A Sunday on the Garonne

On the riverbank, at the foot of the majestic peaks of the Pyrenees, we are awakened by gunfire. But it's not the same as the fireworks from the festival in the neighboring village the night before, it's the beginning of the hunting season in early September.

Usually, we are very alone in this place, hardly anyone comes here. But this morning we already have two fishermen and a hunting dog with bells for company. But that doesn't bother us much because we are about to go to the nearby flea market to find bargains.

On the panoramic path to the first village with a view of the proud mountains, a rickety, dented van overtakes us in a tight curve before a hill. Its left rear wheel wobbles so much that we are afraid it might fall off and we have to provide first aid. Luckily, the speedy car turns into the next field path, the old wreck is probably only used to transport the goat, hopefully...

But in the afternoon, after three flea markets, we return to the river. It is one of the few places where you can enter the water, which is quite fresh in early September, although it comes down from the mountains sparsely.

We decide to stay here for another night, it is heavenly quiet, apart from the shooting exercises not far away.

A few minutes later, two older couples join us, who have come here for their Sunday walk. They gaze at us curiously, but soon they turn back.

Later, an old Renault rattles past us. Madame and Monsieur LaVache inspect the pasture with the young cows - and also take a look at our camp before they turn back.

All afternoon long, there are gunshots, two dogs with strange devices on their collars chase around us in the high grass. They are probably the walkie-talkies from the Decathlon and the dogs listen to the commands - or not... The thought of having bought an orange safety cap there creeps into our consciousness.

It doesn't take long for a not-so-new Peugeot to come clattering by, and a sporty gentleman in camouflage with his dog inspects the banks of the Garonne and casually checks on us as well.

In the early evening, Zappa has already started the cooker, and another off-roader thunders to the riverbank, takes a round past us, and cheerfully wishes us "Bon appétit!"

A completely normal Sunday afternoon on the Garonne...?

The story could also have unfolded like this: The walking seniors return from their little hike, thirsty, and go to the local bar, where they wonder about the car parked by the river, a place only known to locals. Madame gets annoyed, as usual, because she forgot her glasses and couldn't see the license plate. So Madame and Monsieur LaVache set off to check on the cows, first quickly fetching the glasses at home. It turns out they are the Germans, they can report back at the bar. "Of course," say the fishermen, "they were already here this morning, but eventually they left, what do they want at our beach again?"

Now Monsieur Lechien stands up and says he needs to take a closer look. He thinks the two of them are suspicious, the way they have settled in. So the young guys get into their off-roader to potentially put an end to the affair. By the way, they can also look for their hunting dogs, which just didn't come home despite the expensive walkie-talkies! But after their little round, they can return to the café and give the all-clear: they're just having a picnic!

Finally, the pheasant in its radiant plumage pays us a visit, visibly relieved that it has escaped the gunfire today.