Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Into the Heart of the Mountain


April 19 2010

Johnny Redhead crossed to the brink of the abyss, staring out over the winding gorge of the Lasset far below. Scarlett and J.B. slid down the scree behind me as I paused to catch my breath, slowly taking in my surroundings.

The trail leading back down towards the village through the tangled thickets of box and scrub myrtle looked almost as forbidding as the way forward, a barely distinguishable path, seemingly more suited to animals than to mere mortals such as ourselves, that threaded its course steadily higher up the beetling cliffs. We'd gone too far for turning back to be a viable option. The only way left to go was up...

Above: Master climber Johnny Redhead with village mascot 'Tiger IV'

Scrambling hand over hand up a bare rockface wasn't what we'd had in mind that morning, but it came naturally to Johnny Redhead. Johnny had founded the free climbing movement on Montserrat back in the day and was no stranger to the haute Pyrenee's. This was his third visit to Montsegur. He'd had plenty of time to scope out the terrain and now the early spring weather finally provided us with the perfect window of opportunity.

We first heard the rumours about the secret path up the sheer side of the pog during the shooting of 'The Secret Glory' in the summer of 1998. Indeed such rumours are hard to miss, repeated, as they are, in virtually every guide book and work of history or 'pseudohistory' to mention the castle's siege. The basic story has it that after holding out for ten months against the crusaders, the fortress fell to treachery. Accounts tend to differ as to who sold them out, but the basic consensus seems to be that a shepherd, possibly from the village of Camon, guided a group of variously described as 'Gascon mercenaries', or 'Teutonic knights accustomed to the alpine conditions', up the sheer side of the mountain via a precipitous 'secret path'. The defenders were caught off guard and either killed or wounded before being flung to their deaths from the top of the cliff. A chronicler relates that at sunrise the raiding party looked down in horror at the dizzying drop and swore that they never would have made the ascent by daylight. The route that they had taken was 'far too terrifying'...

It is widely believed that Pierre Roger de Mirepoix saved the treasures of the castle by hiding four parfaits in a crack in the rocks, and that during the night of the 15th of March, the very eve of the castle's capitulation, they were lowered down the sheer cliff face by ropes and made good their escape. There is little or no historical documentation however to support this popular account which made its first appearance in Napoleon Peyrat's 'Histoire des Albigeoise', 1870. Peyrat was a visionary, Protestant pastor who descended from a long line of religious dissedents that seemed to have held an multi-generational grudge against the Catholic church (see previous blog 'Secrets of the Oppidum') and who apparently saw the events happen in a dream. Despite it's shaky roots, this fable has formed the roots of any number of conspiracy theories from 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' (Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh, 1982) to Colonel Howard Buchner's 'Emerald Cup – Ark of Gold', 1991, and is believed by some to have inspired certain elements of Lawrence Kasden's screenplay, 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'.

Above: Self with ballista ammunition from the crusader catapults (catalogued and numbered by the GRAME -Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs), pictured during an initial survey of the pog's eastern flank - circa 1998 ( photograph courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )

Unsurprisingly, the matter of whether or not the secret paths actually existed has been a matter of some debate here at Shadow Theatre HQ. Long-term Irregular, James 'J.B.' Bourne, and myself made our first attempts to pick up the trail back in the mid nineties. Although well intentioned, our early efforts were thwarted time and again. Every trail that we followed seemed to disappear into the rocks and the cliffs, forcing us to turn back crest fallen and empty-handed. At this stage of the game, some fifteen years further down the pike, it was pretty much a matter of do or die.


Gritting our collective teeth we followed Johnny Redhead up the narrow incline towards the waiting cliffs. It was already close to mid-day and the best part of the climb was still ahead of us.

“This is definitely a path.” He called back confidently.

“Yeah. But was it made by humans or animals?” I craned my neck upwards, doing my best to follow his eye line.

Something crashed heavily through the bushes far below.

“Probably a wild boar that we scared off.” J.B. offered in response to our questioning faces.

“I can understand why men climb mountains. But animals?”

“Didn't Thierre say to watch out for vipers?” interjected Miss Scarlett “That they've just woken up and are at their hungriest and deadliest this time of year..”

“Yeah. But why do animals climb bloody mountains?”

