‘Within travel literature, the smuggler is typically presented as both rakish and rustic, unafraid to stand out in town but also possessed of deadly force and an intimate knowledge of his area; in a word, swashbuckling. It might be assumed that much of the affectations described were romantic inventions of the author, as it would be in their interest to retain a low visibility. However, enjoying the support and even protection of the local population, it is entirely conceivable that the Pyrenean smuggler had few qualms about standing out, and even living up to the image of an ‘outsider’. The following passage describes this characteristic in a tone that, as was so often the case, expresses no little affection for the smuggler and his air of a ‘loveable rogue’:

When he is seen in Pau,[1] he appears in a velveteen jacket, inexpressibles [sic] girt round his waist with a gay crimson sash, a conical felt hat with rakish rosettes, and a loose collar thrown back from his swelling sunburnt neck. He strides along with a bent knee, and the springy, free, elastic step of the hill-climber; and there are not wanting scandalous rumours that he makes use of the knowledge with which he tracks the izzard or the bear to their haunts, to convey a venture of tobacco bales across the frontiers, by paths and precipices, where even the carbineers[2] of the customs hardly care to follow him. He is seen in great perfection when escorting a troop of kicking, biting, devilish mules; or indulging in a siesta on some half-shaded bank, with a cigarrito between his lips, and a faint odour of “eau de vie” about him. People see in him a figure which recalls sundry dramatic reminiscences of carriages upset, long carbines and Fra Diavolo;[3] but we have only found him a merry, courteous fellow, always ready with a song or a joke, and with quite as little, or less, of the rogue about him, as his compatriots in the towns.[4]

Another feature we can note here is the characteristic of being unthreatening and even kind to those who either had nothing to steal or were uninvolved in smuggling, and smugglers were often credited with helping lost travellers (in some cases acting as guides):

The assassin has been my guide in the defiles of the boundaries of Italy; the smuggler of the Pyrenees has received me with a welcome in his secret paths. Armed, I should have been the enemy of both; unarmed, they have alike respected me.[5]

In the next century, this knowledge of secret paths and evading the authorities would help refugees across the escape routes that ran through the Pyrenees, but prior to this, two other qualities (possibly exaggerated) would emerge in the literature which further cemented the smuggler in folk legend as a benevolent influence. One was the purported extension of hospitality to travellers and the poor; the offering of bread, wine and whatever else the smuggler had to share with the lost and the hungry. The other quality which was often reported was the brotherhood which existed between the smugglers, one which bound Basque, Béarnese, Aragonese, Catalan, Gascon etc. together in cooperation; the movement of merchandise was of greater importance than one’s village of birth, particularly when pulling together against the authorities:

Picturesque fellows they are; clad in rough garments of leather, besashed, gay kerchiefs about their heads, decked with geegaws and armed to the teeth. A bit dirty and unkempt, perhaps, unshaven, their weather-beaten faces the colour of tan, their features as rough and gnarled and seamed as their beloved mountains. Desperate dare-devils, they are too, fearless, sure footed as goats, expert marksmen and proud and independent as grandees. Hard drinking, loud boasting chaps, yet most courteous and hospitable to those they trust; as ready to aid a distressed stranger as to slit his throat if they suspect him of being an enemy; willing to share their last crust of black bread or their last drop of wine with the poor wayfarer or to hold a well-to-do traveler for ransom; united into a blood brotherhood never violated or betrayed; living a wild, rough life; the idols of the peasants, the heroes of countless tales; carrying on their trade as much for the love of adventure and the devilment of the authorities as for profit, and ready at any moment to give battle to the carbineros or the guardias, whether French or Spanish. Few of them are true Spanish blood. The majority are Basques – members of that strange, ancient, proud race which has never really been conquered and whose tongue is perhaps the oldest of Europe, – Navarese, Catalans, with a few of Gipsy blood, but all forgetting their differences of race or station in the common bond of being Contrabandistas.

Among the interminable, intricate passes and defiles of the Pyrenees, among the towering peaks and vast bulwarks of the mountains, they dwell and hold their own, frequenting the wine shops, the wayside inns of mountains towns; threading their way along narrow zig-zag trails, mere shelves of rock with dizzying heights above and dim blue abysses below; winding through clefts between stupendous precipices; bending to the sweeping blasts of the cloud-hidden summits; wrapped in their sheep-skin cloaks as they face the driving icy gales above the timber line; bivouacking beside their fires in sheltered nooks; holding high revel in smoke-grimed, massively timbered mountains taverns, they laboriously traverse the way from Spain to France or France to Spain, driving their heavily laden mules and donkeys, cracking their whips, shouting picturesque Basque oaths, and earning a few pesos, a precarious living at risk of death and prison, at cost of hardships, endurance, terrific labor and the roughest of lives.[6]

No doubt another aspect which helped the feeling of community amidst contrabandistas were the harsh conditions in which they worked. Contrary to the shepherds and hunters who also frequented mountain passes and pastures, poor weather was a help rather than a hindrance to their activity, as was the difficulty of the route chosen. Such a combination of hazardous paths and precipitation would make the likelihood of encountering patrols of gendarmes a minimal one. This did however mean that the smuggler had to be dressed and equipped accordingly; their use of rough, thick sheepskin coats as well as gripping and climbing aids, which bore something of the mountaineer about them, was common:

Scarcely had we entered it [a valley], when I beheld upon the heights above us, a very stout fellow armed with a gun, and descending with an air of agility and boldness, which I could not enough admire. This was an Arragonese [sic] smuggler. As soon as he perceived us, he stopt [sic], and put himself on his guard; but seeing me approach him with confidence, and that I was not armed, he continued to descend, preserving however the advantage of the heights, until he had well observed us. He informed us that the snows of the pass were good, and that he had descended from the Breche de Roland with ease: but after all, a smuggler does not travel as a philosopher, and when I remarked his cramp-irons hanging from his sack, and the small hatchet which he carried at his side for hewing out his way in the ice, I could easily guess, that if he had not occasion for them, I might.

