all things Catalan

She’s like that wickedly fun and feisty aunt you wish you’d had in your family. The one you can count on to make everyone grin. The one who doesn’t care if people comment on her wardrobe or style of speech. It all hangs together anyway and you love her for being so damn brazen and perhaps even more for her fastidious love of good food and bubbly wine.

Barcelona.

We have just a morning to see her, although we’re bound to stop here again, on the last day of June, just before returning home.

A morning is plenty of time to discover at least some of her quirky, colorful habits.

But it takes us a while to figure out how to get to her bosom. There’s the matter of the train schedules (we’re by the airport and can take any number of trains into town). And the matter of making our way into the center of it all.

Alighting from the underground station, it doesn’t take long to see that Barcelona is fire and stone, a wave of freshness and audacity. I wont do a history lesson here. That’s not an Ocean habit. Besides, most people know that Barcelona is the capital city of Catalonia – that part of Spain that wishes it had more autonomy, that even now, through referenda, pushes for greater (if not total) separation from the rest of Spain. That it has a population that speaks the Catalan language and prefers to use it in daily discourse.

I’m sitting at a counter at the Mercat La Boqueria – the largest food market in the world, I’m told. It’s noon and we haven’t had breakfast yet. I’m looking at what others are eating. I want wild mushrooms and fried eggs and Cava – the bubbly white wine that comes from this region and is both inexpensive and delicious – a stellar combination. We’re trying to remember how to say mushrooms in Spanish. I ask the older woman sitting next to me.

I don’t speak Spanish, she answers bluntly (even as I know she is from Barcelona). Catalan is my language. Here. This is how you say it in Catalan. She writes on my placemat. "Bolet." She is speaking to me in French.





The mushrooms are exquisite – prepared with onion and balsamic – exotic, woodsy, heavenly.

People in Barcelona care deeply about food. Eating locally foraged foods is important and unfairly easy: they have it all here.

At the fantastically colorful market, we discover just the tip of the spectrum.






























And the people watching. Just a sample: of the quiet, the animated, and the tempted:













Ocean readers may also know that Barcelona is the place of fantastically different architectural styles. Where the modernistas lived and worked at the turn of the nineteenth century. Transforming Catalan society from a traditional one, to a place inspired by new forms and ideas.

And so you see buildings, many designed by the architect Antoni Gaudi (too original to be labeled even something as original as a Modernista, I read) in the early 1900s, incorporating elements from the natural world which he so deeply revered.

So, you may know all this, or you may be new to the Gaudi world, but in any case, let me throw out some photos of the buildings that are so eye catching and unique.

















On the main strolling boulevard (Las Ramblas), there is enough theater to distract you from the press of time and from the mundane issues of schedules and obligations.

Take, for example the painted people -- clever and oftentimes performing brilliantly to the steady stream of people:









There is, of course, also the conventionally colorful. The flower sellers...





...and the bird sellers. Who will also sell your kid a caged dancing furry tail that moves around crazily on the power of, most likely, a battery. No need to clean the cage here.





All this, and still, there is so much more...


 










We catch our breath at a tiny shop where the waiter offers me a Catalan cappuccino (sweet, with chocolate and cream) and Catalan biscuits and even Catalan water.





It’s Saturday and there are many many people out and about and though we only have these three or so hours, we are mesmerized by the city. And I say we, because even Ed, who generally does not like places with crowds, is pulled in just a little, making enemies and friends by speaking good Spanish in a place that would like to avoid it if it can, even as the reality is that it cannot.



We have a car waiting for us somewhere in the area of the airport. Ed rented from Sixt – a company that gives phenomenal discounts and fantastic service, a company that does not mind that we are almost two hours late for our pick up, a company that gives us exactly the teeny car we ask for (a Smart car – the only car that utterly delights me when I drive it).

Ed takes out his wallet to finalize the rental agreement. Can’t seem to find my credit card... Where did you last use it? Last night, at the pizza place...

Sigh... Sometimes I think we are getting rather on the older side of the things.

We Skype the pizza place (being the only travelers here who will not charge up a cell phone) and the lovely people there ask for his name as they rifle through all the abandoned cards and cell phones (you’d be surprised how many people leave these with us), and sure enough, it’s there.

