Lure of the majestic Pyrenees a source of solace

FRENCH NOTES:IT WAS early morning as I drove to work, coaching Racing Club Narbonne at the Stade de I'Amitè. The sun was rising out of the Mediterranean. In the distance the early beams of light were glowing red on the first snows on the high Pyrenees above Perpignan. It was a wonderful sight. The Pyrenees have a spirituality about them. I have a deep affection for the peace and stillness they hold.

I first went to the Pyrenees many years ago for two reasons. Surfing in Biarritz and Tom “Rusty” Richards. Rusty was the only Wallaby who became a British and Irish Lion. The Trophy up for grabs in two years between the Wallabies and the Lions is the Tom Richards Trophy.

Rusty’s CV is not bad. Rusty was an original 1908 Wallaby tourist to Europe. On that tour he won an Olympic gold medal for rugby. He was vice-captain of the 1912 tour of the USA and Canada. During his career he played for Queensland, New South Wales, Transvaal, Gloucester, the Manly Club in Sydney and, of course, the Lions.

Rusty had travelled to Johannesburg to dig gold and wanted to play for South Africa. The Africans did not want him because he was not born there. The touring 1910 Lions team hit an injury crisis and heard a Wallaby, who had played for Gloucester, was in town and Rusty became a Lion in South Africa.

Rusty learned to surf at Manly and the evidence is very strong that he introduced body surfing to Biarritz. After years of globe -trotting, chasing rugby and, it would appear, more than a few ladies, Rusty travelled to the Basque Country on the Atlantic edge of the Pyrenees. Not only did he surf and play rugby, he wandered into the Pyrenees and simply walked. At different times he played for both Biarritz and Toulouse. He was also asked to coach the French forwards in a Test match against Wales.

All of these travels and achievements were accomplished in the era before the first World War. There were no jets to catch. Travel was dangerous and slow. At the outbreak the first World War, Rusty volunteered for the Australian army. He saw lots of action at both Gallipoli and in France. He won the Military Cross for bravery. He was injured in a bomb blast and took shrapnel that brought on a premature death a few years after the war.

If Hollywood invented a Rusty Richards, no one would believe it. His travels and achievements are incredible.

When I live in Ireland I often go the Basque country in the summer. The food, the wine and the surfing are good. These are things I deeply enjoy. When I am there, and the barbecue is glowing hot after a wonderful day’s surfing, I toast Rusty.

It is Rusty’s spirit that captivates me. The spirit of competition, adventure and fun that was amateur rugby. More than that, it is the indomitable spirit he displayed in his life. He truly possessed a life force. What drew a man like him to the Pyrenees also fascinates me. What drew him to this harsh and beautiful terrain? Why do I also feel drawn to those majestic mountains? As I write this I am in Pau at the base of the western end of the Pyrenees. Once again I am looking wondrously at those peaks. I have a copy of a photo of Rusty, taken at the Chateau in Pau.

In the image the peaks or “Cols” made famous by the Tour de France flank a seemingly immortal Rusty. So I went into these mountains searching for Rusty, not really knowing where to start.

I stopped at the pilgrimage town of Lourdes. It is nestled at the base of the Pyrenees about 120kilometres inland from the Atlantic. I know Tom Richards visited here.

The streets are lined with worst kind of superstitious bling imaginable. From statues of the Virgin Mary that sit on the back shelf of your car and whose eyes light up red when you brake, to huge grandfather clocks where Jesus’s head beats out eternity on the base of the pendulum. It is kitch central. The town is without doubt a modern-day Babylon worshipping Mammon. I detest it.

The economy of the entire town is based on the story that Mary appeared to the peasant girl Bernadette, at the Grotto by the river. The waters of the Grotto are believed by many to have miraculous qualities.

The Grotto is topped by a Basilica that looks like something from Disneyland. Audacious, garish and overly elaborate. It stands for everything I deplore in organised religion. The building of a man-made empire on the spiritual insecurity of others.

Then you walk into the Grotto. How do I describe the indescribable? The journey from cynically detached to physically affected takes seconds. I don’t know what it is, but there is something there. A force, a physical reaction in your stomach, a spirit. Whatever it may be, it is deeply peaceful. To me there is something beyond human understanding and reason in that small group of rocks.

These rocks in the Grotto are perhaps the last area of Lourdes that is as it was when Bernadette had her visions. Some of the rock is worn smooth by the hands of thousands who have come searching for peace and healing.

I am not sure about God. We are like a couple of boys who went to school together and have drifted apart so much you can’t quite remember the face.

I don’t know if I believe in miracles. When I was young I did not believe in evil. As I made my way in life I learnt that evil does exist. Good and evil. Despair and peace. They are in the world all around us. I have encountered them all. So why not miracles? Was Rusty searching for some peace? I believe he was.

I feel he was searching for the purpose of the drive that pushed him all over the globe to compete and play? Was Rusty’s adrenaline rush of the contest the drug that became an obsession, only to be replaced by the ultimate game of life and death, war?

Was he searching for a way to calm the obsession of a driven mind?

I know something of that drug, adrenaline. It is more powerful than you imagine. I also know something of being driven.

The wheelchairs and trolley beds that travel from the hospice to the Grotto’s waters are pushed by an army of volunteers, many of them Irish. Their accents are familiar to me. I can pick their county. Clare, Cork, Donegal. It is plain to see the people in the beds are gravely ill.

I don’t know if I witnessed miracles by the waters of the Grotto but I did see healing. Not healing of the body, but healing of the spirit. The sick seem to find a peace. An acceptance of the reality of their situation. I cannot say if the physical pain, that was so obvious, stopped for these people, but I can say they seemed to find a type of tranquillity. Perhaps they found within themselves the courage to face the final challenging days of terminal illness.

I can not positively say, but what I observed was extraordinary. Was this the power of the Pyrenees or is God coming to earth? Many believe it is God. I am not sure. My faith is not that strong. I doubt. I wish I had faith like many I am watching but the truth is I don’t. I regret not having that certainty in my life.

I did experience a peace from something beyond this world. A calmness in the madness of life. That is what draws me to these mountains.

I hope Tom Richards found some peace in the Pyrenees. A peace I believe he was so desperately searching for. I hope Tom’s spirit, that was so powerful in rugby and battle found some tranquillity, even if only for a few brief moments, in these mountains.