where the river meets the sea

The last full day in Sorede.

The eleven o’clock breakfast at the café-bar. With pain au chocolat from the best bakery. Watching, reading, writing too.

Twelve. Twelve thirty. The lunch crowd is moving in. The place is large and so there is room for the diners and coffee or wine or Orangina drinkers too, but the waiters are now focusing on getting the food out. We should head back. And again we pause at the sign with the specials. Mmm, pasta with seafood. They don’t have many foods here beyond pizza and moulles frites, but when they do, it’s homey stuff. Good stuff. I saw the cook run down to the market to get some more parsley. Must be for the special today.

I ask – you’ll have this tonight, right? No, sorry. Just lunchtime. Ed and I look at each other. Breakfast was a long time ago. A good half hour at least. Time for lunch?

We sit back down again. We’ll split a pasta dish. With a small carafe of white wine.

Ed takes out his book again, I go back to my notes.





The food comes. Good! Filling, too. Maybe a nap now at home?





We walk the quiet streets. Last afternoon stroll through Sorede...





At our home, soon not to be home, the pace changes. Too much to do to get ready. The apartment to clean, bags to pack, think about where to put all that wine for the farmhouse home...


It’s after four now. The sun is good and warm today. Beach. Let there be one more trip to the sea.

Ed suggests we go to the north of Argeles sur Mer again. Just shy of where the men walked naked the other day. The River Tech  -- the one we followed to Ceret for the market, to Prats de Mollo la Preste for our hike -- runs into the sea here. Ed thinks there might be some good swimming where the river meets the sea.


A dirt road leads from the highway into a thicket of reeds along the river. A mile later it emerges at the beach.


A lovely place of sandbars and fast currents merging with the cooler waters of the sea.





I stand in the water, feeling the draw of the current, at the same time bracing myself against the mild waves that are picking up slightly with the wind.





Ed stays in the water longer than I do. On the beach, I look around me. Yes, you could call it a mixed use beach. Plenty of naked men -- perhaps the most smile provoking are the two who take their orange tubes, and bob next to each other in the sea... A handful of naked couples too... Some clothed ones, some families -- it's a nice place for the kids as the drop isn't significant.  A spacious place. Unmarked, hard to find, lovely to finish with.





And now it's time to turn our back to the sea. We drive west toward Sorede and notice that Le Canigou, that peek that has spend the better part of two weeks under cloud cover, has emerged, though faintly, with a hint of contours, nothing more...





Mountains and sea. That's Sorede. Rivers -- that's tomorrow's focus.


We end with a pizza at the big square. And so you could say we ate breakfast lunch and dinner at the same place. Here. Where swallows dart in fine arcs and children play and most everyone is in no hurry to leave.

the fires of Sant Joan

The village dances.





Again and again until the night is so dark and the little children are hours beyond their bedtime and yet those who know the steps dance and those who don’t watch and imitate on the side.





It is the day of the Catalan celebration of Sant Joan (to us -- St. John's) – perhaps the most important moment of Catalan solidarity, up and down the hills of the eastern Pyrenees.


The hills of the Pyrenees: don’t we have one more climb in us before we leave here Saturday morning? It’s cool outside – one of the cooler days we’re to have in Sorede. And there are clouds touching the peaks again. But then, how often do we reach summits? Isn’t the goal in the hike itself?

We start with the late breakfast at the café. Children watching.





It’s a good hour before we’re ready to hike back up the hill. Noon hour. The hour of street quiet. Of looking up to see laundry in the window, because when the streets are empty your gaze strays upwards.





At home, the unstructured nature of our day is slowly evaporating. We have things to discuss for the week ahead. We’re heading up to the Dordogne Department (once called the county of Perigord) – in the southwest of France. The plan is to take the canoe – the collapsible one we’ve stuffed into the tiny car along with our camping gear – down the Dordogne River. Sleeping on the banks, eating in the villages along the way. We think we’ve picked a stretch of river with minimal rapids. That’s important, because our canoe could not take a rough ride – the aluminum poles holding it together would bend, the fabric may rip. And I don’t want to be tossed around in the waters either.

