Before the first hikers arrive, the mountain still belongs to the mist and the pottok. The tale of a climb at the hour when Sare is still asleep.
You have to rise before the sun. When Sare is still asleep, when the shutters are closed and the village square belongs only to the cats, la Rhune is already awake — but for herself alone.
You climb in the cool air, on foot or aboard the little rack railway that hauls itself slowly up the mountain's flanks. Mist lingers in the hollows, clings to the ferns, and tears open here and there onto a stretch of sky turning pink. Higher up, the pottok — those small semi-wild horses of the Pays Basque — graze without a glance for the passer-by, and a few manech ewes keep them company. You hear only the wind and the sound of your own footsteps.
At the summit, along the ridge line where France and Spain meet, the reward is immense. On one side the ocean, still grey; on the other, the Pyrenees rolling on until they vanish. The light rises, the mist lifts, and for a few minutes you feel that rare sensation of being alone in the world, right at the very top.
Then you head back down, legs lively and mind clear, toward the steaming coffee and the fresh bread. Perhaps this is the true luxury of a stay here: not ticking off a summit, but giving your day a beginning that no one else will have seen.