joyeuse fête des pères

Happy Father's Day,  you, you dads out there! My daughters' dad included!

Ed is not a father. I used to tease him with a "do you know for sure?" and "maybe a child was hidden from you!" He'd think a while, shrug it off and continue with his reading (Ed reads copious amounts, constantly).

Perhaps his lack of commitment to being a dad is what causes him to be so affectionate with stray cats.






(The cat here who loves Ed best is one without a tail and with a very remarkable face.)





...Or with the stray person -- me -- that stumbled into his life nearly eight years ago. His quotient of affect hadn't yet been spent.

I think about this as we sit at the cafe bar on the square with our morning pains au chocolat, because in France, as in the States, today is Father's Day. One consequence -- the lines at bakeries are longer than usual.







the two affable clerks who have been handing out bread in the old bakery for as long as I've been coming to Sorede




the good bakeries put two strips of chocolate into their pain


And, too, it's harder to eat today without forethought or a plan, as many eating venues fill up in the afternoon and close for the evening.

From what I can tell, Father's Day here isn't so much a gift giving day, it's an eating day, which distinguishes it from other Sundays not a whole bunch and here's the irony -- because this day is special, prepared foods (rotisserie chickens, for example) are especially popular! 'Special' means someone outside the family cooks it for you. The local shop in Sorede that sells only take out foods (chicken and shrimp, bouillabaisse, etc) is so swamped that it stopped taking requests for this Sunday many days ago.

And so as we approach our cafe bar...


 


... in the wee hours of the morning (circa 10:30) I'm thinking ahead to dinner. And what a delightful surprise -- I see that the boucherie on the square has a chalk board out  and it announces that they're making paella today. In an hour, it'll be ready in an hour -- the jovial butcher tells us, glancing over his shoulder to the kitchen where the wife is stirring something intensely fragrant. As always, he punctuates his sentences with bellows of song. The man loves his job alright. Or singing. Or both.

We had left our bread and pain and books at the cafe table and the waitress, in spotting us, put out the usual without even waiting for a request. Cafe creme and Perrier with ice.





We spend a wonderful hour eating, sipping, reading and, in my case, watching fathers take pride in their sons and daughters.











We pick up the tub of paella from the proud cook and she is kind enough to go easy on the sausage (Ed foibles). In the background, her husband butchers meats and whistles.











It is a warm day. Sunny skies, calm winds. Beach weather!

But first, lunch. On the terrace. Ed has just finished repairing my broken sandal (yes, I'm thankful that he rarely travels without an extra piece of rope, just in case...) and so I am feeling appreciative, not so much in the mood for challenging his views on, for example, fatherhood. [One frustration that you could have in discussing parenthood with Ed is that there are the articulated views and there is behavior and the two do not necessarily fit well into a coherent whole.]






We linger over the cherries, we forget that there's half a Napoleon left in the refrigerator. Warm, so warm. A quick nap -- just a wee little doze...

I wake up an hour later to that howling wind. This is something I have learned about southern France -- its winds are like no other. The sky will be clear, the sun will be radiantly brilliant and yet, when the winds set it, watch out! It makes demons out of people, they say.

I ignore the wind and say to Ed - how about the beach just north of here? Me, I never once swam there. The waters have always been too choppy. But, the air is warm, the sun's out, why not head out to something that's not just one of our favorites?

So why wasn't I paying attention to the wind? The calm waters of the Mediterranean are dancing some crazy jig: it is wild out there!





Ed is delighted. He plunges in. Again and again. And of course, I have about ten moments when I think the sea has swallowed him and I worry about whether I should call forth a search party, but each time he emerges with a grin, only to disappear again. This happens again and again. Our love of the sea is so different! So very very different!

Ed, we have nothing in common!




How many hundred of times have we said this/thought this? So how is it that we still end the day in the way that we always do -- eating nuts and touching limbs and sharing stories that one of us has read in one place or another?

Come in, come in - he beckons now from the sea. No, not my kind of waters. Instead, I walk the length of the seashore, admiring  it all -- the children...





...the windsurfers...





...the fathers and daughters, fathers and sons...





Dinner. So simple, so delicious! I want to write an email to all the butchers in Madison. Something like this: dear butcher of Madison, On the off chance that you want to make some extra cash, how about mixing up some take-out paella every now and then? I think you'd strike gold! We all love Thai take out and some people love Chinese takeout, but a butcher back home with a takeout menu that includes paella? I think that's not been tried before!









