between the mountains and the sea

Which would you pick? For me, the weather plays a role. If it’s hot, mountain hiking is exhausting. If it’s cool, a beach is unappealing, except for, perhaps, a lonely stroll, if the sands are easy to walk on.

Mountains offer interesting climbs. Days at the beach can be monotonous.

And so the debate continues in the quest for the best possible place to regenerate your body and spirits.

And how fortunate that I am in a place that has all options before us. Indeed, a day can have a mountain climb, followed by a cool down in the sea.

But first, the essentials: bread for the day.





...and other treats. Flan, a framboisine. Oh! Are these the last ones for us this year? Maybe. Though there are still two days of bread left. The essentials: must hold on to the essentials.


We walk through the village with an open laptop in hand. It’s an experiment. We want to see how many public use WiFi spaces there are around the village. We look odd -- burdened with technology (or liberated through its possibilities, depending on your perspective).

Not many Internet spots. Most people do not create a public line, even though they can do this and by doing it, they can themselves freely make use of any such spots throughout France. But then, I remind myself again that most people in the village appear not to have computers. This in itself speaks loudly about the demographics of Sorede.

We pass a school. Still in session. I think the term ends this week. The kindergartners are putting on a “circus” for their parents and grandparents. It’s truly adorable and so colorful that you may as well regard it as a canvas of Fauvist strokes.





It’s 2:30. I had suggested a hike from Algeres-sur-Mer, over the mountain, all the way to Collioure. From there, we can take the train back to Algeres.

It’s not doable. Not at this late hour. The hike is a five hour one and the train schedules aren’t aligned well. And so we leave the car at the Algeres train station and plan out a loop into the coastal Alberes hills just south of town.

Again we rely on a tourist trail map and again it confounds us. The hike up to the Chapel perched high above the Mediterranean forests that cover these hills is supposed to take maybe 90 minutes. We must have taken a wrong turn because after climbing for 90 minutes, we see no sign of a chapel or a summit or even a ridge line. Views, yes – very nice indeed. Up the coast, to the beach towns, the etangs...





But no chapel.

And it is a hot climb. When the path widens, there is no protective shade. We have four bottles of water and still we’re rationing it. I’ve packed a nice lunch, but I can tell Ed wont want to eat. Melon, yes, that he’ll manage. We haven’t enough water to allow for a pleasant baguette and cheese break. (Though in the end I break down and have mine. On a hot day, I can make do with less water than my traveling buddy.)

The forest here is different than the forest we hiked through west of Sorede. We see mainly the cork oak...





...sometimes skinned at the bottom of the trunk of its bark. The trees appear to thrive in spite of this, but it is an odd sight to see them in this way. Like a Catalan man in the cut off pants that are so common here.





As we continue to head toward the crest of the hill, we think that surely we’ve deviated from the proper trail. And again we are saved by fellow hikers. It's truly remarkable: we encounter no one during our rambles and then, at a fortuitous moment, we run into someone who actually knows the terrain. Two men tell us that we’re on the right road. And they explain how we can find the shorter path down.

A very long climb up a not insignificant dirt road finally puts us at the entrance to the chapel.





It’s past five and still it feels very warm. I tell Ed that immediately after we come down we can head for the sea. I hope we don’t get lost though... I say this with a smile, because somehow, we always do get lost. Ed laughs at the comment. The town and sea are straight down, the path is visible, I think we’re set.

But five minutes into the descent, the path diverges. One fork has the yellow blaze on it, the other path has nothing. We’re torn. Finally we take the one with the yellow marking, concluding that it surely is marked for those who hike up from the town. Surely.

Not so. After descending sharply, the trail begins to mount. We cannot believe it. Around each bend we expect to see it continue sharply down toward the town, but it does nothing of the sort. Indeed, 45 minutes into the descent, it’s not a descent at all. It’s climbing back up!





We reach a camp spot. No one is there. The air is still. The mountain forest obscures views to the sea. Maybe it’s a slight deviation, I'm thinking. Maybe now it will take us down the mountain.

And again we are disappointed. Up we go. It’s after 6 p.m. We are completely lost. We have no choice but to follow the yellow trail. At one point, we find a telltale "X" in yellow, warning us that we have taken a wrong turn. We cannot find the right turn.

How on earth did we manage to get lost now, on this last big hike of our stay in France?

We follow the path, not trailed anymore. Up it goes and around the corner, and -- what?! We see that we have looped our way right back to the Chapel.

It could have been much worse. At least we know that the one remaining visible path must surely be the right one. Ed concludes it’s a long roundabout way to town, but our conclusions have thus far been meaningless and hopelessly incorrect.

