APPROACHING MERCANTOUR
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| Lake Trécolpas |
Wild and powerful is the Vésubie river, which flows into the Var thirty kilometres North of Nizza. It has carved narrow and chaotic gorges through which a road struggles to exist. Many tunnels had to be dug. Saint Martin de Vésubie is the first village, at the doorsteps of the Alps, that it crosses. From there, one can enter the National Park of Mercantour. It is also possible to connect to the neighbouring valley of the Tinée. One just needs to go up through a pass and then down on the other side: a simple process that we were about to make our daily routine over the following weeks going through the Southern Alps.
At the entrance of Saint Martin, a wood and brick chalet bore the name of la Maison du Petit Bois (the house of the small wood). It is actually a charming Bed and Breakfast with a large garden in which one feels like sitting outside. Perhaps if one is fortunate enough, the long-haired house cat will come and pay a visit. Fifi is very particular about choosing whom to visit. At night, it sleeps in a wooden baby bed outside on the terrace. Eric, our host, spoilt us with eggs and bacon at breakfast and home-made cakes. In a way that was a proper breakfast for mountaineers. The whole house is decorated with countless vintage objects from the mountains which made very feel cosy. Although it was summer, the thought of curling under the warm quilt felt quite natural and comforting.
I needed to change "tyres", that is to say buy a new pair of walking shoes. We had decided to rest a few days in Saint Martin, so that gave me the chance to "warm-up" my new shoes progressively during our day tours.
The town of Saint Martin is very compact. Medieval houses were built one next to the other on both sides of narrow streets. Was it to keep the warmth inside the village during the winter and keep away the summer heat? Probably. Stone houses are adorned with large wooden balconies ideal to let clothes dry in the wind. The town has expanded over the year around the center. Especially with the rather large square, by local standards, where the 19th century neoclassical city hall beams with orange and yellow colours next to neighbouring cafe terraces. Plane trees provide shade to the corner where the market takes place. Around the old center, the town has expanded in the 19th and 20th century.
I was hoping to find a hair-dresser but all the three hair salons were fully-booked until after the long weekend of Bastille day, which was the day before the soccer world cup final in which France would win against Croatia. It seems that celebrations are proportionate to the size of the town. Paris was reported to have been in a lot of street partying, but Saint Martin was relatively quiet in comparison. A few people held French flags on the city hall square, a handful of kids with blue-white-red make-up stripes on their cheeks played on the wooden stage that had hosted the Bastille Day ball the night before. Some people wore a hat in the shape of a blue-white-red fluffy cock. Some cars came honking while driving around the market square. A few drums had assembled at Chez Amandine, a bar at the back of the city hall, which had broadcasted the match on large screen TV sets. This was the epicentre of celebrations in terms of blue-white-red visibility, beer consumption, people concentration and loudness (the drums did help a lot). Restaurants opened a bit later than usual to help kitchen staff have their share of the Finale. One guy, who must have celebrated more than others, was walking on the main street in underwear with two small French flags attached to each branch of his eyeglasses.
During our stay in Saint-Martin, we had dinner twice at the pizzeria Le Vieux Four, named after the old bread oven that is used to bake pizzas and grill meat. It seemed to be a successful family business, the mother was cooking in the kitchen, the father helping also with the pizzas and the grill plus quite a bit of public relations and the son was obviously fully busy with serving guests. On our first dinner there, we had booked a table outside on the pavement to get a bit of fresh air. That evening, a classical music concert was taking place in a nearby church. We got to know about it as the musicians later came for dinner at restaurant. Some of them were obviously regulars. Jacques, the father, was, as usual for the season, wearing sport shoes, a t-shirt and a pair of shorts which were partly hidden below a vast white apron. Not very tall, he was compensating his size with an emphatic and sustained vocal flow supplemented by ample gestures. He beamed with praises of his customers. The Mayor had come along with the musicians. He was affectionately greeted with a hug and called by his nickname " Mon Petit Lapin" (my small rabbit) and quickly offered a glass of wine. I became very curious to know more about his nickname. In any case, we decided to come back the following night for a beef rib. Order was taken verbally before leaving and reconfirmed the next day while meeting, by accident, the father and his wife on the main street. It transpired on Saturday night that the Mayor's nickname had befallen to him on the occasion of a local festival (baking festival, I think) which was taking place in the street of the restaurant and which probably involved a lot of drinking. Unfortunately I haven't had a chance to find out the complete story.
A sad part of modern history is commemorated next to the market square. During the Second World War, because the border with Italy is very close, Jews were smuggled from Italy to France through the nearby pass of Madone de Fenestre. Tragically several dozens of those were arrested by the Gestapo and deported.
