Festo des Tisserands

---

Another week, another festival. This time, in Lavelanet, to celebrate its reason for being: textiles. So the Festo des Tisserands celebrates the weavers who made their lives here through the centuries.

We decided to go on the walk which allegedly follows the route taken by those who worked their cloth at Montségur and brought their goods to Lavelanet to sell. Hard graft really: it’s a 500 metre climb from the town to Montsegur, and a 16 kilometre round trip along steep rocky paths through the woods, upwards, ever upwards.

Still, this was a well-publicised celebration, not yet another wearisome slog brought on by hunger and sheer economic necessity, and some 85 people joined in. So our rucksacks were carried by llamas (not exactly traditional round here, but they’ve caught on as a tourist attraction amongst walkers who prefer not to be laden as they hike) and we set off cheerfully in the hot morning sun. We were slightly surprised that everyone we met was local, and we were the only non-French there.

A couple of hours into our journey, we were invited to pause in the woodland, so that a story teller and a musician with a hurdy gurdy could tell us the tale, partly in French, partly Occitan, of the local weaver enchanted by some lovely water nymph whom he eventually married….. but they did not live happily ever after, as she one day disappeared, and he has been seeking her ever since……..

And shortly after that, we had our first views of Montségur. This astonishing tump, rising straight and unclad, topped by its castle, from the surrounding more gently sloping mountain sides, never fails to impress. But we realised that we still had quite a way to go, and the sun was getting hotter and hotter, so onwards and upwards - until, quite suddenly, we turned a corner, and there we were, in a meadow slightly below the summit. Our fellows ahead of us were already enjoying their ‘aperos’ offered by the Mayor of Montségur, and the festive atmosphere was helped along by more musicians, all playing mediaeval instruments. We all found picnic spots, and set to. Table cloths were produced, bottles of wine, dense dark dry sausage, cheeses, salads…. I felt as if I’d made some effort with our own picnic, but frankly, I could see I really hadn’t quite hit the spot. It was all neatly contained in 2 boxes for a start: how dull.

After the picnic, it was up to us to make our own way home, so a party of Laroquais set off together, and soon realised just how tricky and steep the road was, without all the distractions of the morning to minimise the pain from aching joints.

The whole thing was fun, and one of the things we enjoyed was coming unexpectedly on people we knew. It happens more and more. When we go to the market, it’s no longer just because we have our favourite stalls where we find the olives we like best, the tastiest cheeses, the freshest vegetables, but because we can happily waste half the morning greeting and chatting with people we’ve come to know and are beginning to consider our friends. It’s unexpectedly dull to go out anywhere locally now, and come back without having met someone who’s happy to spend a few minutes with us putting the world to rights. Perhaps we’re beginning to find our feet.

---

Photos

Loading the llamas up for the journey...
....down in Lavelanet

The story teller begins....
....the sad tale of the weaver

Aperos appear....
.... out of the back of a van. Ricard? Muscat? Whisky? Coca cola?