About 100km south of Toulouse in southern France, the E9 European trunk route passes through Tarascon sur Ariège on its way through the Pyrenees to Barcelona in neighbouring Spain. Tarascon is a kind of frontier town astride the river Ariège and surrounded by mountains. South-east from the town the Vicdessos valley climbs for 40km or so towards the 3000 metre high summit ridge which separates the two countries.
I pass this way in June to catch up with the spring movement of horses, cattle and sheep up to the mountain pastures. Known as the "transhumance", this will leave at around seven o’clock in the morning from the « Pla de l’Isard ». In the language of the region, Catalan, “Pla” is a plain or flat open area. “Isard” is the local Pyrenean name for the chamois, a European species of mountain goat. Livestock have been mustered here for centuries. It is the last flat place that we shall see today.
The sky is the colour of lead, the mountains cloaked in cloud, and my camera is already complaining about the light. It wants its flashgun. That is not the way to natural-looking photographs on a mountain. I debate with myself whether to continue the day’s shoot or simply give up and go home.
I was born to be in the mountains and I have come a long way today so I decide to stay with the transhumance until we reach the solid cloud layer above. Then at least honour will be satisfied and I can go home.
Exactly on time, the cattle leave first preceded by a classically red-faced farmer in a Citreon van who shouts at the spectators to keep out of their way. The narrow road follows the side of a gorge with a steep drop to one side. He fears that urban visitors will not anticipate the cows’ movements and will place themselves between the animals and the abyss. All it takes is one cow with a calf that have fallen behind the others and are trying to catch them up. One jostle with a tourist and it will all be over. It has happened before and there have been injuries but, so far, no deaths.
Next follow around twenty Mérens horses, a native Pyrenean breed. Today, silhouetted
Contrary to popular belief, sheep are anything but stupid. They know what they are doing even if it does not make immediate sense to some humans. They stick together because they know that this confuses predators. While it is true that this lot are protected by shepherds, sheep farming has only been around for a few thousand years. That is not very long in evolutionary terms. Better safe than sorry.
The flock ebbs and flows around me as the leaders fix on some approaching patch of grass. When they turn aside to snatch this pasture on the move, others will overtake and become the next front row. The browsers will rejoin the rear of the column as it passes. This cycle continuously repeats itself like waves breaking on a beach.
The sheep need to browse continually, not just for nourishment, but also for the moisture which the grass contains and carries on its surfaces. Climbing on a June day is hot work and dehydration is a risk. A couple of vans follow the flock, ready to collect any stragglers who find it all too much. There is usually the odd geriatric ewe or a lamb born too late in the season to make the whole trip on foot this time.
I notice that some sheep are wearing eye-catching red or yellow pompoms. Obviously this must have some profound cultural or religious significance. Ever keen to understand other people's lives and cultures, I ask a shepherd to explain the meaning of this historic and traditional custom. He stares at me, wide-eyed, trying hard to keep a straight face. He says “It seemed like a good idea - today is supposed to be fun. We just wanted to make them look pretty”. He even wears a few pompoms himself.
After such a silly question, he contains himself no longer and explodes into laughter. His colleagues follow suite five milliseconds later. I am confronted by a line of hysterical shepherds. Unfortunately we are all men and so cannot walk and laugh at the same time. The human vanguard shudders to a temporary halt.
Following are hundreds of woolly females that can walk and chew grass simultaneously. They don’t stop. . .
The flock reaches the cloud base where I had promised myself that I would turn back. Most of the spectators have long since returned from whence they came. But, I am having fun with my new-found friends so I continue and a strange things begin to happen.
As we climb through the mist, the light level improves rapidly and serious photography becomes an option. Then the white of the sheep’s fleeces melds with the grey mist to ghostly atmospheric effect. Images appear one after another telling the story and I am glad I stuck with it.
Three hours after leaving the Pla, the sheep suddenly stop at around 1800 metres. I ask a shepherd what is wrong - “Cows up ahead”. We have caught up the grey gascon cattle that began the day. A hundred metres ahead, the track has narrowed to single file. The cows search diligently for a way up through the rocks.
One of the shepherds runs forward, staff in hand, to direct the bovine traffic jam. He stands high on a boulder, complete with staff and beret. What a gift for a photographer! As this oil painting comes to life before my eyes, I run forward across the rock-strewn slope, hoping that he stays there long enough to be recorded for posterity. Obligingly he does. . .
Once past this little drama, it’s a short walk to a footbridge across the river Soulcem. The final destination, open mountainside, beckons on the other bank. The transhumance is complete. A shepherd will stay with the flock throughout the summer to make sure that all is well. They’ll descend again in October.
