a school

Story time in English with the Infant class

At the breakfast table a week or so ago, I was asked by a curious couch-surfer what brought me to the Pyrenees. So early in the morning and with a busy day of teaching ahead of me, I was initially stumped. As I drove to a neighbouring valley for my first lesson, I shifted through the layers of reasons, trying to pinpoint the exact reason: university, necessity, university...

Later in the week, I was invited to an evening of poetry in Esquièze, and I stumbled upon the real reason I came here: une ecole.

It is so long since I last set foot in that school as a visiting English Language Teacher that I had almost forgotten...

It was only a couple of years ago that I hang up my coat for the last time, but every time I walk past I feel I could reach out and open the door to that school, finding my seat and guiding the children through the basics of the English language. Change is inevitable and is of course hard. But were there not a constant stream of comings and goings in that little school, it wouldn't be such a wonderfully rich and dynamic place of learning and exchange.

This valley has been a place of so many firsts for me, sometimes it seems as if every gushing stream, jagged peak and rounded stone has been instrumental in shaping the course of my life.

And here, a school. My first as a teacher. Here in this hallway we helped the little ones out of their ski boots each morning in the winter. Here in the garden, we planted daffodil bulbs in the Spring. We lit candles in December and I taught the children to sing English Christmas carols. They scuttled in with their new pencils and school bags in the first week of September.

All so long ago now as to have been a dream. But it wasn't a dream. I have the evidence right here: "Oh Fran, tu venais nous voir quand on étais petit..."

I walk past that school, bump into pupils and parents almost every day. Perhaps that was the reason for the inexplicable deep sadness that filled my days since moving back here last year and until very recently.

I am no longer in my beloved school, but the memories will stay forever fresh.

Life has moved on and the children are growing up. But then if I take a moment to think about it, I realise that so am I, in both ways...

around the table

Around the table this evening we are two gardiens, four mountaineers, one walking guide, and me, a linguist.

There is plenty of good food, good wine and goodwill. Moments such as these make staying the night in a réfuge worth the hard slog up the hill.

When the soup and wine inevitably run dry, the words continue to flow. The conversation, as is often the case in a refuge, is excitingly multilingual and diverse, flowing effortlessly from French to English and back to French. No need to be formal in situations like this, a friendly tu is enough to do away with any shyness.

Where have you come from? What are you doing tomorrow?

The mountaineers continue to talk as the tables are cleared and wiped clean. They form small groups, huddling around maps and guidebooks, or warming themselves by the stove, sharing stories and advice.

We leave the mountaineers to it, joining Boris and Pauline in the kitchen as we help them attack the mountain of washing up the others have left in their wake.
 

tricot au petit matin / oulettes de Gaube

les couleurs d'automne / Oulettes de Gaube

autumn in the Gaube Valley

Last weekend, we were invited by our friends Boris and Pauline to join them up at their Mountain hut for their last weekend of the season. 

High winds and rain were forecast. We went anyway, making sure to pack our waterproofs and down jackets. 

In the early morning light, we climb through the woods from Pont d'Espagne to the Lac de Gaube. We've been expecting the leaves to change for weeks. Now they seem to have done it overnight. In the lower part of the trail, we walk through tunnels of red and gold towards the turquoise lake. We slide through piles of dried leaves, shrivelled and crisp under foot. 

It is a Saturday, in the middle of the holidays, so there are plenty of other walkers out on the trail. We pause briefly by the shimmering waters of the Lac du Gaube. From here, the north face of the Vignemale is usually visible, but this morning, he's wearing a cloudy hat, pulled down low over his eyes. Leaving the crowds behind, we continue the trail along the eastern side of the lake, being careful not to twist an ankle as we hop from boulder to boulder. Next time we come here it will be winter, and we'll be able to ski straight across the frozen lake.

Above the lake, the path rises slowly as the valley opens out into a series of long water meadows. Beyond, the lower part of the vertical cliffs and glacier of the Vignemale are always in sight as we edge our way southwards, blocking the head of the valley and the way to Spain.

