Nowadays, Occitan isn’t just an umbrella term for the languages; it’s an entire heritage movement. Growing interest in the old languages has led to a handful of language immersion schools known as Calandretas being established, as well as some radio and TV programmes, together with opportunities to learn and study the language in universities such as Toulouse. Yet it was also linked to sociocultural and political aspects as much as the promotion of a tangible Occitan language. The term Occitan, or the lange d’oc, came into being in the 14th century to differentiate between the languages spoken in the south and the north of France. The lange d’oc, spoken where oc was the word for yes, is a legacy of the region’s proximity to Spain and Italy, but just as the researcher had said, Occitan isn’t a clearly defined, individual language. There are a number of related varieties within southern France as well as in Spain, Italy and Switzerland. All of them share the same Latin root and some characteristics, but they are nevertheless distinct.
Gascon is one of these varieties. The name originated from Vasconia and the Vascones tribe, who were related to the Basques at the other end of the Pyrenees. Maps of dialect surveys showed a vertical boundary running through Ariège, and I’d heard, anecdotally, that the Col de Port forms a rough demarcation line, with Gascon spoken to the west in an area that corresponded to the Couserans designation. Languedocien is the related variety spoken further east, such as around Mirepoix and Foix. Therefore, despite the apparent logicality of the Occitan movement promoting a regional language known as Occitan, calling it by a single name doesn’t make sense to the linguists studying the different varieties. Well-meaning though it is, the profile-raising of a generic Occitan language ignores the distinctive characteristics of varieties such as Gascon and Languedocien.
The variation of the linguistic features across these varieties makes it too simplistic and arbitrary to define one set of parameters as “the Occitan language”. To give one example: Gascon sometimes adds an /a/ before an initial /r/, whereby the languedocient riu becomes arriu in Gascon. To make it even more complicated, Gascon itself can vary across the region since it encompasses a number of dialects such as béarnaise and aranais, the latter being officially recognised over the border in Spain. This is why it makes more sense to refer to Gascon as a language variety, as opposed to a dialect.
The number of Gascon speakers has seen a sharp decline over the last 150 years. According to a survey carried out in 1864, over 90% of the Ariège population at that time were speakers of Gascon, rather than French, yet few people speak it now. France has a long history of marginalising its regional languages, and only in 1951 was the teaching of regional languages authorised, under the Deixonne law. In a detailed study by Nicole Marcus,29 she reveals how some of the older remaining speakers of Gascon had been forbidden to speak it in school and had been humiliated when they did. Not surprisingly, they were reluctant to pass it down to their children. It had become stigmatised as an inferior dialect, with even the speakers themselves referring to it as a patois, not acknowledging that it was a historically distinct language variety.
I’d met a Canadian professor, Penny Eckert, who’d observed this shift from Gascon to French while researching in the Couserans village of Soulan in the early 1970s. Eckert talked about the stigma associated with Gascon, particularly when it was infused with the broader Couserans dialect. Returning to the area in 2005, Eckert found that some villages had completely lost their Gascon speakers, noting how they’d been replaced by incomers from Toulouse, Paris and even England. A few years later our paths crossed at a conference and I introduced myself to her, thinking that we shared some common ground in our research fields. Her face showed a flicker of annoyance when I mentioned the British incomers, blaming them for overcrowding the rural areas and polluting the hillsides with their septic tanks. Perhaps she’d encountered a few irritating types, but the population of the hillsides was still only a fraction of what it had been a hundred and fifty years ago.
There were visible traces of Gascon in the Ariège, mostly the odd house name using the word enso rather than the French chez, as in Enso Bernard. Elsewhere one saw few remnants of what had once been spoken by 90% of the population, although I’d noted bilingual street signs in Ercé, a village that leans considerably on its bear-training past. Like most other villages of the Couserans, Ercé had suffered considerably from a rural exodus over decades, going from well over three thousand inhabitants in the 19th century to just five hundred-odd in recent years. Ercé’s museum tells of the waves of emigration, beginning with the trainers with their bears who toured the fairs of America during the later 19th century. A second rush took place shortly after the First World War, when Ercé lost around 20% of its population to the US, and a third wave of emigrants left as France recovered from the Second World War. All of this is commemorated in the Espace des Montreurs d’Ours, a museum dedicated to the bear trainers.
