Spanish but really Catalan

I tell Ed we must scrub the apartment clean before we leave. A gift to our landlords – so that the burden is less on them.

By 10, we hand over the keys and wave goodbye. Next year – there has to be a next year! What will change in our lives between now and then? Stay healthy and happy! As if we could fix it so that it could always be so...

We drive out of Sorede, pausing for an “on the road” breakfast at Le Feurnil. We’d been ogling the almond chocolate croissants, but nothing in life is predictable: they don't have them this morning! The sweet reward is that we, therefore, discover these little buns with raisins and chocolate and if there is a heavenly breakfast (as opposed to a healthy breakfast – they don’t always coincide) it is this (chewy!) bread roll with a café crème.

One La Patrie baguette for the road,

...a final look a the line of weekend bread starved customers,

...and we get on the big highway that puts us south of the Pyrenees, into the heart of Spanish Catalonia. Funny how that works. Good bye French Catalonia, hello Spanish one.

As in previous years, we take a few days here – in between days, days for poking around the Catalan speaking villages. We’ve given time to towns by the sea, and some time to the mountain villages this side of the border, where to now?

Deep into the countryside...

... far from mountains, not too close to the sea either – in the tiny hamlet of Camos, there is an old, old church and right across from it – a rectory, converted now to a rural something or other (called La Sala de Camos) – not really bed and breakfast because they also cook dinners. So we’re here for two nights. It’s a favorite for Barcelona people who want to escape the crowds for a weekend, or a couple of nights.

It takes us a while to find the place. As we finally drive up the dirt road, we’re greeted by an angry turkey who attacks cars.

I can’t move! He keeps running in front, straight at the car! Can you chase him away?

It takes a long while for the turkey to haughtily stalk off and rejoin his turkey friends on the farm across the road.

The inn keeper tells us – loco pavo! He has an obsession with cars!  

We are just a few kilometers from the biggest lake in the region – Lake Banyoles. I'm hoping it offers some swimming opportunities. Not that we can find our way there either.  A few wrong turns and we end up on narrow roads trailing into the hills.

You are such an optimist! Not a chance that it is up this road. Turn around!

I try. Off pavement, back on, the car lets out a groan as I scrape its belly. Ed laughs. This is my second folly of the day, having already managed to drive over the curb when pulling into the parking lot at Le Feurnil. That, too, caused the undersides to groan.  Ed tells me we’re even now – I’ve caught up to his driving into a ditch in Sardinia and, too, the pulling off of a side mirror in a crazy turn in Sicily.

I let him chuckle. Lately, I’m doing 99% of the driving because I don’t like his pace, especially on the narrow winding roads. Of course I’m going to bump elevated asphalt ridges if I’m at the wheel!

Ha ha ha! – that’s from Ed. He can have a hearty laugh.

Did I do damage? 

He inspects the car. Nothing that can’t be snapped back on!

All I can say is the clunker has a very low bottom.

And now it’s my turn to laugh. Tired of having me ask “what does this mean” when we're in Spain, Ed (who does not himself own a cell phone) has commandeered my iPhone and loaded it with a Spanish dictionary app.  We really splurged: it cost us $5.

The dictionary component is far better than the free ones we tried first, but the voice recognition part – where you speak your words and you get the translation – well, it’s random! Say one word or one phrase and you get a translation that’s not even close. I tell him the problem is his booming voice. I take a turn. No, not any better.

We spend a good number of minutes feeding it words to see what comes out. Each translation seems funnier than the previous one. 

It strikes me now (but not for the first time), that Ed is an easy traveling companion. Neither one of us is prone toward moodiness, but I have also come to appreciate it when each predicament or false step usually results in nothing more than a good chuckle. And in between, we revel in a gentle quiet.

As we drive now finally toward the lake, I ask Ed to translate a road sign. He tells me – Nothing is written in Spanish here. We put away the iPhone. Catalan is the preferred language. Spanish a very distant second. English? No, not at all.

Lake Banyoles has about a 6 mile shore line. It takes us two hours to walk around it. When the Olympics came to Barcelona (2004), the rowing championships were held here. It’s a pretty lake – with clear, clean waters. (Note the designated rowing lanes in the second photo.)

Surprisingly, even though it's a lovely Saturday afternoon, not many are by it, on it, in it. People must prefer the sandy beaches of the sea.

There are a few private huts by the water’s edge and there is a designated public swimming area. We pause there for a swim and to eat our bread and left over (very runny in the heat!) cheeses.

The small crowd at this almost pool-like shore front (there are steps leading into the water, which is even at the shore, some five feet deep) is truly an mixture. A group of young adults, shrieking as one pushes the other, clothes on, into the water.


 


A group of boys, dangling a hand or a leg in the water.





And then come the hippies (or is the term hippie reserved for America?) with the locks of long hair and a toddler in tow. They all strip to complete nakedness and plunge into the water. A few of the boys giggle as the young man emerges and, like a dog, shakes off water. No one else seems to notice.

