Getting about and armchair birdwatching

Getting About and Armchair Birdwatching

To say that conditions can change quickly in the mountains is something of an understatement.

Our walk up to L’Estremeau on the far side of the Plateau de Lescun began calmly enough but ended in a blizzard so determined that we struggled to walk against it and, arriving back at the car, the cold job of clearing windows turned into something of a Promethean task, for as soon as one screen was cleared another became plastered. Opening the windward door resulted in a blast of snow over the interior so, after brushing off our clothing as well as we could, we piled in from the other side. Despite our efforts, though, the atmosphere inside quickly became that of a steamy fug.

So much for the spell of unseasonably mild weather!

Snow was now settling in the village so it was time to heed the warning about not parking our car outside the house. It could be stuck there for days… or (And here I suspect a degree of exaggeration)… even weeks!

Keeping the roads passable around Lescun is a major task and, of course, expense. If it’s not the snow and ice it’s the frequent problem of large bites of tarmac and subsoil disappearing down the hillside.

Responsibility for the maintenance of thoroughfares depends upon their designation.

Leaving motorways aside, roads in France are classified in three ways: RNs, or Routes Nationales, are the concern of National Government; D roads are Departmental, in this case the Pyrenees Atlantiques, while C roads are looked after by the Commune. Thus, the D239 winding up from the valley to the village is kept open thanks to a snow plough provided by the Departement whereas the small roads in and around the village are effectively dealt with by two employees of the Commune. Out and about at 6 am with their adapted tractors, they have the place cleared before most of us have stirred from bed and those who work away from the village should be able to get away.

Clearly, as one would expect of a community living at altitude, it is well equipped to deal with the prevailing climate.

Our particular problem, however, is that the snow plough cannot make it up the steep slope at the southern end of the street nor round the tight bend coming the other way. The result is we don’t get cleared and, consequently, on the evening of the blizzard we move the Golf down to the centre of Lescun.

It proves to be a good move.

Overnight the snow continues and, although it leaves only a modest deposit of three inches or so outside our door, at 9.30 in the morning, when I go down to check on the car, the temperature remains well below zero and even the cleared roads are lumpy with compacted snow and ice.

Getting about might prove tricky.

Sunshine after the blizzard These days, apart from walking, the only realistic means of transport is the motorised vehicle, whether it be, for example, a car, a tractor, a quad-bike or, king of them all, the four-wheel drive.

The old-timers, on the other hand, also had four-legged transport to count on. Their mules, donkeys and ponies certainly would not have been bothered by a few inches of snow.

And then there was the train.

The high Vallée d’Aspe is defined as being above the village of Escot where two limestone buttresses descend, almost but not quite to meet, creating a natural gateway And here, unlikely as it might seem when considering the narrow passage with rock and impenetrable forest descending to the river itself, there was once a ferroviaire - a railway.

The remains of it can still be seen today.

Trees grow from the track, ornate railings rust and bend, remnants of demolished bridges stand as monuments to by-gone glory and hefty retaining walls with their characteristic stone facings emerge from ivy shrouds. And, here and there, half-hidden in a swathe of forest, we glimpse the mysterious entrance to one of the numerous tunnels blasted through the mountain. In this project, one has to say, the French engineers, and the artisans who made reality out of theory, really flexed their muscles.

Although the line from Oloron Sainte Marie to Bedous, a fifteen minute drive from Lescun, was inaugurated near the end of the nineteenth century, it took a further twenty years for the track to advance further up the valley.

But the vision to connect Bordeaux with the industrial town of Zaragoza had been fermenting for years and, consequently, the final link under the mountains was an inevitability.

The tunnelling crew circa 1910

The tunnel connecting France and Spain was completed in 1912 but progress was interrupted by the first world war and travellers would have to wait until 1928 for the grand opening of the line through to Canfranc where, on the other side of the border, the Iberian neighbours had constructed a terminus out of fantasies and wishful thinking. At 240 metres (790 ft) in length, with 300 windows and 156 doors it resembles a palace more than a railway station. Its size was justified by the need to transfer passengers, luggage and freight from one line to another as the two track gauges were incompatible. This activity necessitated separate French and Spanish sides to the site, each being controlled by their respective officials, an arrangement that continued through the second world war with the agreement of the Nazi German Wehrmacht.

But returning to its inauguration… suddenly, anyone living in Lescun with a bit of spare cash could ride their mule down to the station at Cette-Eygun, board the train to trundle over bridges and chug through underground passages to Canfranc where they could cross the platform and rattle on down to Zaragoza. And afterwards? Who knows? - Madrid? Barcelona?

It is, however, unlikely that many or even any of the busy paysans Lescunois ventured so far forth.

In any case, the opportunity lasted less than 50 years as, in 1970, two goods trains ran into difficulty in icy conditions. One of them derailed and, in doing so, demolished the Pont de l’Estanguet. It was never repaired and that was the end of the railway.

Canfranc Station today with growing out of the tracks.

Local legend insists it was sabotaged…. the cost of the line… the supremacy of road over rail. It’s anyone’s guess. But, abruptly, the cross-border line ceased to exist, leaving the magnificent edifice of Canfranc Estación to decline and ruin.

