I promised myself I'd go back...

...and I was running out of time.  We were still in glorious sunshine, but only for another day or so.  After that, the forecast looked depressing.

So Wednesday evening I leave Tod and the dogs and head south in the dark for Pau and the Pyrenees beyond. Thursday morning reveals a town smothered in pink for breast cancer awareness and clear skies over the mountains on the horizon. Pic du Midi d'Ossau, with its distinctive double peaks is my eventual destination.

Pau - Place Clemenceau decked out for breast cancer awareness month

Pau - View from Boulevard des Pyrénées, with the distinctive outline of Pic du Midi d'Ossau

And those clear sunny skies stay with me as I revel in the glorious scenery and stop to take photos on nearly every bend in the road.

Bas Ossau (the lower Ossau) is green and lush.  The mountains hang back, leaving a spacious valley floor, populated with small towns and villages.

Looking down on Laruns

Higher up the slopes, Eaux-Bonnes a thermal spa made popular by Empress Eugénie now languishes in a scruffy, faded glory - the Hôtel des Princes a shadow of its former self.

Eaux-Bonnes casino

Eaux-Bonnes Hôtel des Princes now derelict and sold at auction in July for a mere 19,000 euros!

I travel on and upwards, following in the tracks of the Tour de France cyclists.  A pause on a sharp bend for a lunchtime ice-cream (the only food) and a Perrier at one of the few restaurants that are still open, I look back down on the ski station of Gourette - now a ghost town with its bars, hotels and apartments shut at the end of the summer season.

Gourette from Les Crêtes Blanches

My destination is Col d'Aubisque, a mountain pass at 1,706 meters (5,607 feet) and most years a passage in the Tour de France. Giant bikes honour the event and make wonderful climbing frames for small children. I stroll up a grass-covered slope and look back down on the modest hotel and cafe - still doing steady business as late holidaymakers and tough whip-thin men who have cycled all the way up relax under umbrellas and drink in the views.

Col d'Aubisque with Le Soum de Grum to the right

Friday dawns brisk - the temperature in single figures - as I set off for Haut Ossau (High Ossau), pausing at another thermal spa, Eaux-Chaudes, on the way. "Bonjours" are exchanged with a middle-aged couple cheerfully heading towards the entrance, towels under their arms.

Eaux-Chaudes thermal baths

The mountains here press in on the valley and the sun is slow to come over the horizon.  When it does, the landscape glows in the late morning light.

Gave de Brousset

Cirque d'Anéou

I'm heading for the Col du Portalet pass (1,794 meters, 5,886 feet) and the Spanish border (just so I can say I've been there). I cross into Spain to find a gaggle of French shoppers busy buying cheap booze from a huddle of small supermarkets.

Pic du Midi d'Ossau from the Spanish side

Now on the Spanish side, I realise I am looking at a mirror image of the peak seen in the distance yesterday morning from Pau - I have arrived!

Time to head home, passing the occasional cow complete with large cowbell on the way.

Through the windscreen

The weather is changing, the cranes are flying south and by the time I'm back on the motorway it's raining. These two last days of our Indian summer have been precious.

On Tuesday we're moving back down to the cottage for winter.

Yes, you are in the right place

Those of you who have been following Writing Home for some time, you may wonder where you have landed.

For some time I've felt that the black small writing on a white background was looking a tad old-fashioned. 

Also, for those among us of a somewhat elderly disposition there is a practical aspect which is that our eyes aren't what they used to be.  I mentally thank bloggers who publish in a larger font and thought it was time I did the same.

So on this wet Saturday I've finally taken the plunge, changed my template and somewhat nervously pressed the "apply to blog" button.  I haven't yet worked back through all my posts to check all is well, but the ones I have looked at seem to be ok.

I do hope that this new layout is easier to read and that the midway between donkey brown and Paris grey colour (Tod's not entirely convinced) is not too dull.

So We Came Home

Hard to believe, but for the ten years we've been here we have never really visited the Pyrenees. And they are only about three hours drive away.

Tod has driven through them coming back from Saragossa.  We once sat on a terrace in Pau and lunched with their magnificent backdrop just over our shoulders. Years ago, I stood on the battlements at Carcassonne and wished I was in the mountains instead.

So, we decided finally it was time, booked a hotel and headed for the Ossau Valley, complete with dogs, and armed with maps, guide books and pages from Google showing the easy walks (we weren't planning on doing anything too strenuous).

The weather had been glorious for the previous two weeks - temperatures in the high twenties. Even when we caught the trailing edge of Hurricane Ophelia as it tracked across the Bay of Biscay going northwards, the blustery wind was warm. In the bright autumnal golden sunlight the thought of walking in the Pyrenees was delightful.