In the countenance of this man I could perceive a mixture of boldness and confidence; his thick and frizzled beard was continued up into his black and curling hair; his broad breast was open, his strong and nervous legs naked; all his clothing consisted of a simple vest; the covering of his feet, after the manner of the Romans and Goths, of a piece of cow’s skin applied to the sole of the foot, and bound round it like a purse, by means of two straps, which were afterwards crossed and fastened above the ancles [sic].[7]

The description of footwear comprising of cow hide bound around the foot corresponds to the abarca or albarca (Basque: abarka), a traditional Pyrenean and Cantabrian shoe, which was fashioned from a single piece of calf leather tied around the ankles and lower calves with braided woollen laces. Some versions of this shoe have wooden soles, much like a clog, however for the purposes of gripping slippery rocks and other unstable surfaces commonly encountered by smugglers, shepherds and hunters alike, the use of cow’s hide was preferable.

Footwear preference was not the only aspect shared by smugglers and shepherds. As mentioned above, many of the routes that straddled the post 1659 border made use of grazing lands and transhumance paths. What made these pathways so useful, aside from their passing far from the eyes of the law, was largely in connecting upper pastures and lower settlements in a manner which harked back to the pre-existing (and ancient) land rights which often did not correspond to the newer Spanish/Franco border. This allowed goods to be moved across from Spain to France, and visa-versa, by routes that not only allowed surreptitious and efficient contraband transport, but also between villages or towns which may not have felt sufficiently French or Spanish enough to be on good terms with the customs officials. Some of these crossings held particular significance for pastoralists, such as the Port d’Azun and its tradition of settling land right debates between rival herdsmen:[8]

At the Pierre St. Martin, which you pass on your left, the Spanish and French used to meet annually to settle disputes about cattle-liftings; and all who pass this way, in honour of St. Martin, contribute one stone to the pile. This port is very much frequented by contrabandists, and I suspect there is no pass in the Pyrenees through which so much smuggling is carried on, chiefly of silk and tobacco.[9]

The mountains offered many of the methods employed for transporting goods, however smugglers also made use of waterways, especially those which ran along the Franco-Spanish border, namely the Bidassoa: ‘Smuggling by water is a pastime practised upon the border river, the Bidassoa. It, also, is done chiefly at night, and the trade is, more times than not, in wines or strong spirits.’[10] Human smuggling also took place along this river during the Carlist wars,[11] with prices varying according to rank:

A Carlist is passed just like a bale of goods. There is a certain tariff, so much for a colonel, so much for an inferior officer. As soon as the bargain is struck, the contrabandist makes his appearance, carries off his man, passes him over the frontier, and smuggles him to his destination, as he would a dozen handkerchiefs or a hundred cigars.[12]

Smuggling along this river was popularly immortalised in the late 19^th century novel Ramuntcho, a tale of love and adventure among the contrabandistas of the French Basque region, which went a long way to popularising the romantic and swashbuckling characterisation of the smuggler in various Parisian salons.[13]

Despite this literary propaganda, not everyone was so well disposed towards smugglers and their ways, particularly the men who were tasked with stopping their lucrative practices. One 19^th century traveller in the Val de Carol (Ariège) happened upon the local gendarmes, the captain of which offered up some very blunt character judgements upon their prisoners:

‘What do you think of this company?’ said the gendarme; and without giving me time to reply, added, ‘you must certainly have some very particular business to bring you here; as for me, I would not stay a day in it, if I were not obliged by my office. I have guarded all the coasts of France, all the defiles of the Alps; I have even served in Italy during the blockade; but I assure you that I have never yet seen such smugglers as those of the valley of Carol. See, said he (pointing to the company) these are people who know the smallest crevice in the mountains, and who pass where neither you nor I would even dare to venture ourselves. And what kind of contraband do you think they carry on? – In the Jura, near Geneva, the mountaineers carry jewellery and watches, which are such small articles that it is natural they should not be seen. But these merely smuggle – what do you think? – wool! And we can hardly ever catch them. In fact they climb the mountains on the south side, and when they have reached the summit they throw down the bales, which roll down the north side, when others receive and carry them through the defiles into the plain. It is in vain that we watch them, they always escape us. It is a very different thing with sugar and coffee; as for those goods, they introduce them as the ladies in the sea-ports do Vanilla, in their bags. They are an untractable and wicked people, whom we have the greatest difficulty to keep under restraint, who are neither French nor Spanish, and who only look for one thing, which is a rise in the price of commodities. Would you believe it, they are almost all Bonapartists, though they had no more connection with the government of Bonaparte than with that of the king? But I will tell you the reason; sugar and coffee were dearer then, and smuggling was more profitable.’ [14]

The folklore surrounding smugglers mainly revolves around the characters themselves; whilst it is likely that there was (and still is) lore among the contrabandistas in terms of luck-bringing acts, this area remains very much a ‘closed book in terms of the literary record. However, there are some figures whose exploits reveal some of the supernatural aspects ascribed to smugglers by locals and the law alike.

To begin with the profane, the figure of ‘Don Q.’ is quintessentially folkloric, marrying the sacred and the profane as a smuggler cleric. He comes across as a fairly ruthless and cunning man, not above exploiting both his flock and his colleagues, the latter in terms of ransom:

There was Don Q., who, legend has it, was a renegade priest, and, like many another robber and lawless character, ever looked upon the clergy as his special prey and enjoyed nothing more than forcing some stout and easy-loving padre to toil weary miles through the mountains, to dwell in a bare and rocky cave and subsist on the coarsest food exposed to jeers and insults of the smuggler-brigands while awaiting a ransom worthy of a king. And, also, according to story, Don Q found his earlier experience in the Church of utmost value in his profession. Garbed as a friar, he could quite safely enter the towns, hear the carbineros’ plan for his capture, acquaint himself with the doings of the citizens, the market for goods, and even make secret arrangements with his agents and customers, with never a suspicion that the shaven-headed, cassocked priest was the outlaw for whose apprehension the guardias would have figuratively given their heads.[15]

It is worth noting that this local legend may be the inspiration behind the ‘Don Q.’ who featured in several story collections by author and explorer Hesketh Hesketh-Prichard.[16] In these stories, Don Q. is recast as a Robin Hood figure, frequently dressed as a padre and stealing from dastardly rich lords so that he might give openly to the poor. Hesketh-Prichard claimed that the ‘Q’ was short for ‘Quebra Huesos’, the Spanish term for the bone-breaker vulture, the lammergeier, because of his protagonists’ severe appearance, which may see the conflation either in Hesketh-Prichard’s mind or, perhaps, that of the locals, between the ‘historical’ Don Q. and the figure of ‘Don Sebastian’, to whom we shall turn to next.

