El Tributo de las 3 Vacas

On July 13^th, Inaki and I were able to get away from the crazy party rockin’ good time in Pamplona and soak up some Basque culture, high in the Pyrenees mountains in the valley of Roncal. Roncal is home to much of Inaki’s father’s extended family, some delicious wines and some really kick-ass, cured, stinky cheese. The valley stretches up into the Spanish Pyrenees until the border with France and its residents are known as Roncaleses, not Spanish. This area also holds a tribute each year that recognizes what I’m told is the oldest peace treaty in the world.

In the 1300's the valley of Roncal was lush with grass and greenery for all their cows to munch on and grow fat for all the cheese, milk and meat they would produce. The French side of the border had not had so much luck with the weather during the time period, which left their hillsides dry and barren, creating problems for their growing animals. One day, a sly French farmer thought, “maybe if I let a few cows across the border to eat some of that yummy Roncal grass, we’ll be able to slaughter a couple of cows this year.” So, he turned his cheek, and whoops, his animals were fed.

This went on for who knows how long and eventually, the Frenchman was caught by someone on the Roncal side of the border. Naturally, this act enraged the Roncaleses. How could this man steal their grass and feed his cows? What an asshole! Once the group simmered down over a bota of wine and some Queso Roncal, in my vision anyway, they decided to make a pact. The French could feed their animals using Roncal grass if they then gave the Roncaleses 3 cows from the herd every year, chosen by the Roncal side. Hence, the tribute of the 3 cows began and the French side has given the Roncal side 3 cows every year since. The herd is led up to the border in the mountains, the Roncaleses join with the French over a stone that marks the border, they pile their hands one on top of the other, take an oath and that’s it. The cows are then picked over by the Spanish side and 3 are chosen. The people that come to watch then head up the hill for some migas and wine and all is simpatico.

We arrived at the tribute early and only had to park a quarter of a mile down the mountain and hike up. We had a beautiful day and I felt so lucky to get to be a part of this piece of history!

We sat on a grassy hillside above the border stone and cut chorizo for sandwiches and slices of cheese to snack on while we waited. Here’s a shot of Inaki rocking at drinking from the bota bag.

And here's the stone that marks the border with France.

The wine was a little vinegary, but chilled and tasty. I heard some singing coming from over the hill on the other side of the road and decided to investigate. It was a mass being held before the tribute outside on the plain. Everything was in French because when I crossed the road I was on the French side of the border. Here's the view.

I came back to our spot on the hillside, Spain again, and the tribute began.

The traditional garb was interesting to see and the oath sounded much like a wedding…

“Do you, Roncales, agree to take this 3 cows and zip your lip when the French cows feed on your grass?” “Si.”

“Do you, Frenchie, agree to let this Roncales take any 3 cows he damn well pleases from your herd that was fed on Spanish grass?”

“Oui.”

“Does anyone have a problem with this? Speak now or forever hold your peace.” (silence)

“I now pronounce this pact live and in effect.”

After this, we all hoofed over to the French side and watched the Roncal farmers pick the 3 cows. It was really gross. These huge white jerseys were fenced into an area too small for the group and farmers proceeded to stick their fingers up the cows noses, causing the cows to open their mouths exposing their teeth. I guess good teeth are a sign of good health. One of the mayors in a town in Roncal was perched at one end of the coral and nodded in approval when healthy white teeth were flashed. The chosen cow would then be marked and led back into the herd, nose dripping with blood. The other cows were all in a panic in the small space, running around, jumping on each other and pooping. The coral turned into a slippery mess of cow fluids and excrement and isn’t a part of the tribute I need to see again. Yes, I’m a city girl through and through. I still took pictures though.

Cows chosen and crowd thinning, we walked up to eat some migas and drink some wine with the locals. Migas, or literally “crumbs” in English, are an old Basque shepherd tradition. Going out to be with their herds for days at a time, shepherds would pack a loaf of bread and cured meat and cheese to eat. After a day on the mountain, the bread would get hard and in order to make it edible, the shepherds would cut it into chunks and fry it using the fat from the cured meat. This makes a yummy sort of fried stuffing that you eat directly from the pan. Inaki always says “cucharada y paso atras” which means, take a little spoon full and step back. This way, someone else can get in for a bite while you’re eating yours and washing it down with some red wine.

It was fun to elbow through the crowd and get some real migas from Roncal. We ate a little and headed out to try to get to the car before traffic started. Driving through the Pyrenees always makes me carsick, so I can’t imagine what it would have been like with traffic. Our next stop was the dolmen, known to Inaki and I now as the puto dolmen, which I’ll have to explain some other time.

Thanks for reading, I miss you Portland and all you Portlanders!