rainy day talk

It's so rare to have rain here at this time of the year that you don't mind it when it does come down. Today, it really came down hard. Never mind, it's our travel day. And we're leisurely about it -- our Sorede apartment wont be ready until late in the day. May as well linger over breakfast at the Can Garay in Spanish Catalonia...





...and a second cup of coffee...





If you want to spark up your life a little, try engaging a European on the subject of American health care. I did that today, over breakfast. Our host at the inn (a Catalan man, proud and true to his heritage) had gone through a medical crisis recently and his wife, in telling us about it, recalled a health scare their friends had experienced while traveling in the States not too long ago.
Our friend choked on a piece of food and had to go to the emergency room. On exit, he was handed an $8000 bill! How could that be? They never want to go back to America again!
I tell her -- It's the way it is. Moreover, most Americans are afraid of changing health care delivery to your model. Conventional wisdom  has it that we hate the government. We think it should stay out of our affairs. (Except when we're in trouble, but I leave that part out.)
But, but, health care is a human right! Just like education!
I smile indulgently. So unamerican, these people are! They cannot comprehend that (insurance and provider) profit may and in fact does drive healthcare decision. That this unhinged, inefficient health care delivery system is costing us a bundle, even as we stick with it, thinking that it's sacred rather than the sinking ship that it is. These Europeans with their crazy notions of fairness and quality of life! Look where it got them! (When I remind her of the Euro zone crisis, she reminds me that Wall Street came first.)

If you really want to stoke the fire more, work the word "vacations" into the conversation. I did that as well. I wanted to bring it on, that torrent of withheld questions that Europeans have about the American way of life. Too polite to ask. Well, today, I invited the asking.
I heard that many Americans only have two weeks of vacation! Is that true?
I wanted to tell her that even as Spain was struggling, we are reeling in our good fortune (those of us with full-time jobs -- a dwindling but sizable majority after all), working hard to preserve it, so hard in fact, that there is (for most people) no time to rejoice in its gloriousness! You may know how to live well, but we sure know how to work long hard hours! - I wanted to boast, only I knew it sounded like we had the worse end of that stick. And who wants to admit that to a European!

Ah well, enough of the predictable patter. Rain notwithstanding, we pack up our too big Ibiza and get ready to hit the road. And the minute we say our goodbyes, and run for the shelter of the car, the rain stops. Completely. Clouds part, a tad of blue sky pokes through. The world is green and lush, with poppies sprinkled in for effect.






In the distance, the white peaks of the Pyrenees are again visible.






We had scrapped plans for a hike due to the wind and rain. The goal was to stop by instead at the cooperative where the local yogurt is made. And even though the weather is now rapidly improving, we stay with this plan. Yogurt cooperative it will be!


The place (La Fageda)  is the brainchild of a local Catalan who wanted to improve the lives of those with mental disabilities. It has grown: it now employs some 180 people, 120 of whom face mental health challenges.


 


The drive to it is pretty -- through forests now reflecting beams of sunshine.






At the cooperative, a busload of children has arrived for a half educational, half play-filled outing. We follow them as a Coop person shows off the cows that have just come in from the pasture.





(Ed comments that the cows look like they may well have have some Wisconsin bovine genetic material in them.)

For the kids, the fun is in the cows, the play equipment, a picnic outside. For us, there is the additional benefit of seeing the Coop's  innovative strawberry "fields" (such an efficient water use! -- Ed marvels)...











...and in examining the pruning habits here at this young (but older than ours!) orchard...





All this and yogurt too.



We leave by 3. Time to set our sensibilities onto Sorede.

And one hour later we are over the border and in France. So familiar it all is! And here's magic for you: the clouds are to the side -- the afternoon is full of sunshine and warm puffs of wind. Yes, I know -- today and tomorrow, we'll get the rains back, the thunder, too. But as we get off the highway I feel this deep gratitude for a beautiful welcome. It is the moment that I deeply look forward to each year: the first long gaze at the vines, the poplars, the plane trees and of course, the mountains just behind.

As always, we stop first at the Carrefour. You know -- for the cheeses. And the well priced tomatoes and endive. And apple juice. And the rosé wine.





(The view from just outside the store always reminds me that we are here. Finally, we are here! And yes, I get much more emotional about this than Ed who yawns loudly and leans back for a quick nap.)

