(Ed. Note: The following is a brief excerpt from a forthcoming memoir that details the author’s life in Ituren, a town in the Baztan Valley. This passage describes her first sighting of the valley, twenty years ago).
Something strange was happening even before we disappeared into the tunnels of Belate. Even the signposts and indications along the side of the road had another feel about them. Suddenly there was a predominance of Z’s, Baztan, Elizondo, Zozaia and Zurgarramurdi, soon to follow came the Xs of Etxalar or Dantxarrinea. Little did I know (as do surprisingly few people today) that I had entered such a mysterious and controversial part of Spain: an area that due to centuries of secular mistrust within the state of Navarre–and an adversity to the B word–had fallen under the radar and lies, even now, far away from any beaten tourist trail.
These were the Basque lands, an area that the Basques call ‘The Basque Country’ (Euskal Herria), the Spanish call ‘Navarre’ and the Navarrese, in a treaty signed by their kings a thousand years ago, once described simply as ‘The Mountains Beyond.’
We emerged from the tunnels in Belate onto a steep road that shot us downwards into an enchanted land of green valleys and tiny white-washed mountain villages. Fairy-tale turrets peered out from the treetops and tendrils of mountain mists and corkscrews of wood smoke gave it an ethereal, other-worldly feel.
None of the fields had straight edges, forming a crumpled, drunkard´s tartan of meadows and thickets and granite outcrops stitched together by a labyrinth of dry-stone walls. It was the land of the Hobbits, of secret dwellings and mythical creatures, of dappled glens and secret rock pools, and you could look at it a hundred times you would always discover something new.
In contrast to its patchwork of green pastures, the valley slopes were deep and V shaped, cleaved by stream gullies and fringed with craggy tors. It made me think of some wild animal that had been turned on its back; its soft, vulnerable belly exposed to the elements while its claws thrashed defensively at the skies. This was the landscape that was to define the identity of its people, its culture and its language. It was a landscape that had shaped its destiny and, little did I know then, was just about to shape mine!
We are just itching to read the rest! Can’t wait.
It’s done … just corralling the beast with ever tighter edits! Thanks Carol xxx On the Chapter entitled Deaths in Ituren Graveyard (a couple of unknown bodies were uncovered in a tomb in 1966 … with bullet holes through their skulls …and a strange high-heeled shoe (not common in these parts at all – especially then). When the press got hold of the story they came to investigate and the Guardia Civil closed off the graveyard and did not let anyone near. When the press asked who had given orders to close off the graveyard it appeared that it was Franco himself. The press were also threatened if they ever published the story they would be closed down ….If I am threatened not to publish this story it won´t matter … I´m shut down in any case!