The winds roar in from the mountains. A wild and brilliant Father's Day.  Hey, you dads out there -- was the food good? Did you kid(s) let you know they loved you?

Saturday

It's the week-end and so we have to change the mindset -- from "busy doing stuff" to "doing not a whole lot." One has to distinguish one day from another, so that confusion doesn't set in, where you become like Ed, who'll sometimes ask -- is the Fourth of July an official holiday? He just doesn't remember the importance of dates, or days of the week. No job has ever required him to differentiate between, say, July third or the fourth. Me, I want to stay on top of things. So I'm taking note: it's the weekend.

Breakfast (dear Ocean commenter -- no, I only eat one of the pain au chcolat!)...


 


[Where is everyone? -- you might ask. Well, it's past the breakfast hour and too early for lunch. But men come and go all day long. Here's a klatsch, huddled at a table by the entrance.]


 



From our table, I can look up and see the mountain we had climbed yesterday.






Swirled in a morning mist, it looks imposing, so that I can think -- job well done! We did that and now we need do no more! We have one more week in Sorede and if we touch no other peak in that time, we will be none the worse for it!

This is our only full Saturday here (we arrived late on one and will be leaving very early on the next). That's significant  because if we are to go to the town of Ceret for their grand Saturday market, it's today, or bust.

You may remember from my many, many postings in the past decade on this town, that Ceret is a small but imposing place, with artistic designs and pretensions: Picasso lived here for a while, Matisse and Modigliani passed through as well. I think of Ceret as being at once somber (all those tall trees and narrow buildings!)...











...and Catalan colorful.





















And I think of it as many French people think of it -- as a place for cherries. Typically, the season ends by June, but spring here came late and we are in the full blush of the harvest for this most fantastically delicious fruit (they have many varieties and inevitably, you'll have your favorites). So of course, at the market, we buy the cherries. And a good fresh goat cheese...



 


...and some tomatoes. And Ed pulls me away from drooling over the olive oils and the honeys because really, neither one of us wants to lug that kind of stuff in a backpack in the days after we leave Sorede.

So we walk through this busy market and it's a very pleasant stroll and now we've checked that off for the day, so maybe we should just get that beloved pistachio ice cream cone and call it a day?






On the way back to Sorede, we stop to pick up bread at THE BEST BREADMAKER EVER. I see that they have posted a lunch menu: sit down and have yourself a roasted chicken with mustard sauce and home made fries. Well now, that's an idea! Let's do as so many village people do on week-ends-- eat the big meal now, in the early afternoon and after -- mess with a simple supper of baguette and cheese and isn't that the most perfect way to herald in a weekend after all?






Especially since a big meal like that most assuredly deserves a nap after.



Evening. The skies are clearing somewhat. Our remaining task for the day is to go down to the bakery and pick up the Napoleon pastry ('mille feuille') we'd purchased earlier.






Ed sees it as something that just needs to be done. I see it as an opportunity for a lovely late-in-the-day walk. Past the well-formed vineyard...






...past the variously maintained gardens of our neighbors.






I love summertime evening walks and here, the distances aren't taxing, at the same time that everything is novel, different than back home. (Even if you love home to pieces, as we do, it is always so good to be fired up about a place that isn't like your own backyard.)


Supper. The simple meal tonight. Bread -- the best one, goat cheese, tomato salad. Our newly discovered especially well brined Lucque olives (we have lucques back home, but these are beyond exquisite). And cherries.





Happy weekend to all and to all a good night!

variety

The more you come back and the longer your stays, the more, over time, you begin to differentiate. Between the good, the better, the worse. Not all breads are fantastic, not all market vendors are superb. The couple selling fruits and veggies at the Tuesday market rocks. The produce at Friday's market (Sorede gets two market days each week), pretty to the eye, barely squeaks by in terms of flavors and varieties (in my view).





The cheeses on Fridays, however, are sublime and it helps that the most cheerful vendor of all markets anywhere is there to cut them for you.










The paella vendor (who actually has no paella today but wants to convince you that his Catalan fish is even better) is a bit full of himself and, as last year, he makes fun of my camera which causes me to walk away.





The cheese vendor and fish lady are friends.

The fresh goat cheese seller is impatient.

Men with dogs are as common at the market as women with dogs.