Eventually we see that this path does lead down to the sea. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that it does not come down to Algeres-Sur-Mer.

But the second good news item is that it, instead, leads down to the beautiful winery of Valmy, at the doorstep of the Chateau of the same name.





We are dangerously thirsty as we make our way just before seven (closing time) to the tasting chamber of the winery.





We are offered samples of the wine and even Ed, who typically does not like or drink much wine, does not decline. After two samples, and an agreement to purchase some for home, Ed nudges me to ask for water. They refill our bottles and then refill them again and we are now truly happy and not caring at all that we have some kilometers left before we are in town again.

And, Ed reminds me, the bakery in Algeres has late hours. And great mille feuilles (or as he so sweetly mispronounces as mille fleures -- a thousand flowers).





And finally, five hours after starting the hike, we are in the car again, driving just the few paces to the little beach community of Le Racou.

By eight, we are on the sands that descend into the calm bay.

Like the day before, fewer than a handful are actually swimming. Sprinkled on the beach we see families – many are ending an afternoon by the sea.









Even as some are just unpacking a supper, or at least snacks and an aperitif.




Some are finishing a conversation – on a raft on the water, or even in the water. The French never seem to have enough of it – a stream of words, provoking a response, and then another, and so on.


 


I wade in the cool sea and the feeling of being overheated slowly ebbs. The clear waters of the Mediterranean create the needed balance. The day can now be checked off. It’s a good one, following a stream of other good and balanced days.


In Sorede, we throw down our pack and water bottles back at the apartment and head up to the village square. It’s nine, and the sun is in its final descent. The colors now are bold and magnificent. The pastel tones are gone. A burnt orange has taken hold of the hills, almost matching the tiled roofs of the village homes.














We eat at Chez Patou. Sangria to start the evening, and the fantastic 12.50 Euro menu for me: I pick the Mediterranean tomato salad and the local fish from the sea. (And ice cream for dessert.) I don’t recognize the name of the fish, but I’m told it’s fresh and covered in a seafood sauce.









Both are wonderful. The cook – the mother of the waiter – comes out occasionally, but only to talk to her son. She looks like she works hard, too hard. They must net so little from a meal like mine. Maybe in season (in the next two months), the numbers work more in their favor. Maybe.

It’s late. The swallows are madly searching out their last supper. Ed is at the edge of sleep.









Or maybe over the edge. The walk back is short. Past the bar with the soccer match, past the shuttered bakery, through calm streets, home.

focs de la Sant Joan

On Wednesday evening, down the mountain they come with torches blazing. The fire at the Canigou peak has been lit (at midnight of June 22nd). The flame bearers can descend the mountains on the 23rd to their Catalan village and light all the village fires in celebration of Catalan unity. The people gather for an evening of Catalan dance and a glorious firework display, while the fire, made strong in Sorede by a mound of old vine roots, now rages high into the night sky.

This is the celebration of Le Feu de la St Jean. Or, in Catalan – Focs de la Sant Joan.

I knew it was coming. All Sorede shop windows bore reminders streamed in the Catalan colors of yellow and red: come to the celebration of St. John’s on June 23rd.





And on the morning of 23rd, you knew that this day is different. Special. Preparations have been under way for some time now.

Even as to us, waking up to a cloudless sky, it is just another glorious day in the beautiful region of Languedoc.









The morning stroll to and from  the bakery and café bar has become somewhat long. The more we know and understand about Sorede, the more delight there is in meandering up one street and down the next.

(We learn, for example, that there are many ways to cross the river that separates our apartment from the center of the village.)





I stop at the tourist office and ask for a list of people who rent out rooms and homes in the summer. Back at our place, I circle those who are within our price range (the very cheapest). It’s a sizeable group of twenty. Ed places each on the map of Sorede. Our goal is to walk past every one of them and assess it from the outside. From this, I’ll have a short list of places I would be happy to inspect further.

And here is the amazing thing I discover about Sorede. France is so wired (with nationwide access readily available if you're near any other user) that it hadn’t struck me that the villagers here would not all be in some fashion users of the Internet. But in fact they’re not. From my list of twenty, none has a presence on the Internet and only one has an email address.

If ever I have wondered why there are no Americans here, the answer becomes obvious now: you can’t find a room here if you live across the ocean.

Ed tells me I could work to put Sorede on the tourist map and it is a tempting proposition. As it is, many of the rentals stand empty.

In the afternoon, I call one after another. Both Ed and I like to have Internet. We cannot find any access to it.


It is late before we put the project to rest for the day. We distract ourselves with a walk to our neighbors to buy the newly ripened juicy as can be white peaches from just outside Sorede.





