Sunday winds

They say that the brutally fierce mistral wind can destroy the spirit of a man or woman of Provence. But what’s not mentioned is that the mistral’s reach extends far beyond Provence. The wind can rip through the coastal areas of its southern neighbor Languedoc, where we’re staying and unhinge shutters and spirits in a flash.

Today, the wind struck.

We knew it was coming and so we didn’t make many plans, allowing the weather to dictate the tenor of the day one step at a time.

In the morning, we made sure to acquire one last time a mille feuille at the bakery (they only bake them on the week-end), and a baguette, and pain au chocolat, and almond cookies (our appetites for baked goods are growing as we move into the second and final week of our visit here).

[I keep an eye out on fathers, wanting to see if their eyes sparkle more with pride on this day – Father’s Day here (as in the States). They seem only as happy as always.]

In the somewhat sheltered space of the café bar (the one that just reopened under new ownership on the upper square), we watch life unfold.





A fine activity, which we continue to do after a satisfying interlude over my café crème.

Because of the wind, people walk with a brisk stride...





... except for the young ones. The girl walks her dog slowly to the bakery, the two boys eat their second breakfast up on the wagon that stands decoratively at a village intersection.









I notice with some sadness that our village grocer has decided to take a few days off. (Note the writing on the blackboard.)





I imagine he has learned of the lovely weather forecast for next week and has decided a rest is in order. We wont be short for produce – there’s plenty of it at the markets and supermarkets, but I realize that I wont see him again. We’ll be gone by the time La Ciboulette decides to open its doors again.


Ed studies the direction of the wind relentlessly, attempting to guess its impact on the sea. Since you’re curious, I tell him, why don’t we head out for the beaches.

Not wanting to drive much, we stay with the closest beach town – Argeles-sur-Mer. The beach by the town is not especially a winner (too many recreational gigs for the vacationers who’ll flock here next month), but as I mentioned earlier, some good soul has rated all the beaches of Languedoc and has given high marks to the beach just north of Argeles.

Not hard to find and not hard to get to.

But, oh, the wind! Although it is Sunday, the beach is nearly empty. The sky alternates between a dazzling blue and a sinister white, but even when the sun is bright as can be, the wind makes you zip up and huddle into yourself.

And the beach: it is a sand storm in the making. Gusts of fine pebbles lash out at you, punishing and cruel, as if you had violated some sacred rule against stepping out during this meteorological temper tantrum.

Families take one look and then retreat. Happy Father’s Day indeed.





I watch Ed pace by the water's edge.




I find shelter behind a low fence that on better days serves as an enclosure for an outdoor refreshment area. It is, in fact, fairly pleasant down there: the sand comes at you in a trickle and the wind passes over, rushing to rearrange the sands of the long beach and to make a fine spray of the turbulent white capped waters.





Surely, I say to Ed, you will not swim today?
He looks at the waves. Not perfect, he tells me. But pretty good.

There is no holding him back. I warn him that we are rather far from habitable premises and a possibility of prompt rescue (we like to choose spots bordered by nature rather than houses), but this is silly patter on my part. I’m talking to a man who has sailed the ocean, indeed, the entire eastern seaboard by himself in a wee sailboat. Rescue efforts indeed. And so I merely reassure him that if he is pushed out to sea, I will surely find someone to care for his cats back home...

In he goes.





I stay by the protective barrier, as does a small handful of others, some choosing to sunbathe au naturel, or at least, as is the habit here, au naturel from the string panties up, others choosing to hide in protection beneath towels.

Ed comes back refreshed and invigorated. No orphaned cats this time around.

I look out at the sea. I can see Collioure at the other side of the wide bay. And then, because the mistral makes you act in unpredictable and devilish ways, I mumble – maybe I should try it.





We eat lunch first – baguette with cheese and tomato. If you hunch, you can avoid getting sand into it. Then I wait for a cloud to pass. And then I take my own plunge into the raging waters of the Mediterranean.