Perhaps the toughest part is figuring how we can fit into the ultimately very small canoe the tent, sleeping bags and mats, and some minimum change of clothing. And our computers, in the hope that some cafés along the way will have WiFi.

For me, too, the challenge seems to be in finding places to pitch a tent. You can do it in France more freely than you can in the States, though less freely than in Scotland. But are there places along the river to do just that?

All this we discuss and weigh – Ed most often taking the more daring approach, me, toning it down some, and when he resists, I threaten that I’ll get out and take the bus to our final destination. All the while knowing that he would be quite fine with that.

The afternoon passes, and now it is five already and the idea of a last hike into the mountains has nearly been put to rest. No, that cannot be. I suggest a half-assed climb. One that we would have taken, had there been time: it leads across the summit to our west, all the way to Spain. But that’s a 3.5 hour climb. We can do a reduced version!

And so we hike. Uphill for an hour, for that last splendid view across the Roussillon plane...





...through forests, across rocky terraine...





... then down for fifty minutes. Yes, Ed’s downhill is about the speed of my uphill. The man extends his mighty gait in great strides going up and slows down as if perpetually pushing on the brake pedal going down.


We can be so mismatched.






We eat dinner at the pizza-bar. Moulles frites. With ketchup and sangria. Some things should never be changed.






And by 9:30  I am at the Stade where bleachers have been set up for the great Catalan dances. They’re all here – the butcher, the baker, the old widows in one line, the teenage boys surreptitiously shooting off firecrackers...






...the teenage girls hanging back with that dreamy look of an adolescence when it isn’t yet threatening or heartbreaking.






And the villagers dance, oh how they dance!






In between the Catalan music, the school kids do contemporary dance numbers. It’s much like an end of year dance recital back home except here, the whole village is watching. I’ve attended many, many kid dance recitals in my time and I have to say that for the most part, our kids are smoother dancers, better performers. And they have that American grin that every dancer back home is told to slap on her or his face. In Sorede, they are stiffer and a lot more somber. Still, they have the support and applause of everyone, including their peers, who sit on the sidelines, cameras out, recording, posting on Facebook maybe, while the widows look on...






...and the families grin.





During dance breaks, the little kids run around, crazily chasing each other, I mean really, this is what little kids do here, they chase each other – boys after boys, girls after girls, not infrequently girls after boys...






They all look out for each other. If a kid wonders off, someone will snatch her and bring her back. A bump on the head brings a child to mom or dad’s knee, then off he goes again, lost in the frenzy of movement and music.


On the side, there is the flirtatiousness of the young and we note that next to us two older girls are kissing, right at the feet of the older widows. I think we are the only ones who notice, and maybe we are the only ones who are taken by surprise.


It’s nearly 11. Now we see the fire coming down the mountain. A parade of kids, older kids, makes their way down the hill with the chapel, the hill that Ed and I climbed our first day here. You can see the torches now. The village looks up, takes note. This ceremony is repeated year in and year out – we saw it last year after all – and it still is, to me, so breathtakingly beautiful!





Eventually, the kids with torches arrive. They place their torches in the center, the mayor lights the flame of Sorede as the villagers dance around him. He carries it then to a huge mound of old grape vine trunks and lights it and the blaze is enormous.





The village lights now are turned off and the sky is exploding with fireworks.

Sorede is a ablaze with fire.





The fireworks end. There is music now – contemporary rocky sounds that send the very old and very young off home.

The stars are out for our walk back. The hills have shaken off the last wisps of cloud. Tomorrow, our last full day in Sorede, should again be a fine day.

naturally

(An early evening comment) Ed, dear, that man’s buttocks are right in front of my camera lens. And the guy further down? He’s naked too, isn’t he? I can't post these! Why not?  Ed looks over at my photo. You can't see a thing. Eh, I better take another. Without buttocks or penises.