It's a very warm day and though it is past six, we think a trip to the beach -- the little one at the beachside community of Le Racou is still a good idea.

Ed swims, I people watch. The water is cool still and most everyone stays out of the bay. Some strip down to get the perfect feeling of warmth on most every part of the body, some strum a guitar, some walk along the water's edge, some merely play in the sand. It is a very very pleasant evening by the sea.













But this day really does belong to the people who regard themselves as Catalonian. We notice it's hard to make your way through the villages now. Access is blocked as preparations are underway for the evening celebrations.

We make our way back to Sorede, and eat a dinner Au Margeau, where I ask for the most local fish, following a plateful of local oysters.





It's 9:30 now. The time when the villagers begin to gather outside La Salle de Fetes.

A small chorus sings, young girls do modern dances, but in between, all evening long, groups of men and women form a large circle and dance the lovely Sardana.





The younger dancers break in and form their own circle within the larger one.





It's extremely moving to see this. A dozen young boys now breaks in and they, too, hold hands and work on the delicate steps. Those who are not dancing, are watching in gentle appreciation.













There are speeches, of course. About inclusiveness. About fraternity. About the importance of cultural connectedness.

The mayor announces that the flame bearers are making their way down the mountain -- and you can see them: a small snake of fire slowly winding down the forested slopes to Sorede.

And eventually they arrive. Young people mostly, carrying the torches that will light the village fire.









The flame is carried to the old wood of the grape vines. The fire is tremendous. And immediately, the sky is filled with fireworks.









With the last explosion, for us, the event draws to an end. Many stay and continue to dance, but it is near midnight. We follow a slow trickle back to the village...




...then across the river, and home.

passing through

The morning routine at the café bar goes like this:
I would like a large crème please. (This is my coffee request.)
And monsieur? (The question is directed to Ed, who typically doesn’t want anything and the waiter by now knows this.) Whiskey, right?



It is almost evening and we finally leave the beach at La Franqui (my favorite of the Languedoc beaches). We sit down at the same café we paused in last time. (Once you do something twice, I think it deserves the label of “routine,” no?) I order the same flavors of ice cream – dark chocolate and apricot and Ed has his favorite -- coconut. I add – and a noisette, please. (a macchiato on our turf.)
The waiter shrugs. We do not have any coffee here. I look at him, dumbfounded.
He breaks into a chortle and says the equivalent of “just kidding.” He retreats. He comes back with the noisette and ice cream.
I frown. This is a whiskey? I ask, implying there has been some mistake. He’s thrown off. I thought...
Just kidding! I answer. He slaps me on the arm, delighted at the back and forth and shakes his head at his own culpability.





The sun is low, the shadows grow long. Life at the café bars of rural France.


We are driving back from La Franqui and Ed is determined to get it right this time. Signs can easily misdirect you at the roundabouts and each time we are on the coast we end up driving significantly out of our way because of a missed turn.

His determination pays off. It’s 7:15 and we are almost at Sorede. We have just enough time to drive to the supermarket at the outskirts of the village. We want cheese for tomorrow, fizzy water, apple juice and toilet paper. This last item has been a source of much back and forth between the two of us. Our apartment came supplied with one roll and Ed estimated that this should suffice for two weeks (the market sells packs of 12 and though the cheapest pack is only1.7 Euros, he thought buying 12 is plain silly). It became clear this week that we will not survive and so he agreed to put the twelve pack on our short shopping list.

We pull into the parking lot at 7:22, delighted at the good luck. The supermarket closes at 7:30. Our success rate at pulling in before a store closing has been only at 50 – 50. This time we are lucky.

Or so we thought. The three cashiers are busy checking out customers, but the entrance gate (in France, everyone must enter the supermarket at the proper entrance gate) is closed. I point to my watch and ask why.
Sorry, we close at 7:30.

But it’s 7:24!

Sorry.
Can’t I just hop over and get something quickly? I plead.
What do you need? She asks.
Toilet paper! (I make it sound like an emergency and it elicits a grin here and there.) She waves us in. We split up. Ed runs for the cheese, I get the twelve pack of rolls and the six pack of lemon fizzy water and Ed's favorite apple juice. We’re back at the counter in less than a minute and leave the store as the final light switch is turned off at 7:29 and a half. Closed at 7:30 means, to the clerk, I’m out of here.


It’s Tuesday in Sorede. Market day again. We are surprised, because it looks completely different on this Tuesday. The vendors’ tables circle the square as before, but only the fruit and vegetable person is in the place she was last week. And new vendors have emerged. For instance, the basket seller.





I bought one such basket in Languedoc four years ago and I use it at every Madison market and it looks like it has another ten years of life left. In Sorede, people bring baskets such as these, but they also bring the more traditional wicker...