The bakery we "discovered" last year is still here -- the modern one that lacks character maybe, but has the best damn bread anywhere. I say this with confidence -- anywhere! We wont buy any today. Freshly baked -- that's the best way to pick it, so that it's barely cooled down from the ovens in time for lunch.

We drive into town. Yes, La Ciboulette, the little grocer by the bridge -- still there. I pick up fresh beans, potatoes, the local olive oil.





And the old bakery, our once favorite bakery -- it's remodeled! We go there now for the cookies. Nothing more now. A little at a time. Don't rush things. Get just what you need.


Finally, we cross the river and head uphill to our home for the next two weeks. Our hosts greet us warmly -- it's our third summer with them and really, if I had it my way, we would come back like this again and again until that ripe old age when you become so confused that you no longer know or care where you are or what you're doing there.

Right now though, we still know. And it delights me so to be back at this immaculate little unit that looks out onto their garden at the foot of the Alberes hills.

And speaking of garden, after I unpack and Ed settles in for another nap, the rains come down hard again. Pounding hail amidst the rumble of thunder.





Thank you, storms, for holding off! Thank you!

I don't quite trust the skies for the remainder of the night and so we do not walk down to the village square -- we drive most of the way -- and we do not sit outside at the cafe/bar/pizzeria...


 


... we huddle at a table inside, between the kitchen and the counter, watching a theater of activity -- pizza flying in and out of the oven. An archery game played by one group of men, then the next. A rugby match on the TV screen. A raucous shout out down at the bar. In other words -- the usual.





And the pizza! Ah, the pizza! It has never tasted better! And the sangria is home made.











I ask Ed if he's happy. Yes gorgeous, he says with that eye roll in his voice.

A Sorede June evening. With my usual questions and Ed's usual answers.






And the warm glow of the last bit of sun touching the little vineyard just by our place up the hill.

river hike

How much would you give of yourself to see a waterfall? Would you push hard? Would you take risks?

As between Ed and me, you know that Ed is the adventurer. I'm more careful (usually). In fact, he thinks I'm a chicken when it comes to heights, storms and automobiles. I think he takes too many chances.  We go around like this again and again. But today, I think we were nearly tied. On the same wave. Or more accurately -- water rush.



Morning at the Ca Garay. The weather looks good: the sun is out, the skies are clear (so far). We dribble olive oil over toasted bread and rub it with tomato, Catalan style.





Refreshed, showered, well fed, ready to go.






But where to? Our hosts (she is English -- married a Catalan man on her youthful rambles through this region) suggest a local walk in the hills and onto the next village. I'm shaking my head. Three hours? Too short. We really can do something more ambitious! 
Head toward the mountains then. There's a good hike up to the waterfalls. Maybe a half hour drive from here.

She doesn't mean the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees. You need to go a couple of hours to the north and to the west to reach those. But just a short distance from here, the landscape turns cliffy and jagged. I can see the potential for a good hike.
How long's the trail?
Maybe four hours out, three back. You better hurry, then.

Indeed. It's already 10:30. Of course, tell Ed to hurry and he decides a nap is in order. And even as we get going we realize that a detour to a store is a necessity. We have only two small bottles of water. That wont do for a warm day.

In the last village before our trail head, we find the one open store.





It doesn't have much, but it has what we need: Big bottles of water. And cookies.











Outside, the day is warm. 11:30 already. The church clock doesn't lie.





And in this pokey way (with another pause to take a photo of the pretty poppies)...






...we finally get to the starting point. I note that it's noon when we begin our hike.


It is an interesting walking challenge. The elevation is never great -- we are, after all, following a mountain river. And the trail starts off fairly wide. A car could pass on it. (In fact, at one point, we come across the remains of a terrible accident. A handful of years ago, by the looks of things, the road crumbled under the weight of a backhoe, sending it down into the ravine. The upside down vehicle is still there and there are flowers tied to a tree on the spot where it went down. And signs warning not to get near the fragile edge.)

After a while, the wider path ends and we pick up a more typical hiking trail. Some ups and downs, some rocks to scale, the river to cross. Back and forth, sometimes on old stone bridges...






....sometimes on suspended foot bridges that sway daintily as you cross. And sometimes there are no bridges at all and you make your way across as best as you can over protruding rocks.

We pass, too,  some spectacular cliffs. And every once in a while, climbing enthusiasts.