We wake up to skies that are still unsettled. Gunter, our host, complains that it’s a humid week. I suppose he’s right. It doesn’t feel unpleasant to me, but there are still misty clouds hovering over the mountaintops. Not great hiking weather, says the more lethargic side of me.

But, good strolling through the village down to the café weather.





And good lunch on the patio followed by a nap weather.

And a good time to explore the area more. Villages we haven’t seen. Museums – there is one in Sorede that we’ve not been to yet. Horsewhip making. Because our village was once a major player in horsewhip production. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow because mountains beckon, the sea shimmers...

Then there’s the matter of wine. I think I can fit in some six or seven bottles to take back home. But which ones? I bought two in Banyuls. And an olive oil. And another oil in Sorede. How do you select other rosés from the dozens upon dozens in the grocery store alone? I leaf through a booklet on organic foods and wines of Languedoc. I read about a wine producer who happens to be less than a half hour from us. Domaine des Demoiselles. I call them. They’re open for tastings.

We drive through the ever lovely villages of this region, new old, they’re all pretty...





...past fields of grapes, so deliciously green and abundant.





And finally, a winding rural road takes us to the Domaine – the winemakers' “cellars” and home. Surrounded by fields of ripening vines, it looks like an oasis – an old farmstead built on the strength of wine. I stop the car. Two dogs amble over barking in the most welcoming way.





No one else seems to be here. I remember the proprietor telling me something about being somewhere at 4. It’s after 4 and I didn’t get really where or for how long she’d be gone, so I poke around and wait. The doors are open. There’s money on the counter, open bottles, half filled glasses. Wooden barrels fill one room. Horse saddles straddle posts in another.






Outside, bees buzz furiously around the climbing grape. The sound is so loud that for a minute I think I am hearing a motor running. The dogs go back to a reclining position. Ed waits in the car – himself asleep now.






It’s a movie set. Old buildings, bottles, barrels, dogs.






I try to reconstruct what I’d heard on the phone. Most definitely she said she’d be here. At some point. I wait.

An old car rolls up to the Domaine. A man steps out – he could be from Paris, he could be from a mountain village in the Pyrenees: athletic, in an unrehearsed sort of way, sharply good looking. I’m looking for the proprietor. Rapid fire French: busy in the fields... we only have ten days left until July... I’ll call her... allo? Oui? D’accord. She is on her way: around the corner... be here in five minutes.

He goes toward the house. Three children, somewhere between the ages of 7 and 11, come out when they hear him. Where is papa? On the tractor of course. Your mother is coming though. They all disappear inside. I wait and listen to the bees work the grape vine.

And then Isabelle pulls up. Buoyant, energetic Isabelle. Sorry, sorry, I told you I’d definitely be here by five! Ah. Missed that one. No, I am the one who’s sorry – you seem to be busy. I dislike interrupting the work of people for small purchases, but Isabelle is unflustered. Oh no, this is what I do. We are open for tastings mornings and afternoons. It’s part of my work.

Isabelle is insanely charming. The Domaine is hers – well, hers and her husband’s, but it’s her grandparents and great grandparents – seven generations of her family have produced wine here. She talks about it fluently, beautifully – half English, half French. It is her other baby. Forever requiring care. Didier (her husband) takes care of the vines, she makes the wine.






I tell her right away that I am traveling from overseas and cannot buy a lot. I want her to not waste time on me, I don’t deserve it. I cannot be an important buyer ever.

Although...

Do you sell in the States? In the States? No, just in Oregon. An interesting distinction. We work with one agent – we choose our agents so carefully, but we like him and he is a buyer for a shop called Casa Bruno in Oregon.

Otherwise, they have a regional presence. And one in Germany. And England. Italy. Belgium. And one restaurant in Paris. La Trouffier.





I’m curious when she decided to go organic. 2001. I wanted to do it: it’s the right way to live. I believe in it. To grow grapes naturally. We have children. We’re thinking about them as well. It took us several years, but we’ve been certified since 2006.

