the sweet long hours of daylight

This is the day I love to wake up to, more than most any other – the one brimming with daylight. And when it’s over, I feel a twinge of sadness, for we are then one step closer to the short cold days of December.

Ah, the lovely pastel colors of a summer evening!

How should I honor this longest day of the year?

Wake early and watch the light emerge. When the sun (assume there is sun; a cloudy day takes away some of the pleasure) rises to a lovely warm place, get going. Spend all the hours outside, use no artificial light at all. Stay close to nature. Eat outdoors. All meals. Then, listen to music, outside still, as dusk sets in.

That last element is easy in France. Some twenty-five years back it was proclaimed that on the day of solstice, the streets should ring with music. And there will be singing and if you’re inclined, dancing. On this day, every town and city street is filled with music. The villages, perhaps worried that the National Fete de la Musique would reveal no local talent, often bring in outside musicians to the village square. Sorede brought in the Buenasuerte band and the villagers ate and drank and tap tap tapped to mostly Andalusian rhythms.

But that’s giving you the ending. And there was so much more to revel in – from the first step out to greet this most brilliant June day.

When the wind cavorts through the Rousilion plane, it so often leaves behind a deep blue cloudless sky. The longest day of the year is, this year, a fantastically clear day. Gusts still shake the branches of trees in the morning hours, but you can tell that it’s a half-hearted shudder. Things have settled down. People come out of hiding. The normal rhythms are in place again.





We pick up our pain au chocolat...





...and take them to the café bar. The trick is to find a table half bathed in sunshine (my half) and half covered with shade (Ed’s half). We evaluate each of the tables that spill out onto the village square. It is at once a lovely and ridiculous routine.

Ten o’clock. Time to get going. I have in mind a hike up the mountains just to the east the great Canigou peak. I have a “light” (meaning it’s glossy but lacks detail) description from the tourist office of a five hour circuit up the Pyrenees Roussillon and it sounds exactly right: a varied topography, and a good elevation (slightly less than 1000 meter ascent to the Pic des Sallines, which is at 1333 meters, or close to 4500 feet, a reasonable goal for a day hike). About half of the loop is on the Spanish side of the mountain – which makes it all rather unique.

The hike begins in the tiny mountain village of Las Illas. And let me say at the outset that the day had two and only two scary moments and the first one was on the drive into Las Illas.

Single lane mountain driving makes my skin crawl. I’m okay if I’m on the side that hugs the mountain. I’m less okay if the road trickles to a few clumps of dirt at the edge of a precipitous drop. The way you handle oncoming traffic is you assess: is there room, or do you back down to a wider spot? It’s not an evaluation I want to be wrong in making.

You could say we crawled to Las Illas. Not knowing if there would be oncoming cars, I took the turns very very slowly. Had there been hikers on the road, I dare say they may have outpaced us at certain junctures.

When the village buildings came into sight, I breathed the heaviest sigh of relief.

The trail began with a yellow marking, easily found at the side of the village restaurant. Sometime in the middle of the hike, we would be switching to a red and white GR trail (part of the Grand Routes system of trails that criss cross Europe). It was not clear when the switch would take place, but I assumed it would be obvious.





Up to the first mountain pass we climb. The markings are done well. And within a half hour we are on the ridge and in Spain.

Coll de Lly. This is not an insignificant mountain pass. It is one of a handful of trails used by hundreds of thousands of republicans fleeing the Spanish fascist government in 1939. Ed, who has a fantastic memory for historic detail (at the same time that he has very little memory for events in his own life), talks about the fighting that took place during the Spanish Civil War as we walk along the ridgeline.

It is so quiet here now. The views extend to the mountains and even to Spain’s Costa Brava. The wind doesn’t bother the southern slopes and the air is almost completely still. I find myself removing layers, allowing the warm air to brush against me as we move along the well marked trail.