The enigmatic ‘Don Sebastian’ appears to have entrenched himself firmly in Pyrenean smuggling lore, primarily due to his success and perceived supernatural abilities. We also see once again the link between smugglers and Carlists, in this case ascribing Don Sebastian an aristocratic background from that house which along with his command of witchcraft paints him as a great mythical folk-hero. The lengthy quote below provides a wealth of detail:

Even more fascinating and picturesque was that other famed and partly fabulous smuggler chief of the Pyrenees, one, Don Sebastian, who, like Don Q, was as much bandit as smuggler. Of him the peasants still speak with much of awe in their tones and with crossed fingers, for the superstitious folk credit him with having possessed the evil-eye, with delving into sorcery and witchcraft, and with being under the personal protection of the devil himself.

Who he was no one knew, and Don Sebastian never divulged. Indeed, it is said certain over-curious persons who enquired too closely into the ancestry and antecedents of the bandit-smuggler, vanished most effectually and mysteriously, utterly destroyed by witchcraft, whisked away amid blue flames and a smell of brimstone, or dropped over a convenient cliff, according to the individual fancy of the story teller. But whether made away with by occult or corporeal methods, their fate served as a deterrent for others, and the natives satisfied their imagination and their love of the romantic by weaving a tale wherein Don Sebastian was the scion of a great and noble family, one of the Carlistas who had been robbed of home, family and estates by the Spanish government. […] Seldom, however, was he known as Don Sebastian. Instead, he was nicknamed “Quebra Huesos” [sic][17] (bone-breaker), not that he was given to fracturing the bones of his enemies, but because of his striking resemblance to the huge mountain vultures, the “Quebra Huesos” of the Spaniards. […] He was loved, respected, admired by the peasantry as greatly as he was feared, hated and sought by the officials, despite the people’s dread of occult things. Never did he molest the humble or the poor. He might appear like a wraith at a tiny, poverty-stricken cottage and help himself to food and shelter, but when he had gone, had vanished into the night or the morning mists, a bag of silver or a handful of gold pieces would be left in return for what he had taken. Men, women or children, if ordinary mortals, could wander as freely and as safely through the mountains where Quebra Huesos had his lairs as about their own doorways. They could even seek and receive shelter and food from his men, and if mounted and their sorry ponies or donkeys gave out, a new mount would always be forthcoming from the famed smuggler’s stables. Once, an aged mountaineer lost his foothold, and falling, broke his leg. Upon the shoulders of two of Don Sebastian’s men he was borne to his hut, and within a few hours, a bound and terrified surgeon, kidnapped from the nearest town, was brought to the injured man’s bedside. Under the gleaming eyes and levelled pistols of Quebra Huesos himself, he set the fractured limb, after which he was rewarded by a bag of gold – ten times the fee he would have charged a patient – and was carried in safety to his home.[18]

It is in this figure that we find the archetypal Pyrenean smuggler; a far cry from the reality of a lucrative but arduous profession which while dangerous, also held its fair share of monotony, waiting in comfortless perches and lugging goods in driving rain, ever watchful for the gendarmes’ lanterns. The smuggler captain is transformed into a rough diamond, capable of great and noble acts to the unfortunate and holding the powers of nature at his command. The question as to why is a harder one to answer, but much like the figure of the witch, a great deal lies in the act of being marginal, living outside of society, holding an intimate knowledge of the wild Pyrenean landscapes, engaging in hazardous work that brings great reward and in rarely being seen (at least, by those whom the smuggler wished to avoid; the authorities). Coupled with the economic benefits that smuggling brought to various rural communities, it is not surprising that the smuggler attained an aura of magic and adventure. It should also be noted that the descriptions by visitors hold, to varying degrees, an element of wistful envy; many of these travellers were middle-class and likely led reasonably regulated lives, and thus many projected their own romantic desires of an adventurous life onto their encounters and reports of the contrabandistas.[19]

It is worth touching on an aspect which is unexpectedly present in many descriptions and actions of the smugglers; their political sympathies. While undoubtedly payment features in the motivation to become involved in protecting or escorting a political or royal dissident across the border, the risks entailed would be enormous, and this suggests that some level of affinity and sympathy for the cause itself would feature in the decision to accept such an undertaking. The mention of a mythical Carlist background of Don Sebastian, for example, gives a clue towards these sympathies, as does the point raised by the customs officer quoted above, where he mentions that Bonapartism finds a particular root within many smugglers. However, it should be clarified here that many smugglers enjoyed the perpetuity of Napoleon’s campaigns not due to any great love of Imperial France, but rather due to the pressure and shortages placed on various goods markets, which made the demand for smuggled items soar and thus provided them with a lucrative trade across the frontier.’

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[1] Pau is a small city and capital of the Pyrénées-Atlantiques, and also of the historic Béarn region. It takes its name from the Béarnese term pau meaning ‘stockade’, which surrounded the city’s castle built in the 11^th century.

[2] This is an Anglicised version of carbineros or carabiniers, terms used for companies of light infantry regiments and also a specific unit of gendarmes and customs officers whose duties included fighting smugglers.

[3] Fra Diavolo (‘Brother Devil’) was the nickname given to Michel Pezza (1771 – 1806), a popular Napolese guerrilla fighter and leader of the resistance movement against the French occupation of Naples. His inspirational exploits earned him an enduring place in local folklore and even in the works of Alexandre Dumas, so quickly did his posthumous legend grow. Thus, by the 19^th century, his name had become a byword for romantic buccaneering anti-establishmentism.

[4] Johnson, Frederick, A Winter’s Sketches in the South of France and the Pyrenees (London: Chapman & Hall, 1857), pp. 141 – 142.

[5] Ramond, Louis-François, Travels in the Pyrenees; Containing a Description of the Principal Summits, F. Gold (trans.) (London: Longman & Co., 1813), pp. 116 – 117.

[6] Verrill, Alpheus, Smugglers and Smuggling (New York, NY: Duffield and Co., 1924), pp. 152 – 153. Available here: https://archive.org/details/smugglerssmuggli00verr

[7] Ramond, 1813, pp. 102 – 103.

[8] The particular ritual associated with the age-old practice is discussed in Chapter One.