“I dunno. Maybe the boars get together to play poker in the keep”

We worked our way slowly higher, eyes fixed on a gap in the ridge ahead. We hit more dense scrub which we had to crawl through and then bare rock. It was a tough call which one was more difficult. The scrub clawed at our clothes and faces whilst on the rock we could only pray for hand and foot holds. We inched our way up the south eastern wall of the pog in a rising traverse, ascending cautiously from ledge to ledge, trying not to look down.

As above, so below: UP! ( photographs courtesy of Scarlett Amaris and James Bourne )
Sadly we didn't get any pics of the climb itself as we were all too busy hanging on for dear life to bother taking happysnaps.


Slowly the landscape took on a different aspect as unseen crests, troughs and valleys opened beneath us. A few hundred meters higher Scarlett missed a foothold, sliding abruptly downwards only to catch herself at the last moment. J.B. winced hearing the fearful sound of the pebbles dislodged by her feet trickling away into the gulfs below.

“You're a good little scamperer.” commented Johnny, plainly in his element.

“How much further to the top?” Ashen faced Miss Scarlett heaved herself over the lip of the spur.

“It's so close that I can smell it!” Johnny grinned, sniffing the warm, sweet breeze that blew down from the pog.

“Up...” I grunted, following him as he began to climb once more, not knowing exactly why, only knowing that I had to. Vertigo coursed through me but there was something within me that was stronger than fear that only seemed to deepen as I climbed, the desire to solve the mountain's riddle and penetrate to a still deeper layer of the enigma, to somehow find my way back through the maze to the good lady's side and wherever the hell it was I really belonged, my limbs going through the motions of an built in ritual that kept them moving long after the pilot had taken his hands from the joystick.


As above, so below: Spring colors on the south eastern face of the pog ( photographs courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )

“Damn. That's perfect...” I exclaimed, eyes focussing on the foliage that ringed the cliff top. “The mountain's crowned by wild roses.”

“Yeah. I just put my f****n' hand on one of 'em” Miss Scarlett shrugged, displaying her punctured palm.

We stopped for a minute letting the realization sink in that we had made it.

We were finally standing upright on the summit of the pog. Large, alpine fir trees stood majestically towards the sunshine. This was a part of the mountain that none of us had ever been to before and the territory was wild, virginal and untouched, with the castle no where in sight.

It didn't take long to come across a trebuchet ball, a large one fired by the crusaders so long ago, still lying on the forest floor. Evidently a fierce battle had been fought here during the closing days of the siege.

Johnny paused, hackles rising.“The hell is this place ?”
Up ahead the path dipped into a shadowy hollow between two huge, moss encrusted boulders.“The place between two stones...” I muttered.“I think it was mentioned in one of the inquisition records. There's a brief but puzzling reference to how when Arnaud Narbona de Carol was was mortally injured they took him 'dans la grotte de ce chateau' although its said this might not have been a cave at all but only a “place between two stones”.


“There's something down here all right.” Johnny raised his arm, short hairs standing on end as if divining something just beyond the limit of our senses.

“This feels like the oldest part of the mountain,” whispered Miss Scarlett, dipping her voice as if we had just entered a place of worship, and, in a way, we had.

“Older than the castle?”

She nodded, eyes scanning the sky line beyond the treetops as she slowly got her bearings. “It's the same feeling I had at Morenci. Like the two places are connected somehow. Aligned. Like the sun and the moon...”

I started forward into the shadows, recalling a story about another place between two stones. The crack in the rocks where Pierre Roger de Mirepoix was supposed to have hidden those fleeing holy men and their sacred treasure. But that was surely a myth, the dream of a deranged 19th century pastor yet the silent, shadowy aisle of stones at the head of the path seemed to fit that myth's murky outlines only too comfortably.


As we searched the maze of ancient boulders it became more evident that parts of this eldritch sanctuary had been apparently been shaped by human hands, smaller stones stacked over the larger ones, creating unusual shapes and alcoves. The rock seemed strangely porous, and the ground was so damp and soft that my stick sunk in a good two feet at one point. I hesitated, skin tingling despite the warmth of the afternoon, knowing I had come to the edge of something I could scarcely comprehend.

