full-size vineyard was planted near the little port of Guéthary
(Getari, in Basque) and professional wine-makers began to refine its production. The result is a deliciously fresh, light and subtle wine with a pretty hint of green in its tiny bubbles.
At sunset, we finally reached Biarritz, and strolled out to the Rocher de la Vierge on the walkway over the crashing Atlantic breakers before setting off for home. Glynn fell asleep on the
journey. He had been diagnosed with ‘indolent leukaemia’, the first of several life-threatening conditionswhose exotic names delighted him. Chloe was discovered in
tears. The essay had gone badly, and she had left herself only a few days to crack it. I felt terrible for driving off to enjoy myself when she needed my support. I say support, because she always
rejects actual help. We would only have one day alone together to talk it over.
Some of her friends never left themselves more than thirty-six hours for a major essay. Others of her friends spent weeks on each piece of coursework, and read every sentence to their parents
over the phone. Chloe aspired to the third way, conscientious but independent. However, when she was tackling a subject that daunted her, she could spend days almost frozen with fear, unable to
write a word. I suspect that it is no help to have a writer for a mother in this condition. I can never bear seeing her in distress and suddenly felt doubly guilty for enjoying myself with my
friends when she was struggling with her work alone in a strange place.
Athos, Portau and Aramitz – All For One, One For All
By the middle of the month, Chloe had left, and finished her essay on time with the familiar support of the university library and her housemates. Glynn was back in London,
painting frantically for his show in February, and the house was quiet again.
The weather was still bitterly cold, to the joy of the skiers and that section of the Béarnais population which makes a living in winter from the little resorts in the Pyrenees. I
don’t like skiing in the same way that I don’t like driving – the result is marvellous but the process is stressful. I am also a crap skier, being tall, heavy and gutless, with a
poor sense of balance. Furthermore, my idea of hell is a bar fullof boozed-up idiots in bad sweaters reliving their antics on the black runs at maximum volume.
A mountainside in winter, however, is some kind of paradise. I love the stillness, the champagne air, the soft brilliance of sun on snow, the white-on-white landscape, the crunch of snow
crystals underfoot. As it isn’t possible to enjoy a snowscape properly without skiing, I will endure the sport as far as I can – which nowadays isn’t much farther than
cross-country, or
ski de fond
. This is lucky, because the little Pyrenean resorts, with miles of mountain trails and no facilities at all for international euro-trash, are perfect for
people like me.
Before I could get to the snow, however, I found myself driving through a chapter of French literary history. After bowling east alongside the Gave d’Oloron, I had turned south, following
hopeful road signs to Saragosse, or Zaragoza, in northern Spain. The road to the ski-stations ran up the valley of Bartous through the village of Aramits. This is now a handful of stone-walled
barns and houses that crowd the gutter of the route to the mountains, apparently begging to be knocked down by one of the juggernauts, loaded with ewes’-milk cheeses, that come thundering
down in the direction of Pau.
Aramits gave most of its name to its most famous citizen, Henri d’Aramitz, a young squire of the old military nobility of the Béarn, who was called to Paris in 1640, at the age of
seventeen. The captain of the musketeers, the elite bodyguard of King Louis XIII, had heard that he was handy with a sword.
One of his friends, another young Béarnais with a great reputation for fighting, named Armand de Sillegue, Seigneur of Athos and of
(Getari, in Basque) and professional wine-makers began to refine its production. The result is a deliciously fresh, light and subtle wine with a pretty hint of green in its tiny bubbles.
At sunset, we finally reached Biarritz, and strolled out to the Rocher de la Vierge on the walkway over the crashing Atlantic breakers before setting off for home. Glynn fell asleep on the
journey. He had been diagnosed with ‘indolent leukaemia’, the first of several life-threatening conditionswhose exotic names delighted him. Chloe was discovered in
tears. The essay had gone badly, and she had left herself only a few days to crack it. I felt terrible for driving off to enjoy myself when she needed my support. I say support, because she always
rejects actual help. We would only have one day alone together to talk it over.
Some of her friends never left themselves more than thirty-six hours for a major essay. Others of her friends spent weeks on each piece of coursework, and read every sentence to their parents
over the phone. Chloe aspired to the third way, conscientious but independent. However, when she was tackling a subject that daunted her, she could spend days almost frozen with fear, unable to
write a word. I suspect that it is no help to have a writer for a mother in this condition. I can never bear seeing her in distress and suddenly felt doubly guilty for enjoying myself with my
friends when she was struggling with her work alone in a strange place.
Athos, Portau and Aramitz – All For One, One For All
By the middle of the month, Chloe had left, and finished her essay on time with the familiar support of the university library and her housemates. Glynn was back in London,
painting frantically for his show in February, and the house was quiet again.
The weather was still bitterly cold, to the joy of the skiers and that section of the Béarnais population which makes a living in winter from the little resorts in the Pyrenees. I
don’t like skiing in the same way that I don’t like driving – the result is marvellous but the process is stressful. I am also a crap skier, being tall, heavy and gutless, with a
poor sense of balance. Furthermore, my idea of hell is a bar fullof boozed-up idiots in bad sweaters reliving their antics on the black runs at maximum volume.
A mountainside in winter, however, is some kind of paradise. I love the stillness, the champagne air, the soft brilliance of sun on snow, the white-on-white landscape, the crunch of snow
crystals underfoot. As it isn’t possible to enjoy a snowscape properly without skiing, I will endure the sport as far as I can – which nowadays isn’t much farther than
cross-country, or
ski de fond
. This is lucky, because the little Pyrenean resorts, with miles of mountain trails and no facilities at all for international euro-trash, are perfect for
people like me.
Before I could get to the snow, however, I found myself driving through a chapter of French literary history. After bowling east alongside the Gave d’Oloron, I had turned south, following
hopeful road signs to Saragosse, or Zaragoza, in northern Spain. The road to the ski-stations ran up the valley of Bartous through the village of Aramits. This is now a handful of stone-walled
barns and houses that crowd the gutter of the route to the mountains, apparently begging to be knocked down by one of the juggernauts, loaded with ewes’-milk cheeses, that come thundering
down in the direction of Pau.
Aramits gave most of its name to its most famous citizen, Henri d’Aramitz, a young squire of the old military nobility of the Béarn, who was called to Paris in 1640, at the age of
seventeen. The captain of the musketeers, the elite bodyguard of King Louis XIII, had heard that he was handy with a sword.
One of his friends, another young Béarnais with a great reputation for fighting, named Armand de Sillegue, Seigneur of Athos and of
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