Brave men. My idea of climbing a rock is more along the lines of this:






But really, the main attraction here for me is the river. It's stunning! The river bed is mostly rock and the waters are as clear as they get, occasionally reflecting beautiful shades of green and blue.






And the character of the river changes too, around each bend. You know the song? ("The River of No Return") I kept thinking of it: sometimes it's peaceful, and sometimes wild and free...











We have a goal -- to reach the Sant Aniol river falls. But the trail markings end at the tiny Sant Aniol chapel. If our hosts hadn't told us about the falls, we would have gone no further.






We ask a pair of local hikers about the falls. Yes, yes, just take this path further up!

We continue. But now this is no easy path. And when we finally do hear the unmistakable sound of crashing water, we find that there's no easy way to climb down to them. We're on our butts sliding down and hanging on to roots of trees a good bit of the way.

And yes, there are falls, but I tell Ed that the picture our hosts showed me was not of this. There are men in wet suits with climbing gear gathering their paraphernalia and we ask -- are there other falls? [Each conversation here is a challenge as we don't speak a word of Catalan and their preference to avoid Castilian (for us foreigners -- Spanish) runs deep.]

They wave toward the upper end of the river and nod their heads.
How far?
Ten minutes, twenty...

And so we continue. To say that there is a trail here is to be overly generous. You can tell where to go because certain rocks had more of a quartzy sheen to them. As in -- others have gone this way at some point. We look for those.

It's tough going. We're right at the edge of the river and often the slabs of stone offer little foothold. Another group of climbers is coming away from the falls. I see how they do it - when the side cliffs get too tricky, they take to the water!


 


We continue. Slowly, precariously. And then, just as I am beginning to spot the edge of the spectacular double falls, we come to a full stop. There is no way to cross the river to get to them.

Ed, of course, is undaunted. Taking off nonessential attire, he's ready to plunge in as well.
It may be deep! There could be sharp rocks at the bottom! I protest. The men had wetsuit and gear. We have bare feet and bare skin. And the current here is strong, You can't see where you're stepping.

But Ed is a big guy with a steady grip. He climbs down into the rushing waters and hoists himself up against the rock, effectively climbing up to the next higher level. In this way, he manages  to make his way up to the falls. You can see him in the next shot, taken from my perch by the rushing waters. (You can also imagine the height and width of it all as measured against his big frame.)





He comes back and urges me to cross the river.

I'm not as big as you! I cannot work my way up the rock against the rushing waters! My camera will get drenched! I'll crash!

It's not that I'm terrified of this -- I just do not think I have the body mass to do what he has done. His legs can brace the boulders on the other side. Mine cannot.

But, Ed is ever patient. He comes back and carries the camera for me. And he guides me through the less deep parts. And finally, as I lean against the rock, submerged to my waist in the cascading cold waters, he pulls me up by the arm, allowing me to make that final heave up to the upper portion of the river.

So here you have it -- the double falls. Victoriously witnessed by the both of us.






The hike back is, of course, easier. You know the weak spots. You know where to take extra care. Still, we are tired at the end of it. It is close to 7 by the time we pass the donkeys (they're right by where we left the car).





On the drive back, we stop at a Carrefour -- a French mega grocery chain that has spread like rapid fire across most of Europe (and beyond). It's always interesting to see the local rendition of a grocery store and we walk up and down the aisles admiring this Catalan version of it.


 


(We shop at the Carrefour regularly just outside Sorede. By way of contrast, the emphasis there is on...cheese.)

We pick up several bottles of apple cider for Ed and continue home, pulling in at 8:30, just as our host is starting to prepare our dinner.

And I cannot praise these people highly enough for being so good to us. When they heard that Ed doesn't really like to eat what is the Catalan staple here (sausage, ham, basically meat), they went out of the way to prepare something local, sublime and indeed one of our all time favorites from this part of the world -- a hearty chicken and seafood paella. With terrific salads and friend potato dumplings to start the meal.






We're the only ones at the little inn tonight. Occasionally, our English speaking hostess comes out to chat. She talks about their struggle to keep the inn going in these tough economic times. It's her husband's family home and they're done a beautiful job restoring it. Needless to say, he cooks like a dream.