[9] Packe, Charles, A Guide to the Pyrenees: Specially Intended for the Use of Mountaineers (London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1867), p. 24.

[10] Ewing Oakley, Amy, Hill-Towns of the Pyrenees (New York, NY: Century Company Publishing, 1923), p. 403.

[11] For a detailed analysis of the First Carlist War, see: Lawrence, Mark, Spain’s First Carlist War, 1833 – 40 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014).

[12] Gautier, Théophile, Wanderings in Spain (London: Ingram, Cooke and Co., 1853), p. 13.

[13] The book also features some excellent ethnographic observations on local Franc-Basque culture: Loti, Pierre, Ramuntcho (Paris: C. Lévy, 1897).

[14] Thiers, Louis Adolphe, The Pyrenees and the South of France During the Months of November and December 1822 (London: Treuttel and Würtz, 1823), pp. 140 – 142.

[15] Verrill, 1924, pp. 156 – 157.

[16] Hesketh Hesketh-Prichard (17^th November, 1876 – 14^th June, 1922) was an English soldier, writer, explorer, cricketer and hunter who travelled extensively in both military and private capacities, frequently using his experiences and local lore to weave his stories. These are classic of the period, primarily concerned with adventure, romance and daring-do.

[17] This should be ‘Quiebra Huesos’.

[18] Verrill, 1924, pp. 158 – 163.

[19] Another famous example of smuggler literature can be found in Joseph Conrad’s The Arrow of Gold, a tale set in Marseilles during the 1870s amidst the Third Carlist War, in which a love triangle revolves around the female leader of a band of ammunition smugglers, with the usual array of betrayals, adventures and mishaps typical of the period. The smugglers are supporters of the Carlist cause, which is unsurprising given the fact that Conrad himself helped smuggle guns for the Carlists during the late 1870s. See: Conrad, Joseph, The Arrow of Gold (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1919).

‘We now turn to the figure of the blacksmith, in terms of his industrial, social and folkloric role within the Pyrenees.[1] By and large, the Pyrenean blacksmith used a bellows driven forge, anvil and a handheld hammer, in contrast to the water driven sledgehammers found in many local forges, and was responsible for a myriad of ironmongery. These ranged from highly practical services such as the reparation of agricultural tools, shoeing horses (both making and fitting the ‘shoes’ and seeing to any hoof related ailments), making domestic implements such as pots or griddles, shepherd tools such as wolf traps, dog collars protective against bear attacks, shears etc., and of course, weaponry, through to ornamental products, such as the wrought iron gates within churches and the Estripagecs (‘jacket strippers’) found in so many traditional rural houses and huts across the (primarily Catalan and Andorran) Pyrenees. The latter are flat metal bars cut along their length to make curved spikes which protrude from their sides. They are fixed in window frames and designed to tear (or ‘strip’) the clothing of any thief trying to gain access, particularly their jackets (‘gecs’).

Depending upon the region, the village blacksmith was either completely independent, taking on business as and when, or under defined obligations from the community (and/or feudal lord) to fulfil certain tasks for free. Testimonies from the 14^th and 15^th centuries indicate that, for example, in Comminges (Gascony) and Vicdessos (Ariège) the blacksmith was obliged to repair agricultural equipment, in Foix (Ariège) he had to sharpen tools,[2] and between the 15^th and 19^th centuries in Andorra the blacksmith was forced to have certain fixed prices in order to gain exclusive labour rights within the village community.[3] The blacksmith was thus a vital figure within the community who fulfilled a multifaceted role of smith, hoof doctor, mechanic and public servant, deeply tied into the social contract of give and take that held rural life together.[4]

Curiously the Pyrenees, in general, has a lack of recorded folklore attributed to the smithy, however the very word ‘recorded’ may explain this, as oral transmission would have been the primary method of keeping knowledge and traditions alive, and perhaps guarding certain elements from public discourse. This is particularly seen in evidence from the Basque Country, in which a very deep-time signature of ‘smith-magic’ can be detected, and given the movement across the Pyrenees by Basque peoples (detected by various toponym examples, even as far down as Andorra),[5] it is possible that such concepts were spread across the valleys orally. However, aside from such speculation, let us briefly examine Basque smithing in its context.[6]

The figure of Basajaun is a popular one in Basque folklore and mythology, being most commonly portrayed as a wild, huge and hairy figure who acts as a protector both of the forests and flocks which graze there. He is also attributed as being the first miller and the first blacksmith, from whom the secret of the forge was stolen by Martin Txiki (or San Martinico), particularly the technique of making a saw, and also soldering iron:

Thanks equally to the use of a trick, San Martinico managed to steal from the baxajaun (from the devil according to other versions) the secret of the making of the saw, the soldering of iron, and the axle of the mill wheel. The baxajaun was making the saw, according to a certain legend from the region of Oyarzun (Oiartzun); San Martinico could not do it because he lacked a model for it. Wanting to know the secret, he sent a servant to announce in the town that San Martinico had constructed a saw. On hearing this, the baxajaun asked him, “Has your master seen the leaf of the chestnut tree?” “He hasn’t seen it but he will,” answered the servant, who later told San Martinico what had happened. This is how the technique for making the saw was spread throughout the world. With the same trick, San Martinico succeeded in learning how the baxajaun soldered two pieces of iron together, according to a legend from Cortézubi (Kortezubi). He ordered the herald to announce that he had discovered the process for soldering iron. The baxajaun asked the herald, “Did San Martinico sprinkle the pieces of iron with water from potter’s clay?” “He didn’t, but he will,” was the reply. And as a consequence of this new secret stolen from Baxajaun or the devil, the technique of soldering iron was spread throughout the world.[7]

Martin is also responsible for stealing the secrets of wheat cultivation, water-mill construction and welding from Basajaun; in the case of the latter the Basajaun gave away the trick of sprinkling clay water upon the pieces of iron. This relates to the technique of using a clay suspension in the water during soldering.