After a swim, we continue our hike along the lake front. Ed comments that the trail is a little reminiscent of the lake shore path in Madison, only this lake hasn’t the smell of algae.


 


And if you look to the shore, there is nothing Madison-like in our surroundings.

Our dinner is late. French Catalans call it a day by ten. Spanish Catalans merely begin their evening then. 

We have a very delicious zucchini wild mushroom and tiny shrimp dish...

...and since we both asked for fish (Ed wont eat lamb or veal which were offered as the other possibilities), the kitchen came up with two different ones -- bass for him, salmon for me (we split and shared each). With fruit and ice cream for dessert.

It’s Sant Joan Eve. In Sorede they’re dancing. Here, you can listen to the firecrackers in the distance. The innkeeper (whose name also happens to be Joan – which is Catalan for John) opens a bottle of Cava and brings out slices of the traditional yeasty cake. We munch this outside, in the quiet of the courtyard. One of the guests speaks a modest amount of English. What brings you here? – she asks. Americans don’t typically pick isolated rural spots for their travels and people are always surprised to run into us there. Understandably so: there’s so much to see in the towns and cities!

It’s hard to explain why we’re drawn to the quiet of the countryside, why we would find a walk up a mountain or around the lake so satisfying that we’ll nearly always pick it over a trip into a bigger, richer, more imposing urban center. (I say “nearly,” because we have some exceptions to that rule, coming up!)

Is it midnight by the time we retire to the room that faces the church entrance. It’s utterly quiet outside. The church bell rings only once a week -- Sunday morning, in time for mass. Even before that, the turkeys will come to our window and make an early morning racket. But that's the next day. Right now, at midnight, it's quiet.

last

So give a hefty yawn, or a smile of indulgence, or, maybe like me, savor every last bit of the last day:

Friday. Late in the morning, we walk to town. Have I emphasized here, on Ocean, how vibrant and lovely the flowers are along the way?

And I know I’ve talked plenty about cats, but the truth is that Sorede (and France in general) is really a dog’s place. The cats, skittish, mostly scampering off if you get too close, are ignored. Background noise. Whereas the dogs? Ah the dogs!

In the bakery:

At the café:

And speaking of bakeries, yes, we’re at our local one, but too late for pain au chocolat! This is what it is at our local one: come early or you miss out. Ed takes an apple tart and I take a croissant and up we go to the café bar on the main square.

Last breakfast here. Sniff...

Note we did not pick up a baguette. Here’s the plan: we’ll eat lunch at Le Fournil. I mean, we have to try this just once. We owe it to... someone, them, us, whatever! Oh and as long as we’re driving up for lunch (and with it, the delicious bread), may as well show off here (finally) the clunker. Parked beneath the (American like) billboard announcing the bakery. How appropriate.

At the bakery-café, we both order salads with warm goat cheese. And we linger. Strange that we should like it (sigh, we’ve changed...), but we do. It’s a modern, rather “could be anywhere” setting, but the people watching is still splendid.

For example, we note that the owner/baker extraordinaire, M. Castro, is out helping serve tables, sell breads, exchanging friendly greetings with this person and another. His wife, Mme. Castro works behind the counter and they’re both busy (best guess: the regular crew is on their own lunch break).

He puts out a salad and a rosé for himself, but it’s a long while before he actually sits down. She joins him. Proud owners eat lunch.

Hike: there must be a hike. Can’t be much of one, but we pick something new, from neighboring LaRocque. Drive to LaRocque, leave car, walk the old streets of that village, not our village, but a sister of sorts. Except I can’t help but think -- Sorede is nicer! Busier somehow. With a heart, a place where you know where to go if you want to be among people. Still, LaRocque is pretty. Quite charming actually.

The trail head is easy to find, but we miss the turn off very early on and well, you know the story: we do not know where we are. Not at all. Except it doesn’t really matter because we have no ambition, no goal today. Hike in a new place. Period. (Ah, the Roussillon plain, the Corbieres in the distance!)

We continue through a dense forest, hoping for some insight as to where we went wrong.


 


But in fact, it is a wonderful thing that we get lost because had we stayed on course, we would have missed the place where the beautiful damsels and dragonflies come to.

We’re by a gushing brook and we scale the boulders to get a better view of the small cascading falls...


 


... and you know the routine here as well: I get stuck on some slippery rock and can’t get down because I imagine myself sliding down into the boulder-filled waters below, but it all comes together in the end and there is no trip to the ER, Ocean continues, my dramatic imagined mishaps tabled for another time, another hike.

And then – you’ve guessed it, right? A last trip to the close Le Racou beach. It’s a beautiful, absolutely beautiful evening (it’s six, so it’s evening, no?).

The waters aren’t as warm as they were at La Franqui, but they are superb for swimming. There’s a little bounce in the sea, but not too large, not too large, near perfect!

Goodbye, sea. Maybe we’ll see you in the next couple of days, on the Spanish side, maybe not. We have two days of Catalonia rambling before giving up the car on Monday. Who knows, who knows...