I tell her about our scramble to reach the falls. She marvels that we took to the cold waters without wetsuits. Well sure, but if you hiked this far to view the falls, wouldn't you take the plunge? Wouldn't you?

We finish the meal with flan for Ed and, for me -- the same local frozen yogurt made with fruits of the forest. 

foothills of the Pyrenees

It was the most straightforward, easy ocean crossing. Whereas last time, in March, on this very same Detroit - Paris flight I first went up, then spun around halfway into the trip and came back down in Canada, then went up again, and came down again with a tired crew in Brittany, then up one more time, landing finally twelve hours late in Paris, this time we went up ahead of schedule and came down only once, in Paris, also ahead of schedule. (The winds pushed us forward at terrific speed.) Nightmare crossing, heavenly crossing. Funny how you can quite never predict which fate will be yours.

From Paris (with a pause only for a nice strong coffee) onto Barcelona. And this is the only photo of Barcelona you'll get this month -- taken virtually leaning on the lap of a young man who had the window seat.





In Barcelona, where we reserved a car for the incredibly wonderful price of $211 (for two and a half weeks, all included), I struggled to be an accepting and gracious traveler as yet again the rental company foisted on us their "smallest" car, which perhaps by American standards is small, but it has four doors (two too many for us) and it isn't the size of a postage stamp (which would have been our preference). Their little Fiats 500 were going for twice our price and so we stayed with our Spanish Ibiza four-door. Black no less. Sigh.

So where are we now? At the small, family run Can Garay in the Catalan village of Les Planes d'Hostoles. Two hours north of Barcelona, two hours south of Sorede. Right up toward the mountains that separate Spain from France. Biding time until our rental in Sorede kicks in on Saturday.

I love these pre-Sorede, "biding time" pauses in Spain! Step outside after the long flights and you see that the light is immensely different here: gentle, nearly always sun dappled and warm. We'll drive toward the mountains, other years toward the sea, catching our breath and it doesn't really matter where we are -- it's all beautiful and the food is always very very good.

It's 6:30 in the evening when we pull into the yard of this lovely old family home.

Dinner is at 8:30. You'll want to rest until then?
I look out at the view from our tiny balcony.






No rest! I want to walk! The evening air is so perfect and mild -- let's  explore!
Ed looks at me with just a touch of resignation. A nap sounded good to him. But, he rarely turns down a walk and so we head out.

We stroll along an old rail bed -- it's now a path that'll take you from the sea (some fifty miles east of us) right to the heart of the Pyrenees -- and it could not be a more beautiful moment to be out and about.





We encounter a family doing the same. Kids, grownups, a dog, a couple of bikes and fistfuls of wild flowers that grow to the side of the path.






We walk further into the hills. So pastoral and quiet here! Birdsong, yes there's that. Sheep doing their evening meeeeh calls. Cow bells.






I live in the country now and yet I am always enchanted by the scenery of another countryside. As if I cannot get enough of it. As if I need to expunge all those city years and return to what I truly love -- the distant meeeh cry of a farm animal, the chirp of a swooping bird -- swallow maybe, the faint rustle of leaves in the summer breeze.





But, we're tired, thirsty, hungry too. Let's not get too ambitious. Time to go back to the village. Returning for the evening meal. Like this old man?  Maybe he's hoping for something simple? Something fresh and honest, a favorite Spanish pancake with potatoes maybe? Sausage? Iberian ham?






Most everyone in the village will be thinking of supper now...






At the Can Garay we pause for a few minutes in the garden. Our hosts bring us some fizzy water along with fizzy Catalan Cava. Ed finds an Isis lookalike.






And now it is supper time and sure enough, the food (preset, there's no menu) is just as you would expect here in this remote Catalan village. Maybe a few houses down, our fellow walker is eating the same stuff.



tortilla de patata, sausage, ham



the ubiquitous bread with olive oil and tomato


Chicken follows and then a choice of desserts: flan, yogurts... I don't even hesitate on that one: a local frozen yogurt, flavored with "fruits of the forest."





And only then, the much needed nap. I'd say a fitful night of sleep, but it's never that. Not on the first night. But there's no hurry. Those will come too. There is no rush anymore. Not here, not now. Time to exhale. In the foothills of the Pyrenees.

...and away

Two thoughts, over and over again: finish grading, clean the house, finish grading finish grading, clean clean clean.