Butterflies flutter, bird sing. We pass small meadows of wildflowers. Spanish lavander grows in clumps between the rocks. Sometimes the path is wide, sometimes it narrows and requires careful footing between boulders.

























It is a dream of a hike.

Within an hour we reach an old (seventeenth century) sanctuary – lovely and remote, with commanding views over the Spanish mountains.





A stream emerges here from three spouts and Ed convinces me that the water is purer and safer to drink than what we find in the tap back home. (We carry a pack with plenty of water, but on a sunny day, plenty can be happily supplemented.)





The final climb to the Salines summit is absolutely breathtaking. To the south – the mountains and the coast of Spain. To the north west – Canigou and the Roussillon plane.

I try to patch together a 180 degree panorama for you, but it’s my first attempt and I am still clumsy at it. But you can see the Spanish mountains to the left and the Canigou peak to the right. The ridge line here is just at the border.





Let me add just a few regular photos from the point where we pause for lunch. Yes, I have Pic Canigou to my side. The mountain I have yet to write about. (The Spanish Pyrenees of the second photo are behind me.)












Having reached the summit, it’s now time to begin the descent. At first it is a snap. The trail is well marked, the path is stony but manageable.


 


But less than an hour into the return, we come to a crossroads. The glossy brochure says au col des Cireres, tourner a gauche (turn left). We are at the col des Cireres. There is a small arrow pointing to Las Illas in completely the opposite direction (to the right). Do you follow the brochure or the sign? Both have trail markings: the desired red and white. We take the wrong one and we'll be at the wrong end of the mountain, very, very far from where our car is.

It’s almost a coin toss.

We stuff the brochure into the pack and ignore it. A few steps further, Ed mutters -- of course, someone could have moved the sign...

But we continue. And not too long after our chancy turn we encounter a pair of hikers. Let me say now that they took the worry off the rest of the day for me. They're from Scotland and they’d been walking the Pyrenees for days. They had maps we could only dream of. We were on the right trail.

We give them space and then continue behind, relieved.

About an hour before reaching Las Illas, we come across a mountain farm. Back in the woods, we noticed a hose bringing water down to the farmstead. It had sprung a leak and I wanted to relay this to the farmer.

Noticing my camera, he asks if I'd like to see (and phtograph) his small sheep herd. Real Catalan sheep! – he tells me with pride in heavily accented French. You're from The United States? Ah!!















He thanks me again and I leave, following the road now down to the mountain village of Las Illas. A few minutes later, the farmer passes us in his big boat of a car. I’m impressed that he dares attack the narrow road in it. He pulls over and leans towards us.
You know, I’ve been to Canada! Last year! To Montreal!

To visit friends or relatives?

No, to hunt.
Ah.
He waves and rumbles forward.

In Las Illas we meet our Scottish pals from the trail. Ed buys a round of drinks at the village bar – Sangria for us, pints for them. I’m thinking Sangria, with all that fruit juice, is a lighter option. I have a bit of driving ahead of me.

The sangria is delicious. I ask the server if it’s a home recipe.
Yes, of course, I make it from scratch.

With what juice?

Juice?

Yes, what fruit juice do you use?

Oh, no fruit juice! I use mainly wine and then add a drop of... (she rattles off a few more potent beverages)

That one small sangria may well take the edge off of driving back along the narrow lane. We linger a while longer before returning to the roads.


In the evening I have a more fruity sangria on the village square.





I think about how lucky people are, here and elsewhere in France, with their well developed social spaces. If you live alone, or even with your partner, you still have many daily opportunities for social exchanges -- at the bar, cafe, on the village square. We lack such places and I think we are poorer for it. If you want to celebrate the Fourth of July or just the fact of waking to a bright morning, you can do it alone, you can do it with friends or family, but you have to plan for it. You cannot drop in and exchange a few words with people you know as the whim strikes you.


Ed and I eat a simple meal at Chez Patou, just at the edge of the square.