Whilst the Basajaun is famous beyond the Basque borders, Martin Txiki is less well known, yet just as crucial to the world of the Basque smithy. The origins of Martin are tangled, yet offer tantalising clues of a ‘character’ in whom many aspects are married. Archetypal Promethean aspects can be detected, in stealing vital secrets from the divine so that man might thrive, and also a Puckish or Loki-esque trickster element in his manner of fooling the Basajaun into revealing these secrets. One theory revolves around the possibility of Martin (and other Basque ‘cunning-men’ figures) being an echo in the folk-consciousness of travelling Celtiberian healers from the Moncavo area, in particular the region now known as San Martín de la Virgen de Moncavo, whom may have treated people with tools made from bronze, iron and copper. This is, however, a very difficult theory to square with the presence of Basque metallurgy sites in the archaeological record, which seem to co-exist chronologically with those of other cultures sharing the same mountain range; unless the perceived healing properties of these metals were unknown to the Vascons.[8] Folk-etymology and origin stories are both difficult to unpick and determine their definitive sources, allowing much speculative theorising; however, this one is so particular that it seems worthy of inclusion here.

Another aspect of Martin is in his saintly guise, Saint Martin (San Martín), one of whose symbols is the horseshoe, which also happens to be a traditional stock-in-trade of the blacksmith. This symbol was used for Saint Martin because of his horse, from which he gave a beggar half of his cloak. We also see an echoed link between the blacksmith and the horse, whose hooves he was qualified to care for should a horse be lame. A curious feature of this saint can also be found in Polish folklore; during his feast-day (11^th November) horseshoe shaped biscuits are baked for his white horse, who would come riding through the snow when least expected.[9] Clearly Saint Martin’s horse is a large feature in his folkloric presence, and if extrapolated both to blacksmiths and general Basque lore we may find two things. Firstly, the role of the horse in Basque folklore is potent, particularly in a white or ghostly context. The Ireluak are spirits or genius loci, which in some cases are said to take the form of a white horse, such as at the cave of Laxarrigibel near Soule (Pyrénées-Atlantiques), and the Zamari Zuria is a white headless horse that portents death when seen.[10] Could it be that these figures have merged with Saint Martin’s horse in the folkloric/mythic record over the centuries, thereby instilling the horse both in the Basque spirit landscape and also in the link between the blacksmith and the horse? Another aspect is the (albeit tangential) similarity in the Basque smith’s relationship with horse via the Saint Martin/Martin Txiki motif, and two groups of rural specialists in rural Britain; the Society of the Horseman’s Word in Scotland, and the ‘Toadmen’ of East Anglia.

Both were comprised of rural workers and ‘cunning-men’, and both of whom claimed to exercise unusual and ‘magical’ powers over horses, albeit via different methods, but both held blacksmiths in their ranks. The Society of the Horseman’s Word was a 19^th-century fraternal secret society spread throughout Scotland and eastern England which focussed on the labour protection of its members (those who worked draft-horses), guarding the secrets of horse-control (many were known as ‘horse-whisperers’) and the ‘horseman’s word’, which would grant this control. Initiation ceremonies typically took place at night in barns or stables, and were presided over by the ‘High Horseman’ who held a goat’s hoof in one hand, during which various oaths were spoken.[11] [12] The ‘Toadmen’ were individuals in East Anglia who allegedly made a deal with the Devil in order to gain control over horses via a very specific rite, recorded in an interview with a Norfolk horseman, born in 1886:

Well, the toads that we used for this are actually in the Yarmouth area in an around Fritton. We get these toads alive and bring them home. They have a ring around their neck and are what they call walking toads. We bring them home, kill them, and put them on a whitethorn bush; They are there for twenty four hours ‘till they dry. Then we bury the toad in an ant-hill; and it’s there for a full month, ‘till the moon is at the full. Then you get it out; and it’s only a skeleton. You take it down to a running stream when the moon is at the full. You watch it carefully, particular not to take your eyes off it. There’s a certain bone, a little crotch bone it is, it leaves the rest of the skeleton and floats uphill against the stream, take it home, bake it, powder it and put it in a box.[13]

Whilst there seems to be no documentary evidence for a similar rite among blacksmiths in the Basque Country, there are elements which stand out; namely, the affinity (both practical and folkloric/magical) with horses, and also the importance of the toad, which held a special place in the eyes of the Devil in Basque witchcraft, and also features in the following legend:

On a number of occasions, someone asked advice of Mari and her predictions turned out to be accurate and beneficial. Thus, the ironmonger of Iraeta saw that his foundry was not working and presented himself to Mari in the cave of Amboto. She explained the cause and the remedy for the malfunction, and the ironmonger was able to get his factory working again. A similar case occurred in the foundry of Zubillaga, and thanks to the oracle of Amboto, production was able to start up again.[14]

In at least one of these cases the problem was the presence of a toad under the anvil; this may have been preventing the proper functioning of the forge due to some mal-intent on behalf of the toad, or it may have been due to the toad’s protection from any harm from the hammering etc., due to his status in Basque witchcraft.[15]

The Devil, too, forms a link with the blacksmith in Basque folklore; at least in the folkloric sense than the Judeo-Christian ‘Devil’. We can read a very famous legend, ‘The Devil and the Blacksmith’, which is widespread throughout Europe and finds its own Basque rendition. Broadly speaking, a smith enters into a pact with the Devil in order to gain wealth and superior smithing skills, in exchange for his soul. When the Devil returns years later to keep the bargain, the smith tricks him into captivity, only freeing him when the Devil reneges on his bargain.[16] However there is another ‘devilish’ figure associated with the Basque blacksmith whose origin lies far beyond the Devil; that of Aatxe or Etsai, the latter term dating to the early 16^th century and meaning ‘enemy’ or ‘adversary’.[17] Aatxe can appear in various forms, particularly a red bull, a man, a goat or a horse (zaldi), and is said to be a representative of the Basque arch-goddess Mari, inhabiting caves and hollows; this also ties in with the theme of the blacksmith visiting Mari for advice on the malfunction of his forge.[18]

When talking of Mari it impossible to ignore her consort, Sugaar, a serpentine figure which in many instances of Basque folklore embodies lightening and, crucially, fire. Sugaar was a ‘divinity’[19] that was, and is, bound to blacksmith fraternities and guilds in the Basque Country; one which challenged both one’s wit and skill, just like the iron worked in the forge. Much in Basque folklore links the two, however there is one tale in particular that illustrates the bond between the smith and the ‘serpent’ Sugaar. If Sugaar wished to put his skills to the test, he would ask a fox[20] to present him with a challenge. The fox would invariably direct Sugaar towards a forge, to test his strength against the resident blacksmith. In one case, the smith asked Sugaar to wait a while, during which the smith placed his tongs in the fire and then suddenly grasped the serpent by his head; Sugaar cried out in pain, and begged for his life, after which the smith, perhaps recognising him for his supernatural form, let him go, despite Sugaar vowing revenge. It is important to realise that Sugaar relates, via his lightening connection, to the element of fire, and this is obviously of fundamental importance to the smith. It is perhaps possible, too, that the smith’s work which involves all four elements renders him, in folklore, well acquainted with the supernatural, and thus recognised Sugaar for himself and the test he proffered, to which some terrible end might result for the loser. [21]