Before us a dark cavity gaped amidst the maw of the rocks. Falling to my hands and knees in the deep, rich mulch of the forest floor I squirmed forward, getting my head and shoulders through the gap. It was about as far as I could go but it was enough. There was an oddly shaped hollow within the bosom of the stone through which the sun's rays streamed and for a moment it was as if I were staring into the heart of the mountain itself.

As above, so below: Sacre Coeur

We emerged, breathless and a little giddy, from the tree line below the stone terrace that Miss Scarlett had investigated only a few days previously in the company of our shaman friend. ( * see previous 'blog – 'Secrets of the Oppidum' ) Now we realized the terrace formed a convenient marker, pointing the way towards the stones beyond and the path that lead down the south eastern face of the pog, a trail we have decided to name 'La Route du Coeur'.

As above, so below: La Route du Coeur

There are many ways to climb the holy mountain some more difficult than others. A winding path, almost certainly used by the crusaders, ascends the northern slope, connecting the ford at Benaix to the Roc de la Tour, and there are persistent rumours concerning a hidden trail on the seemingly impassable western flank. Every time we gain some incremental insight into the mystery it is as if consensus reality is forced to concede for a moment, and we are handed another tiny piece of the puzzle. Slowly, bit by bit a larger, older truth begins to fall into place.

“I can't believe we finally did it!” J.B. Stretched out on the embankment beneath the castle wall, soaking up the sun and enjoying the sensation of being back on solid terra firma.”After all these years...”

“Yeah,” I inclined my head, looking down into the valley far below, watching the backs of the eagles turning over the soft green hills where Esclarmonde d'Alion once rode. “After all these years...”
“Sometimes all it takes is a li'l chance and a li'l will. That and the right company.” I nodded towards Johnny who stood on the edge of the cliff, gazing towards the dim, volcanic outline of Bugarach that rose tier upon Babelian tier on the easternmost rim of the earth, his head already aswim with thoughts of climbs to come and fresh trails to blaze.


“Some people say when you climb a mountain don't look down. But why not? The view is beautiful...” - Viktor Suvorov ( Soviet tank commander )

To be continued: -


Previously on 'Terra Umbra' – After twenty years of frustration and near misses, the team seems to be on the verge of finally cracking the mystery as free-climbing guru, Johnny Redhead, galvanizes efforts to find the secret path up the sheer face of the pog. Typically however, the solution to this long running riddle only leads to a further enigma ...

April 19 2010

Johnny Redhead crossed to the brink of the abyss, staring out over the winding gorge of the Lasset far below. Scarlett and J.B. slid down the scree behind me as I paused to catch my breath, slowly taking in my surroundings.

The trail leading back down towards the village through the tangled thickets of box and scrub myrtle looked almost as forbidding as the way forward, a barely distinguishable path, seemingly more suited to animals than to mere mortals such as ourselves, that threaded its course steadily higher up the beetling cliffs. We'd gone too far for turning back to be a viable option. The only way left to go was up...

Above: Master climber Johnny Redhead with village mascot 'Tiger IV'

Scrambling hand over hand up a bare rockface wasn't what we'd had in mind that morning, but it came naturally to Johnny Redhead. Johnny had founded the free climbing movement on Montserrat back in the day and was no stranger to the haute Pyrenee's. This was his third visit to Montsegur. He'd had plenty of time to scope out the terrain and now the early spring weather finally provided us with the perfect window of opportunity.

We first heard the rumours about the secret path up the sheer side of the pog during the shooting of 'The Secret Glory' in the summer of 1998. Indeed such rumours are hard to miss, repeated, as they are, in virtually every guide book and work of history or 'pseudohistory' to mention the castle's siege. The basic story has it that after holding out for ten months against the crusaders, the fortress fell to treachery. Accounts tend to differ as to who sold them out, but the basic consensus seems to be that a shepherd, possibly from the village of Camon, guided a group of variously described as 'Gascon mercenaries', or 'Teutonic knights accustomed to the alpine conditions', up the sheer side of the mountain via a precipitous 'secret path'. The defenders were caught off guard and either killed or wounded before being flung to their deaths from the top of the cliff. A chronicler relates that at sunrise the raiding party looked down in horror at the dizzying drop and swore that they never would have made the ascent by daylight. The route that they had taken was 'far too terrifying'...