He's not the type to stay and listen to the boisterous music, but I am. After dinner I linger as he trots back to the apartment. The last wisps of sun still touch the corners of the Sorede buildings as the musicians play their guitars. The moon is out, the day is nearly done.





And before I know it, the electric lights take over and the longest day is not a day anymore. Sorede is still tapping to the rhythms, but it's time for me to head home.

Sunday winds

They say that the brutally fierce mistral wind can destroy the spirit of a man or woman of Provence. But what’s not mentioned is that the mistral’s reach extends far beyond Provence. The wind can rip through the coastal areas of its southern neighbor Languedoc, where we’re staying and unhinge shutters and spirits in a flash.

Today, the wind struck.

We knew it was coming and so we didn’t make many plans, allowing the weather to dictate the tenor of the day one step at a time.

In the morning, we made sure to acquire one last time a mille feuille at the bakery (they only bake them on the week-end), and a baguette, and pain au chocolat, and almond cookies (our appetites for baked goods are growing as we move into the second and final week of our visit here).

[I keep an eye out on fathers, wanting to see if their eyes sparkle more with pride on this day – Father’s Day here (as in the States). They seem only as happy as always.]

In the somewhat sheltered space of the café bar (the one that just reopened under new ownership on the upper square), we watch life unfold.





A fine activity, which we continue to do after a satisfying interlude over my café crème.

Because of the wind, people walk with a brisk stride...





... except for the young ones. The girl walks her dog slowly to the bakery, the two boys eat their second breakfast up on the wagon that stands decoratively at a village intersection.









I notice with some sadness that our village grocer has decided to take a few days off. (Note the writing on the blackboard.)





I imagine he has learned of the lovely weather forecast for next week and has decided a rest is in order. We wont be short for produce – there’s plenty of it at the markets and supermarkets, but I realize that I wont see him again. We’ll be gone by the time La Ciboulette decides to open its doors again.


Ed studies the direction of the wind relentlessly, attempting to guess its impact on the sea. Since you’re curious, I tell him, why don’t we head out for the beaches.

Not wanting to drive much, we stay with the closest beach town – Argeles-sur-Mer. The beach by the town is not especially a winner (too many recreational gigs for the vacationers who’ll flock here next month), but as I mentioned earlier, some good soul has rated all the beaches of Languedoc and has given high marks to the beach just north of Argeles.

Not hard to find and not hard to get to.

But, oh, the wind! Although it is Sunday, the beach is nearly empty. The sky alternates between a dazzling blue and a sinister white, but even when the sun is bright as can be, the wind makes you zip up and huddle into yourself.

And the beach: it is a sand storm in the making. Gusts of fine pebbles lash out at you, punishing and cruel, as if you had violated some sacred rule against stepping out during this meteorological temper tantrum.

Families take one look and then retreat. Happy Father’s Day indeed.





I watch Ed pace by the water's edge.




I find shelter behind a low fence that on better days serves as an enclosure for an outdoor refreshment area. It is, in fact, fairly pleasant down there: the sand comes at you in a trickle and the wind passes over, rushing to rearrange the sands of the long beach and to make a fine spray of the turbulent white capped waters.





Surely, I say to Ed, you will not swim today?
He looks at the waves. Not perfect, he tells me. But pretty good.

There is no holding him back. I warn him that we are rather far from habitable premises and a possibility of prompt rescue (we like to choose spots bordered by nature rather than houses), but this is silly patter on my part. I’m talking to a man who has sailed the ocean, indeed, the entire eastern seaboard by himself in a wee sailboat. Rescue efforts indeed. And so I merely reassure him that if he is pushed out to sea, I will surely find someone to care for his cats back home...

In he goes.





I stay by the protective barrier, as does a small handful of others, some choosing to sunbathe au naturel, or at least, as is the habit here, au naturel from the string panties up, others choosing to hide in protection beneath towels.

Ed comes back refreshed and invigorated. No orphaned cats this time around.

