The cabin stood at 1,500m in a cloud, battered by wind sweeping up from an unseen valley. We made our way out of the forest towards the stone refuge. Soaked and hungry, we were glad of the shelter. We had not seen anyone for hours but inside there was eery evidence of human activity; a newspaper dated two weeks before and half-burnt logs in the fireplace.
We had climbed into the Pyrenees from the village of Saint-Pe-D’ardet in the Haute-Garonne region of South West France, through thick stands of fir, pine and beech. On an overcast day the views to snowcapped peaks were absent so we turned our eyes down, to the delights blooming in the undergrowth; dog roses, cow parsley, hellebores and wild strawberries - delicate splashes of colour on the carpet of green.
With it’s deep quiet, the forest felt like a forbidden place. I imagined we were downed airmen escaping occupied France during the Second Wold War. The secret paths of the mountains bordering Spain, such as the Freedom Trail twenty km to the east, offered salvation to thousands of such fugitives.
We stomped upwards through the soggy shroud of mist. I peered at the laminated map folded many times over by other walkers, and my notes, scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. I wondered if the weather worsened would the notes become illegible, stranding us on the slope.
At the cabin we had to make a call; to the summit or not? We looked at the vague impression of a path disappearing into the cloud and decided not to risk a snapped ankle for the sake of another glimpse inside cotton wool.
Descending, we slid on muddy rocks next to a creek. The tumbling torrent played its gentle music to the trees. We passed a ramshackle hut containing a homemade stove where there were used shotgun cartridges strewn about. Nearby, a ladder rose high into the canopy. A treehouse was visible, luring me with the promise of spectacular vistas. I climbed ten rungs or so and the ladder creaked alarmingly. The construction had probably not been used since the previous autumn’s pigeon hunting season and was badly in need of maintenance.
Traditional pigeon hunting still exists in the Pyrenees. Decoys are thrown towards the masses of birds flying low across the mountains on their migration. Reacting as if under attack, the pigeons dive lower and straight into nets strung across narrow gorges. Thousands of birds can be caught without a shot being fired. The hunters get a better price for those left alive.
The next day, 100km to the east, we stood under a blue sky on the shores of Lac du Montbel. Sparrows darted about our heads, tireless despite the heat. To the north, the ragged line of Pyrenean peaks was clearly visible, rising and falling above the landscape like ocean swell, their snow dusted summits like foamy crests.
We had climbed into the Pyrenees from the village of Saint-Pe-D’ardet in the Haute-Garonne region of South West France, through thick stands of fir, pine and beech. On an overcast day the views to snowcapped peaks were absent so we turned our eyes down, to the delights blooming in the undergrowth; dog roses, cow parsley, hellebores and wild strawberries - delicate splashes of colour on the carpet of green.
With it’s deep quiet, the forest felt like a forbidden place. I imagined we were downed airmen escaping occupied France during the Second Wold War. The secret paths of the mountains bordering Spain, such as the Freedom Trail twenty km to the east, offered salvation to thousands of such fugitives.
We stomped upwards through the soggy shroud of mist. I peered at the laminated map folded many times over by other walkers, and my notes, scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. I wondered if the weather worsened would the notes become illegible, stranding us on the slope.
At the cabin we had to make a call; to the summit or not? We looked at the vague impression of a path disappearing into the cloud and decided not to risk a snapped ankle for the sake of another glimpse inside cotton wool.
Descending, we slid on muddy rocks next to a creek. The tumbling torrent played its gentle music to the trees. We passed a ramshackle hut containing a homemade stove where there were used shotgun cartridges strewn about. Nearby, a ladder rose high into the canopy. A treehouse was visible, luring me with the promise of spectacular vistas. I climbed ten rungs or so and the ladder creaked alarmingly. The construction had probably not been used since the previous autumn’s pigeon hunting season and was badly in need of maintenance.
Traditional pigeon hunting still exists in the Pyrenees. Decoys are thrown towards the masses of birds flying low across the mountains on their migration. Reacting as if under attack, the pigeons dive lower and straight into nets strung across narrow gorges. Thousands of birds can be caught without a shot being fired. The hunters get a better price for those left alive.
The next day, 100km to the east, we stood under a blue sky on the shores of Lac du Montbel. Sparrows darted about our heads, tireless despite the heat. To the north, the ragged line of Pyrenean peaks was clearly visible, rising and falling above the landscape like ocean swell, their snow dusted summits like foamy crests.
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| The Pyrenees, seen from Lac du Montbel, SW France |
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