As the bear training occupation declined, the emigrants took on other kinds of work, particularly in the New York restaurant trade. They would regularly meet up to share news from back home, gathering at a rock in Central Park that became known as the Rock of Ercé. I often thought of the Ercé migrants gathered together around the rock, speaking French no doubt, perhaps with a little Gascon punctuating the conversation, as they exchanged news of the valley. In other words, they would simply be doing what immigrants do everywhere, but here it was an activity that had affectionately moved into legend territory. I wondered what the English incomers, with their insistence on avoiding one’s compatriots, would have had to say about it.
Above Ercé lies the hamlet of Cominac, which is another celebrated reminder of Ariège heritage, due to its unusually large collection of picturesque barns that lie scattered around the hamlet. Gazing out from Cominac, one stands face to face with one of the most classic views of the Couserans, seen in books, on map covers, on blogs and tourism websites: the stepped gables of the barns, the green pasture sliced through with a sweep of the road, and the distinctive outline of the Mont Valier massif. Back in the days when the slopes were given over to livestock farming, these clusters of barns meant that there was always hay close by during the winter months. Those around Cominac are noted for their distinctive kind of stepped gable known as pas de oiseau (bird steps), a remnant of the former thatched roof that allowed access to the roof whilst also helping to protect the join from wind and rain. The thatch has long since been replaced by slate, which was conveniently mined from local slate quarries from the end of the 18th century. An even earlier form of roofing can be seen around the Couserans; the distinctive half-moon shaped lauzes, carved from slabs of schist.
Some of these old Couserans houses bear reminders of how farming was an integral part of everyday life, making the most of the space and the constraints of the slopes to combine the two. Houses like my own were built into the steep slopes, where the first floor, accessible from behind, could serve as a ground floor for the inhabitants or be used to store hay. The actual ground floor was often used to house cattle or animal hutches, or utilised as a tool shed or for activities such as weaving, basketry and clog making.
It’s common to come across isolated stone barns whilst out walking up through the hillside forests. Some of them have fallen into ruin, with roofs long gone and an open doorway or window offering a glimpse of the trees growing up through the interior. A growing number have been renovated for permanent and holiday homes, offering eco-solitude for anyone prepared to haul supplies up through the forest. Whilst walking on the path up to Goutets I’d passed a few where a sleeping bag and even a snowboard glimpsed through the windows suggested occasional habitation. Juliette had admitted that she’d spent the odd day seeking simplicity in some of these barns when the modern trappings of the house became too much for her.
La Simplicité De La Montagne
After leaving Ray and Carol I walked back to my car and pulled the bike out of the boot, setting off for the Cirque de Cagateille. T
his spectacular gouge in the mountainside was another remnant of the ice age, and this autumn its grey walls were spattered by an exceptionally vivid array of bright reds, yellows and oranges from the turning beech woods. It’s possible to hike up the side of the cirque, over the lip and onto the edge of a small lake – étang de la Hillette – that was encircled by another wilder rocky amphitheatre that formed the frontier with Spain.
I locked my bike, stepping carefully to avoid a motionless adder that I couldn’t be sure was alive or dead, and began the long walk across the valley floor, then climbed steeply over huge flat boulders with thin ridges running the length of them, until I found myself at the glacial moraine that formed the lip at the edge of the lake. Here metal foot rungs had been placed to ease the climb down to the water. The frontier crest looked tantalisingly close – perhaps another hour’s walk – but I knew I’d be pushing it that day. Instead I mentally parked it and came back a couple of years later with Terry, who was as excited as I was at the thought of crossing the Pyrenees into Spain on foot. It turned out that distances were deceptive, and what I’d envisaged as perhaps a solid eight-hour walk took us eleven. It was partly the altitude; starting at 900m and going up to 2,450m was considerable height gain. Moreover, what I’d assumed would be a quick descent turned out to be as hard as the ascent. Tiny streams sprung out everywhere and we exhausted ourselves trying to avoid a slip on the smooth faces of the boulders. Night had fallen by the time we made it back, with the canopy of trees blocking out the failing light, causing us to stumble over knotted tree roots that crisscrossed the path. It was a lesson learned and from then on I kept a head torch permanently in the backpack.
