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September 28th 2004
Published: August 26th 2009
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Heaven!Heaven!Heaven!

the Western Pyrenees
Motorhome News from Europe 4

France - and into Spain!. 28th September 2004
The Pyrenees and Picos


It is now just four weeks since our journey began, every day another adventure with new towns and villages, wild open spaces and tree covered hillsides, another mountain to climb, new faces, time for meaningful conversation, and to make new friends. Our journey has taken us through the valleys of the Chateau on the Loire to the verdant pastures of the Dordogne and the Lot, and south into the vineyards of Bordeaux and the beeches and forests of the Atlantic coast. Our first sighting of the Pyrenees was from Lourdes some ten days ago where we turned south-east, then back, south and west, enjoying the spectacle of both French and Spanish mountains and tree lined valleys. In the past few days we have travelled westward along the north coast of Spain towards the Picos for more dramatic scenery, walking and hopefully more exciting birds.

The Western Pyrenees

It’s ten o’clock before we’re under way most days. The mental clock has still not adjusted to continental time, though it might just be that daylight is our alarm or we are adjusting to the French way of life. Nothing much stirs in these parts until after ten; except perhaps the donning of a beret and a keen grip on a walking stick for a trip to the patisserie for bread, or a small chink in the shutters to indicate that life still exists.

Bright sunshine followed us from Gavernie and the Col du Tourmalet where superfit cyclists tackle this challenging climb on the Tour de France. There’s grafitti on the road to celebrate the race; ‘Go Lance’, ‘Mayo’, ‘Virenique’, ‘Jan’ and ‘ETA’ of course. The French take their Pyrenean Mountain dogs to Gavernie to let them know where their roots are, and to let them mess on the footpaths of the National Parks instead of the streets of Paris. Then it was on into Spain through the tunnel at de Bielsa. A similar tunnel in Norway would net the government millions of Euros, but here in this sleepy neck of the woods where France meets Spain high on the mountain top, it’s for free. Only the signposts give any indication that there might once have been a border post here; signposts that give instructions in Spanish are close to
SheepSheepSheep

Complaining about motorhomes blocking the roads
meaningless for us - though we will learn! Buenos dias, Espagne!

With the fuel gauge well below a quarter coming over the pass, the search was on for a fill up. We didn’t know, but it’s even cheaper here - that’s the Nomad’s luck for you; 78.5 Euros compared to 85.9 - 103 Euros in France. We reckon you make your own luck in this world and we’re exposing ourselves to our share every day.
Here in the high peaks, tiny summer grazing hamlets mark the end of sharp-sided valleys, inaccessible in winter and almost so at any other time of the year. Single-track roads wend their way through forested hairpins climbing ever upwards for mile after long kilometre of breathtaking mountains under azure cloudless skies. Here in Revilla and Tella the griffon vultures soar high above, almost invisible to the naked eye, and a lammergeier - another first for us, way above the soaring peaks that would be at home in the Rockies; patchwork emerald meadows teeming with redstarts and fleeting wheatear and the sound of contented sheep, dots in the distance, heads down in the lush grass, their bells echoing rhythmically across the landscape. Tella is a tiny tranquil Pyrenean village totally unspoilt by tourism. A wonderful walk took us up to the hermitage there with magnificent views in every direction and eventually to three ancient churches and a tiny cluster of stone houses that composed the village. Janice could have stayed there forever.
Adventured out, we ventured into Ainsa to hunt down some shops for supplies and camp for the night. Ainsa was the first town of any size we have visited in Spain - so far. It has a most delightful Old Town, with shops, cafes and restaurants surrounding the square. Food shopping proved more of a trial however: the shops didn’t open until 4pm and the only bread and milk we could find was long life! It’s probably three weeks between deliveries here, so far from the bustle of life as we know it. It was still 30 degrees in the shade and the enormous pool at our campsite was most welcome - even at 7pm, and we had it all to ourselves.

