Buying Fromage (cheese) from the Source

I have been traveling this narrow mountain highway that connects Spain and France for close to a decade. It is one of the most beautiful, storybook landscapes that I have ever seen. In addition to the amazing vistas, my curiosity and intrigue has always been drawn to a humble cabin just a few kilometers from the border with Spain. It sits just off the highway with a small hand-painted wooden sign that simple reads, “Fromage”, (French for cheese.) My curiosity converted into almost an infatuation after one evening in 2016 when I was returning from an excursion in France.   

As there normally is in this valley, there was drizzle accompanied by a brisk chill in the air as dusk started to set in. I was returning from a long road trip and had a strong desire to get back to my Spanish village. I had just passed the little cabin when I saw him … an idyllic image that, out of pure laziness, I let pass through my fingertips instead of my lens. A shepherd sat on a small wooden stool alongside the pasture milking his sheep by hand with the mountain valley as the backdrop. But no matter how much my eyes were begging me to stop and grab my camera, my desire to get home, together with a strong lack of motivation to endure the damp cold, won the battle of wills. It might seem a bit odd, but I have often thought about that evening and the missed opportunity. I would imagine the photographs that would capture the daily hardships of the life of a humble shepherd … milking his sheep in the rain as the sun sets. The regret of not stopping has nagged at me over the past seven years and I was reminded of it every time I passed through this valley.   

Fast forward to May 3, 2023, when a major rockslide less than a kilometer away from the little cabin cut off access to the border. It would take 40 days for the French government to remove the rocks (some the size of cars), to stabilize the mountain side with controlled explosions, to repair the highway, and finally to reopen access between the two countries. The day after the highway reopened, Javier and I decided to take an afternoon drive to check out the area of the rockslide. We passed through the damaged portion and came upon the little sign advertising fromage. We needed to turn around anyway, so I took advantage of the opportunity to finally stop and buy cheese from the shepherd, (who by this time I had converted into my own personal myth.)  

What happens from this point on is a classic example of why I travel and of what keeps fueling my passion for it.   

After snapping a quick photograph of the outside of the cabin, my attention was drawn down the hill to where the sheep were. The shepherd was headed my way carrying a traditional milk can and …to my American delight … wearing the classic French beret! His wife emerged from the cabin to welcome us in French, which I do not speak but Javier does. Javier served as translator, but the shepherd spoke Patués, a unique form of French spoken by the shepherds in the Pyrenees Mountains. So between French, Spanish, Patués, and English, the four of us manage to communicate. I asked if I could take his photo and he eagerly agreed. His wife laughed and said that he loved it. The shepherd then invited me to follow him to the sheep pen and to watch him as he milked the flock.   By the end of the experience, we had been invited into the cabin for a drink and snacks. At one point, we were even honored with the couple singing a traditional song for us. His wife had been teaching herself to paint via YouTube and before leaving, she gifted me one of her small paintings of the shepherd with his sheep.  

 

 

 Sometimes when you stop to buy cheese, you walk away with cheese. But then there are those invaluable, unforgettable moments in life when you walk away with cheese … and so so much more.