Isards in the Eyne valley

An ordinary weekend, walking in the Pyrenees. Completely ordinary but still magic. On Saturday, we climbed the Eyne valley, sauntering through the flower beds, our footsteps bathed in colour. Then we saw the marmotte suburb on the hillside opposite us, their holes linked by a marmotte-sized highway, although only a couple of them were braving the heat. Above, at the pass and on the frontier ridge (2800m) there were long ethereal views down to the plains on both sides. But the real highlight was the isards.

We have just crossed the Pyrenees, from Eyne in the Pyrénées-Orientales in France to the sanctuary of Núria in Catalonia in Spain, and back again. 2200m of climbing over two days, in beautiful weather. Nothing dramatic happened, although in Núria on Saturday evening the watery sausages – believe me, it is possible for sausages to be wet – should have caused a riot.

On the frontier ridge between Eyne and Núria

On the return journey, on Sunday, we had just settled down to eat lunch by the river Eyne when we saw an isard on the slope opposite. And then another, and another. A dozen in all. Old and young. One, clearly a dominant male, with a yellow collar. Gambolling, leaping… and fighting. Close by, ignoring us. More interested in a rival herd, than in us, they were defending a strategic point, though at first we couldn’t make out why. Then I remembered the woman with a donkey who told us that she had just brought a sack of salt up for the cows. We hadn’t seen where she had left the sack, but it must have been that precious taste that the isards were fighting over. We watched the spectacle for more than half an hour.

An ordinary weekend, but still magic.

Thanks to Laurence, Evelyene for the photos; and to Claude for photographing and identifying the flowers.

Botany of the Eyne valley and the frontier ridge (Pyrénées-Orientales) 31 July and 1 August 2010

Aperçu botanique de la vallée d’Eyne et des crêtes, 31 juillet et 1 août 2010

by Claude Premillieu

* Fleurs que l’on a vues dans la Vallée d’Eyne mais dont la photo ici n’a pas été prise dans la Vallée d’Eyne. Flowers which we saw in the Eyne valley – though the photo was taken elsewhere.

Lower part of the valley (1600-2000m) – Partie basse de la vallée (1600-2000m)

Géranium des prés (Geranium pratense, L.) Meadow Crane’s-bill

Lis martagon (Lilium martagon, L.) Martagon or Turk’s cap lily

Renouée des Alpes (Polygonum alpinum, Allioni) Alpine polygonum, Alaska wild rhubarb

Adénostyle à feuilles d'alliaire (Adenostyles alliariae, Gouan subsp. Pyrenaïca)

Raiponce en épi (Phyteuma spicatum, L.) Spiked rampion*

Épilobe en épi - (Laurier de St Antoine) - ou Épilobe à feuilles étroites (Epilobium angustifolium, L., Epilobium spicatum, Lamarck) Fireweed, Rosebay willowherb

Géranium des forêts (Geranium sylvaticum, L.) Wood cranesbill, Woodland geranium

Endressie des Pyrénées (Endressia pyrenaica)

Millepertuis des montagnes (Hypericum montanum, L.) St John’s-wort

Euphorbe Petit-Cyprès (Euphorbia cyparissias, L.) Cypress Spurge

Impératoire Ostruthium (Imperatoria ostruthium, L. ou Peucedanum ostruthium, L.)

Berce des Pyrénées (Heracleum pyrenaïcum, Lamark) Hogweed

Vérâtre blanc (Veratrum album, L.) False helleborine (also known as White hellebore, European white hellebore, White veratrum)

Tanaisie (Tanacetum vulgare, L.) Tansy

Alpine meadows (2000-2300m) – Alpages (2000-2300m)

Dauphinelle des montagnes (Delphinium montanum, De Candolle) Pyrenean larkspur

Aconit napel (Aconitum napellus, L.) Monkshood, Aconite, Wolf’s bane

Alchémilles (des Alpes et vulgaire ou ressemblantes) Lady’s mantle

Séneçon des Pyrénées (Senecio pyrenaïcus, L.) Groundsel*

Raiponce hémisphérique – bleue ou blanche (Phyteuma hemisphaericum, L.) Globe-headed rampion

Raiponce orbiculaire (Phyteuma orbiculare, L.) Round-headed rampion

Globulaire naine (Globularia nana, Lamarck ou Globularia repens, Lamarck) Globe daisy