As we drive back the scant handful of miles to Sorede, I think – Oh! I haven’t emphasized the olives that grow at the base of the Alberes mountains! We feast on Sorede olive oil the weeks we’re here!

And one last look at the vineyards – so dense now!  -- stretching toward the Corbieres hills. We hiked those last week! And chased down wines that are made there!

And speaking of hikes, did I mention that as you drive into Sorede (from the sea side), you get this splendid portrait – poignant for us because the front is the hill we climbed the first day here and the second mountain, seemingly behind it, shows off our great climb up to its peak – Pic du Neoulous.

We leave the car at home and walk down to town again. It’s after 9, but the little vineyard that we pass each day is still glowing in the last rays of sunlight.

Dinner’s on the square. Of course it is.

The waiter  warns us – it’ll be slow. He has a table of 18 French men, women and children to serve first. Fine, fine, we’re fine with waiting, but we do move our table this way and that because here’s a trait of French people that actually troubles us not a small bit: they smoke to high heaven. Finding a smoke free outdoor space often requires adjustments (smoking is, thankfully, illegal indoors).

Still, they’re all a genial lot, at least until the game on the big TV screen positioned for all to see the World Cup (tonight: Germany v. Greece) draws some cheers from the German guest at the café bar. The French take on the cheer for the (rare) Greek goals. I’m thinking we’re witnessing some larger issues here that go beyond soccer. There she is, on the screen, Angela Merkel cheering for Germany, there they are, Frenchmen around a table, cheering for troubled Greece. 

Our pizzas are here (vegetable, so that I can have those chunks of artichoke again), the sangria is poured, chunks of citrus fruits crowd the little glass, the evening is starlit, beautiful.

No fuss, no big goodbyes. We’re just small fry, passing through, remembered most likely for my dangling camera and Ed’s large frame. And his love of cats, squash-faced, stub tailed, black and white...

music

It is that moment just after the final touch of sunlight. On the lower square of Sorède, there's music playing. People clap, some do a few twirls and steps in the open spaces. Most sit, sip, talk. We're all waiting for our paella.





It is June 21st -- France's Fete de la Musique.


Tables at the Rugby Bar are, for once, packed. We are there, among the diners. Families, couples, the usual mix of everyone.





This is almost a preshow. In two days, the entire village -- hundreds of people will dance the traditional  Catalan Sardana (I wont see it -- we'll be gone). But today this smaller crowd tap tap taps and waits.

The musicians are a mixed band. Local, I have to think they didn't travel far to be here. They play mostly French stuff, though I hear a Beatles song and a Chubby Checker. Ancient stuff.





We're speeding toward our last days in Sorède. And we're not good at this "last" business. What should we do today rather than tomorrow? Where should we walk? Shop? Eat? Buy bread?

Okay, let's start with the givens: we must walk down to our bakery, purchase the pain au chocolat, take it to the cafe bar on the upper square. (Theme for the day: Ed deals with the lovely vendors of Sorède.)



vendor no.1, at our local bakery


At cafe bar, he reads, I write. And we talk about a legal issue out there that sort of interests us both.





We continue to chat as we take a short walk through town. Past the elementary school where the kids are at recess (it seems that all boys wear knee length pants and all girls, all of them, wear sundresses and sandals)...





...past the old village houses...









Past "La Ciboulette," where dogs seem to follow in the habits of their owners -- they come here to chat. We come here for the inexpensive (1.5 Euro per kilo) great peaches.





Inside, we notice more peaches. Slightly higher in price. I ask why? I'm told - they're local The cheap ones outside are from Spain. (Ed reminds me that where we are, Spain in "local.")



vendor no.2, at La Ciboulette






We're home. Now what? Cheese! We need more cheese! We have some, but not enough for two days. So a drive is necessary! To the supermarket. And so long as we're there, we might as well stop at Le Fournil for La Petrie, the best, truly the best baguette. And hey, let's just try, to compare you know, their Napoleon (mille feuille).



vendor no.3, at Le Fournil


Le dejeuner en plein air (lunch outside, on the terrace).






It's warmer today. There's a mugginess in the air that the evening wind will push away, but for now, it's sticky outside. Ed loses himself in some project or other, I nap.You could say I sleep away the possibility of a hike. But not the beach! There has to be time for an evening swim at Le Racou!





Bouncy waters. Ed swims far off into the sea, I tread closer to the shore. Yes, that's us alright: he pushes boundaries and I do too, even as my boundaries are drawn differently than his.

We shower at the beach. No time to return home before dinner. The wind is picking up now and the water from the outdoor faucets sprays in all directions. Push the handle, chase the water. A game, to be repeated many times until we're satisfied that enough salt has been washed off.


And finally the paella, the music, the mix of people...











Young and lovely, old and lovely and a great mix of in between.






With ice cream for all to finish the meal.





Tap tap tap, swirl, talk, always the talk.




(Tomorrow's post will come slightly later as we make our way back to Spain.)