As we drove south the rain clouds began to bank up and we took comfort in the occasional bit of blue sky - perhaps the weather forecast was unduly pessimistic.  By south of Pau the mountains were barely visible, grey sketched outlines appearing and disappearing against the grey sky.  By our third "pit stop" (Bertie gets bored / car sick, starts to whine and needs the diversion of a quick walk) the rain was falling fairly fast.  By the time we got to the hotel it was pouring.

Tod and the dogs stayed in the car as I dashed, dripping and bedraggled, into the elegant hotel foyer. Madame, looking at me with some horror, suggested that we and the dogs should stay in the annexe. She mellowed somewhat when I meekly agreed that yes please, we would like to book the restaurant for dinner - there was no way we were going any further!

The downpour eased to a mere steady drizzle and, knowing the dogs would need their constitutional, we set out macked and booted to explore a green lane immediately behind the hotel (great, where to go for tomorrow's early morning walk sorted).

We'd hoped to have the annexe to ourselves but a family of four arrived, banged and crashed doors, flushed toilets, ran showers and invaded what we'd already come to think of as "our space".  They were English too - maybe for Madame the annexe was the "English ghetto"?  I murmured that I hoped our dogs wouldn't disturb them - while quite convinced they would disturb us.

We hustled Vita and Bertie back into the car, hardened our hearts to his barking ("he'll settle down") and headed for the hotel restaurant. Throughout the meal we watched the rain in the dark falling into puddles on the tarmac, reflected in the lights of the hotel, trying to gauge whether it was easing off or not.

In a nearly empty room, Madame placed the English family at the next table - maybe she thought we needed the company?  We tried not to eavesdrop, but did hear with some relief that they would be leaving in the morning.

Another damp walk in the dark and we decided an early night was called for.  It had been a stressful day and the other family had settled down early - they planned to be up at seven.  In the dark I heard Bertie pacing the floor his nails click, clicking on the lino and then the soft whining started - I hissed at him to be quiet, praying the English family were asleep.  Vita too wouldn't settle, panting in anxiety and pawing the door.  By midnight all four of us were dressed, up, out and walking towards the village in the drizzle, the dogs thrilled with exciting smells and dank burrows to investigate, the sound of cow bells from the steep valley sides in the background, low cloud drifting in and out of view in the beams of our torches.

We crept back to the annexe and opened and closed doors as quietly as we could.  I lay in bed for hours, semi-rigid, longing for sleep, hoping that the dogs would stay calm and quiet.  By seven the family were up and out. The dogs, exhausted, slept peacefully through all of the comings and goings.

Over breakfast, the rain still pouring outside the hotel windows, we decide to come home.

We wonder whether Madame would be displeased, as I'd booked for two nights.  I approach her somewhat apprehensively to give her the news.  However, when I mention that our dogs have been restless in the night and I was concerned about her other guests, she couldn't wait to get rid of us.

Next time, we've agreed, when the weather's fine I'll visit the Pyrenees on my own, with only my camera for company. Tod, Vita and Bertie will stay very contentedly at home.

Sights and Sounds of Autumn

Seven hounds and other assorted mutts joyously hurtle their way along the bottom of Monsieur F's field beside the stream, the front two (massive Bassets, their ears flapping) baying loudly.  Hunting? I doubt it. Their demeanour says "freedom" after six months of being cooped up in cages.

Some time later, three dogless hunters stand  on the crest of the hill behind where I'm weeding, one of them forlornly tooting a hunting horn in the vain hope that their errant pack will obey and return.

Bertie sits on the edge of the lawn of the cottage barking. His echo comes straight back at him: Yap, Yap, (yap, yap) Yap, Yap, Yap (yap, yap, yap).  The old man with his dog that has bells on its collar is working his way alongside the stream in the bottom of the valley, much to Bertie's annoyance.  The dog is hidden in the long grass, only the tinkling of the bells gives him away.

In the lunchtime lull (guns, dogs and hunters having departed in assorted white vans) I realise a robin is serenading me from a nearby bush, its song every bit as lyrical as a nightingale's.  He flutters down to where I've been digging the heavy clay, now softened by September's rains, keeping me just at arm's length while he searches for grubs.

Later, in the distance, there's the roar of a giant combine harvester clearing Alain's land of his organic soy beans, while in the neighbouring field Philippe rattles and clangs backwards and forwards on his old tractor ploughing in the bleached maize stubble.

Buzzards wheel high overhead, mewing, as they hunt for small rodents.

October is mild and sunny - outside warmer than indoors. Early mornings start misty and then dissolve into a warm golden light.