Writing Residency Day 2
Following yesterday’s apprehensions, something did go bump in the night. Several times. It was rather like a severed head bumping–… actually, let’s not go there. I kept my eyes squeezed tight shut so as not to discover a ghostly lady in long skirts standing over me, and soon fell asleep again in my museum.
The first was the traditional ceremony, in which flocks of sheep left from their individual farms and joined at Estaing, where they took the road up to the Lac d’Estaing lake.
There were three types of flock:
In other words: flocks of sheep; flocks of tourists walking behind each flock of sheep; and flocks of cars, driving behind each flock of tourists, which walked behind each flock of sheep. (I could go on with this game, but I’ll stop there).
It was a fascinating sight, and I particularly liked the way the sheep would snatch mouthfuls of grass from the verges at any opportunity. One flock of 5 sheep was led by a pony and children from the local villages, who sang their hearts out during the whole length of the 12km (4-hour) hike.
At the lake, the sheepdogs rounded the sheep into pens, the tourists bought local products and then everyone went off for a good, French midday meal to the music of clanking sheep-bells.
The sheep contented themselves with chewing the cud, sleeping, er…praying? singing? (look hard at that last photo, behind the black sheep).
This particular priest was a visitor from Madagascar, and I loved his big smile.
He flicked holy water from a red bucket (that made me smile) over the flocks – and then over the crowd (though I’m not sure if this was protocol or him having a laugh).
I caught the shuttle bus back ‘home’ and just had time to dry out my coat and trousers before I met up at my next appointment.
This was at Pascal and Dominique Gainza’s farm, where I’d been invited for a proper, real-life transhumance. An evening transhumance.
Someone, however, was missing.
“Where’s the dog?” asked Pascal.
I don’t know if this is tradition or real life, but the next 15 minutes were spent driving around the village looking for Dora the border-collie-cross. Without Dora, we could forget taking the sheep anywhere.
What came next was the most magical of mountainous experiences, and I felt very privileged to be included.
With Dora nipping at the sheep’s heels and Pascal and Jerôme telling sheepy anecdotes, we threaded through magnificent, ancient woodland to the Col des Bordères at 1500 metres high.
From there, we continued upwards, arriving at a tranquil pasture as dusk fell, three hours after we left the valley.
I swear the horned cows we met in the open pastures recognised the sheep. They joined the woolly party and continued heading upwards all together after we left them, no doubt gossiping about the shameful behaviour of that good-for-nothing Sally Sheep from the neighbouring flock.
Or perhaps they were heading to a cow-bell rave party on the heights above the Col du Soulor.
In any case, we headed back down the track in the dark, admiring the lights of Arrens and Marsous from our lofty lodge. And I resolved that one day I would spend a night up on those restful pastures.
Many thanks to Pascal and Dominque for their generous invitation.
(The late hour and misty weather explain the poor quality of photos – nothing to do with me being exhausted).
And, by the way, I may not have done any proper writing, but I had some fantastic experiences and took lots of notes. Does that count?