Elbows in Folks, Tight Roads in the Ansó Valley

Zagan the motorhome has finally alighted in the pine-hidden coach parking at the Monastery of San Juan de la Peña (N42.50815 W0.66384) after today’s 2nd gear efforts on Pyrenean back roads. We’re alone here. Apart from the monks maybe, but they’re keeping themseves to themselves, behind the high walls of the nearby more modern part of the monastery. Scratch that, a German panel van’s just arrived, much to Ju’s relief (yeah, OK, I’m a bit relieved to have some company too – these woods are a bit scary).

Spot the Zagan.

Last night, in an attempt to make up for inexplicably forgetting to pop Zagan’s handbrake on, I knocked up some grub with one of our skillets. Pork chops in a cider, apple and onion sauce, with peppered mashed spuds. Turned out nicely, phew. Given the flood of free time pouring over us, and the fact we now have the double skillet to use as an oven, I’m trying to build up my cooking skills a bit.

Limited space, no oven, no grill, no problem.

A frost came last night. Nothing major, but enough to freeze up water on the silver screens and to have me sliding about the car park when I took Charlie for his morning drag. I poked around the back of the van again to inspect the damage from our runaway bush-crushing yesterday. It’s minimal, just an inch-wide piece of plastic from the edge of a light cluster and some pea-sized indents. Not that I don’t love Zagan and the lifestyle he enables us to have, but this kind of minor damage doesn’t bother me. From experience, it seems kind of inevitable something gets bust on longish trips. Not putting the handbrake on though? What a muppet.

Our position in the valley below Ansó village meant we weren’t going to feel the sun for a while. The heating had been on low all night. We got up about 8 and cranked it up to 20 degrees. Ju sat in Zagan and crafted some stuff on the laptop. I stood outside breathing brand new air and warming my hands under the heater’s vent when, with a cough, it conked out. Neither of us can work it out. The gas had stopped flowing, both bottles were open, but the system’s auto change-over valve didn’t trip. Maybe the 11Kg bottle had gas left, but only butane which was refusing to come out of liquid form in the cold? Dunno. The heating started when I manually switched to the 6Kg bottle, and worked again from the main bottle later in the day. Happy days.

Cold LPG perhaps means butane only left, which won’t turn into gas and hence stays in the bottle?

Ansó on a cool November morning

Casting about for something to do around Ansó, I came across an article in the Telegraph about a chap on a walking holiday, who’d raved about a traditional eatery up the road – the Borda Chiquin. Hmmm, up the road. That means north towards the mountains and France. Our map showed all the roads around Ansó as white, which is one up from a dirt track. In other words, white road = white knuckles when attempting to amateurishly manoeuvre a great big stupid-wide white box. Balls to it, grub sounded cracking, cheap, simple and authentic – all roasted lamb and wild boar sausage. Off we went.

In a car, I imagine the route would be a synch. In Zagan, I flinched. It felt like the time we accidentally drove down a cycle path in Belgium. The white line mocked me, as I spent the best part of 8km straddled across it. These small roads at least have the decency to inflate and deflate as they go, so you get a few minutes of relief on wider stretches where constructing the thing must have been marginally easier than hacking it into the cliff face, where it rapidly breathes in again. Given a hand-on-heart guarantee no-one would dare come the other way, it’d be an easy ride. As it was, we each made our best attempt at asking the universe for a break, which it in return gave us. Except for this cow:

She point-blank refused to move more than a foot. We edged past. Her mate stood, amused, on the other side of the road.

Rolling into the beautifully fat car park alongside the Cocina (N42.82403, W0.83166) we knew the truth before wheels stopped rolling. It was long shut.

We had tried to work this out before setting off, but various websites refused to yield opening times, so we just chanced it. Ho hum, we took a walk alongside the road, peering through trees at the stone cliffs to the north, got back in Zagan and repeated the road-roulette south. But for a couple of cars which we crept past, the only other traffic we came across was the same two rotund cows, this time being gently persuaded south by a lady with a stick. She managed to get them both onto one edge of the road and we slid past.

Back to Ansó, we found the bus car park (N42.76267, W0.82866) we probably should have stayed in last night, and pulled in for a breather and a plan check. I liked it up there. The parking area was quite fabulous, something we’d once have happily paid £25 a night for at home, and raved about it afterwards. Here it was just another free parking space. The decision on whether to shift on waited until we’d ambled into town and grabbed some food at Hostel Kimboa. Three courses for €15 apiece, which included water but not wine or other drinks.

Highlight of the Kimboa meal: Migas. Breadcrumbs cooked in garlic, with some oil, ham, mushrooms and whatever else he fancied chucking in. Fantastic.

Migas, delicious.

Lowlight of the meal: the pudding seemed a bit, ah, pre-packaged?

Mine was described as ‘milk and chocolate ice cream’.

As we paid, the chef saw us eyeballing a walking map and asked if he could help with routes. “Ah, no thanks, we’re too lazy.” I replied, which he smiled at. It turns out he runs organised walks up into the high mountains, but I was far more interested in the photo of 15 or so crouching men next to the longest pole upon which hung dozens of dead wild boar. “They’re everywhere here, in the forest” the chef told us, “each year there is a hunt. They normally kill ten or fifteen but this year they got over 70”. “Be careful. The forest is dry, and the pigs come to the river to drink. If you hit one, you will lose”. He points to the aggrieved-looking course-haired head above us. “That one weighed 96kg”. “The mountains used to pay for the damage to people’s cars if they hit one”, we assumed he meant the government, “but they stopped as too many people” <makes sign with little finger and thumb which means ‘drinking’ here> “crashed they car, then take some pig’s hair and stick it in the car.” “Hey, we’re Spanish you know”.

At the mention of bird watching he pointed at the Ansó valley road south. “many English come here to see this gorge, to see the houses of birds”. “The road is good, you know, no-one ever crashes here”, Ju later pointed out someone crashes somewhere, or there’s be no illicit pig-plastering on hammered driver’s battered cars to do. “The road is not big enough for two cars, but everyone takes it easy”.

The gauntlet was down. Back to Zagan, we found the Foz de Biniés and plotted a route past it (well, actually through it as it turned out, but we didn’t know that at the time). What a ride. If I’d not expended so much effort on sphincter control I’m sure it would have been truly magnificent.

The entrance to the gorge. We assumed at this point the road would bypass the hairline crack it created in the rock

Launched spaceship like out the other side onto the plain beyond, we breathed, leaned back and cruised to a parking spot we’d found. Which turned out to be, ah, shit. Right up against a dirty-great A road in a layby. Plan C. Here. Ju found it on the database. The road here? You guessed it. White. Shite. Gauntlet down again. By this point I’d either gotten the hang of the roads, or no longer gave a monkeys. The last 7km up to this place were, erm, testing. More in a steep hairpin-after-hairpin, I wonder at what point we’ll start slipping backwards kind of way this time.

Zagan never needed less than 2nd gear though, most impressive, he’s got a solid engine, which is more than can be said of me after today. The view from up here of the Pyrennes to the north is breathtaking by the way, uncapturable on camera. Now, where’s that box of red?

Cheers! Jay