calm waters

Is it possible (or desirable, but that’s a separate question) to reach a state where not much bothers you? Ed’s nearly always at peace with his everyday (and no, it is not only since retirement). One of the builders who helped with the farmhouse reconstruction had this reputation as well – not phased by anything. A state of perpetual calm.

I like it. I can’t pretend I’m anywhere near these men of peaceable dispositions, but I have always liked the idea of low anxiety and zero conflict. I remember telling myself at age thirteen: I will never again be angry at anyone. The “resolve” didn’t last forever, but it lasted for many, many years. It’s easier to stay calm when you’re very young.


Or getting older.

And this was a very calm day. True, it was a day of low ambition. The market. Tuesday is a market day in Sorede and we make it to market in plenty of time because, unlike at home, serious shopping does not take place at the wee hours of the market’s opening. There is a steady stream of slow moving people who come to buy, pause for a café, greet a friend and move on, to be replaced by another handful and another.

The market is very small. Sometimes there are two vendors selling fruits and veggies. Today there is only one. The produce is displayed under one large canopy, and you shop almost as if in a grocery store, except everything is terribly fresh and there’ll be more variety in unexpected places, depending on the season.





We buy tomatoes, green beans, endive, carrots. And sausage (with cepes!) from another vendor.

We had already purchased potatoes and apricots – in the courtyard of a Sorede family of apricot farmers. That memory of their sweet little fruits stuck with me all year long and I was thrilled to see them opening their gates again (they’d been closed for the holiday week-end).





They remembered us as well, though I’m not sure if in a uniformly good way. We are quirky buyers and my camera is dangling and I ask many questions and often do not fully understand their answers. I’m hoping it is their Pays d’Oc accent rather than my pot-holed French.

The women here work by a conveyor belt, sorting fruit and pulling out the bruised ones. Ed is frequently the recipient of their rejects. He looks like the type who would relish a free bruised fruit. Their call on that is a good one.





After a patio lunch (see yesterday’s photo – there’s not much difference in type of food or its presentation), and an Ed nap (still that, and sleeping again on the afternoon car ride), we set out to La Franqui Plage.

I have the most perfect memories of this beach. We had cooler weather last year and days of very strong winds. And still I loved this place. It's a little bit north of here (actually, a 55 minute drive from door to beach parking spot if you take the fast road). And I am so happy that the French rigidly adhere to vacationing only in July and August. Because on June days, the beaches are mostly empty. And, for us, stunningly beautiful.







The little village that abuts this strip of sand is sweetly unassuming (see photo further down). And if you cross a small channel that streams water into a salty lagoon, you come to a long stretch of seemingly never ending golden sands. Few people make this crossing (though this time the channel is quite shallow), leaving us with lots of undisturbed space.






Though the water is cool still in June, this year, the temps have been warmer and so I have little trouble going in.





And staying in. If you find an underwater sand bar, you can go out quite far and still keep to fairly shallow waters. To play in these waters, to float, paddle, push, wade, all that – is my idea of heaven.

You do have to keep moving, because the water can remind you that it’s not quite summer yet. But the air is so warm when you come out to dry that all is forgiven. The sea is your friend, the sands – your playground. Ed and I build our usual forts and bridges against the sea – crude affairs that inevitably topple under a far reaching wave.

Not that the waves are anything much today. Little ripples that come and go.






We return to the main village beach where children play and grown ups read and we watch it all from a sidewalk café that spills out all the way toward the sands.







The drive back is along the small roads we so often get lost on. We pass beach towns and Languedoc apricot orchards and it truly does not matter that we take so long to find the right road at the right moment.





We do better this time, but not perfectly so. We still manage to get lost. Or more accurately, we come to a point where our chosen road dead ends by the river. Not fair, Ed the map reader tells me. Who knew that there would not be a bridge.

At the supermarket, we pick up five bottles of apple juice. Ed loves them all – each juice is from a different apple variety. Pink Lady, Gala, Granny Smith, all the flavors are fantastic. More cheeses, more breads and we are set for a dinner at home.