As to the outsiders -- some Brits speak French, some do not, even though you can tell they live here.

Some Soredians are comfortable with visitors, others view tourism as a dangerous threat to village life. I would say that Sorede hasn't quite figured out how to market itself (the tourist information office is staffed by women who haven't a clue as to what the good hikes are and in any case, the tourist office is closed on week-ends which speaks mountains -- of a different sort). But I don't think Sorede necessarily wants to market itself. It has one modest hotel - which looks like it maybe fills in July and August, but most certainly not in the remaining ten months of the year. I never see anyone going in or out. (This, in a lovely village just a handful of kilometers from the most perfect beaches on the Mediterranean.) Of course, in so many ways, I love Sorede's self-absorption -- it gives me a chance to observe village life from the point of view of people who live here. And to create my own lists of favorites. So that, for example, at today's market, we buy almost nothing at all. Just cheese and, out of necessity -- a few tomatoes.

(The Ciboulette -- our local grocery shop -- gets our business for the green beans, the mushrooms, the potatoes.)

And here's an unwavering positive: the cafe people, both at the lower and upper square cafes, are uniformly genial. Over the top pleasant.

And the woman who has her art studio in the alley between the two squares is decidedly lovely. Of course, she has to be.
I have a brother in Portland, she tells me. If I sell enough paintings this year, I will go and visit him.
Are you from Sorede? 
No, from Collioure. Well now, that says it all. There is not a town in southeast France that has more tourists passing through it than Collioure.  But there's too much action in Collioure. It was great growing up there, but I prefer now the quiet of Sorede. I'm with her on that.

I help her move closer to her goal of visiting her brother in Portland.






As for cats -- Ed likes all cats, but not all cats are satisfied with just having Ed pet them.







And the sun just shines and shines on us all.


Lunch. Ed! Wake up!






Okay. Eat.






Nap.


Hike.


Ah, the hike. A true hike is never without challenges (a nice word for problems). In the past, our issues here have been keeping to the trail. We either can't find the top of the mountain, or we can't find the way down. This time we're thinking a GPS app on the iPhone will help. But no -- we cannot get it working correctly. Still, getting lost is (shockingly!) not the problem. There are two far more harrowing issues for us -- water (too little) and time (too late).

Who shows up at the traihead for their biggest hike of the season at 4:10 pm? We do. With only one liter of water.

It's a brutal climb. We'd done it twice before and I have to think it's like childbirth -- you forget the ordeal the minute the cutie-pie pops out. Here, I'd forgotten how straight up it goes. I mean  -- up.

And it's not even an especially beautiful trail. Occasionally, there are the views...



the great Roussillon plain stretches before us near the beginning of the hike


But mostly, it's a forested path. With flies and still, hot air plastering the shirt to your back. But we continue.

Half way there, Ed tells me -- we don't have enough water.

And still, I want to go on -- if not to the tower of the highest regional peak, then at least to the cliffs that precede it.






We make it there. 6:30 and we're finally at a summit, which, to me, is good. Wonderful in fact, even though I'm thinking that evening hours are not great times to be on the summit of a mountain with only a rocky path to get you home again. Thank goodness for long June days!







So, quick view and we're out of here. Walking as fast as our tired legs can carry us...














We come down. We use sticks to help us navigate the tricky parts. It's good, it's good -- I make my way down ahead of Ed, because on the descent I am fast and he is laboriously careful and I'm moving through the forest when I see it -- a wild boar.

She notices me and instantly leaps into a gallop, her long snout lifted, her hoofs flying.

I am glad she is not flying at me (I say 'she' because she hasn't a tusk). And then I am just so mad at myself that I stood there, mouth open and never once thought to lift my camera and snap a photo.

Ed tells me -- remember the scene. Just remember it. One of my most memorable encounters with wildlife was when a wolf came to my tent. I was at one end, he peered in at the other.

In the course of our many hikes, Ed and I have come across many a wild beast. Bears. Elks. Countless deer. Mountain goats. But never anything in the Pyrenees.

I'll remember it,  I will.




the mountain in the evening: scaling the rocky nose was the final segment of our climb


Dinner? Well now, we didn't make it down the mountain until just before 9, so we eat at home.


 


A salad. Eggs with mega mushrooms. Beans. And smoked salmon from one of the local grocers.





Wild boar, eh? Who would have thought...