Achillée des Pyrénées (Achillea ptarmica, L. subsp. Pyrenaïca, Rouy) Sneezewort, Sneezeweed, Fair-maid-of-France, Goose tongue, Sneezewort yarrow, Pellitory

Joubarbe à toiles d'araignée (Sempervivum arachnoïdeum, L.) Cobweb houseleek

Joubarbe des montagnes (Sempervivum montanum, L.) Mountain houseleek*

Lotier des Alpes (Lotus alpinus, Schleicher) Alpine Birdsfoot-trefoil*

Pensée tricolore (Viola tricolor, L.) Heartsease, wild pansy

Campanule Fausse Ficaire (Campanula ficarioïdes, Timbal-Lagrave) Bellflower

Gaillet vrai (Galium verum, L.) Lady’s bedstraw

Gentiane de Burser (Gentiana burseri, Lapeyrouse) Yellow gentian

Panicaut de Bourgat - Chardon bleu des Pyrénées (Eryngium bourgati) Pyrenean blue thistle

Saxifrage paniculée (Saxifraga paniculata, Miller) White mountain saxifrage

Rhododendron (Rhododendron ferrugineum, L.) Rhododendron*

Linaigrette à feuilles étroites (Eriophorum angustifolium, Honckeny) Cottongrass*

Saxifrage étoilée (Saxifraga stellaris, L.) Starry saxifrage

Saxifrage aquatique (Saxifraga aquatica, Lapeyrouse) Pyrenean water saxifrage

Cardamine à feuilles de réséda (Cardamine resedifolia, L.) Mignonette-leaved bittercress

Gentiane champêtre (Gentiana campestris, L.) Field gentian

Trèfle bai (Trifolium badium, Schreber) Brown clover

Pédiculaire des Pyrénées (Pedicularis pyrenaïca, Gay) Pyrenean lousewort*

On the slope up to the pass (2300-2683m) and on the ridge (2700-2827m) – La montée au col (2300-2683m) et les crêtes (2700-2827m)

Linaire des Alpes (Linaria alpina L.) Alpine toadflax

Silène saxifrage (Silene saxifrage, L.) Saxifrage

Chardon Fausse-Carline (Carduus carlinoïdes, Gouan) False carline thistle

Séneçon à feuilles blanches (Senecio leucophyllus, De Candolle)

Thym à nervures saillantes, Serpolet nain (Thymus nervosus, Gay) Dwarf thyme

Lychnis des Alpes (Lychnis alpina, L.) Alpine catchfly

Myosotis des Pyrénées (Myosotis pyrenaïca, Pourret) Pyrenean forget-me-not

Crépis nain (Crepis pygmaea, L.) Pygmy hawk’s-beard

Epervière à tiges courtes (Hieracium breviscapum, De Candolle) Hawkweed

Leucanthème des Alpes (Leucanthemum alpinum, L.) Daisy

Véronique des Alpes (Veronica alpina, L.) Alpine speedwell

Céraiste des Alpes (Cerastium alpinum, L.) Alpine mouse-ear

Véronique ligneuse (Veronica fruticulosa, L.) Speedwell

Genépi (Artemisia umbelliformis, Lamarck) Wormwood

Calament des Alpes (Calamintha alpina, Lamarck)

Galéopsis des Pyrénées (Galeopsis pyrenaïca, Bartlett)

Campanule dressée (Campanula recta, Dulac) Rampion bellflower

Linaire striée (Linaria striata, De Candolle) Toadflax

Campanule de Scheuchzer (Campanula Scheuchzeri, Villars) Scheuchzer’s Bellflower

Epilobe à feuilles de mouron (Epilobium anagallidifolium, Lamarck)

Potentille des neiges (Potentilla nivalis, Lapeyrouse) Alpine willowherb

Pavot parfumé (Papaver suaveolens, Lapeyrouse) Pyrenean poppy

Il me semble avoir vu à côté d’un Pavot parfumé un Pavot des Alpes Rhétiques à fleurs blanches ou jaune pâle (Papaver rhaeticum, Leresche) Rhaetian poppy, mais je n’ai pas pris de photo.

I think I saw a Rhaetian poppy (Papaver rhaeticum, Leresche) next to the Pyrenean poppy but I didn’t take a photo.