We also see the 19^th century Basque intellectual Agosti Xaho attributing the ancestry of the Basques to Tubal Cain, the ‘first blacksmith’ in Biblical chronology, claiming that his descendant Aitor was the first common Basque patriarch.[22] Whilst on the surface this might be considered part of a European fanciful 19^th century tradition of ascribing biblical origins to an ancestor group, usually to deepen its legitimacy, we see in this example something far more interesting and potent. Within traditional Basque culture, the blacksmith held a deep current of connection with both the land and the supernatural, and even today many of his secrets are communicated only within family groups and guilds, much like with other fraternal societies, including those mentioned above. Thus, the Basque forge was likely a place of mystery, along with communal service, and even the forging of such a seemingly ‘mundane’ item (to outsiders) as pot hooks by Basque smiths would have been a highly-charged process, given its symbolism within Basque households:

The pot hook, like the hearth, is in some cases a symbol representing the house: the coals deposited beneath the boundary stones of a plot of land represent the limit of the property belonging to the house; when a cat is brought to the house as a purchase or gift, they walk it around the pothook in the kitchen three times so it won’t run away to look for a different place to live. Servants do this as well when they first come to work in the house, according to a custom in Liguinaga. [23]

Given the nature of the work carried out by miners and blacksmiths across the Pyrenees, not to mention the trade secrets which kept their livelihood impervious to ‘outsiders’, such as the behaviour of the miners of Raincie, it seems probable that, even though they were often obliged to serve the community maintaining tools etc., their role in the village did not detract from their ‘otherness’ and secrecy, not to mention an aura of magic.

There are other folkloric instances of iron being used in protective or magical contexts in the Pyrenees. In the 17^th century, it was recorded that in the Navarre, it was customary to stick iron pins or needles in a specific tree ‘belonging to the church of Saint Christopher, situated on a high mountain above the city of Pampeluna [sic].’[24] In Luchon (Haute-Garonne), an iron axe was carried into the yard to protect against lightening and hail, lain edge upwards against the house’s threshold, and should lightning strike ‘the spot was visited and an attempt was made to dig out the thunderstone; if it was not to be found, the place was marked, as the thunderstone comes up to the surface after seven years and can then easily be found. The thunderstone protects the house against lightning and brings good luck.’[25] [26] We also see these themes in Basque folklore:

Certain names for lightning, such as oneztarri, tximistarri, and ozpinarri (probably ozkar, ozkarri, and inhar, as well) which mean “lightning stone,” correspond to an ancient myth known widely in European countries in which lightning is a special stone (Neolithic axe, knife, or point of flint) that sinks down to the depth of seven states or levels upon falling to the earth. After seven years it slowly begins to rise one state per year until after seven years it reaches the surface. From then on it protects the house where it is found against evil spirits or Aide-Gaizto, which is lightning itself. This myth includes the Indo-European idea of Thor’s hammer and Jupiter’s arrows. In some places in the Basque Country, however, it is thought that lightning is made of bronze; in others they say it is made of iron. The current custom of placing steel axes with the sharp edge facing upward on thresholds during storms in order to protect houses from lightning derives from the veneration of the stone axe and belief in its supernatural powers. Before the discovery of steel axes, those made of bronze must have served the same function: in the entrance to the cave of Zabalaitz (in the mountains of Aizkorri), an axe from the bronze age was found stuck in the floor of the cave with the blade facing up. [27]

It is also possible to see the use of iron horse shoes as wards against evil and protectors against storms on the doors of various Pyrenean huts and houses, however specific reference to this in the context of the Pyrenees is lacking in the available literature.[28]‘

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[1] An excellent French resource on blacksmiths, which is sadly difficult to obtain is: Jean-Dupont, Claude, L’Artisan Forgeron Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1979).

^[2] Verna, Catherine, ‘Forgerons de Village: Quelques Témoignages Béarnais des XI^ve et XI^e Siècles’ in L’Artisan au Village: Dans l’Europe Médiévale et Moderne, Mireille Mousnier (Ed.) (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Midi, 2000). Available here: https://books.openedition.org/pumi/24131

[3] Bosch, 2004, p. 11.

[4] For a microcosmic example of Pyrenean village socio-economics, featuring the blacksmith, see: Bonnain, Roland, ‘Household Mind and the Ecology of the Central Pyrenees in the 19^th Century: Fathers, Sons, and Collective Landed Property’, History of the Family, Vol. 10, 2005, pp. 249 – 270.

[5] An example is the village Aixovall, which roughly translates to ‘valley valley’ using two difference Basque words for ‘valley’.

[6] My thanks here to María Martínez Pisón, an expert in Basque ethnography and a practitioner of Basque traditional ways, for her insights and information: Martínez Pisón, María, 2020, pers. comms.

[7] de Barandiarán, José, Selected Writings of José Miguel de Barandiarán (Reno, NV: University of Nevada, 2007), p. 131. Available here: https://scholarworks.unr.edu/bitstream/handle/11714/750/Barandiaran_SelectedWritings.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y

[8] This theory is not supported by any reference.

[9] Taylor, Demetria, The Cook’s Blessings (New York, NY: Random House, 1965).

[10] de Marliave, Olivier, Trésor de la Mythologie Pyrénéen (Bordeaux: Éditions Sud-Ouest, 2005).

[11] Neat, Timothy, The Horseman’s Word: Blacksmiths and Horsemanship in Twentieth-Century Scotland. Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2002), p. 53.

[12] An excellent account of this society can be found in: Fernee, Ben, The Society of the Horseman’s Word (Hinckley: The Society of Esoteric Endeavour, 2009).

