conversations, boats and computers

I do not think it’s possible for a Soredian to pass a neighbor and not engage him (yesterday's photos were about the women, on this day, it's about the men) in conversation.

...About the bicycle.





...About today’s crop of apricots and nectarines (let me add my two cents: best ever, anywhere!).





And here’s another detail: men use the baguette excuse to get out and about. There are so many carrying the thin loaves in a characteristic back of the back position that you have to think it’s a conspiracy.

This gentleman paused in his baguette stroll to play with the dog. Unusual. Beautiful dog though. Even if Ed thought it was unfair of him to throw pebbles for the dog to retrieve from the stream. I suppose he’s right. Even the sharpest dog cannot pick out the right pebble from the rushing waters.






And speaking of streams and such, this afternoon (well, no, evening actually because it was 5:30 by the time we dragged ourselves out with this project) we drove up north a bit (some two dozen kilometers) to Villeneuve de la Raho, where there is a lake – a place to try out our portable canoe.

What makes it a canoe, given that we use kayak paddles for it? Well, you sit down low and it has the shape of a canoe, so there's that.  It’s built much like a tent is built – with segmented aluminum tubes, and then some inflatable bladders at the side. Ed bought it off of Craigslist and I am not convinced it hasn’t a leak, as the price was really quite low. If you break it down and fold it up, you can fit it in a very large tote. Weight of the tote, with paddles and life vests – about 37 lbs, well within the permissible limit for transatlantic flights.

Of course, if you break something down into such small pieces, you’re going to spend some time putting it back together. It took us a half hour. That’s okay – we were on a pleasant strip of grass, there were picnickers to the side, and men and cats out for an evening stroll, and other boat people to watch.





Oh, and lovely cars in the woodsy parking lot.





A pleasant if cloudy evening to be out by the water.

The lake isn’t large, but it offers nice views onto the mountains ascending from the waters of the Mediterranean...






...and a chance to glide by fish jumping around in the waters, and ducks doing their ducky things – all in all, it was a really nice little run to test the boat.






So it was fine. I’m in agreement there. A little tippy, but fine. But I am not convinced that the canoe can fit a few days supply of gear, not that it can manage a longer haul on the tricky waters of the rivers in southern France. More on that in the weeks ahead. For now, let me just enjoy the recollection of a quite enjoyable little spin around the lake.






In the evening, we face a continued malfunction of the Internet at our Soredian home. We feel a little pesky in our Internet queries. Our host is just an occasional user and if it goes down for a bit, he knows it will come back up eventually. An hour, a day, another day, so be it. And still, he is one step ahead of the rest of the villagers. Sorede is not in awe of the Internet. Most people here don’t have computers, don’t care about computers and do not parade with iPhones or any portable electronic devices. There is a computer that you can use in the Tourist office, but in all my visits to the office, I never find anyone using it. True, I rarely find anyone using the Tourist Office either, so there’s that.

I take a chance and ask at the Pizza-Bar if they have Internet. They do. Can we use it? Sure!

Our late hours of the day are spent eating pizza, drinking sangria and catching up on web stuff. Surely we look freakishly ridiculous with our laptops out on such a lovely evening, staring at our screens instead of each other or the world around us, but for us, it is a lovely meal. And the "Four Seasons" pizza (with seasonal veggies buried under the cheese) is extraordinary.





The meal is finished off by a Catalan flan which looks to me like a crème brulee, but hey, the taste is wonderful either way and so I offer no complaints.

late starts

It is, once more, a sunny day in Sorede. The late morning walk to town (first to the bakery, then to the café) requires some shade searching. Every few paces, there’ll be a tree – offering a cooling moment.





Our neighbor across the road, Madame with her three pooches, is out with her basket, snipping the yellow flowers that grow among the grape vines. I want to ask her about those – what could she be using them for? But our conversation turns to the dogs. They are quite gentle and friendly, she tells me. An obvious invitation to stoop down and pet them. I oblige.





At the main square, where we pause for coffee, another Madame, the one with the apartment over the café-bar is on her balcony people watching and talking on the phone.