The trick now is to get to this place. It's next to our hotel, but we’d used free airport shuttles thus far. We get lost – of course we do, but people are as helpful as in Ireland and within an hour or two we find the right combination of streets and byways to get us there. After all, it’s all of 3 kilometers from the car rental.


And now it is almost four and we are speeding north in our little white Smart with the sunroof, the cheapest and best rental on the planet. We cross the Pyrenees Orientales (the “lesser” but also, according to me, the most beautiful of the Pyrenees) into France and immediately get off the highway and follow the little roads with tall trees and the ever beautiful vineyards against the backdrop of the formidable mountains (with some formidable weather, even as here, it is lovely and warm)...










...to our home for two weeks: the small and lovely village of Sorede.





Our landlords warn us that things will be mostly closed on Sunday (except for the bakery of course) and so we stop at a supermarket to purchase the essentials for the next few days: cheese, tomatoes, coffee, chocolate and lovely, delicious, heavenly rosé wine from the region of Languedoc (we are in the southern most tip of France’s Languedoc).

(At the parking lot, you can see two cars that I love to admire: our Smart, next to the Citroen 2CV.)





I’m sure I’ll say more about Sorede, but this post is already long and the day is almost over anyway, so let me leave you with just a few comments. First of all, Sorede sees itself as Catalan, with French habits. On the main square, the flags are of the European Union, of France, and of Catalonia.








Then, too, Sorede is small. Fewer than 3000. But it has a half dozen good restaurants, two bakeries, a grocer, a market twice a week – in other words, it is, for me, ideal.

We eat dinner at the Auberge de Margau:





(We take a good half hour to study the menus and decide. I am in the mood for grilled large shrimp, Ed likes his mussles.)





The food and wine – well, it need not be restated: the people of this region are fanatically devoted to good eating.

We stroll back to our apartment – a small two story place with a terrace for those breakfasts outside. I’m thinking of where to start tomorrow. So much to choose from! The Mediterranean Sea is less than ten minutes drive to the east of us. The mountains are right there, to the south. There is art. There is good warm weather. Where do you begin...

That’s tomorrow’s post. We end our day now with a pause at an outdoor café. I have a glass of sweet local Muscadet. The TV us placed outdoors. The evening is warm, the breeze is delicately playful. The US is playing against England in South Africa. A handful of expats is watching. We stay until the end of the game.

In case you haven’t been following it, the American team came in from behind and the game ends in a tie.

leaving Ireland

Up early. It takes a long time to go through photos, compose an Ocean text. On days like this – when time is so precious, I want to fly through it and of course, those are the times when the mind freezes and words go nowhere.

But by 10, we are showered and packed and putting away the last of the great Cairbre House breakfasts.





And by 11, we’re on the road. We haven’t much time – maybe an hour of Ireland gazing. After that – well, there’s the long drive back to Dublin.

I suggest we visit Lismore. I've been curious about this village (some two dozen kilometers inland) and not, as Ed claims, because I read that it holds the honor of being Ireland’s “tidiest.” It seems, at least on paper, that it has a bit of everything: it's older, atmospheric, many a famous person has passed through it -- possibly because it has a magnificent castle and gardens, against the backdrop of dramatic hills.


And as we drive up, I have to acknowledge, the castle is pretty enough – the home of Dukes and Duchesses, it itself is not open to visitors, but the gardens are. The entrance fee is substantial. The family must be trying to raise money to support the place. (Let me suggest downsizing.)





Okay, the gardens are more than just pretty. The English perennial borders that I first saw some thirty years back, had inspired me to get started on my own perennial gardening. Lismore Castle now is the Irish home of the Duke of Devonshire and his family. The gardens certainly give you the impression that you’ve crossed the Irish sea and stepped onto English soil.











The family also has lovely orchards and vegetable plots – heavy on the potatoes. We speak to the person who was working in the garden. Ed asks if the grounds keepers live inside the castle – given the vastness of the place, or outside of it; he is shocked to learn that they live in other housing. The man does not understand the ways of nobility.












We stroll and admire, even as it all seems slightly preposterous. All those potatoes, for example. Maybe they sell them at a farmers market – I suggest. After all, English nobility is hugely into organics. It wouldn't bring much, Ed comments. Maybe they experiment with special varieties, with high yield and disease resistance, for instance. (We are always taking note of Ireland's potato blight of the 1840s; there's much to remind you of it – for example, one hike we could have taken is called the Famine Walk: it ends at the mass grave of the many who died then.)