There are a number of recommended car tours in one of our books. The ‘Grand Canyon’ tour provided stunning views of square topped mountains bathed by the morning sun, looking down on a scrubby landscape of grey slate with stunted trees and bushes, gorse and thyme dusting the air with its sweet perfume across the hillside, scattering stonechats ahead of us as we ascended the pass in second gear, onwards, ever upwards. Janice was clinging on for dear life around torturous bends with sheer drops of hundreds of metres (and lots of feet too) to the valley floor below. It’s tough riding shotgun in the middle of the road.

Whilst there are few campsites in the area, we have yet to be disappointed. Summer walking, hiking, canoeing, caving and climbing in the surrounding hills and skiing in winter, demands accommodation of all sorts and the campsites have invested huge sums in brick paved paths, hundreds of pitches, good facilities, pools, restaurants, bars; and log cabins for the winter, some of them quite luxuriously appointed. Our campsite, some 10k west of Jaca was no exception and we shared it with just one other motorhome and a couple of campers from Edinburgh, Claudia, an artist, and Matt a geologist, with whom we chatted until late by candlelight. We’ve discovered that these sites fill up at weekends as those seeking the open air descend in droves with their strong boots, walking poles, backpacks and climbing gear.

A couple of white fluffy things appeared in the sky mid-week. They were tiny white clouds, obviously lost and looking for the migratory route to England. We could see more clouds from the top of the ridge above the monastery at San Juan de la Pena, way out over the mountains more than 30km across the plain, reminiscent of Montana. A strong wind kept many of the raptors away that day, though we did see a peregrine soar across our path and flycatchers, firecrests and woodpeckers along the wooded valley amongst the holly, beech, elm, scots pine, old mans beard and bright red rose hips. The monastery is being reconstructed at enormous expense; huge cranes and hundreds of men are erecting an enormous building that would put Buckingham Palace in the shade. It was sacked by the French in the 18th Century, so why has it taken so long to think about restoration? Later that afternoon a dozen griffon vultures treated us to a fine display along the beautiful Hecho valley, its hillsides rising steeply from the grey soiled plains, ploughed since harvest, and up the pink-stoned river bed through Hecho to the daunting, ever- tightening canyon at the top of the valley where it gets its name.

Smiley is coping well with all these hills, the narrow roads and frightening hairpins. Thank goodness for 2.8 litres of turbo diesel and good brakes. These roads were not designed for 6.35m and 3.2 tons of luxury motorhome, but if you want an exciting life you have to paint a few colourful pictures, close your eyes and dream don’t you? We continued on into the clouds, a little light rain in the early evening sun casting rainbows across the valley.
With no evidence of campsites in the book anywhere on our planned route, we continued northwards back towards France in second gear, up and down, on poorly maintained roads, (EU money has not yet reached the Pyrenees). The roads here are either excellent or extremely poor. In the last of the failing evening sunlight we spotted a ‘Campsite 3 km’ sign and shortly, at the base of a glorious rainbow, an open campsite came into view. Old father luck strikes again! It was still another 20km to France over the steep winding pass to ‘free’ camping.
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...a little light rain in the early evening sun....
Our day had been exciting but very long and very tiring.

The morning sun streamed through the clouds en route back into France, high over the cloud-covered pass to Arête Pierre St Martin, looking more like a slate mine than a smart skiing resort, shrouded in thick mist and limestone rocks in strange formations. The steep valley through the Foret d’Issaux towards Accons is amongst the most beautiful and spectacular places we have ever experienced. Honey golden cows grazed the verges, their doleful eyes intrigued by our passing, with wild ponies and sheep to keep them company in this area of rich green trees rising higher than the eye could see and deep down to the sparkling river way below. This area would be so wonderful in the spring; but we can’t be everywhere; the Dolomites, the Extremadura, Finland before the mosquitoes, Tuscany - or the Alps. It would be beautiful here in the autumn in just a week or two; but then it will be autumn somewhere else - and we will be there to witness it instead.

