First Snow

First snow in Laruns for the Autumn - we are absolutely entranced by snow - the way it falls and appears in the morning, the way it transforms the landscape in appearance and in the dampness of the soil, the growth of the plants, the water in the streams and rivers.

We had Hadley and his mates Elliott and Harry with us, fresh from a camel safari in Morrocco, so we went straight up into the snow - up to Bious Artige and walked up the Valle de Bious. As we drove higher our excitement mounted - we reached the snow line and snow is everywhere - on all the trees, the ground, the rocks, the logs - the entire landscape is softened and rounded. The outlines of the rocks are smoothed, rounded and whitened with inches of snow, the leaves on the trees are laden with bright, white snow, hanging low, every now and then a large soft lump falls to the ground and blends with the thick snow on the ground. Sounds are muffled - a soft white world, clean, clear and cold. We could see a little bridge over a creek all white with snow, the stream running clear through the white.

As we came into the valley we came across a shepherd coming down with a troupeau of sheep - it turned out to be Anna, the shepherd we walked with on the transhumance in July - time now to descend. I spoke with her for a while and the sheep moved on and grazed, I said do you need to go with the sheep and she said no they will stop and feed, they follow me. A little further on we came across Joseph with his lyre horned Bearnaise cattle also descending - time to move lower down into the valley.

We walked up the valley all covered in snow and climbed the little hill at the top of the valley, following the tracks left by Anna and Joseph's sheep and cattle. On the edge of the gorge an Izard leapt out and bounded through the snow up the hill, a few bounds and it was well away and watching us, just as we exclaimed and excitedly followed its progress another appeared and we watched them both move quickly and easily up the slope, both with short summer coats, dark and shining. Is it my imposition but I imagine the Izard surprised by the deep, fresh snow.

We had a cold lunch in the snow with swirls of hard sago snow flying around us, by the time we had eaten patches of blue were appearing above the mountains and there were shadows on the bright white snow - white snow, grey rock, green and brown trees with patches of yellow, red and gold, blue sky above - moments of beauty, spellbinding, indescribable - the power, wonder and pure magnificence of raw nature.

The snow was already melting as we walked back across the valley floor and when we reached the trees large lumps of snow were dropping from the tress, the entire forest was dripping with melting snow, mossy rocks and logs were reappearing, pools of snow melt on the track.

patches of blue
sharp shadows on bright white snow
grey rock rising straight
trees green and brown
with patches of autumn - yellows and reds
white snow, deep, clean and pure

The landscape is completely transformed in shape, texture, colour and sound by the snow and as the snow melts it is transformed again, not quite back to the way it was as the memory of the cold remains as the onset of winter, the loss of another fragment of summer.

Autumn - Amazing Autumn

What can I say about Autumn ?? Except that for an Australian the experience is entrancing, absorbing, awe inspiring. We have been watching the trees gradually change colour, the flocks descend, snow fall and the days shorten, but nothing can quite prepare us for the experience of walking in the forest on a sunny day after snow on the peaks and rain in the valleys. A brilliant blue day, with the air so sharp and clear it hurts your eyes, distances are shortened and colours brightened, hard against each other, stark in relief. The forest - beech, pine, oak and ash, an awesome display of colour - yellow, gold, brown, russet, red and green, the ground covered in a deep, soft layer of leaves. Rocks and logs, covered with moss, bright green, almost iridescent in the sunlight, appear through the omnipresent leaf fall, every now and then through the trees silver water appears shining in the sun as it tumbles down the mountain. All the time, through the trees the peaks stand clear, white and close. If you stand or sit still you will see leaves falling softly and ever so quietly through the forest, leaving the branches high up, fluttering and floating silently to the ground.

High up above the tree line, where we walk the snow has melted and frozen again to cover the grass in clear cold ice. Izard are bounding above us as always and today, below us as well, they are moving down toward the forest as the snow arrives.

We come down later through the trees, the forest floor and the sound of our passing softened by the deep layer of leaves, afternoon sun slanting through the coloured trees bathing all the forest in a gentle golden light, long shadows, green, green rocks, water falling noisily through the trees - the whole forest is alive with the rain, the sun, the fresh, cool air and the change of autumn. I can feel the change as well, somewhere deep within and part of me is hurrying, seeking acorns to stash somewhere or at least firewood to store for the winter, attempting to take advantage of the dying light and the warmth.

Had's 20th birthday

It was Had's 20th birthday so we went for a walk in the mountains - fresh snow on the peaks, autumn colours, water everywhere

Travelogue - Florac

Travelogue - We came across Florac - a Tarn River town

By good luck we came to Florac, a pretty little town on the Tarn River in the heart of the Cevennes. Florac is an ancient livestock centre built at the meeting place of the flocks as they moved up to the high pastures and then down again at the end of summer. Now, there are very few livestock and the main industries are tourism and recreation. Florac has the headquarters of the Cevennes Parc National and is a walking, climbing and water sport base for people from all over France. The streets are full of young people - walkers, climbers, cyclists - a one time rural centre now given over to other means of enjoying and utilising the outdoors - primarily recreational uses, but there are also co-operative shops selling produce and craft from the small lifestyle farms such as cheese, honey, timber and chestnut products etc. Perhaps it is a town that has made somewhat of a transition from an agricultural to a mixed base but still built around appreciation and utilisation of the outdoors and the natural resources. It still appears to be an authentic place - we have our aperitifs in a cafe full of locals drinking pastis, cars stopping in the street while the occupants have conversations with a group of men at a sidewalk table - lots of handshaking and cheek kissing - perhaps the local mayor- certainly an important person in the community.