Children. Yes, I saw them. They go to school in the village? A special school! She beams proudly. They learn in Catalan. They speak it better than French! Better than me! You did not learn it from your family? When my mother was little, Catalan was repressed, so that generation never learned it. Now, more and more are studying it again.

I ask her where the name for the Domaine comes from. Domaine des Demoiselles. I tell her I associate it with the champagne. Yes, of course, there is a big Domaine Demoiselle in Champagne. I actually know them... Our own Domaine name came from my grandmother. When her husband died, she worked here with many women assisting. In the village, they often said – the wine from the place with the young women. Desmoiselles. So she adopted the name.

Her wines are exceptionally lovely and I buy six bottles of three wonderful whites and a rosé. I do not know how I will pack all this, but I do know that these will be for the special Sunday meals with friends and family at the farmhouse. As I praise her wines which she generously opens and pours for me to taste, I don’t mention how it is that I picked these for the big purchase. It was, in the end, because of the name. And the organic component and the location of course, but in the end it was the name that drew me. Idiotic reason, I know, but when you are in a place where dozens of labels stare at you, all inexpensive, all delicious, many organic, most local – the name on the label becomes the deal breaker.










It’s significantly past five. I suggest to Ed that we head for the sea. Not Racou – we’ll save that for a last swim (which is awfully close now). Not the favorite Franqui. Too far. Somewhere in between. We recall a nice stretch of beach seemingly removed from homes, hotels and campgrounds. Just north of Argeles sur Mer (the closest to us beach town), I tell Ed. We drive due east until we come close to the water’s edge. No, not here. Too busy here. The spot I remember is must be closer to Argeles.

We drive a few kilometers toward Argeles. Try that road. We follow a bumpy road that ends with a small parking space by the sands. Looks good! Not the one we remember, but nice enough. More pebbly than the others.

And that’s where the post’s opening comment comes in. Because we appear to have stumbled onto a beach that’s friendly to nudists.

Languedoc has a number of beaches that deliberately cater to “naturalists,” as they are called here. But this one is without any reputation – it just happens to have become that. And actually, I note that it is especially a place with naked men. Yes, there are a few women as well, and one or two mixed gender sets, some even in swim attire, but my guess is that this is a word of mouth gay men favorite. Because they not only are the dominant gender here, but they do appear to be in couples. And some singles, waiting by cars, waiting... And there is a bar nearby, with a terrace that is fenced in, very well fenced in, can’t see anything from the outside-fenced in.

Still, the beach atmosphere is pleasant and inviting.


 


Some swim, some read. And it surely is a good evening for a swim. The warm air is with us, coaxing, prodding. The water is deeper than, say, at La Franqui, but it’s equally clear, equally pleasing. Ed and I take the plunge and bounce around in the small waves for a while. The sun is sinking now. Shadows stretch in the way that they do just before there are no more shadows. We dry off for a few minutes and head back toward Sorede, pausing along the way to watch horse riders cross the river that spills out to the sea.





Driving home, we think it’s time to once again try to eat at the restaurant at the next door village of Laroque des Alberes ("La Cueva"). Open! Yes, wonderful. Reservation? No... Just two? Okay.

We sit in a lovely courtyard with a dense branches of a tree over us. Ed hides from the camera, but I catch him anyway.





Next to us, a French couple is eating wonderful plates of food – helping us make decisions about our own (we end up ordering pretty much everything they ate -- a cake of eggplant, a Catalan paella, an orange creme brulee for me...). To the other side, a table is set for ten. A large Norwegian family comes in to celebrate one daughter’s birthday (there are eight children – all in some years of adolescence or just beyond). They are a jovial blond bunch and the waiter is wonderfully kind to them even as they mostly order steaks in various degrees of doneness.

The couple next to us gets up to leave. Our age, I would guess. She tells me – we’re off to our yurt. Yurt? Yes, it’s our second night. Last night we slept in hammocks. Tonight, the yurt with no windows. I’m a little bit scared of that, she says. Why are you doing it? Are you from around here? No, we’re from Bordeaux. Our son gave us this holiday for Christmas, so our yurt night is part of his gift. I wish her luck. At least they had a good meal with a nice rosé to set them into a good direction. Naturally.