Being thrashed around by the waves and by the wind and by the sand all at once is almost a life defining experience. I can’t even say that I am cold. I am too engaged in this mad dance, this wild affair with the wind and water.

But not for long. My interest in wild flings is always short lived.

[In the interest of honesty, I notice that further down the beach, toward the town, there is a life guard station and that, despite the threatening appearance, the warning level for this day is only at yellow. When the flag is red, you are not permitted in the water.]

We dry off against the fence again. The wind now rages in spurts. A family comes to the beach, the dad (happy father's day to you!) shows his little girl how to fly a kite.





Then the wind gusts again. They huddle, wait and then retreat.

And we do too. It’s five and I am ready for a refreshment. Argeles-sur-Mer is a beach town, but away from the shore, it has a downtown commercial heart. I’m curious if it comes alive on a June Sunday afternoon.

It does not. Most places remain closed and perhaps due to the wind, there are few people out and about. But the green grocer is open and we pick up one of the deliciously sweet melons that are in season at the moment.





And we do find an open bakery.

You don’t suppose we should check out their mille feuilles? Ed asks.





We do. Again, we encounter an extraordinarily friendly shopkeeper who willingly selects the very largest pastry for Ed.





It’s evening now. The wind still hasn’t died down. In Sorede, the Catalan flags are flapping furiously.





We walk up to our new favorite, the reopened café bar (which is also a pizzeria and restaurant and ice cream shop). Children are playing outside and a few men are having a drink at the outdoor tables, but they are the exception.





There is a pleasant buzz inside as people come and go, picking up pizzas to take home, pausing for a drink, stepping out for a cigarette, coming in again to watch the match on TV. Children scamper, dogs sleep, we order salads with anchovies and pizzas and the world seems to be a happy and safe place for this fleeting minute.













Walking home, we pass through the lower square and the “other” village café bar, You have to feel sorry for them – they had advertised a special musical event for yesterday (Billy “Halladay” was to croon all evening long) but the sketchy weather caused them to reschedule it for this evening. The wind has kept the people home once again. A solitary pair and a one other woman sway to his melodies.





We watch and sway for a few minutes and then walk home.

village love

When you walk into a bakery and discuss the differences between two baguettes with the shopkeeper and then leave feeling like she was the most informative, nicest shopkeeper on earth, when you walk up to la Place de la Republique and nod to yourself that this indeed is the most agreeable village square in France, when you go to a larger town (say, Ceret) and it has a dream of a Mediterranean market – huge, spilling onto the next street and the next, filled with fruits, soaps, baskets, you name it, and you think -- ok, but smaller is nice too, when you take an evening walk to the village next door and you silently think – our green grocer has a better lay out and a friendlier countenance, and their café bar doesn’t even come close to ours... well, it’s clear you’ve developed a case of village love.

Sorede is perfect.

It’s got character. Old stone houses and a river running through it. One day you’re climbing summits, and the next you’re splashing in the sea, and in between you’re slurping your neighbor’s apricots and sipping a rosé wine from the vines just down the road. Sure, the people are friendly all around Languedoc, but they seem extra friendly here. And they have this Catalan thing going which lends intrigue and drama. They’ve got it all.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Can you read that little heart on the mailbox of this Soredian? It says "j'aime mon village." I love my village. (Note the Catalan flag and the dancer on the doorway beads – which are a common way to keep the breeze going while preserving privacy.)





Still, you can’t stay glued to your village, no matter how perfect you think it is. You must explore. See the world. Visit the towns that are more renowned. For example, Ceret.

I’d popped in on Ceret once before. Four years ago, alone, driving in on a quiet evening. I remember thinking then that it was rather somber. It was a favorite destination for twentieth century artists and I tried to look at it as they had seen it. The light was mellow and I appreciated the tall plane trees and thought – I’d probably set up my canvases out of the town some. There are too many shadows here.

