Wednesday, 30 October 2013
As Billy and I rolled the shopkeeper in her
computer chair across the cobbled pavement of the 17th century
plaza, I really started to wonder if we were going to get food for the next few
days. This was only one of many encounters with the people of the Gistain Valley
that we experienced over the previous few days.
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| Gistain |
That morning we awoke in the chilly, soft morning light in our
cosy tent thinking about the warmth of the breakfast fire about to spring to
life from last night’s coals. The sun hit the green terrace. Its warmth
was enticing enough to have us emerge for the day, although it took us a moment
to clear the zip of the frost that had frozen it solid over night.
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| A chilly morning! |
Billy headed off with the water bags to a
nearby creek. I started building the fire. Little sticks, newspaper, little
sticks, newspaper. I ran my hand through the ashes from last night – they were
still warm, despite the chill of the night.
We huddled around our small rock fireplace,
nestled against the terrace wall. The pot soon smelled of freshly brewed
coffee. We savoured a European breakfast
platter of mixed pastries, biscuits, pate on toast and fruit. It felt like we’d become true travellers,
with the ability to go anywhere, or nowhere in particular, without need or
haste.
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| European breakfast |
The green valley stretched out before us
showing us the small town of Sin below, also awakening in the morning sun. The tent slowly thawed
out and I was thankful for the fire to keep our fingers warm.
My mind wandered back to the shepherds we’d
met yesterday. They would also be out on the terraces in the sun at this hour, herding
their small flocks of sheep and goats up the paths from town to the pastures on
the mountains as they did every day.
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| The first shepherd we met |
The first shepherd we met was with his
sheep and a collie from France. The sheep were happily grazing on a terrace on
the upper slopes of the mountain. The man and his dog gazed out over the fields
below. He’d lived in Gistain all his life, and with the beauty in the valley,
couldn’t see why you’d want to live anywhere else.
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| In the eyes of a shepherd, with pastures this beautiful, there's no reason to live anywhere else |
The second shepherd we met a few terraces
down told a similar story. He even enjoyed winter when snow covered the ground
and the animals huddled in the small shelters that dotted the terraces.
He had a small herd of goats and a scruffy
dog that “doesn’t have any work to do, so I stir up the goats every now and
then to keep him busy”. I could see how the shepherds could be perfectly
content with life on the terraces.
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| The life of a shepherd |
My reverie was shattered by the reality of
a herd of cows crashing through the terrace’s shrubby border, whilst other
beasts started loping down the slope from the road. Three men shouted and waved
sticks trying to keep the herd together.
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| Cow intrusion |
Billy called out “?Que pasa?” to the
shepherd closest to us, who was waving a stick and shouting at the cows. I
heard a jumble of aggressive sounding words in the response, and what sounded
like “you f&ckers”.
“Billy, is that man swearing at us?” I
called out incredulously as I also tried to shoo away a calf that had
identified me as a potential food source.
Billy laughed, “no, he said vacas! Vacas
means cow. They’re trying to move them to the village”.
We packed up ready to leave. Our plan was
to walk a few kms down to Sin, then Saravillo, then up the next valley to the
Callado del Ibon pass, a small hut at Lavasar and potentially continue to a
small alpine lake, Basa de la Mora.
After the short walk down to Sin my stomach
was gurgling and growling. It was not going to be a day for a 900m climb.
We wandered through the empty streets of
Sin. A man carrying a calico bag of fresh bread rounded the corner. He
excitedly pointed to the bread and exchanged some words with Billy, which I
could only assume were along the lines of, “Hey, there’s fresh bread around the
corner, make sure you get some”.
Sure enough, we turned into a small plaza
and met the other residents of Sin (all 5 of them), gathered around a white van
filled with crusty loaves. After a bit of pointing and testing, we worked out
which loaves were dulce (sweet) and which were savoury. We selected a baguette
for lunch. We were just as excited to have fresh bread as the man we’d met
earlier on the street.
Juan Antonio, well dressed, and looking
relaxed, but slightly out of place in the rural plaza, asked us where we had
come from, and where we were going. Billy brought out the map and the residents
crowded around, keen to learn about the two Australians visiting their small
part of the world.