[13] Evans, George, The Pattern Under the Plough (London: Faber & Faber, 1967), quoted in Pearson, Nigel The Devil’s Plantation: East Anglian Lore, Witchcraft and Folk-Magic (London: Troy Books, 2015), pp. 123 – 124.

[14] de Barandiarán, 2007, p. 103.

[15] de Marliave, Olivier, Magie et Sorciellerie dans les Pyrénées (Bordeaux: Éditions, Sud Ouest, 2006), p. 111.

[16] In the 2007 Basque film Errementari, based upon the local version of this tale, the blacksmith tortures the Devil in revenge for all his troubles. I have been unable to verify if this is in the original Basque tale.

[17] Martínez Pisón, 2020, pers. comms.

[18] It should be noted that Basajaun is recorded as being known in French as homme du boc/bouc, which may provide a further conflation with the Devil and the origin of man’s use of iron, due to the infamous lande du bouc, a region in Lannemezan (Hautes-Pyrénées) in which the Witches’ Sabbath was meant to take place. For a more detailed exploration of this subject see: Locker, Martin, The Tears of Pyrene (Andorra: Mons Culturae Press, 2019), pp. 114 – 116.

[19] This is a categorical crude simplification of Sugaar but sufficient in a brief overview. For more information on this figure see: Locker, 2019, pp. 112, 200.

[20] Another creature renowned throughout Europe for its cunning abilities.

[21] Martínez Pisón, María, ‘Serpents & Dragons’, Hidden in the Brambles (podcast), 2020. Available on the Patreon account Above all the Brambles: https://www.patreon.com/posts/hidden-in-7-40716481

[22] This theory is presented out in: Xaho, Agosti, ‘Aïtor – Kantabriar Kondaira’, Ariel, 1845.

[23] de Barandiarán, 2007, p. 206.

[24] Hartland, E., ‘Pin-Wheels and Rag Bushes’, Folklore, Vol. IV, 1893, p. 457.

[25] Blinkenberg, Christopher, The Thunderweapon in Religion and Folklore (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1911), p. 104.

[26] One can also see the use of iron by Basque shepherds as a lightening deterrent in the sarobes; see Chapter One.

[27] de Barandiarán, 2007, p. 115.

[28] Some blacksmiths counted themselves as specialists in horse shoes, and during the early 19^th century those who made both the shoes and the nails in the commune of Arget (Pyrénées-Atlantiques) dubbed themselves chevaliers (‘knights’) due to their productivity. Baring-Gould, Sabine, A Book of the Pyrenees (London: Methuen & Co., 1907), p. 253.

In comparison to the Ariège, the ‘Old Regime’[1] forest laws of the Pyrénées-Orientales were stricter, although the records tend to indicate that the Pyrenean disregard for laws detrimental to the peasantry held sway. This is may be due to a more forgiving landscape which allowed agriculture to play a far greater role in the lives of the locals, and thus local nobles felt less inclined to be lenient than for example in the lower Comté de Foix.[2] The municipal archives for St Laurent de Cerdans in 1604 state that:

Nobody may cut, or remove any tree or green wood or dead wood from the said territory of the forests of Folgons, nor may they make charcoal there, under the penalty of a fine of two hundred ducats, and if the guilty party is a miserable nobody who cannot pay, they will incur the penalty of one hundred crowns and two years of galley-work.[3]

Whilst infractions of these rules did not always lead to being forced aboard a ship, the legislation and heavy fines attest to the importance attributed by the royal owner of the forest to its preservation and exclusion. However, going by the records of various viguerie,[4] the wary peasantry decided to takes chances in this regard nonetheless, with one example from Conflent-Caspir in 1780 claiming that they had committed ‘very considerable crimes, [clearing or felling] an immense quantity of trees, pine wood, by the inhabitants of Caudiès’.[5] It also appears that the imposition of the threatened fines by the authorities upon the ‘criminals’ in these cases tended to be rather sporadic. One forest owner is recorded in a series of letters throughout 1790 as complaining bitterly that the commune of St Laurent de Cerdans was incapable of either restoring order or applying punishments regarding woodland infractions, in reference to the ‘devastation of my woods’ and ‘the impossibility in which this municipality finds itself to repress the cuts and devastation in the woods of Sieurs father and son Campdoras’.[6] In the same commune, prohibitions on grazing animals in woodlands reached back to at least the 17^th century, being mentioned in the municipal records of 1604.[7]

These attempts to restrict access (as can be seen below through the 1827 ‘Forest Code’ in the Ariège) continued well into the 19^th century, and an interesting source confirms that it was not only the theft or destruction of wood that was of concern to the owners of these forests. Beyond the Pyrenees, to the east, the département of Gard in 1872 listed grass removal, broom removal, mule grazing, pasturing twenty sheep, grazing twenty-five woollen animals, hunting outside of permitted times (seasons) and the removal of acorns as being ‘forest crimes’ punishable through fines, and it is probable that similar categories existed in and around the Pyrenees, given the centralised application of laws following the fall of more diverse feudal governance. The degree to which the locals lived by these laws however is debatable, or even doubtful, given their intimate knowledge of the local woodlands and paths which allowed unseen access.[8]

As we see above, there were certain laws and regulations under the Old Regime that prohibited certain species being felled, or certain forests being used at all, however in the higher areas of the Pyrenees the laws tended to be more lax as the peasantry relied on the forest for the majority of their survival. In terms of access restrictions to these higher areas of the forest which were traditionally ‘up for grabs’, one example (and its consequences) from the upper Ariège is of particular note. Prior to the 1827 ‘Forest Code’, the woodlands of Saint-Lary were free for the Ariégeois peasantry to gather as much wood as they felt they needed (while typically ignoring certain limitations implemented by the Old Regime).  However, the Code decreed this privilege should belong to forest owners and charcoal-burners, the latter being instrumental in the iron industry that enriched several local industrialists. This former freedom was vital for many to continue their pastoral and agricultural way of life, and unsurprisingly the local peasantry took umbrage at these restrictions, resulting in one of the most peculiar examples of French peasant revolts in the 19^th century, and proof that the figure of the charcoal burner was not one that was universally popular throughout the period. This is a brief summary of the (oddly transvestite) ‘The War of the Demoiselles’, during which

[…] peasants in the French Pyrenees disguised themselves as women and attacked forest guards sent to enforce the 1827 Forest Code, which favored commercial charcoal burners and the iron industry by creating property rights in the forests where local people had previously exercised customary rights to gathering fuelwood and pasturing their animals.[9]