...and many these days bring the same recyclable bags we now use for grocery shopping.





(I have to smile at this last scene: our little grocery store is closed for the week (or longer: the posted dates keep changing), but these women still appear to treat it as a place to congregate. Ah, habits.)

Perhaps the basket vendor comes only once a month? Or once a year? So many details of village life remain elusive. And that’s okay. Many expats complain that in moving to a village in France, they never really blend into the fabric of the community. That it takes twenty or more years before villagers regard you as their own.

Me, I will never see myself as “belonging” here, even if I were to come back year after year to Sorede. Thirty years after moving to Wisconsin, I am only now feeling that I am truly from Madison. And I qualify that by saying that really, if truth be told, I am from Poland. To be from Sorede I should think would take an equally long span of time. Assimilation is a tricky thing when an individual (or a family) enters as a complete stranger, with no linkages to the enduring community.

In Sorede, as in other villages across France, you see a lot of older people. Even as Languedoc is growing as a region and the cities here are explosively expanding, the villages continue to shrink. It was a torrential flood of departures before the Scandinavians, Germans, and of course the English discovered the virtues of Languedoc countryside as well as its affordability and started to move here -- seasonally and even permanently. Cheap flights on Ryanair to Perpignan have sealed the fate of these rural places: they will survive because the northern Europeans love to spend their money here.

For the locals of course, this is a mixed blessing.





In any case, I know that I will be forever merely passing through.  Not one of them at all, but always on the outside, listening and watching. And maybe in thirty years, when I decide I have heard enough, I will choose a different place to visit. (I speak in rough approximations.)

For now, I am on the lookout for another place to stay (in the future). The apartment we’re in has a perfect location, but my tidiness instincts and my love for a pleasant aesthetic is a little ruffled here. I love the patio and the kitchen is quite decent and the rest is only okay. It’s a cheap place and sometimes (are you listening Ed?) you get what you pay for.

But let me return to the Tuesday story. We’re still at the morning market, having just bought ultimately the winner pain au chocolat and the winner baguette at the larger bakery. I know I praised to high heaven the shopkeeper at the smaller bakery, but the two ladies at this bigger (and I have to now say preferred) bakery are complete gems and jewels and they never fail to pick out the very biggest morning pain when they see Ed at the counter. And the smiles we get set the day ablaze.









At the market, we buy supper. Young potatoes, half dozen tomatoes (now down to 90 Euro cents per kilo), several endives, cherries, haricots verts, lovely carrots, artichokes -- all for a total price of 3 Euros.

And we stroll. Even in this little market, there are things to enjoy, to smile at.





At a charcuterie, we buy anchovies in olive oil and at the cave, -- wine. Such great joy in putting together a meal like this. The baguette, of course, is the binding force – the integrating element. It has to be good, because if it is not, then the rest will be also less well regarded. There are lessons to be learned there and I should note that the French, too, are constantly in the process of learning them – witness the horrible shame brought on by the performance of what has been described as the arrogantly individualistic (and those have been the kinder descriptors) French soccer team in the World Cup.


In the afternoon, as I said, we returned to the preferred beach.

Ah, change. The winds have rearranged the sands here. The inlet separating the village beach from the longer stretch of sand has grown deeper and as we park in the village this day, we struggle to find the shallower crossing point.




The wind, which has died down in Sorede is still gusting here and even though it’s warm and sunny, there are very few people out today.





Except, of course, those who worship strong breezes.





We settle in by what we think is a shallow stretch (you can see the color of the water change where it is more shallow). What I still cannot understand is how the water can look so agitated today when the wind appears to be blowing from the same direction as when we were here last week, when the water was so still that you could sit an inch (or so)  away from the water's edge and not be made wet. Today, the boundaries are not so fixed.





Ed, of course, loves the agitation and he is soon catching fragments of waves. And eventually I join him. The water is still on the cool side by my standards and I don’t stay in for long. The wind has this unfortunate habit of blowing a wave back at you so that after you have jumped and it has moved on, the gust will spray you even as you stand behind it with a fine mist of cold water.





We’re well covered in sun screen and so we stay on the beach for a longer while. The warm sand, the breeze, the perfectly blue sky all act to push away thoughts of anything too difficult or uncomfortable. The tensed muscles relax, the mind relaxes along with them.

A crab tumbles in a wave onto the shore. I want to photograph it, but it always rolls away from me when I aim the camera. Eventually it rolls into deeper waters. He has a job to do down there... Ed muses.






Supper on the patio. Missing from the photo is the dessert – endless good apricots from our neighbor, and nectarines as well now. Soon, she tells us, the peaches will be ripe too.