By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble
Last month, during our first full day in the Cerdagne, we had driven up the valley that reaches from close behind Mont Louis to the Lac des Bouillouses, which is impounded by a significant dam. The valley is lovely, and something of a honeypot, which has led to it being closed to general traffic in the summer, all those wishing to enjoy it being “ferried” in “navettes”. We had arrived before this happened, and so could stop at will along the way, and take any number of photographs. What we all noticed, I think, is that this valley has a very distinct appearance; it reminded me, immediately, of Canada, (although I have never been there). Martine has, and confirmed my impression
The next day, we set out to do a fairly short walk from the road end, parking below the dam, and passing the less-than-subtle building of the big auberge. I was not feeling that great, and toiled rather on the path. It is, initially, rough and stony, much eroded by the considerable number of feet that use it, and, probably, the heavy rains of spring. But after an initial heave, we were in effect wandering around on a wooded plateau, studded with small lakes. As mentioned before, the mountains held the perfect amount of snow to add shape to their rather stony masses, and the weather was ideal. All the views were, therefore, perfectly reflected in the small lakes. It was very picturesque, and we could easily understand why it is regarded as one of the best walks in the area.
The next day, we set out to do a fairly short walk from the road end, parking below the dam, and passing the less-than-subtle building of the big auberge. I was not feeling that great, and toiled rather on the path. It is, initially, rough and stony, much eroded by the considerable number of feet that use it, and, probably, the heavy rains of spring. But after an initial heave, we were in effect wandering around on a wooded plateau, studded with small lakes. As mentioned before, the mountains held the perfect amount of snow to add shape to their rather stony masses, and the weather was ideal. All the views were, therefore, perfectly reflected in the small lakes. It was very picturesque, and we could easily understand why it is regarded as one of the best walks in the area.
We took it gently, stopping to look at the scenery, the flowers, and the various étangs that we encountered, some small, some larger, and all rather brimming with water. We actually walked over a few patches of snow, and the signs of recent snow-cover were all around. We soon were seeing one or two species of gentian in brilliant bloom, and one water-and-tussock area, (presumably normally simply a bog), was perfectly studded with the white Pyrenean buttercup; this we found all over during the rest of the walk. Close by here, too, were single, wild daffodils
(quite different from the narcissi we had seen in the glorious meadows) and, in some damp places, the pink-flowered alpine primrose, Primula integrifolia.
We sat on some wonderful rocks, enjoying our lunch and a splendid view, while occasionally tossing crumbs from our sandwiches to the tiny fish (trout?) at our feet. We heard a few chaffinches, but little else, and despite all the patches of shallow water we had seen, not a single damsel- or dragonfly, perhaps the result of the very late snow.
Passing another lake, we wandered up on to a broad ridge with smaller pines, and, eventually, an attractive small alp, which, we could see clearly, was regularly grazed. The result was an extremely close sward, full of tiny flowers, many of which could have come from a Highland hillside. Here we could have spent an idyllic half-hour or more, looking at the tiny flowers and the high summits, but for the intrusive racket from a large helicopter, which flew around and around for at least an hour; what it was doing, we could not work out. Martine took some pictures of the flowers; a favourite is the minute mountain everlasting, Antennaria dioica.
(That evening I borrowed Lesley’s flowerbook to look some of these plants up, and saw a handwritten note at the very end of the index; it had been written by Lesley’s father, and said “mountain everlasting” – a strange little coincidence.)
Passing another lake, we wandered up on to a broad ridge with smaller pines, and, eventually, an attractive small alp, which, we could see clearly, was regularly grazed. The result was an extremely close sward, full of tiny flowers, many of which could have come from a Highland hillside. Here we could have spent an idyllic half-hour or more, looking at the tiny flowers and the high summits, but for the intrusive racket from a large helicopter, which flew around and around for at least an hour; what it was doing, we could not work out. Martine took some pictures of the flowers; a favourite is the minute mountain everlasting, Antennaria dioica.
(That evening I borrowed Lesley’s flowerbook to look some of these plants up, and saw a handwritten note at the very end of the index; it had been written by Lesley’s father, and said “mountain everlasting” – a strange little coincidence.)
Next came a beautiful little lake; I would have loved a swim, but its waters were glacial, true snow-melt. At its head, a lovely rushing stream issued from yet another, and we again sat on a rock to look at the view.
There were flowers all around, especially the pale buttercup and the purple of the Pyrenean gentian. This we had seen for the very first time the day before; I have no idea how it has eluded us up till now, considering how much time we have spent in the Pyrenees. There may be some sort of geological connection, with resulting differences in the soils. The rock around Carlit looks somewhat granitic, rather different, for instance, from that of the Batère area, where we regularly visit.
Snow patches, brimming bogs, and the rough path took us back to the van-at last!
