In June 2017 I was invited to be a writer-in-residence. The venue was the Maison des Arts arts centre in Arras-en-Lavedan, a small village in the beautiful Val d’Azun valley in the Pyrenees mountains, France.
The aim of my visit was to research my second novel, Tree Slayer, which is partly set in the village. I hasten to add that I’ve created imaginary settings and characters in the book. But I thought that if you read Tree Slayer, you might like to see some of the photos I took.
I met so many great people in Arras-en-Lavedan and discovered so much that I decided to blog about each day’s activities. My readers seemed to enjoy my ramblings about mountain life. I was even contacted by an editor of the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook, who liked what she read and invited me to contribute to the famous guide. (You can find my offering, ‘Going Public’, here.)
To celebrate the publication of Tree Slayer on 6th October I’m going to re-blog these posts over the next week. So here we go, starting with the first day.
Behind the Scenes at the Maison des Arts
Have you ever been locked up in a museum overnight?
No, me neither, but that’s exactly what has happened to me tonight in the empty, locked-up arts centre. And there’s an eye looking at me through the window. I know it’s just part of an exhibition – at least, I presume it is – but it’s kind of spooky.
Outside, thunder swallows the sound of cowbells and the wash of invisible rain. And every so often, the church bell chimes. I could be feeling lonely and scared – but luckily I have company. I have the company of a mountain. Let me explain.
This morning I left Pau, where I stayed last night (see yesterday’s blog post): I could say ‘with a heavy heart’, but, actually, if there’s one thing I love more than the town of Pau, it’s what lies south of Pau…
The weather wasn’t promising and there were no mountains in sight – until I reached Lourdes, when I was able to make out some dark outlines on the horizon.
My excitement doubled, tripled, quadrupled as I turned each bend and saw the sketches of mountain gradually become rocky reality, patched with snow. By the time I reached Argelès-Gazost, the peaks began to look familiar from last year’s camping holiday.
Arras-en-Lavedan is 2km up the Val d’Azun valley from Argelès, and I overtook several brave (crazy?) cyclists on their way to the Cols d’Aubisque and Soulor before I turned off the main road and into the heart of the village.
Most of the village is below the road, its narrow streets winding in a seemingly haphazard way around the small barn-houses and colourful gardens.
The Maison des Arts, with its stone tower and metal sculptures in the grounds, brought back memories of the day I spent here last summer, discovering this exhibition centre and chatting to Françoise Gourvès, one of the Abbadiale association members responsible for the exhibitions.
Françoise showed me to the living quarters: a bare, roomy bedroom with creaky floorboards and a desk.
But I hardly noticed the bedroom. My attention was immediately drawn to the window, and what lay outside. At least, what I thought lay outside.
It was a steep, wooded valley with a cute, pointy mountain at the top, poking the tip of its nose into the clouds. The trees waved the tips of their green fingers at me in the breeze, and when I opened the window I was charmed by the riot of exotic birdsong. The whole scene was enchanting.
And then the sun broke through the clouds.
What I’d been admiring was simply the foreground of my view. Before my eyes, the clouds lifted and out of the mist loomed another triangular peak, but higher. And then a third. The effect of the misty apparitions was like the double and triple of a rainbow, and I had to watch them for a few minutes before I was convinced all the peaks were real.
Luckily for Françoise, the mist drifted back across the peaks and I was able to leave the window and concentrate on what she was telling me – which was that some costume-making artists were meeting for lunch at Le Kairn bistro-bookshop, and that I could join them if I liked.
Le Kairn has only been open for 3 weeks, and Arras is a tiny – albeit dense with artists – village. So I was in no way prepared to see it installed in a huge building in the most prominent position next to the mairie.
The next surprise was the range of books: there’s an eclectic mix of unusual works, organised by theme in such an unconventional way that you spend hours browsing because you keep coming across something unexpected. This bookshop is going to become a reference in the whole region, I believe – and people will come to the village just to linger and buy. There are even books in English.
The bistro side is light and airy, perfect for writing while drinking a coffee. My attention was caught by the artistic tabletops, covered by pages from books, handwritten manuscripts and pictures from graphic novels.
And it was here that Karine, the owner, served us a Ploughman’s style lunch followed by the most delicious strawberry tiramisu. I was welcomed into the group of costume-makers, who were preparing for the Dracula open-air theatre play to be held this summer near Gavarnie. I’ll tell you more about them in a future blog post, as they will be in residence with me later this week.
While Valentine was taking my payment, Karine mentioned a local shepherd who told her I’d be welcome to visit. So that’s what I did. I met Pascal Gainza, from Marsous, who turned out to be the husband of Dominique, the friendly goat farmer I visited last summer. Pascal invited me to take part in his private transhumance – the moving of the ewes (a ewe is a female sheep, in case you’re a townie) from the valley to the mountain pastures for the summer.
‘Be here at 6:30 tomorrow evening, and we’ll show you the best viewpoint up there,’ he told me, adding that the Estaing transhumance is good for folklore traditions, but it’s better to see a real one.
So that’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow: firstly a touristy transhumance festival in the morning, then a real one in the evening.
At least, that’s what I’ll be doing if I survive my first night locked up in the museum. Actually, I have to go now, as I’ve got a burning desire to see where that staircase leads. And what’s behind the door at the top.
See you tomorrow for the next writerly instalment – a wet, sheepy one, judging by that thunder and the new whiteout view from my window.
And, yes, by the way, I did get some writing done between today’s social encounters.
Harriet Springbett's playground 