of kings and oysters and the calm waters of the Mediterranean

I wake to rain. It's okay: it was expected and it wont last. Still, not hiking or beach weather. This is the day we should make the trip to the town of Perpignan.

But first breakfast. We eat it at the preferred bakery, where tables are set out for the people who just can't wait to dive into their bread product, helped along with a cup of coffee or an orange juice. And so much did I want to dive into my croissant that I did not even think about taking that morning photo!

The first picture comes from the wee train station at the seaside town of Argeles-sur-Mer, where we catch the train to Perpignan (it's a hefty fifteen minute ride!).





Perpignan feels like it's about four times the size of Madison, even though population wise, it's far smaller. It is the capital of the Pyrenees Orientales Department -- the administrative unit that contains all the towns and villages and beaches and mountains that I visit here.

Once the center of the Kingdom of Majorca, it surely has the influence of centuries of Spanish rule (ceded by Spain only in the 17th century).

But if the city had a noble past, it, too, had a more troubled modern face. Some people may say it suffered a period of being down and out. But this is not its current fate. It's on an upswing and it shows.

(As in most big towns, the road leading away from the train station is only mildly interesting. I think it's curious that palm trees line this street, at the same time that it seems somehow fitting for Perpignan: don't forget, we were once part of Spain! - it seems to be saying.)






When you cross the river, you are in the old town.






And the restoration work here is magnificent. (And the little girl, enjoying the shiny granite sidewalk reminds me of Snowdrop...)






The main square:






Mama cat plus little cat.






The narrow streets of old town.





We want to do something touristy. With good reason: the shops are mostly closed now. Such a south of France custom! Why end the weekend on Sunday when you can have Monday, or at least half of Monday off?! And the one museum we identified as possibly capturing the imaginations of all four of us was open on Mondays in the high season .... and then this Monday, it changed its schedule and closed its doors.

So where to? Well, at the edge of town, there is the magnificent Palace of the Kings of Majorca.

(In the courtyard, sculpture by Maillol, the guy from the seaside town of Banyuls who sculpted under the encouragement of Gaugin...)






(The palace chapel...)






(Perhaps equally breathtaking is the view from one of the palace towers. Here is that cascading tail end of the Pyrenees. After the last hill, it's the sea.)






Time for lunch. I'd asked where in town could we get some of the local oysters. Many of the inlets here (etangs) support oyster beds and I don't want to leave without a taste of both local oysters and local anchovies. I'm immediately directed here, to the (of all places) Cafe Vienne.






Lunch: both oysters and a salad with the anchovies and Spanish mountain ham. Catalan staples.






And now it is late afternoon -- time to catch the train back to Argeles-sur-Mer.






On the quick drive from the station back to Sorede I pause the car several times and my indulgent friends put up with my great desire to study these olive groves...






... And to gaze at one of my favorite vistas just outside Sorede. Vineyards and mountains. All that's missing in the frame is the sea.






Are the grape leaves turning? Just ever so slightly in this first week of October.






And now it is more like early evening than late afternoon. But I have this hankering: the skies are clearing here and there. The air isn't exactly toasty, but still comfortably warm-ish.

Would anyone like to go with me for a swim at Le Racou beach?

Some people may think that's one nutty idea. A long day. A cool day. Shouldn't we wait until the sun returns? Don't we just want to put up the old feet and exhale?

In the end, Barbara and Shmuel come along for the ride to Racou.

This beach, of all the numerous beaches Ed and I discovered, was our most frequent go to place for a late day swim. The water turns deep quickly and so you can swim close to shore and then slump down on a sloped beach of grainy sand.

I always loved this wee cove where the beach cottages are tiny and colorful and sail boats and sea kayaks rest on the sand. Tonight it is both quiet and magnificent!





But is the water warm???

Well, not exactly. It had been a cool day and it surely is getting cooler now by the minute and yet I cannot help myself. In I go. (My friends take the photo.)






(Barbara searches for sea shaped treasures...)






(A solitary boat sets sail and a row boat moves quietly across the sea...)






I don't swim for long. But I am bursting with the joy of having tasted the Mediterranean salt on my skin.

The three of us do set out then along a coastal path, just to look back at Racou beach and the setting sun...






And we end with a pizza at Racou's Coco Loco pizzeria which brings back so many memories!





It is very dark by the time we drive back home.


I am not just a catalogue of memories on this trip. We experience Sorede as friends now: it is ours, not just mine from some years back. Still, every once in a while, I roll back and then roll forward and it's all such an incredible ride, linking the best of the past with the sweetest moments of the present.

October in Sorede

Every trip I ever took to Sorede had been in June. I felt it was a perfect month here: the beaches were empty. (The French vacation extends over July and August. That's it.) The air moved from pleasantly cool to nicely warm, without ever being hot. There was the anticipation in the air of vacation, but without the madness of France on vacation. Perfect!

No, no -- the people who lived here said to me. It is more perfect in early Fall. Not hot, empty, and the sea waters are delicious!

But how does this region change in the autumn months? Is the lushness diminished? Are the Mediterranean forests dry and parched? Does anything bloom now?