I look out at the sea. I can see Collioure at the other side of the wide bay. And then, because the mistral makes you act in unpredictable and devilish ways, I mumble – maybe I should try it.





We eat lunch first – baguette with cheese and tomato. If you hunch, you can avoid getting sand into it. Then I wait for a cloud to pass. And then I take my own plunge into the raging waters of the Mediterranean.

Being thrashed around by the waves and by the wind and by the sand all at once is almost a life defining experience. I can’t even say that I am cold. I am too engaged in this mad dance, this wild affair with the wind and water.

But not for long. My interest in wild flings is always short lived.

[In the interest of honesty, I notice that further down the beach, toward the town, there is a life guard station and that, despite the threatening appearance, the warning level for this day is only at yellow. When the flag is red, you are not permitted in the water.]

We dry off against the fence again. The wind now rages in spurts. A family comes to the beach, the dad (happy father's day to you!) shows his little girl how to fly a kite.





Then the wind gusts again. They huddle, wait and then retreat.

And we do too. It’s five and I am ready for a refreshment. Argeles-sur-Mer is a beach town, but away from the shore, it has a downtown commercial heart. I’m curious if it comes alive on a June Sunday afternoon.

It does not. Most places remain closed and perhaps due to the wind, there are few people out and about. But the green grocer is open and we pick up one of the deliciously sweet melons that are in season at the moment.





And we do find an open bakery.

You don’t suppose we should check out their mille feuilles? Ed asks.





We do. Again, we encounter an extraordinarily friendly shopkeeper who willingly selects the very largest pastry for Ed.





It’s evening now. The wind still hasn’t died down. In Sorede, the Catalan flags are flapping furiously.





We walk up to our new favorite, the reopened café bar (which is also a pizzeria and restaurant and ice cream shop). Children are playing outside and a few men are having a drink at the outdoor tables, but they are the exception.





There is a pleasant buzz inside as people come and go, picking up pizzas to take home, pausing for a drink, stepping out for a cigarette, coming in again to watch the match on TV. Children scamper, dogs sleep, we order salads with anchovies and pizzas and the world seems to be a happy and safe place for this fleeting minute.













Walking home, we pass through the lower square and the “other” village café bar, You have to feel sorry for them – they had advertised a special musical event for yesterday (Billy “Halladay” was to croon all evening long) but the sketchy weather caused them to reschedule it for this evening. The wind has kept the people home once again. A solitary pair and a one other woman sway to his melodies.





We watch and sway for a few minutes and then walk home.

village love

When you walk into a bakery and discuss the differences between two baguettes with the shopkeeper and then leave feeling like she was the most informative, nicest shopkeeper on earth, when you walk up to la Place de la Republique and nod to yourself that this indeed is the most agreeable village square in France, when you go to a larger town (say, Ceret) and it has a dream of a Mediterranean market – huge, spilling onto the next street and the next, filled with fruits, soaps, baskets, you name it, and you think -- ok, but smaller is nice too, when you take an evening walk to the village next door and you silently think – our green grocer has a better lay out and a friendlier countenance, and their café bar doesn’t even come close to ours... well, it’s clear you’ve developed a case of village love.

Sorede is perfect.

It’s got character. Old stone houses and a river running through it. One day you’re climbing summits, and the next you’re splashing in the sea, and in between you’re slurping your neighbor’s apricots and sipping a rosé wine from the vines just down the road. Sure, the people are friendly all around Languedoc, but they seem extra friendly here. And they have this Catalan thing going which lends intrigue and drama. They’ve got it all.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Can you read that little heart on the mailbox of this Soredian? It says "j'aime mon village." I love my village. (Note the Catalan flag and the dancer on the doorway beads – which are a common way to keep the breeze going while preserving privacy.)





Still, you can’t stay glued to your village, no matter how perfect you think it is. You must explore. See the world. Visit the towns that are more renowned. For example, Ceret.