And now, on this bright, partly sunny Saturday morning, I'm thinking it's time to look at Ceret in a different light. It’s a short drive – the town is only 20 kilometers west of Sorede – and it's a pretty route at that, affording frequent glimpses at this region’s magical mystical Pic Canigou (more on Canigou in a few days).





In Ceret, it is market day and I have read plenty about the market here. It is, in fact, quite spectacular. It’s hard to photograph, as it’s reasonably crowded (though not shoulder to shoulder, like our Madison one) and it’s set up along narrow streets with magnificent towering plane trees that are very much part of this town’s architecture. Taking it all in is a challenge.





We are here at a time of beautiful light and colors, and terrific energy.





Ah... people dress well to go to market. I’ve noticed that before, of course, and the more rural the place the less likely it is that you’ll see denim. Ceret isn’t exactly rural (population 8,000), but it feels close to the hills (that bear France’s cherry crop) and in any case, it feels far from any urban pressures.





Which vendors are popular? Fresh seafood stalls always get the crowds. That’s true at all markets here.





But so do other stalls. Maybe not the specialty tomatoes (there are great, sweet tomatoes at 1.40 Eur per kilo elsewhere), but the fruits, regional spices and of course sausages and wines – both offering plenty of free samples – are definitely in demand.





















We meander this way and that, remembering to look up at the old trees, and to look down the more empty side streets...









...and remembering, too, to stop at the Museum of Modern Art to see the Chagall piece and the Picasso dishes with the bull fighters (sorry – no photos allowed).


This time, Ceret feels properly delicious.





And on our way out, we remember to pause at the bridge – the one that dates back to the 14th century (when Cerat and indeed, all of Roussillon belonged to the Kings of Majorca) – because the span of the arch is really is quite spectacular.





We leave not empty handed. Once again the market has given us ideas for a supper on the patio.


In the evening, we take a walk to a village next to ours (Saint Andre). We pass a campground slash caravan park and, curious, we poke around a little. A very friendly British family invites us into their little house (but really a movable thing, though it’s secured now to the local plumbing and electricity). I’m impressed: the structure is cheap, the maintenance is minimal and there you have it – a person of modest means or inclined toward frugality can bypass the enormous costs associated with vacation home ownership and for a few thousand, have a little place in the south of France. Oh, it’s not beautiful or exquisite, but it's adequate and in any case, there’s beauty enough in the land around you. A simple place to sleep and to wash up after a day out on the hills or on the beaches of, say, La Franqui.


We continue our walk to Saint Andre and it is a fine walk...





though once in the village, we keep reminding each other how much lovelier Sorede is. Even as Saint Andre is a perfectly adequate village.





But I have to be honest here: Ed insists we stop at their local bakery. Seeing a tray of mini pastries...





...he buys a little mille feuille. We finish it before we’re out the door. It’s exquisite. We should get another – the larger one, he says. And we do.

We finish that one again in no time. I love our local bakeries, but Ed has proclaimed that the prize for the mille feuille goes to Saint Andre. By the tiniest of margins. I’m okay with that. The shopkeeper in Saint Andre was equally friendly and sweet. We’ll give her the honors (should she ask).


We walk back in that occasional raindrop weather that again has taken over the hills and villages. The sky is full of drama, but I hear we have a week of clear weather ahead.

Ah, there's the ever  thrilling Pic Canigou again...





In any case, it’s dry enough to eat outside once more. Paella from the market (at 10 Euros a kilo, it is a wonderful and ample meal for two) and leftover tomato, endive, egg and an anchovy salad. With a local crusty bread and a local rosé.

by the sea

We sit at the café bar on the square and watch the people arrive. No one drives to market. You walk. With your bag or basket. And you stop to talk to anyone you know.





Or, you ignore the marke (for now) and you have your conversation at the café bar. It’s 10:30. As I slurp my lovely café crème, others are enjoying a morning aperitif.





It’s a beautiful market Friday in Sorede.