When I first started walking alone in the Ariège Pyrenees, I limited myself to easy day walks, happy with simply gazing up at the Pyrenean chain as a backdrop. I’d read all the advice against walking alone, and I was often over-cautious, sometimes spotting an interesting feature or a route on the map but fretting about whether to do it alone. One challenge was to learn and recognise the Pyrenean chain profile from different angles, to name the summits and the notches silhouetted on the skyline. Over the years I ventured higher and higher, until the mountains were no longer just a scenic backdrop, but a relief map dotted with routes and summits that I now recognised. Even a hesitant clamber over the exposed arête of Cabanatous, where I momentarily lost my nerve, was accomplished without mishap, and at the end of the long day I was approached in the car park by a young French couple who said they’d watched me from the lake far below. ‘We thought you were very brave,’ the woman said. I just nodded and smiled, not letting on that I’d had to give myself a silent talking-to as I sat momentarily frozen on the arête, gazing at my new boots with their fronts badly scuffed from my clumsy scramble.
In the mountains I learned to listen out for silence, and I gradually came to realise that silence in the mountains was a noise. I got used to being alone to the point that one day, behind the camera lens after three hours of solitary walking, I jolted at the sound of hoarse breathing, and looked around sharply, expecting to see an animal nearby. It wasn’t until I caught sight of a flash of red movement that I realised it was another hiker, a male in a red jacket who was cautiously waving to me, clearly aware that I’d been startled.
That was on the summit of Tuc de la Coume, the moderate peak that I gazed at every day from my window. I’d wanted to climb it for ten years, but the maps showed no direct path, and when I’d tried I’d turned back, defeated by thick bracken. I’d seen photographs of people standing on the top so I knew there was a way up there. In the end a local put me right, telling me it was just a case of getting to the crest of the ridge and then just keeping going. And that was all it took, beating my way through bracken that was beginning to die back in early autumn, and scrambling over rocky outcrops until I finally peered down a drop of 900m to see the windows of my house gazing back at me on the opposite side of the valley.
There on the summit, next to a weathered wooden stake, was a tangible reminder of the sometimes fateful lure of the mountains. Someone had carried up a granite memorial to ‘Christian’:
Ce qui fait l’attrait et la beauté de la montagne, c’est cette simplicité absolue habillant d’une sobre élégance la pierre nue. Est-ce… pour cela… qu’elle l’appelait et qu’elle le rappela. Toi Christian en ce dimanche 18 mars 2001.
Asking around later, I was told that Christian died when walking below the ridge, beneath an unstable snow cornice. I cleaned away the bird droppings and read it whilst standing on the narrow summit ridge that separated the steep drop behind from the vertical plunge just a few steps in front that fell all the way down to the hamlet of Ezes. I could relate to the epitaph, understanding how someone had come to terms with a tragic accident by accepting that it was all down to the magnetic pull of the mountains, of nature. It wasn’t a slip or foolhardiness that had taken Christian; he had merely answered a call – a final summons – from this particular mountain.
