My brother-in-law’s mother’s family comes from the Pyrenées
area of France. I was motivated to see
if I could find some trace of that family while I was here. We went in search of Esquiule—an
almost unpronounceable, but lovely little village east of Bayonne and southwest
of Pau. The Michelin atlas highlights
particularly scenic drives with heavy green lines. We chose to take one of those routes to
Esquiule and to explore the countryside.
We had lunch in Orthez, which sports an interesting 13th-14th
century fortified bridge over the river Gave de Pau.
French on top, Basque below |
Madame et Monsieur chatting |
bathing room and, evidently, the communication
center.
Just as Madame came in and plopped herself down on one of
the beds for a mini-rest, he sat at his computer and opened an Excel
spreadsheet with hundreds of names separated into ranges of years. Her head popped up and down, encouraging us
to sit down around the table while her husband did his work. She was interested in where I learned my
French as I explained my long-time interest in the language and the
country. She seemed pleased. We were more a novelty than anything
else.
Monsieur pulled up the section that included birthdates in
1891 and scrolled down to the “Js” where he found, miraculously enough, no
fewer than five people—three of them siblings and one of them, perhaps, a
cousin. I photographed the screen after
he struggled to print out the page and after biting my tongue from saying “Si
vous me permettez. . .” (If you’ll allow
me. . .) so I could highlight the page to print. He then turned to weddings and found
another. But there were no deaths, which
might indicate that the family deserted the town before anyone kicked the
bucket.
We got a photo of our helpful gentlemen who happens to be
the organist at the church nearby and clearly the keeper of the town’s records. He told me that he put that list together
over the years using what information already existed plus announcements in the
paper—a labor of love, it appears.
After Madame established that my brother-in-law’s family was
Basque about which she was pleased--this being Basque country to the core, we
said our thank-you’s and crossed the street to walk up to the church on the
other side of the café. The town is
small enough so that the cemetery is between the café and the church
itself. A small cemetery, I wonder where
they buried all those citizens who lived here so long ago, though maybe most of
them left with my brother-in-law’s family and died in other parts where the
cemeteries are larger.
On our walk back to the car, we passed the pelota court
(pilota or eusko pilota in Basque), which was, of course, nestled in the town
center next to the church, cemetery and café and across from the Le Mairie
(town hall). No boule court here. It’s Basque country, if you please.
Driving out of town, we looked back to get a glimpse of the
town and the snow-covered Pyrenées in the background. What a view.
As we turned the bend at the edge of town between two farms, we nearly ran
smack dab into a lovely cow, followed by his owner and dog. We all had a good laugh—except the cow.
We finished our tour of the area, leaving Esquiule and the
ridge on a one-lane road that passed homes and farms scattered here and there,
pulling over to give the right of way to a piece of farm equipment or creeping
by another that had pulled over for me.
France is one of the most automotively-civilized countries I’ve ever
driven in. Very few horns, attention to
yield signs (and there are gazillions of them) at round-abouts (and there are
gazillions of those, too), attention to temporary traffic lights installed
where there’s construction in the road, passing on the left—ALWAYS—and then
returning to the right lane—ALWAYS. I
digress. . .
This is yet another physically breathtaking part of France. I’m sure we’ll never run out of them
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