It is widely believed that Pierre Roger de Mirepoix saved the treasures of the castle by hiding four parfaits in a crack in the rocks, and that during the night of the 15th of March, the very eve of the castle's capitulation, they were lowered down the sheer cliff face by ropes and made good their escape. There is little or no historical documentation however to support this popular account which made its first appearance in Napoleon Peyrat's 'Histoire des Albigeoise', 1870. Peyrat was a visionary, Protestant pastor who descended from a long line of religious dissedents that seemed to have held an multi-generational grudge against the Catholic church (see previous blog 'Secrets of the Oppidum') and who apparently saw the events happen in a dream. Despite it's shaky roots, this fable has formed the roots of any number of conspiracy theories from 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' (Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh, 1982) to Colonel Howard Buchner's 'Emerald Cup – Ark of Gold', 1991, and is believed by some to have inspired certain elements of Lawrence Kasden's screenplay, 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'.

Above: Self with ballista ammunition from the crusader catapults (catalogued and numbered by the GRAME -Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs), pictured during an initial survey of the pog's eastern flank - circa 1998 ( photograph courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )

Unsurprisingly, the matter of whether or not the secret paths actually existed has been a matter of some debate here at Shadow Theatre HQ. Long-term Irregular, James 'J.B.' Bourne, and myself made our first attempts to pick up the trail back in the mid nineties. Although well intentioned, our early efforts were thwarted time and again. Every trail that we followed seemed to disappear into the rocks and the cliffs, forcing us to turn back crest fallen and empty-handed. At this stage of the game, some fifteen years further down the pike, it was pretty much a matter of do or die.


Gritting our collective teeth we followed Johnny Redhead up the narrow incline towards the waiting cliffs. It was already close to mid-day and the best part of the climb was still ahead of us.

“This is definitely a path.” He called back confidently.

“Yeah. But was it made by humans or animals?” I craned my neck upwards, doing my best to follow his eye line.

Something crashed heavily through the bushes far below.

“Probably a wild boar that we scared off.” J.B. offered in response to our questioning faces.

“I can understand why men climb mountains. But animals?”

“Didn't Thierre say to watch out for vipers?” interjected Miss Scarlett “That they've just woken up and are at their hungriest and deadliest this time of year..”

“Yeah. But why do animals climb bloody mountains?”

“I dunno. Maybe the boars get together to play poker in the keep”

We worked our way slowly higher, eyes fixed on a gap in the ridge ahead. We hit more dense scrub which we had to crawl through and then bare rock. It was a tough call which one was more difficult. The scrub clawed at our clothes and faces whilst on the rock we could only pray for hand and foot holds. We inched our way up the south eastern wall of the pog in a rising traverse, ascending cautiously from ledge to ledge, trying not to look down.

As above, so below: UP! ( photographs courtesy of Scarlett Amaris and James Bourne )
Sadly we didn't get any pics of the climb itself as we were all too busy hanging on for dear life to bother taking happysnaps.

Slowly the landscape took on a different aspect as unseen crests, troughs and valleys opened beneath us. A few hundred meters higher Scarlett missed a foothold, sliding abruptly downwards only to catch herself at the last moment. J.B. winced hearing the fearful sound of the pebbles dislodged by her feet trickling away into the gulfs below.

“You're a good little scamperer.” commented Johnny, plainly in his element.

“How much further to the top?” Ashen faced Miss Scarlett heaved herself over the lip of the spur.

“It's so close that I can smell it!” Johnny grinned, sniffing the warm, sweet breeze that blew down from the pog.

“Up...” I grunted, following him as he began to climb once more, not knowing exactly why, only knowing that I had to. Vertigo coursed through me but there was something within me that was stronger than fear that only seemed to deepen as I climbed, the desire to solve the mountain's riddle and penetrate to a still deeper layer of the enigma, to somehow find my way back through the maze to the good lady's side and wherever the hell it was I really belonged, my limbs going through the motions of an built in ritual that kept them moving long after the pilot had taken his hands from the joystick.


