The bus climbs and the air changes. That's the first thing. You feel it through the window glass, even with the air conditioning on. After a week of Barcelona's August heat, the Pyrenees are a cool hand on a warm forehead. I'm on the afternoon ALSA coach from Barcelona, winding up the Bonaigua pass, and every switchback drops the temperature another degree. It is, honestly, the best feeling in the world.
Four hours and a bit, door to door. Two changes, a metro to the station, a train, and finally this bus. It's 4 hours and 9 minutes of public transport according to the app, but it feels like crossing a border into another country. Because honestly? It kind of is. I'm heading to Vielha e Mijaran, the capital of the Val d'Aran, and this valley doesn't do things the Spanish way. It does things the Aranese way.
The bus crests the Port de la Bonaigua and the whole valley opens up below. Green, I mean properly green. Dark forests of spruce, bright meadows, slate roofs reflecting the late afternoon light. The road drops down from the pass, tracing the course of the Garona river. That's the Atlantic, right there. This is the only valley in Spain that drains to the Atlantic, and you can feel it. The climate, the vegetation, the architecture, it's all a little bit different. A little more... northern.
We pull into the station in Vielha at about six in the evening. The air smells of pine and damp earth. There was a shower an hour ago, and the streets are still wet. The temperature here is about 10 degrees cooler than Barcelona. My phone says it's 22, and it feels like a miracle. The last week was about avoiding the sun. Here, you want to stand in it.
The bus station is at the edge of town, so my first walk is through the modern part of Vielha. A supermarket, a sports shop, the Palai de Gèu, which is the town's ice palace. An ice rink and a heated pool, apparently, which feels mad in August but probably makes sense when the snow comes. Most of the people on the street are wearing hiking boots or fleeces. I feel slightly underdressed in my city trainers and thin shirt.
I follow the signs to the old town and cross a stone bridge over the Nere river. The river is fast and loud, full of snowmelt, cutting through the middle of town. And there it is, the old town. Carrer Major, the main street, is a steep cobbled lane lined with stone houses with that dark slate roofing. There's a bakery, a climbing shop, a couple of bars spilling people onto the pavement. It's busy, but it's a different busy from Barcelona. Here it's village life, not tourism.
I drop my bag at the Hotel Blu Aran, a simple two-star place up near the church. It's about 100 euros a night, which is a steal compared to Barcelona in August. The room is small but spotless, with a window that opens onto the valley and a view of the green slopes across the river. The woman at reception hands me a key attached to a wooden fish. She tells me, in a mix of Spanish and Catalan, to go for a walk before dinner. As if I needed the excuse.
Back out on the street, I climb towards the Glèisa de Sant Miquèu, the main parish church. It's a strange mix, twelfth century at its heart with layers of later additions. The outside is dark stone, mostly in shadow now. The square in front of it, the Plaça d'Era Glèisa, is where the town's life happens. Kids kicking a football, old men on benches, a woman hosing down the stones after the market day.
The church door is open. I step inside. It's cool and dark, the air thick with incense and old wood. And there, in a side chapel, is the Crist de Mijaran. A life-size Romanesque Christ, carved in wood in the twelfth century, suspended from the wall. The wood is darkened with age, the face is solemn, stretched. It's the most striking thing I've seen in Spain. Not a famous museum piece, but something deeply local. Something that has been here, in this valley, watching over people for almost a thousand years. I stand there for a long time.
When I come out, the light has turned golden. The square is getting busier. I wander down a side street and find a bench overlooking the river Nere, which runs through the centre of town in a deep, stone-lined channel. The water is the colour of weak tea, rushing and churning. There's a stairway down to the water, a tiny beach and a pool where kids are swimming in the freezing water. A group of teenagers are sitting on the railings, just talking. A dog is barking somewhere. This is the hour, just before dinner, when the whole valley seems to exhale.
It's time to eat. I walk back up Carrer Major and pick a spot, a traditional restaurant called Restaurant El Molí, which I'm told does good local food. I sit outside on the terrace. The waiter brings me a menu, and I'm glad I've been studying. I order the trinxat, which is a local speciality of cabbage and potato, mashed and fried with bacon. It's not fancy, but it's exactly what you want after a day of travel. And it's a fraction of the price of a meal in the Gothic Quarter. About 15 euros for a main course. I also get a glass of local wine from the Costers del Segre, and as I eat, I watch the square fill with families and couples taking their evening stroll. The paseo, the ritual, but here it's slower. More intimate.
After dinner, I walk up the hill behind the town. There's a mirador, a viewpoint, above the roofs. The lights of Vielha are beginning to sparkle below me, and the mountains, which an hour ago were sharp-edged, are now dark shapes against the deep blue sky. I can hear the river and the lively chatter from a bar down in the town. No traffic, no sirens. Just the sound of a mountain town doing its evening thing.
I get back to the hotel and check my phone. Tomorrow, the plan is to go deep into the Aigüestortes i Estany de Sant Maurici National Park, to see the lakes, maybe do a proper hike. It's the park's lakes and trails that are the main draw. The local sheep are also moving down from the high pastures, and there are shepherds' markets starting around the valley. I research, making notes. The Garonne, I read, has its source here. The Garonne. The river that flows through Toulouse and Bordeaux. It starts as a trickle coming out of a rock in the Pyrenees, apparently. I want to find that spot.
I expected a ski town, a place that's half asleep until the snow comes. But I found a living valley. The rooms fill with people, and there's a buzz about the place. If I can get my NIE paperwork sorted here, or if it's already fine, I might consider staying in this area longer. The price of a longer stay is still just the cost of the hotel room. The rhythm feels right. The air feels right.
The window is open, and the cool mountain air is washing over me. I can hear the river from here, a constant, soothing rush. In four days, the solar eclipse will happen, and I've heard that the valley will be a great place to see it, with the high peaks giving a clear view of the sky. But for now, there's just this. The sound of the water, the smell of pine, the cool air, and the sense that I've escaped the heat and found something that feels a lot like home.
I'm Mateo Herrera. This is the journey north. The journey into green Spain. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Buenas noches from the Val d'Aran.
Actually, the hotel block is too old to have good soundproofing; I can hear a faint TV from the room next door and the water running in another bathroom. But it's a comforting kind of noise, the sound of other people also settling in for the night. I check my list: the plan is to visit the Museu dera Val d'Aran in the old Tor deth Generau Martinhon, to hear some stories about the giant Mandrònius who, they say, fought the Romans. Apparently he was born in Betren.
This valley is obsessed with its identity. The Aranese language is a dialect of Occitan, closer to the language of the troubadours than to Castilian Spanish. It's co-official here, and you see it everywhere, on the road signs, on the shop fronts. The 'Glèisa de Sant Miquèu', the 'Plaça d'Era Glèisa'. The Conselh Generau d'Aran, the valley's government, is based here. They have their own flag, their own history. For centuries, this place was more connected to France than to Spain, cut off from the rest of the country by the mountains. Even the name, Val d'Aran, is said to come from the Basque word for valley. It's a stubborn place, and I like that.
I settle into the hotel bed. The window is open, and I can hear the river from here, a constant, soothing rush. The air smells of pine and damp earth. In the morning, I'll wake up, get a coffee at CAFE DEL VALLE Gusto Argentino, which I saw on my walk, and start exploring the old town properly. I'm excited to see what else this valley has to tell me.