I have learned that a Tuesday market is small, as if you’re still recovering from an orgy of week-end eating, but a Friday market is small times two. I hadn’t been thinking of doing another market-based supper, but there are too many wonderful foods out there, including the new, Friday arrivals – the sausage man (I buy the one with cumin) and the charming cheese lady (the runny goat cheese is like no other).









It is impossible to pass by the haricots verts (a string bean so perfect, ballads should be sung in its honor): a fistful please! And the young potatoes, and the delicate rippling leaves of a very young spinach, and the endive. And a half dozen tomatoes. A French salad in the making. Oh, and we may as well get those delicious carrots, and some fresh figs. What?? The grand total is less than 3 Euros?? And you throw in free sprigs of parsley for anyone who asks? Produce here is very very inexpensive.


The clouds are clinging to the mountains today, but that is of no concern to us. I have in mind a beach day. Not the beaches just ten minutes east of here. I want a lovely Mediterranean beach with pristine waters that are shallow and clear. I want golden sands and no beachfront development or distraction. For that, we have to travel. Some fifty or sixty kilometers north, there is the beautiful beach of La Franqui. Please don’t share this tip with too many friends. The place is too gorgeous, too precious. May it stay this way for next decade or longer.





It is actually two beaches – one, the smaller of the two, is accessible from the little village. Do you see the river separating the two?





It's an inlet, streaming into an etang – a rather large lagoon. The second, longer beach is accessible by a bridge some ways out of town. (Or you can hold up your skirts and cross the river on foot.) We find the road over the bridge and park where it dead ends. From here, it's just a short stroll to the second beach.

There is a sailing school here as well and school children are finishing a lesson as we arrive. I comment to Ed that kids learn early here the importance of good recreation.





We walk a short distance along the wide strip of sand by the water. The air is warm, the skies are blue and puffy white and there is quite a breeze! This comes as no surprise. The winds cavort from beyond the hills, across the great Roussillon plain. There are a number of turbines on the hills catching the energy of that blast of good air and there are a number of windsurfers that come to La Franqui to race across the sea on boards with sails and kites.

Watching them is an afternoon’s worth of fun.





But first, we choose a spot far up the beach, away from the village, away from pretty much anything and anyone.

Ed is in the water within seconds. And it is such a fine place to play! Shallow for a great long while. Look – there he is, a tiny dot, standing waist deep. You can see the pale colors of the sand through the azure waters of the sea.





Water that encourages joyful silliness.





I follow shortly after and spend a heavenly long time practicing the art of crawling.






From the water, the view is equally dazzling. Whichever way you look.





On the sand again, we dry off. Gusts of wind spray us occasionally with fine sand, easily brushed off. Ed has explained to me numerous times how wind does not mean there'll be waves and indeed, there are no waves here at all. My traveling buddy builds a sand fort just at the water’s edge and it is a long long time before a little slap of water brings it to ruins.





Still, the gliders and surfers back near the village are having the most glorious time working the breeze to their advantage.

We walk in their direction to watch some more.





Crossing the lagoon inlet, we are now on the town beach and the town beach has, of course, a café bar where any number of people are refreshing themselves with a spot of something.





I choose ice cream. Dark chocolate paired with the local apricot never tasted so good.


It’s seven before we’re back in Sorede again. I know this for a fact because Ed wanted to catch the boulangerie before it closed at 7 – he thought a flan would be a fine ending to our market supper. It was not to be. The bread store was closed, even as our local grocer still was keeping the doors open for those last minute purchases – eggs for me (hard boiled, but not too hard – a splendid addition to the beans and potatoes and tomatoes. With mustard and vinegar made from Banyuls grapes and olive oil of course.)

Outside the shop, artichoke flowers were on display. I have seen (and loved) artichoke fields up north, but I had never seen the flower bloom (we harvest and eat the early bud).





We eat on the patio again. It begins to rain lightly halfway through supper, but neither of us wants to go in and so we continue, though I ask Ed to to hide the baguette. Damp French bread is not as good as a crispy loaf.