We walk back through the village to our car. Lovely evening. Quiet, dark now, still.

the longest day

A dreamy day of endless daylight. Stay, light, stay. Or at least come back when I need you so. Say in December.

Wishful thinking. Sigh...

In France, it’s a big deal day. Let there be music on the streets! And there is. Up and down France, people croon, dance, play their little sax or base, out on the streets, all night long -- so that each town, each city is a cacophony of notes.

But Sorede is not a city.

Yet, there are wisps of music. La Cibulette, the little grocer by the bridge, has a wine and olive oil vendor (in some complicated way related to the grocers, if I understood their explanation and there is a good chance that I did not) and with it – booming music, all day long. Come sample our wines! Five for the price of four. I buy one rose and their olive oil too, because it’s local and the imagery behind it is so good and it will be quite superb (drizzled over... anything at all) on those blasted short days of December in Madison.





And the lower square café is preparing for a rock show tonight. I doubt we’ll make it. Last year it was rained out, this year we are that much older/lazier/sleep inclined. All the above.

So, Sorede is not yet bouncing with music. More like dosey doeing with it.

Its big day is coming up: June 23rd -- Saint John’s. Sorry, in Catalan it’s Sant Joan’s.


But, today, too, seems to have a lively spirit to it. To me, it feels like the air of something about to happen. Perhaps it is the anticipation of what’s to come: the great vacation months. Almost here. The day when the entire country of France will pack up and head south for Les Vacances. The south is bracing. Even Sorede feels a little more energetic.

For me, yesterday was the more perfect midsummer moment. For one thing, I see on this day wisps of fog circling the mountains. They’ll come down to the village. They wont come down. They will, they wont. It’s that kind of a day.





There is the market – that’s a fine thing no matter what.


 


And today, the Roussillon crates of vegetables are packed. Languedoc-Roussillon tomatoes, lettuces, leeks, potatoes, on and on. I’m looking hard for one thing though. And yes! Here indeed are the seasonal young artichokes.





I once read a Bittman piece in the NYTimes where he proclaimed that the only way he’d eat a raw artichoke is if it was so fresh that you could feel the snap of leaves as you broke off the harder ones. These are that fresh. A hard snap each time. Even as I plan to braise them in butter and steam them briefly. And save the tiny ones for a raw addition to the supper salad.

Other market favorites? The spices are out today.




I spend a while contemplating spices. It is quite common for vendors to provide combination spices too: for your salads, or grilled meats, or omlettes. Catalan, Provencal, and so on. And they're always just a little bit original. You wouldn't have thought yourself to add that particular herb. I purchase two small pouches of magic.

And now it's noon. We walk up the hill and eventually bring out the cheeses and the bread for lunch outdoors.





When it appears that the foggy humid air has cleared somewhat, we head for Le Racou. I find the sea just a degree too nippy to swim, but Ed dives right in. The old man and the sea.





Watched by the young man at the sea.





It’s getting more crowded at Le Racou. Each day, a handful more. By the weekend, there’ll be parking issues. Ah, the summer season.

We are quite close to a winery where I purchased lovely roses last year. Here -- Chateau Valmy.





We take the little detour and I think about buying a few now. Yes, no, yes, no. Indecision. We pick up just one, for tonight and head back to Sorede.

In an unusual move, we stop once more at the bakery. Summer solstice deserves a more pronounced statement: pastries. The favorite mille feuille are made only on the week end, but Ed loves flan and I love the gentle lemon tart and I swear, the bakers here are beyond amused by us because we take each purchase so seriously! Consider the time we take just to select a tart!





We eat at home. The eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, the endive, the olives, all that, but the stars of the show are the young artichokes. We nearly finish all of them.





May all your days be long and bright and filled with sweet things. A solstice wish for you.