But for now we share the hills with scattered herds of cattle. We take long walks past mountain lakes, their waters still cool despite the efforts of summer, and visit the ruins of the Château de Mirabat high above the Salat valley, gaining a commanding view of the peaks that separate us from Spain. On our way back, we meet an old lady, bent over with age, face lined with years of outdoors life. She is with a small flock of sheep which she is herding from field to field and she regales us with tales of her youth. The hills, she says, her broad hand sweeping across the panorama of trees to encompass it all, have changed. In her day they were managed. Steep tiers built into them, the forest cut down and the land farmed. Now, they have been overtaken again by nature. She shakes her head, then wishes us bonnes vacances, whistling the dog that has been lying patiently in the shade before continuing on her way, the sheep moving ahead of her. As she goes, we notice the truth of what she says, the terraces cut long ago into the hills, sides once propped with stone walls that are now dislodged and crumbling.
By late afternoon, we return tired and hungry to Seix where we are staying. The café is open. We collapse onto chairs and watch the villagers queue outside the bakery, chatting to one another. Always chatting. After a revitalising beer, there is just time for a wander before dinner. We dawdle along the River Salat with its crystal clear water, watching a lone fisherman who stands mid-river, whipping his rod through the air, the line falling in the last rays of sunshine. He hasn’t caught anything, he confesses with a rueful smile. But he doesn’t seem perturbed as he takes another step into the tumbling water which has the glassy look of a glacial cold.