Mont Valier
The GR10, a long-distance path from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, winds its way across the Ariège département with a number of variants, and many sections afford views of Mont Valier, one of the most well-known peaks of the Ariège at 2,838 metres. Valier gives its name to one of the oldest Nature Reserves in the Pyrenees, one that stretches across 14km along the Spanish frontier. The mountain itself is a significant landmark, up there with the other Ariège jewels of the Cathar site of Montségur and the medieval architecture of Mirepoix. Its distinctive “shoulders” are almost always visible on the horizon. As the English mountaineer Charles Packe wrote in 1867, Valier is so conspicuous from all sides that “it is impossible to persuade the peasants of Ariège that it is not the highest point of the chain.” The classic “shouldered” view of Mont Valier also gives sight of the sole glacier of the Ariège Pyrenees, the Arcouzan glacier, which is also one of the smallest at some 370m × 90m. Lying on a barely accessible north-east face at around 2,400m of height, the glacier only began to be scientifically measured in 2011. Nevertheless, it’s clear that the Arcouzan glacier has decreased considerably in size over the last century. Unlike some of the other melting glaciers, the shrinkage here is perceived to have stabilised, yielding hope that this distinctive feature of Valier will remain for a while yet.
The summit of Mont Valier itself can be reached via a strenuous but not particularly dangerous route up the Riberot valley, breaking the journey with an overnight stay in the well-known Refuge d’Estagnous before a final ascent of the summit pyramid. This particular refuge had played a crucial role in many of the wartime escapes over the Pyrenees and today it forms a stopping point on the Freedom Route, offering a place to reserve a bunk or even a tent. Visitors can take advantage of experiencing dinner with wine included at a height of 2,246m.
Having seen Mont Valier close up from all sides, Terry and I finally fulfilled our ambition to climb it at the end of the 2015 season, thinking it would be more adventurous to reserve a tent rather than a communal bunk. For some reason we stuck to that decision when we arrived at the refuge, even though we were the only guests. The sleeping mats that the warden handed to us were no match for the damp rocky ground where we set up camp, and we fidgeted through a broken night’s sleep that was punctured by the chiming of bells from the cows that lumbered around throughout the night. The cows had already spent much of the evening staring through the window at us while we ate dinner and drank the carafe of wine served by the solitary warden. Our dessert – an unusual fruit compote, like a chunkier version of fruit mincemeat – was presented to us as old man’s marmalade, so named because the old man “doesn’t have a wife”.
It’s also possible to have a particularly close encounter with Mont Valier without much walking at all. A road starting from Couflens in the Salat valley goes all the way up to the Col de Pause, which is the end of the road for most drivers, although a track continues to twist its way in a crazy fashion all the way up to the S
panish frontier at the Port d’Aula. Dating back to the 1970s, the road was begun as an attempt to forge closer links with the Spanish, but the Spanish never completed their side. The lower section is generally open through the summer, although it becomes more nerve-wracking as one gets closer to the Col, with much of the road twisting its way around single-track hairpins. There is nothing to stop a car from going over the edge.
I avoided driving up the road completely the first time I visited the Col one August, having seen it featured on a World’s most dangerous roads website and knowing that the GR10 long-distance footpath runs parallel. I cursed my cautiousness when I finally arrived at the Col to see so many cars parked, especially as I’d missed much of the GR10 signage and had wasted well over an hour retracing my steps here and there, all the time feeling drained by the waves of heat that the road reflected. But the views were spectacular. With each gain of a hundred or so metres of height, the panorama over the Salat valley and the endless line of ridges gradually unfolds in a way that only a walker can truly appreciate.
On foot one can also take time to observe the small villages that the GR10 passes through, yet the only signs of life were seen when negotiating the narrow passageways at Faup, a village perched on a kind of natural balcony above the valley, when I disturbed a late afternoon gathering of locals to ask the whereabouts of a water source. The most spectacularly sited village of all – La Serre – was deserted, the shutters all fastened tight to blank out the vast glacial arena, with its hollowed and folded ridges and cirques, that lay just across the valley.
I returned to the Col again and again that summer. I drove up as far as I dared and sighed with relief when I met nothing more than the odd shepherd out looking for sheep corpses to throw in the back of the van. Driving part of the way up allowed more time to continue walking the GR10 beyond the Col, cutting across the impossibly tight bends of the frontier track to reach the étang d’Arreau, a pea-green jewel of a lake that sparkles and reflects back an almost circular arc of the surrounding peaks. The silence of the mountains was broken only by the involuntary aah of the odd hiker as they arrived at the point where their eyes caught sight of the water.
A House at the End of the Track Page 17