I’d popped in on Ceret once before. Four years ago, alone, driving in on a quiet evening. I remember thinking then that it was rather somber. It was a favorite destination for twentieth century artists and I tried to look at it as they had seen it. The light was mellow and I appreciated the tall plane trees and thought – I’d probably set up my canvases out of the town some. There are too many shadows here.

And now, on this bright, partly sunny Saturday morning, I'm thinking it's time to look at Ceret in a different light. It’s a short drive – the town is only 20 kilometers west of Sorede – and it's a pretty route at that, affording frequent glimpses at this region’s magical mystical Pic Canigou (more on Canigou in a few days).





In Ceret, it is market day and I have read plenty about the market here. It is, in fact, quite spectacular. It’s hard to photograph, as it’s reasonably crowded (though not shoulder to shoulder, like our Madison one) and it’s set up along narrow streets with magnificent towering plane trees that are very much part of this town’s architecture. Taking it all in is a challenge.





We are here at a time of beautiful light and colors, and terrific energy.





Ah... people dress well to go to market. I’ve noticed that before, of course, and the more rural the place the less likely it is that you’ll see denim. Ceret isn’t exactly rural (population 8,000), but it feels close to the hills (that bear France’s cherry crop) and in any case, it feels far from any urban pressures.





Which vendors are popular? Fresh seafood stalls always get the crowds. That’s true at all markets here.





But so do other stalls. Maybe not the specialty tomatoes (there are great, sweet tomatoes at 1.40 Eur per kilo elsewhere), but the fruits, regional spices and of course sausages and wines – both offering plenty of free samples – are definitely in demand.





















We meander this way and that, remembering to look up at the old trees, and to look down the more empty side streets...









...and remembering, too, to stop at the Museum of Modern Art to see the Chagall piece and the Picasso dishes with the bull fighters (sorry – no photos allowed).


This time, Ceret feels properly delicious.





And on our way out, we remember to pause at the bridge – the one that dates back to the 14th century (when Cerat and indeed, all of Roussillon belonged to the Kings of Majorca) – because the span of the arch is really is quite spectacular.





We leave not empty handed. Once again the market has given us ideas for a supper on the patio.


In the evening, we take a walk to a village next to ours (Saint Andre). We pass a campground slash caravan park and, curious, we poke around a little. A very friendly British family invites us into their little house (but really a movable thing, though it’s secured now to the local plumbing and electricity). I’m impressed: the structure is cheap, the maintenance is minimal and there you have it – a person of modest means or inclined toward frugality can bypass the enormous costs associated with vacation home ownership and for a few thousand, have a little place in the south of France. Oh, it’s not beautiful or exquisite, but it's adequate and in any case, there’s beauty enough in the land around you. A simple place to sleep and to wash up after a day out on the hills or on the beaches of, say, La Franqui.


We continue our walk to Saint Andre and it is a fine walk...





though once in the village, we keep reminding each other how much lovelier Sorede is. Even as Saint Andre is a perfectly adequate village.





But I have to be honest here: Ed insists we stop at their local bakery. Seeing a tray of mini pastries...





...he buys a little mille feuille. We finish it before we’re out the door. It’s exquisite. We should get another – the larger one, he says. And we do.

We finish that one again in no time. I love our local bakeries, but Ed has proclaimed that the prize for the mille feuille goes to Saint Andre. By the tiniest of margins. I’m okay with that. The shopkeeper in Saint Andre was equally friendly and sweet. We’ll give her the honors (should she ask).


We walk back in that occasional raindrop weather that again has taken over the hills and villages. The sky is full of drama, but I hear we have a week of clear weather ahead.

Ah, there's the ever  thrilling Pic Canigou again...





In any case, it’s dry enough to eat outside once more. Paella from the market (at 10 Euros a kilo, it is a wonderful and ample meal for two) and leftover tomato, endive, egg and an anchovy salad. With a local crusty bread and a local rosé.