy-headed. We spend the entire day inside, Bárbara writing her thesis and myself reading and sorting out boring Bristol emails. Samuel and Robin set off early on a bike ride but it is nice to have the house quiet. At lunch the conversation expands and Laurence talks about la dictature, dependance, control, freedom, and how she came to be at this point in her life. It is fascinating. She goes into depth on Bourdieu's La domination masculine and how it helped her to dismantle her world, to build something new inside her head. I don't know if I understood fully but from what I could glean - we see everything based on a scale of values and without realising it we value and therefore judge everything upon this scale (or worldview). And if we are to value everything in this way, then nothing really has any value because it is just a projected judgement. 

03/09

After we finish work Samuel drives us to Lestelle-Bétharram to swim. The river and it's (usually people-rammed) bank are empty. It is now September and the holidays. We notice that the river is particularly full today, the water lapping onto the concrete ramp where we usually sit and dry off. Bárbara is the first to dive in, then Samuel, then me. I don't dive (I can't) but edge slowly in, carefully placing my feet on the rocks, then submerging my torso and finally my head. Today it is icy (¡heladísima! in Bárbara's words) but I feel fresh. The current drags me along a bit and I paddle against it, back to the concrete. It feels different swimming here with no-one else. It's like we've missed a memo. The dip is only quick as Samuel has a haircut appointment so swe shake ourselves off and head back to the car. I think this will be the last swim here, and it has been a good one.