Sunday, December 17, 2006

Destination Pyrenees

Our second foray took us deep into the blood-red beating heart of Spain...
Reluctantly relinquishing the cosy coast roads around Valencia, we pushed inwards,
mile after mile of uninhabited landscape our constant companion.

We neared the city of Zaragoza, and at the airport Miki and I said our temporary
goodbyes as the silver bird took me to England and a concert to perform.

A mere two days later. and we are reunited, this time in Pau, the Pyrenees forming a
magnificent honour guard on the horizon to welcome me to this region for the first time.

So on to Tarbes, Miki's family home, and home from home for us. Within a day, the
house was transformed into both art studio and sound studio, Creativity fired by our
surroundings.

The trips begin... up into the Pyrenees, wonderful landscapes and breathtaking views,
strange sights and glimpses of birds of prey lords of the skies these peaks strive to
reach.

The wrongness of a Ski resort before the snows, chair lifts, as though cast around the slopes
by giant hands, In winter, a neccessity, in the last days of Autumn, looking like nothing more than discarded metal and wire carelessly abandoned.

Donkeys and Llamas, this lofty menagerie, wander unchecked across the fields and roads,
this is their domain, we are just passing.
The highest peaks, just glimpsed in the distance, play host to the first snows of winter,
and serve warning of the coming blanket to be thrown over this region for the coming
months.

Still we journey upward, until at its zenith, an abandoned hotel, shuttered, denying
travellers' rest, gazes out alongside us at a view that catches our breath.
Peak after peak, valley after valley stretches out in front of us, into the far distance....
Fresh, pure bubbling water cascades down the mountainside, exhilarating, life affirming.
This, if there ever could be such a place, is God's Country.

Another day in Tarbes and a trip is planned...this time, to Lourdes.
It is to prove, amongst other things, the inspiration for my latest composition,
"The Heretic's Song".

We arrive in this place, so favoured by the religious and afflicted, or both,
and I immediately feel the unease I always do in "holy" places. I have also visited
Jerusalem, and the similarities are striking. I can only describe it as "A quiet
Hysteria"

Thankfully, there are less afflicted here today than normal, but there are enough.
As we park the car, I wonder for a moment if there are more disabled parking spaces
here in Lourdes than in other towns...it would seem a sensible precaution.
I must make it clear that it is not the afflicted themselves that are the subject of my
derision, but the religion that exploits them. My song refers to Lourdes as
"Jesus Disneyland" and that is how I see it. The way they are wheeled into the
"Grotto experience" and subjected to the Holy Water on tap makes my skin crawl.

But surely the worst was yet to come... as we entered the church that has been built
to service the Miracle Industry, I noticed every single wall was covered in plaques,
commemorating individual miracles, but more importantly, commemorating
"thankful donations" by the families of the afflicted.
One child even had the middle name "Bernadette" after the girl who supposedly
saw Mary, which I found strangely convenient. The church is COVERED, without

a gap in these plaques, and all through the crypt too. The line in my
song "It takes
an awful lot of Euros, to get your plaque put up in here" refers to this.
It sits very uneasily with me that a religion that was formed to control the masses
still flourishes in the 21st century as a money-collecting service masquerading as
affirmation of faith. Nevertheless, each to his own, and it was admittedly fascinating

Once back in Tarbes, Miki painted with abandon, wonderful images from her mind, probably unconsciously inspired by the places that we had visited, and I expanded on my embryonic song idea, as it became
“The Heretic’s Song”. At times like this we seem to exist as one,
Feverishly working, apart, yet together. It is a complete joy.

We left Tarbes on an early evening, aiming to greet the dawn in Spain.
Once again we climbed into the great natural barrier between the two countries,
and crossed the border at an abandoned frontier post from a forgotten time.
Soon, our ascent was complete, and, denied further progress, we were plunged into
a tunnel seemingly with no end, hewn from solid pyrenean rock, barely wide enough
to take two vehicles, as juggernauts thundered by us on their way into France.
We inadvertently tried to make ourselves smaller as our car squeezed by these
giant metal missiles. Eventually, emerging into a Spanish night, we began a
graceful descent into the lowlands and home, but the Mountains would always
remain in our hearts.