On balance, you have to feel grateful that the property is being tended by someone. Abundance of potatoes and extra rooms notwithstanding.

Two rooms of the castle are open to an art exhibition. One room has a video running. Incomprehensible actually. A stream of words and some items – with no explanation. (Our fault – we could have inquired before entering.) We move on.

The other room has a display of photos. Nothing extraordinary. You almost wonder if the artist turned to black and white prints so as to make the photos look more interesting than they really are (and you have to remember that I am typically quite impressed by photographic exhibitions).

We leave the castle grounds. And I feel content. Surely this was a good way to end our Ireland visit.






We stop at The Rustic Café, where I order a cappuccino and rhubarb cake. Ed offers to pay. He reaches for the wallet and takes out instead the set of old keys to our room at the b&b.









And now I panic. What if they only have one extra set? Their four rooms were all taken last night, what if they need this for their guests? But driving back puts some risk into our plan of a timely arrival at the Dublin airport.

These days, if you don’t carry a cell phone, you have a tough time calling anyone. We do have a phone packed somewhere in the gallows of Ed’s pack, but we don’t bother buying cards on trips when we are fully connected every day through email and Skype.

We’re lucky. At the post office, we locate the address of the b&b, stick the keys inside an envelope and mail it off. Ed borrows a phone of a helpful sort and calls the owner with appropriate apologies.

We’re off.

The loveliest part of the day is perhaps this part – the drive through the hills north of Lismore.

It’s an empty mountain road and I am not surprised to come across this scene:





...and this:





But what did surprise me were the fields of wild oleander. Up high on the mountain pass, on the slopes of the otherwise barren hills, working their way into forests, lining the roads.















I pause so often to admire this mass of purple flowers that Ed suggested we may miss our flight. I’m okay with that, but you pay the rebooking fees.

I hurried then, even as it becomes exceptionally difficult to find the superhighway that cuts across Ireland and permits us to drive at 120 kilometers per hour to Dublin.

We arrive in plenty of time, boarding our evening flight on Aer Lingus (a price and service competitor to Ryanair), away from Ireland...





...and onto Barcelona. We’ll spend the night at a hotel near the airport and drive north tomorrow.

Later:

Barcelona: what can you say about a place that runs on its own speed and time?

Dinner at midnight? In some remote area just a step beyond the airport? Barcelona. The hair is ten shades darker, the conversation somewhat louder.





Hey, excuse me? (this to the table of ten young adults next to us at the pizzeria), could you remind me – what’s the tipping policy in Spain?
Tipping?
Tipping. Extra money.
Huh?
Service charge: is it included? I just cannot remember. Service charge?
Service charge?
Ed chimes in, using better Spanish: do we leave a little extra after the meal?
Oh! Only if you want to. Only if you want to...

Propina, Ed tells me later. The word is propina.

notes from southern Ireland

Anyone returning from a trip to Ireland says, as if on automatic – the people are so friendly!

Today, I heard these words from Ed. They are beyond just friendly. Just friendly could be annoying. They are so friendly that they win you over.

For example, at the market.





We stumble upon it this morning as we look around for a local bakery. It isn’t a big market, but surely it has the nicest vendors anywhere. Within a minute they’re your best friend.

And of course, we, therefore, buy supplies for lunch. (Even though Brian’s breakfast at our b&b is really a brunch and we should take it easy in the eating department for the rest of the afternoon.)

We buy herbed cheese breads and currant scones...





...cheese from happy cows’ milk (I feel solidarity with the cheesemaker – we are both card-carrying members of the Slow Food movement, but upon sampling, I decide on one of the cow’s milk rather than his own sheep’s milk cheese -- we've seen so many cows! I need to admire their contributions!)...





...and apple juice: a plain one and then one with blueberry juice mixed in.


So now we have supplies that will pair well with a major hike. Perhaps one can’t say that a climb up Cruachan Summit would be classified as a major hike, but it’s a good, steady uphill climb of maybe two hours to the top.

You can see the summit from the bridge in Dungarvan. On one side of the bridge, we have the receding tidal waters, on the other – Cruachan Summit.










And of course, we cannot find the trail head.