And so the story of the Vallée d’Aspe railways ended. At least, that was how it seemed, until 2009 when the decision was taken to reopen the line between Bedous and Oloron Sainte Marie. Despite vociferous opposition, the project went ahead and a service is due to commence this year, 2016.

Driving along the valley these few past months, we have been struck by the rate of progress due, no doubt, to the quantity of man power and machinery that SNCF has thrown at the job. One new bridge has been built and others strengthened. Undergrowth has been cleared away and the encroaching forest forced back to new limits. Walls and railings have been replaced where necessary and a new bed has been laid for the rails. A new feature, though, is the extensive avalanche protection that has been put in place securing vulnerable stretches of track from whatever the mountain might throw at it.

Personally, I’ll be booking my ticket for the new voie ferroviaire as soon as they’re available.

A typical roof about to shed its load of snow

Back in the Lescun, with our car safely parked up, we resolve to make do with our own legs to get about, and a walk out from the village to the Plateau de Sanchez seems like a good idea.

The railway, however, is not the only place exposed to dangers from above. In the warming sun, snow that overnight has piled up on roofs begins to thaw.

The good folk of the village, as previously mentioned, are never reticent about offering advice and so, in addition to warnings about parking, we are counselled to pay attention to avalanches des toits (roof avalanches).

Where bars and spikes have not been built in to the structure the steep slated slopes shed their covering of snow remarkably efficiently, while the change of angle at the eaves shoots the

load away from the wall.

The first thing the inconscient passerby notices, on these occasions, is the hollow rattle as the white slab strums slates like the keys of a clapped out glockenspiel. This will be quickly followed by a wet flop or staccato thuds as anything between twenty pounds or half a ton of wet powder lands on the street. Best not to be underneath.

Local wisdom has it that the most foolproof strategy for avoiding a cold headache is to pass close to the wall but, in my opinion, when walking through these hazardous zones, I think it better to cross to the other side of the street, not trusting the effectiveness of the overhang.

It’s a technique that works. We make it safely out of the village and, after half an hour of tottering along the lethally icy lane, we make it to the track leading up to Sanchez. Here we come across untrammelled snow which, at first, provides a welcome relief from the unreliable surface of the road. The higher we climb, however, the deeper the snow becomes and the two-to-three inches in Lescun turns, unexpectedly, into twelve-to-eighteen on the piste. Each step becomes an effort with boots breaking through the thin crust and plunging through into powder requiring them to be dragged awkwardly out in order to repeat the process again, and again, and again. Soon, despite the freezing temperatures stubbornly lurking in the shade of the forest, we are hot and sweaty.

We should have brought snow shoes.

Unless you have been out in the mountains recently with such kit you will probably have, in your head, pictures of stalwart eskimos or Edwardian polar explorers plodding across frozen wastes with something akin to primitive tennis racquets strapped to their feet.

(The French word for snow shoes is actually racquettes.)

Needless to say, the technology has changed since those days and modern snow shoes bear little resemblance to the classic equipment of the past.

To begin with, unsurprisingly, they are made of plastic. The bindings which fix the boot to the foot carriage are of a high-tech design allowing straps to be tightened using a ratchet system. This part is attached to the base of the snow shoe at the toe

Above: 1950’s advert showing how to have fun in snow shoes.

Right: The modern version.

by a pivoting joint which makes for easy walking. Metal spikes underneath combine with cramponlike points at the front to provide security even on hard ice.

There is even a hinged block that can be moved into place to support the

heel in a raised position on long uphill stretches.

It has to be said, though, that they are quite hard work and, when first using them there is a tendency to trip oneself up by treading one shoe on the other. But, once the knack has been acquired, they provide access to the mountains in conditions that would be difficult wearing normal footwear.

Getting about in snow shoes Another night of blizzards and we forget about going out but turn our thoughts instead to those members of our mountain community who, though they have the means to transport themselves wherever they wish to go, are nonetheless running short of food.

I am, of course, talking about the birds.

Not only was it time to dust down the winter gear, it was time to get out the bird feeders. We’ve been ready for this moment for a while but, with the mild spell persisting, there didn’t seem much point. Now, though, with the ground covered and ponds frozen it seems a matter of urgency to hang out the fat balls and the seed feeder. Thus, we adorn the balcony railings which happen to be just a few feet from the glazed doors.

We become armchair birdwatchers, keen to see which exotic species will arrive. We have heard talk of becscroisés (cross-bills) and venturons montagnards (a species resembling the greenfinch) and eagerly await their arrival, or something equally intriguing.

And as we put our feet up in the warm house, with no desire to go anywhere by any means at all, our avian friends swoop in and out with ease, gorging themselves on our selfserving generosity.

Nothing unusual though… only blue tits and great tits!

In fact, apart from the snow in the garden and in the mountain valleys; the white summits of the Cirque and the frost-dusted forest; apart from the winter gear drying in the barn, the damoclesianicicles hanging from the shed roof and the snow plough forcing it way up from the valley ‌ apart from that, we could be in Dorset.

January 28th 2016