for the love of the loaf

 If you don't care to read about lofty loaf decisions -- move on! This post is not for you!

As expected, today, the rains continued. Good, good, get them out of the way early, because once you get used to the lovely stuff -- the clear skies, the warm sun -- it's hard to go back to a gray world.

Besides, give me, for once, a chance to sleep in (I haven't done that since....probably January)!

Well now, sleeping in is fine, but I'm remembering the trouble with doing that while in Sorede -- the disappearing pain au chocolat! The local bakery runs out of it! Mon dieu!

And then a second thought crosses my groggy morning mind -- wait now, do we really want to pick up pain au chocolat at the old bakery in town? And not go to the cool bakery we discovered last year on the outskirts -- the one with the best baguettes IN THE WORLD?

And if we are to pick up pain au chocolat in town and eat them outside, at the cafe, then aren't we risking the disappearance of the best baguette?  Because, what if (oh no!), what if the best bakery in the world RUNS OUT? It's Sunday: the grocers, the bakers - they'll be open in the morning because everyone is still shopping for the big family meal, but everything closes after noon. That love of shopping that we have on Sundays? It never caught on in Europe. So what if we are left (oh no, oh no ,oh no...) without bread?

So I'm now wide awake thinking about strategy. Walk down for pain au chocolat in the old bakery, return for the car and drive for bread. No. What if there is no more pain or - God forbid, no more baguette, because we waited too long? Drive, period, to be safe? But we love the walk! My mind is spinning.

Ed, wake up, we have a decision to make!

In the end, when we head out, it is so late (10:30) that there's no choice but to drive to town. Predictably, the old bakery is out of pain au chocolat, out of Napoleons too, pretty much out of everything but the baguette (which we do not want from them). Still, it's nice to pop in there. To at least ask. To see that the vendor's son has grown a bit since last year.






[So long as we're in the area, we make a quick detour to the meat shop, where we do not buy meat, but we do pick up some local anchovies...






On our way there, I drool over a parked car -- the one I wish we had rented...]






It is terrific to arrive guilt-free (we tried the local old bakery, we tried!) at the Fournil des Alberes.  A quick spin through the beloved countryside...





...and we're there: at the shop of the best breadmaker of all time. (I see that he has just received a gold medal this year -- the Mercure d'Or -- one of only 24 small businesses in France to do so -- for his entrepreneurial accomplishments here, just three miles from my most precious village of Sorede.)


Outside, in the parking lot, a family is selling their homegrown apricots and cherries. Superb idea. They're riding on the coattails of a successful bakery and why shouldn't it be so? One success breeds another. Yes, that's the way to move forward!










We buy their fruits as well. This is apricot season in the Languedoc region of France. And since this year everything is just a tad later than last year, we still get the local cherries, carefully selected and picked over, so that your little container wont disappoint you.

Inside the bakery, the energy level is high. Three people are serving the never diminishing line of customers and I see that Emmanuel Castro, the owner, isn't beneath providing assistance on a Sunday morning - he's right there with them, filling sack after sack of the ever wonderful baguette, packing up single pasteries, counting out change, throwing out a happy greeting to everyone who comes along. It strikes me that no one who walks away with a warm baguette looks grumpy.






It's worth waiting for, no matter how old you are.






The line moves quickly -- two minutes and you're out.

But not us. We linger in their cafe over our pain au chocolat (in the photo below there is also the Napolean pastry wrapped up for later)...


 


...and I watch the stream of humanity walk through and get their one, two, three, sometimes more loaves of baguette. Why do they need all those breads ? - I ask Ed... He reminds me - restauranteurs come here too. They walk away with sacks of the stuff.






We walk away with just one. Kings we are, slated to have a lunch with the best bread ON THE PLANET!

Once home (let's call Sorede home for the next two weeks, okay? I'd like that...), we do decide to take a short walk. You're not going to see it through photos -- it was more of a functional stroll - to the village and back, but it was a good walk. A calm walk. And Ed did reconnect with the cat who once loved him (today the feline fiend was just mildly interested).





(Further attempts to head out for walks were foiled by the return of rain clouds.)

Lunch. On the terrace. It did not rain, but even if it had rained - there is a roof over the table and we would have stayed, just because this is where we eat lunch. Bread, cheese, tomato, fruit. And if we're lucky -- as we are today, the Mille Feuille (aka Napoleon). And a meringue with pine nuts for me.






Nap, write, read, nap, write, read. In this way we come toward the dinner hour. At home. A mock (or maybe real?) Nicoise salad -- potatoes, beans, tomatoes, eggs, local anchovies. And endive because it's cheap, it's here and I love it.





And another failed attempt at a walk. Another retreat. You could say that the weather isn't the best, but looking back on this day, I can't say that I have a single complaint. Not one.

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.