I make a salad – one with potatoes, haricots verts, endive, tomato, and also just barely hardboiled eggs and this time smoked salmon. Another time it will be the local anchovies. With Balsamic vinegar and a local olive oil.





We eat it late, very late by my Madison standards, but here, time is however it presents itself. When our hosts ask me – what time do you get up and going, I hesitate. I have no answer. It depends. On what though? On what your sense of calm will allow, I guess.

wrong guesses

Ed says – this is the only place in the world where at dinner, your drinks (wine) come out cheaper than mine (juice or mineral water). Damn right they do. Rosé here is like a bathtub overflowing. I bought several bottles to try, to determine which to take back home and I can’t make a dent in them. Our hosts gave us a bottle as well and my immediate thought was – darn, now I have to get through this one too.

Monday -- the holiday. Don’t know the motivation behind it, but do know that the French are taking time off. The little tourist office remains closed.

That’s okay, there is a bakery, there is always a bakery that’ll sell you bread and pain au chocolat. Ed is still catching up on sleep (from what? I cannot tell. Suffice it to say, the man still seems to need an extraordinary amount of rest time) and so we are up and out only at the late hour of 10. And it’s raining outside. It had thundered throughout the night but I mostly slept through that. Now there is the steady drizzle that you know will soak you silly.

Let’s take the car down for the pain and café – I say. We do. We park, get out and the rain stops. Well now. Wrong call.

Our best bakers are closed today, but the lesser one stays open (these evaluations are purely subjective and obviously not shared by all villagers as the bakeries are within a couple of blocks of each other and both continue to thrive). But no more pains au chocolat.





Sigh. We settle for the apple pouch and the apple tart.

On the big square, the bar–pizzeria is nearly empty. Tables that are beyond the umbrellas are wet, but we find a pleasant spot that’s perfectly dry. I settle in for square watching.
















What do you watch for? It’s a quiet morning. A Monday, but a holiday. Some stores are closed, some are open. The butcher is open. There he goes, crossing the square to talk to a guy on the other side.





And there, by the wine shop, a man on a baguette errand runs into a friend and before you know it there are three, chatting away.





So, all this is interesting to me. Ed in the mean time picks up free reading matter. Which in this case means a free magazine with recipe ideas for the busy cook. A four ingredient apricot tatin (you buy ready made puff pastry). A leek and cucumber side dish. And so on.

We play the cat and mouse game with the camera. Mostly he wins.






This is life for me in Sorede. Uneventful, unhurried, superb.

And now the question: shall we go somewhere? The rain left me unprepared. I thought we’d return and read at home. But the skies are clearing somewhat, even as the forecast still calls for intermittent rains. I suggest a short walk into the hills, just a touch west of Sorede. We drive up the valley a couple of kilometers, and leave the car at a randomly chosen spot.

We walk along the road, past the occasional house, this one with the sweetest set of clothes out to dry...






...then along a mountain river's edge. We pause to watch dragon flies fight for their territorial rights to hunt insects.





When I first met Ed, I was surprised that for a person who reads so much, non stop really, he kept very few books in his sheep shed (he’s a library and computer hound). But there are a few. Notably, books on dragon flies. Ed loves dragon flies and over time, I have caught his feverish excitement over them. You have to love a bug that eats mosquitoes for you.

Further up the valley there is a rough road that leads to the ridgeline, connecting to the summit that we had scaled yesterday. This other side of the same mountain is new to us and so we walk up the wide and pleasant path, even as the sun becomes more pronounced and we realize that we are completely unprepared. After not even an hour of uphill walking, we stop. No water, no sunscreen. Wrong call. We admire the views and turn back.






We’re passed by a car – a lovely old Citroen. The driver rolls down the window and leans out: do you want a ride down? – she asks. No no, we’re happy to walk. Eh bien, bonne journee!






It’s like that here: spontaneous acts of friendliness. Come have a bite to eat. Sit down and rest for a while. Ride down with me.



Lunch. Time for lunch now. Outdoors, on our patio. Cheese and bread and tomato. Fruit. Cookies.