As above, so below: Spring colors on the south eastern face of the pog ( photographs courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )

“Damn. That's perfect...” I exclaimed, eyes focussing on the foliage that ringed the cliff top. “The mountain's crowned by wild roses.”

“Yeah. I just put my f****n' hand on one of 'em” Miss Scarlett shrugged, displaying her punctured palm.

We stopped for a minute letting the realization sink in that we had made it.

We were finally standing upright on the summit of the pog. Large, alpine fir trees stood majestically towards the sunshine. This was a part of the mountain that none of us had ever been to before and the territory was wild, virginal and untouched, with the castle no where in sight.

It didn't take long to come across a trebuchet ball, a large one fired by the crusaders so long ago, still lying on the forest floor. Evidently a fierce battle had been fought here during the closing days of the siege.

Johnny paused, hackles rising.“The hell is this place ?”
Up ahead the path dipped into a shadowy hollow between two huge, moss encrusted boulders.“The place between two stones...” I muttered.“I think it was mentioned in one of the inquisition records. There's a brief but puzzling reference to how when Arnaud Narbona de Carol was was mortally injured they took him 'dans la grotte de ce chateau' although its said this might not have been a cave at all but only a “place between two stones”.

“There's something down here all right.” Johnny raised his arm, short hairs standing on end as if divining something just beyond the limit of our senses.

“This feels like the oldest part of the mountain,” whispered Miss Scarlett, dipping her voice as if we had just entered a place of worship, and, in a way, we had.

“Older than the castle?”

She nodded, eyes scanning the sky line beyond the treetops as she slowly got her bearings. “It's the same feeling I had at Morenci. Like the two places are connected somehow. Aligned. Like the sun and the moon...”

I started forward into the shadows, recalling a story about another place between two stones. The crack in the rocks where Pierre Roger de Mirepoix was supposed to have hidden those fleeing holy men and their sacred treasure. But that was surely a myth, the dream of a deranged 19th century pastor yet the silent, shadowy aisle of stones at the head of the path seemed to fit that myth's murky outlines only too comfortably.


As we searched the maze of ancient boulders it became more evident that parts of this eldritch sanctuary had been apparently been shaped by human hands, smaller stones stacked over the larger ones, creating unusual shapes and alcoves. The rock seemed strangely porous, and the ground was so damp and soft that my stick sunk in a good two feet at one point. I hesitated, skin tingling despite the warmth of the afternoon, knowing I had come to the edge of something I could scarcely comprehend.

Before us a dark cavity gaped amidst the maw of the rocks. Falling to my hands and knees in the deep, rich mulch of the forest floor I squirmed forward, getting my head and shoulders through the gap. It was about as far as I could go but it was enough. There was an oddly shaped hollow within the bosom of the stone through which the sun's rays streamed and for a moment it was as if I were staring into the heart of the mountain itself.

As above, so below: Sacre Coeur

We emerged, breathless and a little giddy, from the tree line below the stone terrace that Miss Scarlett had investigated only a few days previously in the company of our shaman friend. ( * see previous 'blog – 'Secrets of the Oppidum' ) Now we realized the terrace formed a convenient marker, pointing the way towards the stones beyond and the path that lead down the south eastern face of the pog, a trail we have decided to name 'La Route du Coeur'.

As above, so below: La Route du Coeur

There are many ways to climb the holy mountain some more difficult than others. A winding path, almost certainly used by the crusaders, ascends the northern slope, connecting the ford at Benaix to the Roc de la Tour, and there are persistent rumours concerning a hidden trail on the seemingly impassable western flank. Every time we gain some incremental insight into the mystery it is as if consensus reality is forced to concede for a moment, and we are handed another tiny piece of the puzzle. Slowly, bit by bit a larger, older truth begins to fall into place.

“I can't believe we finally did it!” J.B. Stretched out on the embankment beneath the castle wall, soaking up the sun and enjoying the sensation of being back on solid terra firma.”After all these years...”

“Yeah,” I inclined my head, looking down into the valley far below, watching the backs of the eagles turning over the soft green hills where Esclarmonde d'Alion once rode. “After all these years...”
“Sometimes all it takes is a li'l chance and a li'l will. That and the right company.” I nodded towards Johnny who stood on the edge of the cliff, gazing towards the dim, volcanic outline of Bugarach that rose tier upon Babelian tier on the easternmost rim of the earth, his head already aswim with thoughts of climbs to come and fresh trails to blaze.

