We go to the mountains whenever we can. And we try to find at least one new walk everytime we’re here.  

That was why we went to Bareges. Once a quaint mountain village, now an ugly resort. ‘I thought it would be buzzing’, said Jim. ‘I’d hoped we’d at least get a cup of coffee’. But Bareges was a ghost town, waiting for snow and skiers, full of hoardings for hotels and bars but bereft of punters. We drove to a car park, and watched some little kids practicing their Spiderman antics on a climbing wall while we donned jackets and hats. We set off along the Bastan, the river  squeezing through a narrow valley, tumbling over rocks, crashing and splashing below us. The noise filled up my ears and then my head. Volume making space. 

We climbed a  broad, easy track hugging a contour. Distance and height gave Bareges a better look. Surrounded by mountains and tree-covered slopes, the town crammed itself into the bottom of the valley. We walked through trees and ferns, past numerous information boards and benches up to the tiny chapel of Saint Justin; dwarfed by a huge wooden cross and the all-round 360 degree view. A family had laid claim to the sheltered side of the hill, so buffeted by the wind, we perched on rocks to eat our baguettes, looking down to Luz-Saint-Sauveur and up to the red kites that circled lazily above us. 

A beautiful spot, but not comfortable enough to stay long, we moved off and began climbing again, now on a narrower, less-trodden path. Surrounded by shades of amber and chestnut, copper and russet, we paused often until we reached the crest. Past horses sheltering under branches, nuzzling each other softly, heads hanging, tails flicking. Past crumbling farm buildings, lintels broken, window and door frames empty, past brooks and butterflies, encircled by great mountains and trees just beginning to ‘turn’. It was not a great climb, but it was enough for us and at the top before the downhill stretch we needed to rest. For lack of anything better we plunked ourselves down on a patch of grass, and ate our last remaining square of chocolate. 

For Jim, the worst was to come. Downhill kills his knees. We set off slowly. Now in pastoral land, past grazing cattle, farmhouses with flower laden window-sills, parked tractors and ragged dogs. And past great stone barns, wedges and blocks of interlocking silver and gunmetal gray, with solid, thick stone walls behind – avalanche and snow-melt protection. 

We loop de looped back down to the town. Back to the river. To a young guy with very baggy trousers doing a dry ski run down gentle hills, four friends filming his every jump, whoop and smile. To the outskirts of town, past the thermal baths and a smell of sulfur, still not a soul on the streets. Back to the car, grateful for the walk, glad of a sit-down. 

Tired, but satisfied. A walk, always a pick-me-up for the soul. 

Practical Stuff.

Creperie Saint Justin. Open beginning of May to end of September.