We tried to learn a little bit about their
lives too. Juan Antonio is from Barcelona, but owns a 3 story white washed
terrace close to the plaza, next to his father’s house. He visits the town each
year when it’s quiet and cold to embrace a simple life. He loves the rain and
the snow of the mountains during winter. We discovered his favourite restaurant
in Barcelona then left him to start his morning walk to Servetto.
We sat in the plaza observing village life
with our baguette and a shepherd’s dog straight from a Dulux ad. An old man
dozed in his favourite sunny spot against a stone wall, his walking stick balanced
across his lap.
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| Some company joins us in the town of Sin |
A second van drove through the streets. A
woman reached out the van window and handed the dozing man a newspaper before parking
and checking the post box on the other side of the plaza. The church bells
clanged out 12 strokes at 12:05pm, then again at 12:07pm. Everyone seemed very
content, including us.
We left the plaza and grabbed a few small apples
from a rogue, gnarled tree beside the path. Crunching on the juicy fruit we continued up
the stone path to Saravillo; a town tucked into the folds of a deep valley that
the sun had only just reached.
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| Tasty apples |
On the look-out for a place to restock our
hiking food, we stopped at the alimentacion. The door was open, but the lights
were out and no one was around. I checked my watch - 1:30pm - everyone must be
on siesta.
We searched the streets further, but most
places looked closed. A man working in his garage pointed us towards the local
bar and accommodation. It was also locked up, but luckily, we spotted a man in
his backyard, and asked when it would open. He was the owner, and soon enough,
we were sitting in the bar having a coffee.
It was glorious to stand out on the balcony
of our room in the sun, but was short lived. By 3pm, the sun had set behind the
steep mountain in the west. Apparently Saravillo only gets 3hrs of sun from
November to January!
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| A moment of sun in Saravillo |
A knock on our door announced lunch was
ready. It was 4pm. We sat in the darkened bar expectantly. The owner returned
with a delicious meal made by his mother in the room below ours. Seafood soup
in broth, fresh baguette, then lamb steaks with a fried egg and chips. Fresh apples
and mandarins from the orchard for dessert.
We sat at the bar with Javierre talking
about our lives and his. Their family
ran the bar and accommodation, as well as a herd of goats and a field for
potatoes and tomatoes. A photo on the wall showed a group of 20 cazadores
(hunters) proudly lined up in front of the plaza with their bounty of 12 wild
boar. It was black and white, and looked like it could have come from the
1950s, but Javierre mentioned it was only 6 years ago.
Billy mentioned I was sick, so Javierre made
a chamomile tea, with a splash of anise liqueur for good measure. He showed us
the other local spirits and served us a glass of home made cherry liqueur (with
cherries) based on dry anise. Delicious!
We’d also mentioned my love of cheese. Sure
enough, we were soon jumping into Javiere’s car and headed to the local
artisanal cheese factory down the road, making hard goats cheese with milk from
the region.
So much action in such a small town!
On our return from the cheese factory we
took a second trip to the alimentacion and noticed a light on at a nearby
house. We knock on the door to see if someone could help us out. A lady on a
roller computer chair answered. She was the shop owner, but had injured her
knee and was constrained to the chair.
After a moment of confusion and
misinterpretation, we ended up pushing her chair across the cobbled plaza. The
action attracting the attention of another woman walking home from work. She
joined the procession to the shop.
All 4 of us paused in the darkened room
with expectation as we waited an awkward moment for the fluorescent light to
stutter on. We started selecting a few items from the shelves. The younger
woman helping us search for things, the older chair-bound owner directing the
show.
Billy explained that we were hiking and
couldn’t carry 2kg of rice. The man who lived around the corner who had helped
us earlier came in to provide his views on Sopa de Champinons versus Sopa de
Verduras. Then just for good measure, another neighbor wandered in to see what
all the commotion was about. Stuff was happening in Saravillo. We were just
trying to buy some pasta!
With our audience interested in every move,
and as Billy tried to entertain with our story, we managed to collect the few
things needed for the next two days. The lady on her way home from work figured
out the till in order for us to pay. After 10min the night’s entertainment in
Saravillo was over. The travellers had their food, the audience disbanded and
the shop returned to its former peacefulness as the shepherds laid their flocks
to sleep in the terraces above.