“Some people say when you climb a mountain don't look down. But why not? The view is beautiful...” - Viktor Suvorov ( Soviet tank commander )

To be continued: -

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Secrets of the Oppidum


Ab la dolchor del temps novel foillo li bosc, e li aucel chanton, chascus en lor lati, segon lo vers del novel chan...

( 'In the sweetness of the new season the woods turn green and the birds sing, each one in its own language, following the measure of the new song...' )

  • Guilhelm IX ( 1071 -1126 )

Spring is coming to the high pastures of the Ariege in a riotous spray of wild flowers and bit by bit the pog of Montsegur is starting to yield up its secrets. We've been spending much of our time since the thaw following up on the voluminous textural and archaeological leads amassed during the course of the long, Pyrenean winter. Some of the geographic locations mentioned in the various tomes, treatises and oral accounts that have come to our attention since setting up our base of operations in the Zone have proved to be easier to find than others. All too often dearly cherished myths and theories have faded into the ether like the vanishing snows as the facts on the ground have shown them to either be highly imaginative or simply not true.


A return visit to the Reboulet revealed that some of the ruined cottages that we had come across earlier ( * see 'The Hole of the Crows – Dec 2009 ) had been abandoned as recently as World War II, when they'd apparently served as a base for Catalan freedom fighters who used this isolated, densely wooded valley as a mustering point for raids across the border into occupied Spain. The German soldiers who had been dispatched to Montsegur during the war came to this area to clear out the partisans rather than take part in some clandestine treasure hunt as has been suggested by certain pseudo-historians. Either way no one around here likes to talk about it much. The German-Jewish folklorist and all-round pagan imperialist Otto Rahn, whose work did so much to draw the wider world's attention to the tragic history of the castle and the ongoing mystery surrounding it, didn't join the ranks of the SS until long after he had left the Languedoc and with Colonel Howard Buchner's engaging yarn about Otto Skorzeny retrieving the 'treasure of the ages' from a cave on the pog ( * see 'Emerald Cup, Ark of Gold', Thunderbird Press, 1991 ) revealed to be little more than a latter day shaggy dog story there would seem to be little or no surviving evidence to suggest that the Nazi high command were ever particularly interested in Montsegur, let alone that they deployed troops to the area as part of a bona fide attempt to retrieve some lost sacred power object, appealing as this idea may seem to our pulp sensibilities.


Montsegur - Friday April 9 2010



This isn't to say that the mountain doesn't hold it's fair share of secrets, but the nature of what may or may not be hidden here, remains open to speculation. Thus far our efforts to find the mythical entrances to the underground galleries have proven fruitless. Either they turn out to be shallow depressions or else Micheu Pierre was right in saying that as soon as you talk about them, they close up and switch their locations. ( * see 'Hunting for the Cosmic Egg – April 2010 ) We did however, come across further vestiges of 12th century habitation during our recent excursions to the relatively inaccessible eastern flank of the pog. We're currently awaiting the arrival of two more Irregulars this week before beginning a more thorough sweep of the surrounding cliffs.


As above, so below: Signs of life on the pog's east slope
Over the last few months we have tried in vain to find the elusive 'oppidum de Mayne' in the forests of Belesta. This morning with the aid of two born and bred Montsegurian's we finally achieved our goal. The 'oppidum' isn't marked on any map. There is no path or marked trail, and the only directions to go on were that it was 'somewhere above Fontestorbes, near the bridge of the prince'.

And just what is an 'oppidum', you may ask ? Julius Caesar described the larger Celtic Iron Age settlements he encountered in Gaul as oppida, and the term is now widely used to describe the pre-Roman towns that existed all across Western and Central Europe. Many 'oppida' grew from hill forts and their main features would seem to be the architectural construction of their walls and gates and their locations on hilltops commanding a convenient view of the surrounding area.
As above, so below: Fontestorbes - March 2010

