The Basques, the guys from Pamplona, the dark-haired girls, with the ikurriña on their T-shirts and their breasts underneath, crossed the border before nightfall.
All are there for Miguel Indurain.
U.S. too.
Us, it's me and those of Adour, Aureilhan, Orleix, Ossun.
And from Tarbes, where Yvette Horner was born, the breathtaking
“Vévette Underground”
who accompanied, with her Cavagnolo, Louison Bobet climbing the Galibier, or Boy George singing
Summertime
.
His parents lived behind us.
She visited them.
The cows dropped dung in the streets, Yvette crushed them with the whitewall tires of her Cadillac.
Yvette: all year round, we listen to Angèle or Orelsan, but as soon as we set up the camping table in the pass, we whistle
The March of the Miners
by Yvette Horner.
Tour day is Yvette's day.
Read also
Christian Laborde, the writer who speaks
The day, here it is, it rises.
On each side of the cambered Hautacam road, cars, camper vans.
There is no longer a place, and the Basques no longer have paint...
This article is for subscribers only.
You have 77% left to discover.
Cultivating your freedom is cultivating your curiosity.
Keep reading your article for €0.99 for the first month
I ENJOY IT
Already subscribed?
Login