When does an afternoon end and evening begin? Maybe 6? Okay: as the evening rolls in (and Ed is done with his afternoon nap) I suggest that we take another, somewhat longer walk. Say to the next village (Laroque des Alberes). We’d spotted an eating place there last year and now seems the good time to try it out.

It’s a gorgeous time of day to be out walking.





















After a small number of kilometers, we’re there. And it’s pleasant to stroll through the old hilly streets.





And the restaurant is there, yes, just behind the church, but it's closed for the day. Wrong call. Maybe we’ll be back. Maybe not. This is the level of decision making that we allow ourselves for these days. At home, I sell condos, banter with students about property and child labor, fight weeds and paint porches. In Sorede, nothing I do is of consequence. There are no lists to check off. No clocks ticking, no chore demanding my attention. It’s not for everyone – this minimalist type of pause in life. Me, I love it.


We return to Sorede and consider our eating options. And again we take a wrong turn. After several days of pizza and a promise to cook at home the next day, we decide to finally try Sorede’s best little restaurant. We never made it there last year. We got too happy with our simple routines. Eating Sorede’s best was not meant to be. That was then.

But as we peek into the place, we note that it’s empty. At 8:30, we would expect at least a few diners. No good. We don’t want to eat in silence. Ed says – they’ll hover over us. Ed doesn’t like hovering of any kind. Unless it’s by a dragon fly.

So we go to the place across the street – a place brimming with families and couples.

Mistake. We’d eaten there twice before and thought the food was okay but not fabulous. Uninspired. Flavors -- a little tired. Fresh, but flat. And it is that way tonight as well.

But why the odd balance of patrons? It’s not hard to detect that nearly every diner here is an expat. The place draws on the British that have bought up some of the modest properties in the region of Languedoc. They love this fairly modest grill and the waiters love them right back. The restaurant has energy in the room if not the food.

French diners, I have found, are a polite lot. You rarely (ever?) see food sent back, you rarely hear a complaint coming from anyone eating in a restaurant. It’s as if they do not want to acknowledge the possibility of a bad eating moment. It would take away from the pleasure of dining out. But they will kill a place by snubbing it henceforth. Eat a bad meal once, grin through it and do not return. This place, without the expats, I’m almost sure would suffer the closure that another even less expensive spot in Sorede suffered in our absence.

We eat our various seafoods, helped enormously by the sangria and rosé and smile at the quite charming exchanges at the tables around us. We play cat and mouse with the camera. I win.





As for the empty place we had wanted to go to? Crowded as hell by the time we walk past it again!

And now up the hill, past cats and dogs and chatty Sorede folk, standing by the gate, reviewing whatever it is that you review with a fellow villager.

The moon shines bright and strong. It’s good to know that there are times when wrong turns and bad calls can be completely without consequence.

Sunday in Sorede

This is how it goes: a few walk over to the edge of the village square. The music is playing. A few more join. And still others. And they join hands and start the dance.





The Catalan Sardana. I’ve heard it referred to as non-performance dancing. The music is steady, the steps follow their own pattern, not oblivious of the music, but in a subtle reaction to it.

I’ve seen it in Sorede on St. John’s Eve. And I saw it again this Sunday.


I hadn’t yet studied the village calendar and so I hadn’t quite clicked onto this day’s dancing. Ed and I simply had a late start to the day and our walk into town for a pain au chocolat, taken to a café bar for an accompanying grand crème brought us to the square exactly at the moment just before the dance.

Our walk was lovely – blue skies, pink flowers against yellow walls.. or was it blue flowers against yellow walls?








...then a quick dash to the bakery and yes, they still had a couple of pains au chocolat left...





... and now we’re on the square, the lesser square, the one below the great square and we see the small gathering of people.





Obviously ready for a Catalan moment.

No, this is not for show, for tourism, for the likes of me or Ed. They do it for themselves. The sense of Catalan pride that runs through these mountain villages is strong. It’s not aggressive as it may appear south of the border. But it’s there. The donkey pasted to the fender of the car (in a push back against the Spanish bull, the Catalonian people adopted the donkey as their own), the Catalan stripes everywhere. In solidarity. And the dance. Children learn it, adults know it, the elders will not ignore the call when the band starts to play.