The town has a clear mountain stream meandering happily through the middle, tumbling over mossy stone walls, crossed by small, incredibly picturesque stone bridges and full of trout - large and small that have either escaped or been released from the fish farm above the town. It is situated in a steep valley dominated by the limestone cliffs of the Mejean Plateau to the west and to the east and north by the Chestnut and Pine clad slopes of the Cevennes. Our hotel room is on the third floor with wide windows overlooking the shadey avenue through the centre of town - tables and chairs set up under the plane trees and over the roofs, views of the tree clad hills. During the day sounds of conversations rise from the street and the tables and pass our window on their way into the blue, blue sky and the sounds of clinking glasses and late night discussions follow the same path into the night.

One day, after walking all afternoon through the mountains in the steps of Robert Louis Stevenson we strolled back into Florac to find the town gripped by the drama of the annual cycle race. The streets were all blocked to cars and the main promenade lined with people talking excitedly and listening to progress over the loudspeakers. Every now and then we hear a loud whistle and a motorbike appears, the rider wearing a flourescent jacket and followed closely by a frenzied peleton of cyclists flying around the streets at high speed. We change quickly and head up to one of the village squares - all through the town wherever there is a major intersection there is a person stationed with a whistle and when he sees a peleton appearing he blows the whistle loudly - a signal to get off the street or to flatten yourself against a wall as a peleton rounds a corner and speeds past. By now the race consists of a number of groups and the speed with which they fly through the streets and around corners is to us, astounding. There is one spectacular crash as a cyclist fails to take a corner and ends up piling at high speed into the announcer's podium - he rises to his feet and pulls his damaged bicycle off the street while the rest speed by. With a certain amount of good luck we reach the little square, find a table, order beers and a pineapple juice and settle in for a sublime French moment. We sit in an open square with a bubbling fountain in the middle, the setting sun striking the mountains above the town, an African band doing sound checks as they set up to play in the square, a group of backpackers cruises through the square - dreadlocks, a guitar slung over a young shoulder- every few minutes a loud whistle and a peleton flies frantically past and - through all this, every half hour the church bells toll the time.

Village square, tables, beer and wine, a mossy fountain, cyclists flying past, mountains over slate tiled roofs, long twilight with clear skies, blue then indigo then black, church bells and a band playing.

The band consists of a lead black african guy in a cut off t shirt and a peaked cap, a large black guy in a fish net shirt, a very black drummer wearing a red bandana and a white bloke christened - "the Australian" - by Ash as he appeared to be doing nothing much but looking cool and very relaxed. The band have set up outside the Mairie (town hall) which is a big old stone building with very modern large glass windows and doors with roses climbing up the walls. They eventually play some very cool Afro/French music as the night moves slowly in.

Autumn is coming to the Vallee d'Ossau

Autumn is coming slowly but ever so surely to the Vallee d'Ossau. Changes, some small and subtle and others less so can be noticed in the trees, the air, the people and the animals. Across the mountainside one can see a faint hint of colour in the green, green forest - a yellowing on the edges of some trees and an occasional tree all brown or russet. The silver birch near the house changed colour slightly to brown and then dropped most of its leaves with an overnight breeze. There are fresh leaves on the ground in the forest and the tracks are softer now. Days are shorter, mornings darker as the sun takes longer to climb the mountains to the east.

Flocks of sheep and herds of cattle have begun to descend from the high mountain pastures and most evenings a troupeau will clamour its way through the streets of the village. The tall buildings and narrow streets amplify the sound and we hear every mob that passes through our village and through Beost on the other side of the valley. The stock are being brought down to lower pastures for autumn before moving into sheds for the winter - long wooled sheep trotting obediently along the roads and through the streets always accompanied by the Berger and his dogs and any number of assorted helpers. Some stop in a communal field below the house and the shepherds separate the mixed flocks by catching the sheep one by one until eventually one little flock trots off. The remaining sheep call to their friends as they disappear until next summer. At night the bells tinkle softly as sheep move about but mostly they are still and quiet till morning- exhausted by the long walk.
Cattle move more languidly with a different note and head on down the valley.

The fields have been mowed a last time. A period of intense activity - mowing, conditioning, raking, baling and carting hay to the sheds. Small fields are mown and raked by hand - every small bale of hay is important for the winter. Manure has been spread on the fields and it is as if they are ready for the long sleep of winter.

Trees are changing - colour and shape
subtly at first but fast gathering pace,
leaves falling softly through the forest
the mountain paths coloured and softened
Birds appear around our windows
migrating cranes are heard at night
Days are shorter, mornings cooler
Hay is cut and gathered in
manure spread - fields laid to rest
The troupeaus descend
bellies full of soft summer grasses
with them bergers and dogs
The valley is drawing in
coming home for winter
For warmth, for safety, companionship and renewal
the cycle continues