The rocky outcrop above the fountain of Fontestorbes was probably occupied by prehistoric tribes since at least the Bronze Age. The name Belesta may well derive from either the Ibero-Celtic moon goddess, Belisenna or her male counterpart, Belenos and it would seem likely that the spring's phreatic source has been linked to worship of the Great Mother since time out of mind, redolent as it is of the earth's natural reproductive cycles. The spring was certainly already known as a place of worship in Roman times. The Gauls crossed the mountains via the old road over the Pic de Soularac to meet with traders from the Mediterranean, exchanging iron for pottery and other chattels. Pliny the Elder comments on the curious phenomena of Fontestorbe's intermittent source in his 'Natural History' and Popee, the wife of Nero, halted to drink at the spring before continuing on her way to take the waters at Ax's thermal baths. According to legend faeries inhabited the cave and washed their linen in it's cold clear waters. To this day, the phreatic source remains active from July to October with it's flow varying from between 20 litres per second to 1800 litres per second.
Recently the source has been all but destroyed by attempts at commercializing the site. Huge boulders have come tumbling down the hillside, smashing into the newly widened car park, as if the mountain itself is enraged at the intrusion of concrete and steel. Mayhap it's merely echoing the history of resistance that has always been so pronounced in this neck of the woods. Prior to the onset of the Albigensian Crusade, the area was the fiefdom of the Belissen family who were closely allied to the Count's of Foix and the defenders of Montsegur, the so-called 'sons and daughters of Belisenna'. The Treaty of Paris (1229) ceded the territory to Guy de Levis after the 'fields of Belissen' were captured by Simon de Montfort and the castle of Pechafilou was in turn donated by the Barons de Levis-Leran to one Gaston de Monstron in exchange for a pair of gloves. In 1522, the Protestants of Leran, led by the country houses of Peyrat and Limbrassic, rose up against their Catholic masters, burning the church of “the valley of love”. Catholic worship was completely prohibited in the area between the years 1559 and 1599 by order of the chief of the Huguenots although it has since made a cautious resurgence.


The spur above the source was first excavated by J. Louis Hygounnet, Guy Rancoule and Jean Tricoire who published a report on the area in the 1948 dispatch of the 'Bulletin of the Prehistoric Company of the Ariege'. They apparently unearthed dozens of coins and metal objects ( above ) as well as shards of pottery dating back as far as the third century B.C although typically much of the haul seems to have fallen into private hands. The site itself was subsequently left to languish, all but vanishing from mortal ken. Until today...


Saturday April 17

We set out at an ungodly hour after yet another late night. The early morning was cold and clear with temperatures in the shade a little over one degree Celsius. Miss Scarlett and myself blanched a little when we realized we were heading up the same, seemingly dead end trail as before but our Montsegurian friend's innate sense of direction and cool demeanour gave us hope that this time our efforts might not be in vain. When we took this path before, we hewed to the left towards an outcrop known as the 'Rock of Mayne' finding only bear spoor and the severed leg of an ibex before turning back. ( * see previous 'blog entry ) The terrain had simply been too icy and inhospitable for us to have any other choice.


As above, so below: Spot the film maker
This time, however, we followed a faint trail to the right, that threaded its way through the under brush, before winding up the neighbouring hillside. To be honest it felt more like an animal trail, but as we neared the summit we discovered that the hilltop was quite flat.


As above, so below: Getting warmer...

It didn't take more than a minute to come across the first pieces of old pottery that still lay half hidden in the loamy soil as they had for the last couple of thousand years.


As above, so below: The Oppidum of Mayne
Searching around through this wild place, we found dry stone walls and further evidence of terracing. Like any 'oppidum' worth its salt the view from the overgrown summit still commanded an impressive 360 degree view of the surrounding valleys.

For a moment words failed us as we stood silently gripped by the sensation of proximity to another time and another world...


As above, so below: Raiders of the lost Oppidum

It is amazing how much prehistory is still hidden in these hills and just how many sites of ancient worship seemingly dedicated to the same undying deities, the same immortal beauty...



Above: Roman coin depicting the Goddess Minerva
Below: Early 13th century nail from the pog of Montsegur

After starting the season with a few near misses it was reassuring to finally hit a home run and that despite all the misinformation out there some of the old yarns still hold true. For the moment we are back at the foot of the great narrative tree once more from which this story can go anywhere.

The key to the treasure is the treasure after all....


To be continued.