On a happier note Saint Martin has got another personality: Marco, the butcher. He prepares meat, but also cold cuts (ham, sausages, ...) by himself. One of the local specialty is called caillette. It is an amalgam of small pieces of pork meat cooked with herbs in pork fat for a long time to give it a very soft structure.
At the entrance of Saint Martin, a wood and brick chalet bore the name of la Maison du Petit Bois (the house of the small wood). It is actually a charming Bed and Breakfast with a large garden in which one feels like sitting outside. Perhaps if one is fortunate enough, the long-haired house cat will come and pay a visit. Fifi is very particular about choosing whom to visit. At night, it sleeps in a wooden baby bed outside on the terrace. Eric, our host, spoilt us with eggs and bacon at breakfast and home-made cakes. In a way that was a proper breakfast for mountaineers. The whole house is decorated with countless vintage objects from the mountains which made very feel cosy. Although it was summer, the thought of curling under the warm quilt felt quite natural and comforting.
I needed to change "tyres", that is to say buy a new pair of walking shoes. We had decided to rest a few days in Saint Martin, so that gave me the chance to "warm-up" my new shoes progressively during our day tours.
The town of Saint Martin is very compact. Medieval houses were built one next to the other on both sides of narrow streets. Was it to keep the warmth inside the village during the winter and keep away the summer heat? Probably. Stone houses are adorned with large wooden balconies ideal to let clothes dry in the wind. The town has expanded over the year around the center. Especially with the rather large square, by local standards, where the 19th century neoclassical city hall beams with orange and yellow colours next to neighbouring cafe terraces. Plane trees provide shade to the corner where the market takes place. Around the old center, the town has expanded in the 19th and 20th century.
I was hoping to find a hair-dresser but all the three hair salons were fully-booked until after the long weekend of Bastille day, which was the day before the soccer world cup final in which France would win against Croatia. It seems that celebrations are proportionate to the size of the town. Paris was reported to have been in a lot of street partying, but Saint Martin was relatively quiet in comparison. A few people held French flags on the city hall square, a handful of kids with blue-white-red make-up stripes on their cheeks played on the wooden stage that had hosted the Bastille Day ball the night before. Some people wore a hat in the shape of a blue-white-red fluffy cock. Some cars came honking while driving around the market square. A few drums had assembled at Chez Amandine, a bar at the back of the city hall, which had broadcasted the match on large screen TV sets. This was the epicentre of celebrations in terms of blue-white-red visibility, beer consumption, people concentration and loudness (the drums did help a lot). Restaurants opened a bit later than usual to help kitchen staff have their share of the Finale. One guy, who must have celebrated more than others, was walking on the main street in underwear with two small French flags attached to each branch of his eyeglasses.
During our stay in Saint-Martin, we had dinner twice at the pizzeria Le Vieux Four, named after the old bread oven that is used to bake pizzas and grill meat. It seemed to be a successful family business, the mother was cooking in the kitchen, the father helping also with the pizzas and the grill plus quite a bit of public relations and the son was obviously fully busy with serving guests. On our first dinner there, we had booked a table outside on the pavement to get a bit of fresh air. That evening, a classical music concert was taking place in a nearby church. We got to know about it as the musicians later came for dinner at restaurant. Some of them were obviously regulars. Jacques, the father, was, as usual for the season, wearing sport shoes, a t-shirt and a pair of shorts which were partly hidden below a vast white apron. Not very tall, he was compensating his size with an emphatic and sustained vocal flow supplemented by ample gestures. He beamed with praises of his customers. The Mayor had come along with the musicians. He was affectionately greeted with a hug and called by his nickname " Mon Petit Lapin" (my small rabbit) and quickly offered a glass of wine. I became very curious to know more about his nickname. In any case, we decided to come back the following night for a beef rib. Order was taken verbally before leaving and reconfirmed the next day while meeting, by accident, the father and his wife on the main street. It transpired on Saturday night that the Mayor's nickname had befallen to him on the occasion of a local festival (baking festival, I think) which was taking place in the street of the restaurant and which probably involved a lot of drinking. Unfortunately I haven't had a chance to find out the complete story.
A sad part of modern history is commemorated next to the market square. During the Second World War, because the border with Italy is very close, Jews were smuggled from Italy to France through the nearby pass of Madone de Fenestre. Tragically several dozens of those were arrested by the Gestapo and deported.
On a happier note Saint Martin has got another personality: Marco, the butcher. He prepares meat, but also cold cuts (ham, sausages, ...) by himself. One of the local specialty is called caillette. It is an amalgam of small pieces of pork meat cooked with herbs in pork fat for a long time to give it a very soft structure.