Oxytropis des champs (Oxytropis compestris, De Candolle) Field locoweed

Ibéris spatulé (Iberis spathulata, J.P. Bergeret) Candytuft

Renoncule à feuilles de Parnassie (Ranunculus parnassifolius, L.) Parnassus-leaved Buttercup

Aperçu très succinct bien sûr ! Je n’ai pas pris de photos de certaines fleurs que je connais depuis longtemps, et de beaucoup d’autres que je ne connais pas.

This is, of course only a short summary. I didn’t take photos of some flowers which I have known for a long while, nor of lots of others which I don’t know at all.

Bear hunters at Prats de Mollo, Pyrénées-Orientales

The bear has seen her. It is only a few paces away and she is petrified, in both senses of the word. In any case she can’t run away – she is standing on the edge of a precipice. The bear scuttles towards her, rising to full height on its legs as it approaches. The girl screams wildly and puts her arms out in front of her. I have the fleeting – absurd – impression that they are going to dance. But the bear tackles her to the ground and they roll over, bumping down the slope at the edge of the precipice, arms and legs entangled. I hear a gunshot. For a second the bear and the girl stop moving. The bear looks around, nose balancing from side to side. Perhaps it has smelt something. Seeing me, it releases its grip and charges.

We are just outside the fortified town of Prats de Mollo. This is about as far south in France as you can get, near to the eastern end of the Pyrenees. There have been no bears here for decades but, in a mad parody of traditional bear hunting, once a year, in February, three bears are released to rampage as they see fit.

The bear just released from Fort Lagarde

Half an hour previously I watched from the top of the castle wall as three men were dressed in sheepskins and daubed with a mixture of cooking oil and soot. When the signal was given, a group of hunters chased the ‘bears’ one by one out of the gate and down the hill towards the town a kilometre away. It is an event reminiscent of the bull-running in Pamplona, emphasising the importance of bears in Pyrenean culture.

If you are attacked by a bear, the experts say, there is no point in running away: a bear can run faster. Don’t climb a tree: bears are much better at it. The only thing to do is to make yourself as small as possible and play dead.

Even though this bear is not the real thing, I run away. I keep running, not looking back, hearing the bear’s footsteps as it crashes down the path behind me. I keep running. Ten, fifteen, twenty metres. I don’t understand why it hasn’t caught up with me, why I can’t feel its claws digging into my shoulders. But still, I don’t look back until I have caught up with my friends. Then I see that the bear has lost interest in me and has gone for another of our party. I glance back at the girl. She is getting up, a remarkably large tuft of fur in her right hand, covered in dust and with an enormous black oily smudge on her face and clothes, yet apparently intact.

One of the other bears tries to escape but hunters wielding sticks force it in the right direction. The bears, the hunters and the crowd which follows them are funnelled through the highest gate in the town’s walls. Once inside, there are more attacks and shrieks. The bears have a penchant for attractive young women but many other people end up with black smudges on their faces and clothes. One ageing man finds himself with a wonderfully precise black hand print on his bald scalp.

Bear hug

The air reeks of gunpowder and spilt red wine. Bombards and drums add to the chaos. Sometimes the crowd jumps violently, crushing onlookers already pressed hard back against the walls of the houses in the narrow cobbled streets. Every year there are injuries, sometimes broken bones, but the event continues to attract hundreds of spectators. Even today, with frost on the ground, the bears’ trajectory is lined with agitated participants half wishing to experience the bear’s hug – the victims acquire a special status in the eyes of the crowd – half hoping to avoid the inevitable rough and tumble.

By the end of the day the bears, bruised and exhausted, trailing blood and soot and oil, are channelled towards the market place outside the town’s east gate. The hunters with their guns and sticks are replaced by barbers with heavy chains, an axe, a basin, and, incongruously, a black pudding. By now the bears are very black, in contrast to the barbers, dressed in long white nightshirts and white caps, with arms, legs and faces flour-whitened. The bears are captured by the barbers. And then shaved with the black pudding.

As the last of the sheepskin ‘fur’ falls to the ground from this year’s bear-in-chief, a handsome, muscular young man is revealed: a well-known player from nearby Perpignan’s reputed rugby team. This must partly explain the young women’s willingness to be hugged and rolled on the ground, although this was not always the case. Brigitte Plo, now over 90 years old, looks back at the bear hunt when she was young: ‘Symbolically, it was the story of white and black, good and evil. The bear represented evil. He wanted to take a young woman back to his lair to deflower her. She prayed to the Virgin who sent the hunters to rescue her. That’s why, when I was young, when the bear caught a girl, the hunters had to fire in the air, so that she didn’t ‘fall’. That was an important point. At that time they didn’t plaster the girls with the oil and soot like now. Girls didn’t wear trousers, so we didn’t want to be made to fall over. It just wasn’t acceptable. That arrived later.’