At first, only those in Catalan dress dance. But in the next round, many of the villagers come to the circle and join in. And soon there is a circle within the circle.





We sit at the café facing the square and watch. People from the village watch as well. Some start their own circle to the side.





Why is this so emotional for me? People having a good time, very informally, without great pomp or ceremony, children, adults, bouncing fluently, without hesitation, without missteps... I am like my grandmother: everything sincere and from the heart makes my eyes spill over.


 



We leave before noon. I've put off buying the local fruits and I know our grocer will be closing her shop within minutes. We pick up peaches, strawberries and local eggs. All her stuff inside the store is organic. The outside crates are a mix.











In the late afternoon, I suggest a tame mountain climb. We are at the foot of the Alberes – the eastern hills that form part of the Pyrenee range.


 


The mountain right behind us has a pretty abbey near the summit and quite lovely views of the Canigou peak and the stretch of the Roussillon plane to the north.

Oh, it’s a lovely first hike! Not demanding – one and a half hours up, one hour down. But every step is exhilarating. The flowers, the Mediterranean cork oaks. The rosemary and lavender, sweet pea and jacob’s ladder. The butterflies.














You can visit the old abbey, purchase its wines, refill your bottle of water. We top ours. Ed pets all visible cats.





The abbey also has a picnic table at the back and a boisterous group of young adults, some with babies, some not quiet there yet, gather there for a Sunday picnic lunch.




A passing hiker shouts to them – don’t eat too much! They retort – then come join us!

How is it that the French are so good at using leisure time well? I know, I know, they have lots of practice days to get it right.

Ed and I continue up, not super high, no, just to this point (as usual, the photo of me at our highest point).





We sit on the cliffs for a while and look out to the range that spills to the south – to Spain, and to the east – toward the sea, which right now, merges with the sky so well that you cannot tell which is which. We see the occasional hiker here too. It's a holiday week-end (no work tomorrow, I can't keep track of all their official days off, so I can't tell you why this particular long week-end, but one must take note, because stores will close... except for the baker: there will always be someone baking bread on every day of the year). Engaging in le sport is part of the routine for a great number of those who live here.





It is one of those splendid moments when you understand that, no matter what, your life has been one hell of a lucky ride.




It is evening. We're back in Sorede.




I ask Ed – do you still want to go to the sea? It’s reasonably warm – seventies maybe, but I know the sea can be cool at the beginning of June. Sure.

We drive the short distance to my very favorite beach (well, truthfully it’s in a tie with one further north, but that one takes 45 minutes to get to and this one is a mere 15 and it’s that long only because you have to weave through another village, a complicated coastal one, to get there).

Le Racou. Oh, you’re lovely as ever! Small beach cottages line your sandy stretch, the hills are visible to the south, the waters are clear and calm.





And cool. I ask Ed – you’re swimming, right? In an uncharacteristic move, he takes steps toward the water, then pauses. I point to one person swimming. Still he hesitates. And then he takes the plunge.

I walk up and down the water’s edge, noting that there are many things that are so obviously French (I did not say nakedly French, although I could have) that they fit the stereotype because they’re true.









Ed comes out and I say – that’s it? And he notes that I’ve been strolling and he asks – should I go in one more time for a photo? And I could laugh at that, but I say, sure. And I take the photo of the great porpoise with the wet curly strands of hair falling down his face in the clear waters of the Mediterranean.





The beach is nearly empty now. We leave too. No need to linger. We’ll be back many an evening.





We eat dinner at the pizza place across the street. I know, I know, second day in France and we’re still on pizza. But this is what we do here, at Le Racou. The pizza place is outdoors and terrifically fun and the people watching is good and besides, the wood fired oven gives it a special taste and I pick different topings and drink a rose from a small pitcher rather than the sangria of the previous nights.





The ride home is a balm of familiarity. Of weaving through the labyrinth of streets through the village by the sea, of heading out for the short stretch into the countryside, of oaks and cypresses, of vineyards and the occasional olives.

It’s nine, but the sun hasn’t set yet. It will soon, but this is June and its long stretch of light may be the reason I love June like no other month of the year.