KEV MOORE

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Destination Bouges

Racing against the setting sun, reliable German engineering sped us Northwards along the Autoroute, kissing the Spanish coast, and slipping past the Pyrenees as they relinquished their grandeur to the sea.

Then, au revoir to Nimes, and inland, into the Heart of Nowhere, a land rich with the echoes of religious battles, mysterious retreats and magnificent scenery.

The sun abandons us to the interior, darkness falls, and with it, the temperature, as we climb higher, Motorway gives way to Road, Road gives way to track as we wind around and around, onward and upward, sheer precipice inviting a quick death beckons at every turn. Then suddenly, there, then gone in a moment…did we glimpse a welcoming bouquet of light on the far darkened hillside? We dared to hope.

Still, we hug the edge, the car becomes a claw grasping for purchase on the well-worn track, and then, finally, the Lights, flickering, the wind and rain beat a tattoo of welcome, this cold and lonely place, the end of the road, the end of the day, the beginning of our adventure…..


Morning brings the gift of sunlight, a photo-negative of the night before, the rays dry out the heather on the hillsides that cradle this idyllic place.

The house, a cornucopia of delights…what stories these walls could tell! Our hosts, Fine wine and Conversation, Breads and Cheeses, Soup to die for!!

In moments, Bouges has us in its thrall, we seek out every nook and cranny, comb the Village end to end, our sketchbooks out and ready, we begin the process….take in every nuance…so much more to see through Artist’s eyes, that casual glances sinfully ignore.
And so they come, the drawings, village, doors, and trees all fall beneath the humble pencil, captured, kept and treasured memories, set in stone.

Day after day this wonderful cycle repeats. My soul, my heart is full. The songs begin to come. I know Miki feels the same. I write “Baby Paints The Stars”. We walk the meadows and insects explode in colour with our every step, a Rainbow dream to mark our passing.



There is talk in the village. Hushed low tones. No –one must know. An expedition is planned. Only the chosen few are told. We discuss it at dinner, though the shutters are closed and the lamps are low. The dinner conversation is wide-ranging. I discover the origins of the name “Bouvier” and venture the opinion that it is a most unfortunate occurrence that America’s former first lady was saddled with a surname that meant “Cow-Herder”.

But, as the sorbet is served… talk turns to the morning expedition. One word…MUSHROOMS. It is guaranteed to capture the attention of any Bouges resident. For the rare mushrooms of these hillsides are fought for with vigour, obsession, and not a little subterfuge.

It is a matter of pride for the Mushroom-hunter that they are not so much as even observed whilst hunting them. Camouflage fatigues are de rigeur, and the baskets are hidden from plain sight, for fear someone will tumble to their work. A circuitous route is always attempted, as rival families are often to be found on the end of a pair of binoculars, cynically spying on the location of the choicest mushrooms, unwittingly revealed by the careless hunter.

A tension pervades the house. You can cut it with a knife. Will they return laden with the bounty? Will they return empty handed? Will they return at all?

Dusk casts its cloak across the hills, and with it, the hunters return, victorious, with choicest fayre for our table tonight. We consume them with awe and wonder, and, for my part, not a little bafflement…..


Another day, and the morning begins with a gunshot. A little confused, emerging from a dream I briefly wonder if Miki has finally found the solution to my snoring, but, as reality seeps into my brain like spilt coffee on a tablecloth, I realize…..BOAR HUNT!

After breakfast, we watch them combing the steep hillsides with their guns, trying to flush out their almost pre-historic prey. The boars have roamed these hills for eons, they do not give up that right easily.

Throughout the day, an occasional shot punctuates the silence, and we wonder…..
Late in the afternoon, we stroll through the village and find the hunters, successful, butchering their prey. It is a humbling sight. The whole village shares this experience, for, once completed, Wild Boar meat is sent around to all the residents. A communion with the land and all its riches, in the purest form.


And all too soon, that fateful day arrives. Our day of departure. And we remember the stormy night’s arrival, with a smile.

Bidding farewell, our hosts, recede in rear-view mirror, and the treacherous tracks now cradle us, one of their own, in bliss descending, leaving this Secret Garden, for the Real World.

KEV MOORE