We turned north at Bedous, then west up the Col d’Icheve, through milk, cheese and lamb country. Why is
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A group of French birders
it that with all these cows you can’t buy fresh milk here; and you can buy bread, but it’s only fresh for a day?

Todd has taken to riding in the cab with his nose against the window, keeping an eye out for trouble ahead. He watched as we tackled another ‘Tour de France’ Col, recommended for watching migratory raptors. A group of French ‘birders’ were encamped at the top with binoculars and scopes at the ready, and with their help we identified booted and short-toed eagles as they headed south. We had noticed the locals out with their guns earlier that morning, sitting, guns over their knees waiting for something to take a pot at. Here there were hides along the ridge, unoccupied this morning, overlooking the prime European migratory route for eagles, honey buzzards and osprey (from Rutland Water and Scotland?). I asked our French birders why they didn’t pull them down - as we would in the UK. ‘It’s politics,’ he replied, ‘They do it in the south of France, but it’s not acceptable in Brittany.’ Below the peak was a mustard coloured car some 200 ft below us over a vertical rock face, flattened and smashed beyond recognition. On the bend at the top, a hand written sign on a cross read, ‘Sandy’, beside six silk roses. A timely reminder that one microsecond of lost concentration on these roads can extinguish a young life - forever.


A cool breeze rustled the red oaks on our campsite at St-Jean Pied de Port at the weekend as we sat in the shade of our awning writing our diaries and contemplating our route through Spain and into Portugal. A buzzard called overhead, scouring the valley floor through thin autumn sunshine. An hours walk took us into the old town here. It is built from pink stone, fortified to protect the valley from Spanish invasion and now a main route for pilgrims en route to Santiago. A pilgrim can get a room here for as little as €5, tucked up for the night behind one of the numerous fascinating doorways and tiny shops selling expensive Basque linen. This was our first lazy day since leaving Dover and a good lesson learned; we would travel well tomorrow, refreshed, better prepared and all the better for it. Janice spent the afternoon planning our route into Spain and we are going to by-pass Biarritz and the whole Cote Basque to avoid the crowds and the traffic.


A tough drive out of the Pyrenees brought us down to Mutriku on the coast just west of Deba where we spent the night overlooking a beautiful beach and harbour. The town was once a small fishing village with some fine historic buildings, but they have been throwing concrete at it since the 60’s and it has lost all its real charm and discarded its heritage. The Town Council must be made up of builders. Today, Mutriku is 100% apartments. If you want a house on your own and somewhere private to hang out your washing, it seems it has to be out of town. The best-dressed man here in the Basque country is wearing a beret and cardigan here and carrying the compulsory stick. As we left France the locals were all wearing blue overalls with their berets. I wonder what they might think of us?

Our next day’s drive took us to the rich limestone hills of Cantabria with its high white peaks and pine forests. We passed a number of small towns where there were skeletons of once palacial buildings, deserted and decayed now since the quarries closed. The reason was soon clear; at Castro Urdiales a short way along the road they are dismantling a mountain and taking it into the towns to build more ghastly concrete apartments and EU roads. Today's long drive was well worth the effort; we were rewarded with a magnificent serpentine road through a tree shrouded ravine, winding gently into the Picos mountains in a tunnel of bright green leaves. This road scores about 83 on the ‘Wow!’ scale (details of the formula available on request). Norway is still the only place we know with a score of over 90!)

We're looking forward to a day's hiking at the top of the mountain later today. We’re off to the cable car in a minute! So, it’s ‘Adios for now’ from the Picos. The sky is blue and the sun shining its heart out again.


David and Janice
The Grey Haired Nomads




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The PicosThe Picos
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Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking!
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Doorways

in St Jean Pied de Port - pilgrim country
Upwards; ever upwardsUpwards; ever upwards
Upwards; ever upwards

....we're off in the cablecar in a minute.


26th August 2009

Where were we
We were in the same area last year after seeing your photos and story, we what to go back Bob

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