OLORON AND THE VAL D'ASPE
Oloron, at the confluence of the Gave d'Ossau and the Gave d'Aspe, has
existed since Roman times, when it was known as Iluro, finally changing
to Oloro and Olero. It was sacked by the Saracens in 732, and later
entirely ruined by the Normans. Centulle, Vicomte de Béarn,
reëstablished the city, and for a time made it his residence.
The roads and lanes and paths of the neighbourhood of Oloron offer some
of the most charming promenades of the region, but one must go on foot
or on donkey-back (the latter at a cost of five francs a day) to
discover all their beauties. The highroads of the Pyrenees are a speedy
and a short means of communication between two points, but the delicate
charm of the region is only discovered by following the by-roads, quite
away from the beaten track.
Oloron will some day be an artists' resort, but it hasn't been exploited
as such yet. It sits delightfully on the banks of the two Gaves, and
has all the picturesqueness that old tumble-down Gothic and Renaissance
houses and bridges can suggest, the whole surrounded with a verdure and
a rocky setting which is "all things to all (painter) men."
In reality Oloron is a triple city, each quite distinct from one
another: Sainte-Marie, the episcopal city, with the cathedral and the
bishop's palace; Sainte-Croix, the old feudal bourg; and the Quartier
Neuve, the quarter of the railway station, the warehouses and all the
smug commercialism which has spoiled many a fair landscape elsewhere.
The feudal Sainte-Croix has character; the episcopal Sainte-Marie
dignity. In Sainte-Croix the houses rise up from the surface of the Gave
in the most entrancing, damp picturesqueness imaginable as the waters
flow swiftly down towards Orthez. Back from the river, the houses are
mounted on tortuous hillsides, with narrow, silent streets, as if they
and their inhabitants all lived in the past. On the very crest of the
hill is the Église Sainte-Croix, founded in the ninth century by one of
the Vicomtes de Béarn, a monument every whit as interesting as the great
cathedral lower down.
The diocese of Saint-Marie d'Oloron was the least wealthy of any of
mediæval France. Its government allowance was but thirteen thousand
francs, and this sum had to be divided with the Bishop of Lescar. On the
other hand, the city of Oloron itself was important and wealthy in its
own right.
In the Faubourg of Sainte-Croix one remarks as real a mediævalism as
exists anywhere in France to-day. Its streets are narrow and silent, and
therein are found many examples of domestic habitations dating back to
Roman times. These are very rare to-day, even in southern Gaul, where
the hand of progress is supposed to be weak. Interspersed with these
Romanesque houses are admirable works of the Gothic and Renaissance
periods. There is very little that is modern.
Of the old city walls but little evidence remains. A kind of rampart is
seen here and there built into other structures, and one, at least, of
the watch-towers is left, of the dozen or more that once existed.
Sainte-Croix still has, however, an archaic aspect which bids fair not
to change within the lives of the present generation.
The chief industries of Oloron are the making of _espadrilles_, and the
weaving of "toile du Béarn," a species of linen with which housewives
all over these parts stock their linen closets once in a lifetime, and
which lasts till they die, or perhaps longer, and is handed down to
their daughters and granddaughters.
Another echo of Protestantism in Béarn still reverberates at Oloron. A
one-time Bishop of Oloron, a protégé of Marguerite de Navarre, became a
disciple of Martin Luther. He was named Roussel, and had been a
professor of philosophy in the University of Paris. He had travelled in
Germany, had met Luther, and had all but accepted his religion, when,
returning to Béarn, he came into favour with the learned Marguerite, who
nominated him Bishop of Oloron. He hesitated between the two religions,
knowing not which to take. Meantime he professed both one and the other;
in the morning he was for Rome, and in the evening for Luther; and
preaching thus in the churches and temples he became a natural enemy of
both parties. One day he was summarily despatched by a blow with a
hatchet which one of his parishioners had concealed upon his person as
he came to church. For this act the murderer was, in the reign of Henri
IV, made Bishop of Oloron in the unworthy Roussel's place.
Six kilometres from Oloron, at Eysus, a tiny hamlet too small to be
noted in most guide books, is an old _Château de Plaisance_ of the
Vicomtes de Béarn. Folks had the habit, even in the old days, of living
around wherever fancy willed--the same as some of us do to-day. It has
some advantages and not many disadvantages.
Back of Oloron, towards the foot-hills of the Pyrenees, is another of
those little kingdoms which were scattered all over France, and which
only geographers and antiquarians know sufficiently well to be able to
place offhand. This is the Barétous, and very curious it is with the
survival of its old customs and costumes. Up to Aramits the routes are
much frequented, but as one penetrates further into the fastnesses of
the mountains, there is an immense sadness that is as entrancing as the
most vivid gaiety. Pushing through to the Spanish frontier, fifty
kilometres or more beyond Aramits, a whole kaleidoscope of mountain
charms unrolls itself at every step.
At the Spanish frontier limit, a quaint and curious ceremony is held on
the thirteenth of July in each year by the Baretains and their Spanish
neighbours. The Baretains, by an ancient right, pasture their flocks up
in the high valleys of the Ronçal, and, to recognize the right of the
Ronçalois to keep them out of their pasturage if they so chose, the
Baretains pay them homage. The ceremony is carried out before a notary,
seven _jurats_ being the representatives of the Baretains, each armed
with a pike, as are the representatives of Ronçal. The first lay down
their pikes before the latter, and, in a second layer, their points
turned towards the Béarnais capital, are placed those of the Ronçalois.