The women of Sorede are having a busy morning.


We settle in under one of the umbrellas of the café-bar and read. Slow paced. For us, this day is turning out to be very slow paced. Pick up berries at La Cibulette. Drink coffee, munch pastry. Slow day.





Until the late afternoon. I suggest after lunch (a leisurely meal of bread and cheese, on the patio) that we drive down to Banyuls -- the next to last French town along the coast before the Spanish border. I’ll offer these three reasons: it’s a short drive. Maybe thirty minutes. It’s also the home of the Domaine du Mas-Blanc – a wine producer from whom I purchased wine last year. I have no reason to think he is the best in the region, but he was darn good and I like going back to winemakers, if only because it makes me feel faintly connected to their wines in some weak fashion.

My third reason for Banyuls is that it is the end point (or the starting point, depending which way you hike) of the GR10. This Grand Route hiking trail runs for nearly a thousand kilometers across the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. In Scotland, we hiked from one sea coast to the other in five days. It would take 52 days and a lot more oomph to do the GR 10, but I thought it would be fun to at least go up a bit of it at its tail end.


But first the wine shopping. Banyuls is famous for its sweetly aromatic aperitif – known simply as the Banyuls. So there’s that to throw in the bag. Then, a rosé. Then, oddly enough, an olive oil. Which is, I suppose, only slightly more out of place than last year’s purchase of the Banyuls vinegar. Which, by the way, I love. (The olive oil is actually made by a friend of the Mas-Blanc proprietor, but I have a hard time picking excellent olive oils to take home and this one has the seal of approval of a person whose tastebuds I trust.)





People drive up from all regions of France and Europe to purchase bottles directly from producers and I always am a tad sad that I haven’t the ability to fill a trunk with wines for home. They are so good and so inexpensive here! I take my wee three bottle purchase, put it in our wee car and concentrate on finding the beginning of the GR10.

Would it surprise anyone to know that it is exactly 4 pm when we start our hike? Some would say -- woah! That’s a slow moving day! But really, a late start has its advantage. The sun isn’t nearly as hot, the light – not as piercingly strong.





And so we hike. Sometimes the trail is along a narrow country road, but most often it’s both steep on the ascent and not too easy to navigate. You need a little hand assist now and then.

The views? Oh, magnificent! Terraced vineyards, views toward the mountains, toward the sea, toward Spain, too.













We have a goal – one of the first peaks of this great big mountain chain. Not too ambitious. A two and a half hour climb. There -- the one with the tower on it.





It’s still warm outside, but the wind up there kicks in and I find myself searching for a sheltered spot to rest and take in the views.






And then we turn around and head back.



 



The light is fading now, the mountains are half shaded by the descending sun.





And still it’s warm. Ed pauses by a spigot pouring out mountain water, fills his bottle and pours the icy stream over his head. I’m not inclined to do that, but I am sympathetic. We’d been climbing at a steady pace.

By 8:30, we are in Banyuls again. The wine producer suggested we get dinner at a nearby waterfront place – the Domaine San Sebastian. It’s a simple and deliciously lovely place. We choose a quiet outside table and order many different combinations of seafood.




I am thrilled with all of it. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten a meal this close to the sea.The meal comes with dessert and we order a splendid apricot ice cream, with chopped fresh fruits, red berry coulis and chantilly cream. (Feeling well fed, we turn down the second one.  It seems best to eat great things slowly and without excess.)





A couple to the side of us asks about our days here. They’re from Montpellier and they come down twice a year with their camper to this stretch of the Mediterranean. For the calm, the food, the waters, too. (Montpellier’s weather is much like this – endless days of sunshine.) Try this coast in September! She coaxes. It’s fantastic then! September. I have three classes to teach in September. Early retirement never felt so attractive. Someday, I tell her. Maybe someday.

Banyuls looks twinkley lovely at night. They say there was a lunar eclipse tonight. Missed that one. Too content looking at the lights playing on the waters of the sea.

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.