I make some wild guesses, accompanied by wild turns, on country lanes that are ostensibly closed for repair, turn again, count the roads to your left and in desparation, I stop the car and proclaim – this must be it – pointing to a path vaguely leading in an uphill direction.

You have made so many odd turns and have made so many guesses along the way – it cannot be.

Okay, I’ll ask.

I go up to the door of a house at the side of the road. The person who lives there peers out with a trace of suspicion.

Excuse me, I’m really sorry, but we’re lost. Is this the path up Cruachan?

Oh! That’s fine then. So long as you’re not selling tickets for anything. Yes, indeed that’s it.

I turn to Ed with a smug grin.
It cannot be.

And maybe it isn’t the trail, but it is a trail and right now we’re desparate for any trail up to the summit.

It starts off as a dirt road (with a steady bloom of foxglove along the borders)...





...and eventually turns into a logging road and then a meandering grassy path. The views are lovely, but I have to say, the skies are a little in reverse: typically we see clouds over mountains even in days of clear weather in the lowlands. On this day, the clear skies are over the hills and the clouds are staying close to the water’s edge, giving them a misty otherworldly look.





Above us, the skies alternate between bright blue and creamy white.





As we get closer to the top, the paths diverge and Ed starts building cairns to help us find the route back. You don’t want to end up on the side of the mountain opposite to where you left the car.





The wind now picks up and I am reminded of other hikes where I thought surely I would be blown away like a wisp of tissue paper.

We spot a trio of sheep,remarkably indifferent to the ferocious wind.





And the views! On a clear day, the mountains look magnificent in a desolate sort of way.






Ed takes the “I reached the summit picture,” but I have no interest in staying at the top for long. The wind is piercing.





A few yards down, we find a protected spot offering the view that you need for a lunch of breads, scones and cheese, with apple juice from the market.










It’s late afternoon. We’re back in Durgavan, happy with the weather, with the success of the hike. 

You remember that strip of sand we saw from the summit?

Yes...

Is that a beach nearby? I’m wondering if we could go for a swim.

I no longer am surprised that Ed should suggest swimming even as I am pulling up the zipper of my sweatshirt against the wind.

We inquire about the beach. Not too far. Maybe half a dozen miles due east from Dungarvan.

There are a few cars on the lot by the water's edge and a few hardy souls are walking the sands below. A family is unpacking from a car next to ours. The little girls (six and nine maybe?) are in wet suits. They want to swim – the dad says. They’re nuts!

Another dad has already braved the chill and taken his boy and girl in for a bit of wave jumping. The boy is in a sweat shirt, the girl, too, has most of her clothing on. The father is jubilant. He’s the one jumping the highest.





Others are more realistic about their tolerance for cold water.









Me, I stay on the shore, finding warmth in moments when clouds (less hazy now) roll back to reveal a bit of sunlight. Ed is undecided.





Maybe it’s watching the two girls in the wetsuits that finally convinces him (even as one of them refuses to take off her cap against the cold).





In any case, a few paces later, he takes off his shirt and plunges in.


Not cold at all – he later tells me. There is no good response to this. I’m certain he felt entirely comfortable.

We drive up along this coast now, admiring the cliffs, the rural landscape. It’s referred to as the Copper Coast (copper was once mined here) and now, in the evening light of the low northern sun, it does look golden.

We leave the car in the village of Annestown, where a house roof is being repaired with new thatch...





...we walk down to the water and then up along the cliffs.

Ireland in the sunlight. Even more beautiful than I had imagined.





Ed’s at the cliff’s edge, encouraging me to come over and take a look.





No, there are some things from which I’ll retreat – crumbling edges of cliffs and the cold waters of the Atlantic.


At 9, it's still fairly light outside. The waters are at high tide, the colors are lovely.





We eat dinner at Merry’s Merchants Bar. The waitress nudges me to try the Clonakilty chicken (stuffed with "black pudding") and I do. At least it’s not cow’s blood sausage. (It's pork.) Here, we eat it almost as baby food, the waitress tells me.





I look outside at the small group exchanging stories from the day and I think that I have seen more red-haired people in the last two days than I have in my lifetime.







It’s late, but they’re playing traditional Irish music at the Local Pub. I cannot pass this by.





We order half pints and Ed dozes contently while I tap my foot to the jig-like rhythms of the three man band.

Walking home, I note that the water is low again. It comes, it retreats, every half dozen hours, all year long.