Saturday, June 15, 2013


It's the week-end and so we have to change the mindset -- from "busy doing stuff" to "doing not a whole lot." One has to distinguish one day from another, so that confusion doesn't set in, where you become like Ed, who'll sometimes ask -- is the Fourth of July an official holiday? He just doesn't remember the importance of dates, or days of the week. No job has ever required him to differentiate between, say, July third or the fourth. Me, I want to stay on top of things. So I'm taking note: it's the weekend.

Breakfast (dear Ocean commenter -- no, I only eat one of the pain au chcolat!)...

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[Where is everyone? -- you might ask. Well, it's past the breakfast hour and too early for lunch. But men come and go all day long. Here's a klatsch, huddled at a table by the entrance.]

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From our table, I can look up and see the mountain we had climbed yesterday.

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Swirled in a morning mist, it looks imposing, so that I can think -- job well done! We did that and now we need do no more! We have one more week in Sorede and if we touch no other peak in that time, we will be none the worse for it!

This is our only full Saturday here (we arrived late on one and will be leaving very early on the next). That's significant  because if we are to go to the town of Ceret for their grand Saturday market, it's today, or bust.

You may remember from my many, many postings in the past decade on this town, that Ceret is a small but imposing place, with artistic designs and pretensions: Picasso lived here for a while, Matisse and Modigliani passed through as well. I think of Ceret as being at once somber (all those tall trees and narrow buildings!)...

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...and Catalan colorful.

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And I think of it as many French people think of it -- as a place for cherries. Typically, the season ends by June, but spring here came late and we are in the full blush of the harvest for this most fantastically delicious fruit (they have many varieties and inevitably, you'll have your favorites). So of course, at the market, we buy the cherries. And a good fresh goat cheese...

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...and some tomatoes. And Ed pulls me away from drooling over the olive oils and the honeys because really, neither one of us wants to lug that kind of stuff in a backpack in the days after we leave Sorede.

So we walk through this busy market and it's a very pleasant stroll and now we've checked that off for the day, so maybe we should just get that beloved pistachio ice cream cone and call it a day?

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On the way back to Sorede, we stop to pick up bread at THE BEST BREADMAKER EVER. I see that they have posted a lunch menu: sit down and have yourself a roasted chicken with mustard sauce and home made fries. Well now, that's an idea! Let's do as so many village people do on week-ends-- eat the big meal now, in the early afternoon and after -- mess with a simple supper of baguette and cheese and isn't that the most perfect way to herald in a weekend after all?


Especially since a big meal like that most assuredly deserves a nap after.

Evening. The skies are clearing somewhat. Our remaining task for the day is to go down to the bakery and pick up the Napoleon pastry ('mille feuille') we'd purchased earlier.

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Ed sees it as something that just needs to be done. I see it as an opportunity for a lovely late-in-the-day walk. Past the well-formed vineyard...

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...past the variously maintained gardens of our neighbors.

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I love summertime evening walks and here, the distances aren't taxing, at the same time that everything is novel, different than back home. (Even if you love home to pieces, as we do, it is always so good to be fired up about a place that isn't like your own backyard.)

Supper. The simple meal tonight. Bread -- the best one, goat cheese, tomato salad. Our newly discovered especially well brined Lucque olives (we have lucques back home, but these are beyond exquisite). And cherries.

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Happy weekend to all and to all a good night!