Then a shout of acclamation goes up and rends the air: "Patz abantz!
Patz abantz! Patz abantz!--Peace for the future!" This is the signal for
a general rejoicing, and a merry-making of dancing and eating and
drinking, not far different from other fêtes. It is the setting that
makes it so remarkable, and the quaint costumes and customs of the men
and women of two nations mingling in a common fête.
This Franco-Espagnol ceremony is accomplished with much éclat on a
little square of ground set off on the maps of the État Major as "Champ
de Foire Français et Espagnol." Tradition demands that three cows be
given or offered to the Spanish by the French for the privilege of
pasturage over the border in the Spanish valleys. The cows are loosed on
the _Champ de Foire_, and if they remain for half an hour without
crossing the line into France again they belong to the Spanish. If, on
the other hand, one or more cross back into France they remain the
property of the French.
Formerly three horses were used for this part of the function, but as
they were bound to have a white star on the forehead, and as that
variety of beast is rare in these parts, a compromise was made to carry
out the pact with the cows.
The most historic spot in the Gave d'Aspe is unquestionably Sarrance.
Notre Dame de Sarrance is a venerable and supposedly miraculous statue.
Numbers of pilgrims have visited the shrine in times past, among them
the none too constant Louis XI, who, if he was devoted to Our Lady of
Cléry and Notre Dame de Embrun, was ready to bow down before any whom he
thought might do him a good turn.
Certainly Sarrance's most favourite memory is that of the celebrated
Marguerite de Navarre. If she did not write, she at least conceived the
idea of her "Heptameron" here, if history is to be believed.
The title page of this immortal work reads as follows,
L'HEPTAMERON
"des nouvelles de très illustré et très excellente
princesse, Marguerite de Valois, Reine de Navarre."
The history of the inception of these tales is often inexactly recounted
at this late day, but in the main the facts seem to be as follows:--
In September (1549?), when the queen and her followers were journeying
from Cauterets to Tarbes, the waters of the Gave overflowed their banks
and destroyed the bridge of Sarrance. The party stopped first at the
Abbaye de Saint Savin, and again at the Monastère de Notre Dame de
Sarrance. Ten days were necessary to repair the bridge which had been
carried away, and time apparently hung heavy on the hands of every one.
To break the ennui of their sojourn in the company of these austere
monks of Sarrance, the royal party sought what amusements they might.
In the morning all met with the Dame Oysille, the eldest of the company,
when they had an hour's reading of the Scriptures. After this there was
a mass; then at ten o'clock they dined; finally each retired to his
room--"_pour ses affaires particulières_," says the old
record--presumably to sleep, though it was early in the day for that. In
the afternoon ("_depuis midi jusques à quatres heures_," ran the old
chronicle) they all assembled in the meadow by the river's bank beneath
the trees, and each, seated at his ease, recounted such salacious
satires and tales as would have added to the fame of Boccaccio. This
procedure went on until the tellers of tales were interrupted by the
coming of the prior who called them to vespers.
These tales or "_contes_," or "_petites histoires_," or whatever one
chooses to call them, free of speech and of incident as was the custom
of the time, were afterwards mothered by the queen of Navarre, and given
to the world as the product of her fertile mind. Judging from their
popularity at that time, and since, the fair lady must have been a
wonderful storyteller.
The gentle slopes of a prairie along the banks of the Gave near by is
the reputed spot where these tales were told,--a spot "where the sun
could not pierce the thick foliage," certainly romantically and
picturesquely endowed. The site is charming, and one can picture the
scene all out again for himself if he is possessed of the least bit of
imaginative sense.
Still following the valley of the Aspe upward, one comes next to Bedous,
really a pretentious little city, but unheard of by conventional
travellers. Everything begins to take on a Spanish hue, and the church,
dating from 1631, is more Spanish than French in its architecture and
all its appointments. All the commercial life of the valley centres
here, and a mixed Franco-Espagnol traffic goes on. It is principally the
trading of cattle, sheep and wool, with an occasional porker or a donkey
sold, or bargained for, on the side. Bedous has been marked out as being
the terminus of a railway line yet to be built. Until the times shall be
propitious for pushing the railway on into Spain the town will remain
simply what it has been for centuries. When that day comes, much of the
charm of the region will be gone. The automobile is no such desecrator
as the railway, let scoffers say what they will.
In the valley of the Aspe, with snow-capped mountains in full view,
there is a surprising softness of climate all through the year. In this
valley was the last refuge of Protestantism in the days of the religious
wars, and the little village of Bedous still possesses a "temple" and a
"pastor."
Above Bedous, towards the crest of the Pyrenees, is Accous, and as one
progresses things become more and more Spanish, until the sign
"_Posada_" is as frequent as "_Auberge_."
Accous offers no curiosities to visitors, but it was here that Victor
Hugo gave the last glimpses of Jean Valjean when the police were close
upon his trail; "at the place called the _Grange de Doumec_, near the
hamlet of Chavilles," ran the romance.
From this point the valley of the Aspe opens almost perpendicularly into
the heart of the rock wall of the Pyrenees; it is a veritable chasm in
its upper reaches; and in this rocky defile was once a tiny feudality,
absorbed and later wiped into oblivion by the Revolution.
Beyond Sarrance are Urdos and Somport and the fortress of Portalet. The
route was known to the ancients as that through which the Saracens came
from Spain to over-run southern Gaul. Somport was the _Summus Pyreneus_
of the old-time historians of the Romans.