At the final plateau, we overtake a French couple. "Is it far to the réfuge?" they ask us. "Oh, only about another twenty minutes or so," we reply. The wife is clearly exhausted. The husband looks crestfallen. They decide to turn back, and leave us to continue alone.  

When we arrive at the hut, Boris is outside chopping wood ready for the winter. Pauline is inside, finishing off this evening's desert: chocolate mousse for thirty ravenous mountaineers. N stays out to give Boris a hand. I'm happy to get out of the biting wind, take off my pack and find a place beside the wood-burner with my book before we lend a hand with the evening service at 7pm.

farewell summer, welcome autumn

A rainbow over our valley, October 2013

Slowly but surely, it feels as if the darker days are getting further away. The rainbow has finally appeared after the storm.

The hillsides around the village are starting to turn from green to gold to rusty red.

Spring is usually thought of as the season of renewal. Yet for me this year it is in the Autumn that I can feel myself waking from my hibernation, venturing out into the world once again. Reconnecting with my surroundings, and slowly finding peace with my life and myself.

I've just got to remember to go slowly, that's all...

I hope this will also be true for the wider valley community as we move into Autumn and brace ourselves for Winter.

la balaguère

The wind turned last week. The sound of banging shutters has woken me early almost every day since. Yesterday, we were back in t-shirts, sweltering in unseasonal heat. The digital thermometre outside the pharmacie read 25°. Summer seems to have ridden back into the Valley on the the tail of the southern wind, la balaguère, riding in at full speed.

Halfway to Spain, via the col des Mulets

Some Valley dwellers will swear that the balaguère drives people to madness. Others will say that the warm wind sweeps a feeling of restlessness through the Valley.

But for me, the balaguère is always a source of comfort. In the heart of winter, it takes the chill off even the most bitter of days. When I’m feeling blue, downtrodden by the season, this warm wind fills these sails of mine with hope and expectation. It blows from the plains of the Sahara, sometimes bringing sand to turn the snowy mountain sides pink.

And sometimes when the balaguère blows that dust-laden wind stirs up a wanderlust deep inside of me. In this golden atmosphere, strange, unreal, windswept moment, the southern wind seems to be beckoning me elsewhere…

Over the weekend, we took the wind up on her offer.

More about that adventure later...

le soleil des herbes

La Carline appartient à la famille des artichauts.  "Cardouille" et "cardon" sont les autres noms désignant la fleur de cette plante sauvage. Les paysans la cueillaient pour son cœur comestible et se servaient des feuilles épineuses pour démêler ou carder la laine de leurs troupeaux.

Cette plante a la particularité de capter la lumière solaire en s'ouvrant en son centre. Mais celui-ci se referme lorsque tombe l'humidité et qu'arrive la pluie. La cardabelle une fois séchée est, dit-on, un porte bonheur que l'on accroche volontiers à la porte de sa demeure.

au bord de la mer

  
La Bretagne en famille...c'était déjà il y a un mois...

On est sur une plage, au presqu'île de Crozon. On marche sur une plage bretonne. Le sable mouille sous les pieds. On respire l’air de l'Atlantique.

On longe les vagues charges d’écume, des explosions blanches. La mer est agitée cet après-midi. Elle s’est retirée loin des dunes. La grande marée. 

Nico est dans les vagues avec mon papa. Je marche avec nos mamans, au bord de la mer. On les regarde surfer.

Je suis au sable, au vent, au ciel, au ciel. Je suis avec ceux que j'aime le plus au monde. Je marche d'un pas nouveau et je me sens bien.

heavy dew, morning mist

Heavy dew and a strong autumnal sun made for a magical, misty morning stroll up in Gavarnie this morning. 

The Silver Birch and Beech trees are just starting to turn on the northern slopes, and the purple crocuses sprinkle the grass around the hay barns.