I confirmed my shoes were fit for purpose after a rather long excursion from Le Boréon, a small village above Saint Martin, to the Trécolpas lake and the Ladres pass. We started walking up from the small village of Le Boréon at an altitude of 1400 metres. It is popular for its Alpha theme park dedicated to wolves and for being one of the access to the Mercantour natural reserve. Two kilometres away from the village, two long A-shaped buildings serve as shelters for milk cows. This type of farm is called "vacherie". Farmers are producing their own cheese there. Past that point, the track enters a fir forest which grows on the steep slope of the surrounding peaks.
A stone staircase allowed us to climb steadily before reaching a comparatively flatter area which was traversed by the torrent coming down from the Trécolpas lake. Flowers and greenery, water rushing down, large blocks of stones scattered, it felt like being in an enchanting new world despite of occasional drops of rain that clouds felt compelled to let go while on their way out.
Around two thousand metres above sea level appeared the first bunch of rhododendron, blooming in a deep pink colour.
We reached the level of the lake without seeing it yet because a small hill was hidding it. It actually felt small and unremarkable compared to the scale of the mountains around.
But as we moved around the lake, the contrast between the finite liquid and the towering mounds of stone around started to make sense and allowed me to appreciate its beauty. Its colour was special. Was it deep emerald green with a bit of blue in it? The colour of lake Trécolpas was varying from the angle and the direction one was looking at it. Fed by water sources and melting snow, its level remains constant because it overflows into a torrent that flows through the Boréon on to Saint Martin. The lake is located at the lower end of a cirque which can be exited through the pass "des ladres" at an altitude of 2474 metres. The lake itself is at an elevation of 2150 metres. From the pass, the lake looks like a blue glass marble. There are still patches of snow in the cirque, giving contrast to the otherwise mineral landscape.
Around two thousand metres above sea level appeared the first bunch of rhododendron, blooming in a deep pink colour.
We reached the level of the lake without seeing it yet because a small hill was hidding it. It actually felt small and unremarkable compared to the scale of the mountains around.
But as we moved around the lake, the contrast between the finite liquid and the towering mounds of stone around started to make sense and allowed me to appreciate its beauty. Its colour was special. Was it deep emerald green with a bit of blue in it? The colour of lake Trécolpas was varying from the angle and the direction one was looking at it. Fed by water sources and melting snow, its level remains constant because it overflows into a torrent that flows through the Boréon on to Saint Martin. The lake is located at the lower end of a cirque which can be exited through the pass "des ladres" at an altitude of 2474 metres. The lake itself is at an elevation of 2150 metres. From the pass, the lake looks like a blue glass marble. There are still patches of snow in the cirque, giving contrast to the otherwise mineral landscape.
Firs are growing by the lake, as well as fine green grass and blooming rhododendrons. There are also colourful flowers scattered in the grass, blue gentian, yellow pansies, pink thistle, etc...
This year, it rained and snowed a lot up to the month of June allowing the nature to be abundantly green everywhere.
The temperature of the lake was chilling as per the own words of an Italian lady who had taken up the challenge of swimming a few lapse in it. Below ten degrees Celsius. That did not stop her from resuming her walk up to the Pas des Ladres. Up there, the horizon was free, it felt like we had reached a level where only the elements are allowed to disturb the seemingly established order of minerals. Living things are tolerated if they can cope with it. The pass of Madone de Fenestre was just thirty minutes walk away but we felt we should go back to be on time for dinner in Saint Martin.
This first outing had opened our appetite for more adventure in the mountains.
This year, it rained and snowed a lot up to the month of June allowing the nature to be abundantly green everywhere.
The temperature of the lake was chilling as per the own words of an Italian lady who had taken up the challenge of swimming a few lapse in it. Below ten degrees Celsius. That did not stop her from resuming her walk up to the Pas des Ladres. Up there, the horizon was free, it felt like we had reached a level where only the elements are allowed to disturb the seemingly established order of minerals. Living things are tolerated if they can cope with it. The pass of Madone de Fenestre was just thirty minutes walk away but we felt we should go back to be on time for dinner in Saint Martin.
This first outing had opened our appetite for more adventure in the mountains.
Images:
1/ Trécolpas lake
2/ View from the Pas des Ladres
3/ Saint Martin de Vésubie
4/ Street dinner at le Vieux Four
5/ kids celebrating the world cup
1/ Trécolpas lake
2/ View from the Pas des Ladres
3/ Saint Martin de Vésubie
4/ Street dinner at le Vieux Four
5/ kids celebrating the world cup
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| view from the Pas des Ladres |
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| Saint Martin de Vésubie |
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| street dinner at Le Vieux Four |
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| kids celebrating the French victory at the Soccer World Cup |
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