I'm beginning to have some answers.

I wake up to a beautiful October day in the Languedoc region of southern France.

We are a foursome here. I surely want to give my friends a chance to discover this region on their own terms and so I offer several possibilities on how to approach this day. But let's deal with breakfast first: we decide to go to my preferred bakery for bread product (this one is worth the three mile drive; besides, you get to pass this wonderful view onto Pic Canigou - the mythical and magical summit that attracts the more ambitious climbers)...





The bakery itself (Fournil des Alberes) is without fault. It does everything perfectly. (I'm thinking that the giant eclairs are to be shared at the family Sunday lunch...)






(I'd eat the whole brioche easily, but I settle for a pain au chocolat...)






But of course, it's the bread (baguette for us) which is the standout. I haven't found any anywhere that I like as much. Ed shared my view on this so I am going needle him with this photo. Very chewy, Ed... Very chewy!!






Back in Sorede, I pick up some (local!) strawberries from the new green grocer -- run by a lovely woman who tells me that they now have local strawberries year round!






We eat our breakfast on Sorede's main square (meaning we take our breads and berries to Sorede's cafe and eat them there -- an acceptable custom).






Oh, and I ask Shmuel to take a picture of the awesome threesome:






That wonderful cafe, spilling out toward the huge linden tree could swallow me up for a long long while. Ed and I would often linger all the way until lunch service and only then did we guiltily clear ourselves out, so that they could set the tables for the big eaters. But today time is precious. One last photo...






Well, no -- I have to include this picture of the owner/cook and local friends...






And after, the married couple takes off on a long hike up the mountain just behind our house and Diane and I do our own hike -- one that I enjoy so much at the beginning of any stay here, one that is modest perhaps (just over two hours going up, a little less coming down), but so very beautiful. (Groves, pines, Mediterranean scrub)...











It's a hike that school children do here on a fairly regular basis and it shows off the great Roussillon plane (with the Corbières Massif to the north)...






... as well as the Pyrenee Mountains to the west (le Canigou again!)...






... and the sea to the east (note the fall colors here: they're not typical yet, but they sure are lovely!).






Oh, how happy I am to be looking out on this stretch of land! I just cannot believe my luck that I should be smelling that scent of a Mediterranean forest again (and no, it's not dry at all! Verdant and full, stubbornly clinging to its voluptuous bounty)!

At the end of the first trail, there is the small church - a pleasant endpoint, except I want to go just a bit further: climb up that rocky narrow path to get this view:






I left Diane behind for this, so my summit photo has to be a selfie...






I think to myself that I should call Ed from here, but there is no cell service and so I cannot activate my hotspot. Just as well -- it's only 5 a.m.  back home.

(Some fall color again... Dad and son picking chestnuts...)






We take the long but wide path back to Sorede. As Ed always says -- even on the same trail or road, the views are always different on the return. (It's Sunday time for men to express their inner and outer selves; we pass the occasional mountain biker or well muscled runner...)






It's all so familiar it hurts, but in a pleasant sort of way!


 



Back in Sorede, we walk dangerously close to where Ed and I used to stay. Memorable were the cats then, and they still draw my attention, if only to recall with a smile all times Ed would stop and pet each and every one of them...






And now Diane and I are so ready to sit down, this time at the lesser cafe on the lower square for a coffee break.






The owner -- the same one who mixes up a hell of a great paella on the Catalan June holiday of San Jean -- is hoisting a Catalan flag in solidarity with the (tumultuous) Catalan election in Spain.






In the late late afternoon, back home now, we put out bread, cheeses and a chestnut spread for a lunch. The rose bottle comes out, just because it's light, inexpensive and delightful in its label (Les Petites Desmoiselles -- the little damsels; I mean, charming, no?).






I had wanted to hit the beach today (do it all!), but as the evening temps come down and the clouds roll in for the night, I change my mind. Back we are for dinner on the square. But not at the Cafe Bar. I only pause before it because the kids are playing football and the parents are drinking un petit blanc (a small glass of white wine) and don't you want to be reminded of such nice moments, even if they are in the lives of families far removed from your everyday?






We eat instead at Ma Maison, a step up from the Bar, but still a bargain at 20 Euros for a three course meal, tax and service included. And the bream fish is excellent and the company superb and the evening has the rosy glow of a day well spent.






Ah Sorede, you are indeed all that I remember you to be!

Sorede!

I have traveled with my friend Diane across the ocean many times. And just recently, I traveled to Warsaw with Barbara and her husband. But it has been 33 years since the three of us (Diane, Barbara and I) have set out to explore some corner of Europe together.

So isn't it thrilling that we should reunite in Sorede?

Now, granted, we could have come to better weather. Rain and low cloud cover in this French - Catalan village? Unheard of! Well, at least not a frequent happening.

As Diane and I drive up to the mountains, the clouds are so thick that you can barely recognize that most perfect view of cascading slopes...





Well, no matter. They will clear. They always do.

Our hosts open the doors to our home for the week...






I look out the window in my room: still hazy and gray, but still so very beautiful...