The imposition of the Forest Code, which was codified in 1827 and then strictly enforced in 1829, prohibited the local peasantry of the Ariège from gathering wood, cutting wood and pasturing, which given the fact that (as described earlier) this was a ‘wood civilisation’ severely impacted their traditional way of life. The purpose of the code was to favour charcoal burners, ironmasters and the owners of these forests, and in order to enforce this law forest guards and gendarmes were employed to guard both the trees and also the charcoal kilns. The rebellion lasted until 1872, however it was between 1829 and 1833 that a unified and concerted effort took place, after which smaller and sporadic skirmishes typified the movement. In the first year, up to four hundred individuals were involved in entering the forests, typically at night, and destroying the kilns and lodges of various charbonnières, whom the peasants accused of exploiting the forests. Forest guards and charbonnières were chased out of their homes, confronted in the forests and threatened with violence, and when shepherds were arrested by guards when allowing their flocks to graze in the forests, the ‘Maidens’ would rush out with scythes, batons and rifles demanding their freedom. One guard rather dryly related seeing ‘three women of a size much larger than is expected of this sex’ before they attacked.[10] According to reports they would often gather to the sound of a seashell.[11] The most curious facet of these ‘forest rebels’, and the reason behind the term ‘War of the Demoiselles’, was their garb. Whilst some would wear rag-tag uniforms, often styling themselves as ‘captains’ or similar military ranks, the vast majority disguised themselves as women, wearing scarves or wigs, long shirts, sheepskins. As one prefect reported:

The disguise consists only in darkening the face with red or black, wearing a white shirt outside the clothes instead of leaving it tucked in, tightening the waist with a coloured band, which gives the impression of a skirt, and finally placing on the head a handkerchief or a woman’s headpiece.[12]

Masks were also worn, variously painting their faces in symmetrical patterns of red and black, draping sheets of material over their faces, using handkerchiefs pierced with three holes for the eyes and mouth, sheets of paper, sieves tied with string, left-over carnival masks, woollen bonnets and even sheep or fox skins. They would refer to themselves as Demoiselles (‘Maidens’) in a self-ironic nod to their own sense of honour.[13]

During the French Revolution, all bets were off in terms of any existing feudal control of the forests, and subsequently a free-for-all had taken place by the peasantry across France, resulting in significant woodland devastation, and in order to combat this and implement a profitable scheme, post-Revolutionary France saw a series of laws come into play that would favour commercial exploitation and the construction of ironworks in these traditionally lax areas. Privately owned forests would begin to be culled at a frightening rate, and thus the implementation of the Forest Code sought to eliminate any non-profitable use of these woodlands by the local peasantry:

Collective opposition to royal and private forest guards was an ancient tradition in the villages which came to form the Ariège, as it was in the Pyrenees more generally. Under the Old Regime, as long as the royal forest administration remained a distant and relatively tolerant authority, villagers tended to subvert its formal regulations, while frequently disputing among themselves their pasturing and firewood rights to the forest. […] Yet it was only after the Revolution, with the stricter application of new forest legislation limiting pasturing rights and forcing village communities to take their wood in predesignated areas, that forest riots occurred with greater frequency.[14]

These attacks on property and production sites within the forests of the Ariège, beginning in Castillonnais and the Massat valley, intensified between 1830 and 1832, spreading to Cabannes and Ax, and even into the Haute-Garonne (Val d’Arbas), before becoming more sporadic until the last recorded incidence in 1877. What is also noteworthy, apart from their manner of dress, was the highly-organised nature of these attacks, being coordinated by smoke-signals and horns, and also the way in which the ‘Demoiselles’ made rather theatrical use of the local belief in fairies to elevate the dramatic nature of their attacks. As Sahlins puts it: ‘this dexterous relation to fairy beliefs was part of the drama which the Demoiselles enacted; the white-robed figures appearing in the forest at night were the actors, while the guards and charcoal-makers – peasants themselves – were the audience and victims.’[15] Sadly, it appears that whilst impactful on those that experienced them, these attacks and the revolt in general did little to alter the implementation of the Forest Code in general, however it is unlikely that this prevented the pugnacious Ariégeois from exercising their ancient rights when threatened. In this vein, it has been argued that this period of ‘forest rebellion’ should not be viewed as an isolated incident, but rather as part of a larger series of popular revolts across the Pyrenees beginning before the 19^th century, against what was perceived as the ‘centralizing enterprise of the state’, in which ancient land rights were jettisoned in favour of profitable enclosure and privatisation.[16] Whilst referring to the Ariégeois, this sentiment could apply across the Pyrenees: ‘Affected in their most vital interests, the Ariège mountain dwellers had then proven their ability to defend rights of immemorial use.’[17]

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[1] This is the typical epithet for pre-Revolutionary France.

[2] However, laws here were also becoming stricter.

[3] Criées of 15^th July, 1604, Municipal Archives, St Laurent de Cerdans. From: Noël, Michel, L’Homme et la Forêt en Languedoc-Rousillon (Perpignan: Press Universitaires de Perpignan, 1996), pp, 91 – 140. Translated by Martin Locker. ‘Galley-work’, as in working on board a ship under hard conditions is an imperfect translation of galère, however it will have to suffice in this case. Chapter Four, from which this information is taken, is available here: https://books.openedition.org/pupvd/5799?lang=fr#ftn15

[4] A medieval administrative court typical of southern France.

[5] Noël, 1996, pp. 91 – 140.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid.

[9] Menzies, Nicholas, Our Forest, Your Ecosystem, Their Timber: Communities, Conservation, and the State in Community-Based Forest Management (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2007), p. 90.

[10] Sahlins, Peter, Forest Rites: The War of the Demoiselles in Nineteenth-Century France (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), p. ix.

[11]Ibid., p. 5.

[12] Ibid.

[13] Ibid.

[14] Ibid., pp. 19 – 20.

[15]Ibid., p. 47.

[16] Soulet, Jean-François, Les Pyrénées au XIX^e Siecle: L’Éveil d’une Société Civile (Luçon: Sud Ouest, 2004), p. 708.

[17] Translated from the entry of the ‘Ariège’ in the Encylopédie Régionale (Chamalières: Éditions Bonneton, 1996), p. 72.