The barbers searching for the bear

‘Aren’t the girls afraid of getting hurt?’ I ask one of the villagers. ‘No,’ he says. ‘If you watch carefully, when the bear grabs them he always falls on his back so they are cushioned.’

It is then that I realise why the bear never caught me. Paradoxically, if I had run faster he would have caught up with me, but being relatively old, fragile, and wearing glasses saved me.

The Bear festival (Fête de l’Ours)  takes place from  Sunday 14 February to Tuesday 16 February 2010. The bear hunt starts at 3 pm at the Fort Lagarde above the town. The festival includes traditional carnivals, dances and a children’s version of the bear hunt.

The Fort Lagarde, the town defences and the underground tunnel which joins them were constructed by Vauban in the 17th century as part of Louis XIV’s defensive strategy. In the next valley to the north, two other Vauban forts, Villefranche de Conflent and Mont-Louis, have recently become World Heritage Sites.

Access: Perpignan airport (62 km, 1 hour) or Gerona airport, Spain (123km, 2 hours).

Website: http://www.pratsdemollolapreste.com/

A Catalan friend had invited me to the trobada which takes place on Canigou in June but was hospitalised a few days before, so I decide to go alone. I ring up the president of the organising committee. “Bring something combustible for the fire,” he says. “ It must be something which belongs to you, that’s important. And it must be labelled with where you come from.” He doesn’t question my accent and my evident lack of Catalan credentials.

I think immediately of my vineyard, now dead, strewn with forlorn vine roots. They were two years older than I am, worn out and unproductive; so I had them grubbed up. I will strap a bundle of them onto my rucksack.

I drive to Vernet on the west side of the mountain and take a little-used path to the Chalet des Cortalets 1400m higher up. The chalet is normally bustling with activity but today is exceptional. There are over 200 tents grouped in gaudy bouquets between the wild rhododendrons and broom in a clearing surrounded by pines and conifers.

Here, at 2150m above sea level, is a recipe for a rave party: ghetto blasters,  musicians with primitive sound systems, young people, drugs. And the secret ingredient which turns it into something else: a shared heritage, be it real or imaginary. There is French electro garage rock, but there are also traditional airs. There are young people, but there are older ones as well. And the drug of preference is alcohol, though I think I detect the perfume of cannabis amongst the smoke of the pinewood campfires. Although last year giant screens were erected to relay the thoughts of local politicians, there are none this time. This is not a political event. It is simply fun, escapism, an outing with friends.

I wander around asking people where they come from. Most are from nearby villages, most  speak French more readily than Catalan. A surprising number are just passing through on a walk.

As the evening dissolves into night, the musical tributaries merge and the singing coalesces around well-known songs: Les montagnards sont là, La Santa Espina, Se canto (strictly speaking an Occitan song) and Muntanyes regalades, of course.

Muntanyes regalades,
són les del Canigó
que tot l’estiu floreixen,
primavera i tardor.

Bountiful mountains
Are those of the Canigou,
Covered with flowers all summer,
Spring and autumn, too.

This is the annual Catalan rendez-vous – trobada in medieval French, and we have all become troubadores.

It is about 4 am before things begin to quieten down and I get some sleep, but I am soon woken by the sun. The chaotic sky persuades me to rise before the thunderstorm breaks.

At the summit, 2785m above sea level, the wrought iron cross that marks the highest point is already surrounded by some thirty small bundles, brought up yesterday. As I put my contribution amongst them, I am embarrassed to realise how out of place it is. The others are all tied together with red and yellow ribbons. Mine is tied with an old tee-shirt representing my village. And yet I know how important the blood-and-gold flag is to the Catalans. Too preoccupied with my own identity, my own hopes, I had forgotten the purpose of the fire.

And here is the crux of the matter. Here the trobada derives its meaning. We are constructing a bonfire at the summit of the highest peak in Catalonia. It will be lit on midsummer’s eve, when the sun is at the height of its powers. The flame will be transported on foot, in cars, even on airplanes to the far reaches of the Catalan Diaspora. Out of the fire, will rise the Catalan phoenix, reborn. And for me? From my vineyard, wine will once again flow.

video of the 2008 event