As Barbara and Shmuel drive up, we quickly dump our cases and head out.






...To the stores before they shut down for the week's end. (Oh! Those familiar trees that line the road to the market!)






And then by foot to explore a bit of Sorede. Oh! That grocer is no more! Ah! A new bakery opened in its stead. So that makes four bakeries here? Or is it five?

We're tired and hungry. We had quite the stormy crossings over the Atlantic. Some of us (me!) didn't sleep. The car ride from Montpellier to Sorede was long too. We just need a fresh and honest meal and of course, the place to go for that is that cafe bar that spills onto the Sorede square, only it's raining. We huddle inside.

There's a soccer match on TV and the men are here to cheer one team, or is it the other? Some kids are in their charge: the young ones play with their smart phones and mimic songs and gestures from video clips of coveted stars...





... while the four of us eat salads with goat cheese and pizzas with veggies and of course there is that local rose wine that flows so freely and cheaply here.

By the time we head home, the moon is sort of peaking out. Might it be sunny tomorrow? I'll bet yes!

Friday is travel day

I had this fantasy once: wouldn't it be nice to have, someday, a cottage in a distant corner of southern France? A small place, one that would welcome me every year? I could write, dream, walk, observe... It would be sublime!

Lack of money was, of course, the great stumbling block, but as I came to hang out with Ed, he convinced me that it was a stupid idea. Even as a dream idea. If you want to escape to some village in France, just find yourself a spot there that you like and go back to it. Rent a room, rent an apartment, sleep in the ditch, but for heaven's sake, don't dream of buying something! Maintaining a home is a huge headache, not a blessing.

He was right of course. And I am very glad that I never could amass the resources for even as much as a downpayment for such a place. I have no good friends in southern France. I love my family here. I have my sister and lifelong pals in Warsaw. Why would I want to squander time and money on a place in France?

But with Ed by my side, the idea of at least returning to some spot in southern France took on new life. The search for a well situated village began. It took a while, but finally, in June of 2010, we found Sorede. And eventually we discovered a rental unit that we liked and so we went back. In 2011, 2012, and 2013. And in my vision we would keep going back until we could walk no more.

What was so special about Sorede? Its great allure was near perfect weather (especially in late spring or early fall) and the fact that it has nothing going for it. It's not a tourist destination. There are no attractions. No beach, no museum, no amusements -- nothing. Indeed, the people of Sorede are not used to tourists. The villagers make no special effort to accommodate them. (Though there are a number of vacation homes and Sorede does attract a small community of expats: British, German and Scandinavian. They go there for the sunshine and rarely mix with the local people. You can always spot them as they are of norther complexions and the sun does them no favor.)

And yet, Sorede was close to everything that I loved: it's just at the Spanish border and that in itself was attractive to us. Ed and I explored the Catalonian region of Spain quite thoroughly on our way to Sorede and on the return. But honestly, I loved best the weeks in Sorede itself. That cafe bar on the vast square! And the Pyrenee foothills, spilling right into the village. And the vineyards. And the olive groves. And the sweet little coastal towns that had once attracted a vibrant colony of artists. And of course, the sea -- just a ten minute drive! A swim in the gentle cove, or playing in the shallow waters of Franqui beach were nothing short of sublime.

But as you know, in 2014 Ed said no to travel. He had had his fill and so our trips together had come to an end.
Didn't you like our time in Sorede??
I did, gorgeous, but I don't want more trips. I really prefer just to stay home. Don't you like our home?

We went around like this many times, but I knew it was no use. And, too, if Ed doesn't want to be somewhere, then you don't want to be there with him. His disinterest is palpable and it makes for a miserable stay. Just read back to our very last trip to Turkey and Greece in the winter of 2014. He was miserable and slept way too many hours in my view. Most often I ate dinner alone.

Oh, but I have missed Sorede! I play songs that we listened to on the radio there and I still choke at the strength of those memories!

My best pals, Diane and Barbara were sympathetic. And one day, when I again moaned how I could never go back to Sorede without the company of Ed, Diane spoke up: we could go with you instead!

And that is how it came to be that today, I will be boarding a flight to Detroit, then Paris, then Montpellier in the south of France. From there it's just a two hour drive to Sorede. I'm to meet Diane at the Paris airport tomorrow. Barbara is driving up from Spain, with her husband Shmuel. The four of us will hang out for a week in Sorede together.

This morning is a blur of packing and organizing the farmhouse for a week without my tender loving oversight. (Ed laughs that I always clean just before I leave and clean immediately upon my return.) There is breakfast, of course...






And I throw some water on just a handful of the more tender stuff...






The rest will do fine. We're at the end of the growing season after all...






And I do pick up Snowdrop -- a little earlier than usual and unfortunately, without a protracted playtime in the park. Just a brisk romp...






Brisk but joyful!






For one thing, it includes fifteen minutes on the swings. Short, by her standards, but exuberant nonetheless.






And then I drop her off at her house. I'll see you in a week, little one! I miss you already...

Ed takes me to the airport and I wait for my connections to France.