The Rutt, the Final Frontier.
These are the voyages of the Flying-Brick ‘Gnome’. Its five-day mission: to explore our strange old world, to seek out strange old life, and to avoid civilisation at all costs. To boldly rutt where no gnome has rutted before...
Every September/October, for only one month every year, stags get horny. Every year I go looking for them.
Once more unto the breach...
At this time of year, the pyrenees echoes to the sound of stags moaning. They are gathering their harem and warning other stags to keep their antlers well away from his women.
The groans are loud, long and mournful. They echo around the valley in the dark of night, sending tingles sparkling up your spine.
Both frightening and yet magnificent. Seemingly straight out of a horror movie, yet this is their form of romance.
With all these impressive reverberations constantly surrounding us, you would think that finding one of these beasts should present us with little problem.
The hunt was on. I, for one, was looking forward to some good old-fashioned rutting. Annick, on the other other hand, wore a slightly suspicious look. As did our dog...
The weather was looking significantly better than our previous attempts at rambling around the mountains this year.
The normal thick layers of cloud had faded away leaving ripples on the skyscape.
The first day was spent finishing the barrier around the terrace.
Once done, we left in the Gnome for higher places, in search of the source of these mating calls.
As they seemed to emanate from on high, we thought that we would head for the highest peak.
The Pic du Midi.
Before attempting our assault of the peak, we stopped overnight on the col du Toumarel.
The clouds started to tumble in as the evening progressed...
...leaving us enshrouded by the next morning
After the clouds lifted, we set off for the dizzying heights.
We cheated.
Stunning views...
...soon became enshrouded in cloud.
so we retired to the restaurant instead.
No stags here.
Giving up on our hunt, we settled down for the night, high in the rarefied air of these mountains.
We woke the next morning without the sounds of rutting (within or without), but to find ourselves once more enclosed in cloud.
As this shroud retired to its normal elevation, we set off to walk the mountains in search of our prey.
Instead, we found these horned beasts.
However, horns do not an antler make.
Good try, but no cigar.
We gave up and headed back to the Hydeaway, where the echoing sounds of rutting were even stronger. but the stags remained hidden in the surrounding forest.
The next day was spent varnishing. before setting off on our return journey home, disappointed, yet again, to have missed seeing stags.
But then...
As we reached the bottom of the valley, just about to leave the pyrenees behind us, a deer was spotted.
part of a harem belonging to this proud beast!
Finally, success!
Another one off the bucket list.
No comments:
Post a Comment