I was so committed to both that, in the end, I did finish grading and the farmhouse is now immaculate and why this (the cleaning) should be a priority is beyond me except that I really like to come home to a clean house.

Everything else was done quickly and therefore with errors. Packing: not a big deal -- just a carry on and a small backpack, but geez louise, did I have to forget the New Yorkers? We have accumulated a huge stack and we love reading them in cafes, on beaches, pretty much anywhere that is not home. And I forgot to sweep them into my pack.

Breakfast was rushed, but not unpleasant.





(You can just catch sight of the stack of exams I was working on throughout.)

And then, in the early afternoon, with exams graded, sorted and stacked (though not yet recorded -- I have to give great thought to that. I can easily take the time for this in Sorede), with the house shining with earnestness, I was (more or less) ready on time.


 


Goodbye farmhouse, you lovely old girl! Be nice to the cat sitter and the visitors that will be passing through in our absence. And save some of your prettiness (especially in the yard) for our return. (And don't let the chipmunks and groundhogs eat ALL the strawberry plants! Please!)

Tuesday, but it could be any day before departure

I'm still grading. Really. A handful to go and yet I put them off. As if I don't want to be done with school work!

And I could have finished. If I hadn't, for example, decided that we should do some major tree pruning out back, by the barn.

Or if I hadn't shifted my attention to printing out google maps of various destinations.

Never mind, it's to be expected. The last 24 hours before travel are always scattered and terribly confusing.

But, there was breakfast. Calm, beautiful breakfast. On the porch (despite the nip in the air).






And there was the walk through the farmette, this time to look at all the things that I will never see bloom. It really is remarkable that I love to plant predominantly for June/July even as I am never here in June. I may catch the little dianthus...





But I miss most of the peonies.





I do get even the latest lilac...





And the geranium (cranesbill) looks good right about now...





But really, 90% of my flowers are still maturing. And of those, as many as 25% will bloom and be done by the time I come back.





And so perhaps it will not surprise you when I say that this is probably the last time we'll be leaving for a long trip in June. Which is good, from the point of view of farnette enjoyment, but it means, too, that I feel compelled, more than ever, to take it all in: the quiet of the preseason in southern France. The long days and the cool evenings.  My most favorite village, Sorede, at a time when nothing is dry or spent, when  each day is warmer and longer and the festivals begin. When evening walks make you believe that every minute of life is a treasure.

So, by Saturday we will again, for the fourth year in a row take that first highway exit once you cross the border from Spain into France and look for the road that takes us into the heart of the hills by the Mediterranean. There will be a couple of days in Spain before and some more esoteric travels after, but really, my eye is on Sorede. So that I can shed the stress of worrying about, well, everything. So that I can breathe that sweet air of the Mediterranean forest and climb the mountains that taper off as they fold toward the sea.

Okay, that's later this week. Today, Ed and I hack away at tree limbs and ear a late supper of all the foods I need to cook before our departure.






Tomorrow we leave and of course you understand that posting will be on a different schedule. Everything will be on a different schedule. And that's a good thing.

Monday

It's that time. You know how it is -- 48 hours until you're to be out of here and you are still with a 'to do' list that fills every one of the 28 lines on the pad by your side.

Some of the items are silly. For example -- "give Ed a haircut." I don't need a reminder. He is a walking reminder of the shagginess that always sets in not too long after I trim his beard or hair. Perhaps you'll have seen it in a breakfast photo -- like this morning:






And I do in fact cross off this one item from my list, because in the sunshine of a glorious afternoon, I sit him on a chair in the yard and whack away. The result:






The garden is nearly ready too. Meaning, everything is planted (including some three dozen corn seeds), weeded, ready for separation anxiety (on my part) to set in (how will they fare without me??!).

I even did one last bumpy spin on the mower, creating open space where waist high grasses have been. Just to dot the i, so to speak.

And I went to campus. Letters of recommendation to write, more papers to bring home. (It is so different here during the summer! When I take a photo of Bascom Mall now, I'm reminded of... maybe some Dejeuner sur l'Herbe moment -- as if life's one big picnic, whether or not food is served).






...and the ride to town is so pretty! Another Impressionism-like moment to savor. Canvas, reality; canvas, reality -- as if there's no great difference between the two.







Such is my day, here at the farmette...








 
 

Just 48, no wait -- now 42 hours before taking off and leaving it all behind.