from a song now playing on the radio: il faut aimer la vie (one must love life)

Part 1 Genius

A terrible thing happened last night at La Salamandre. Valérie, the hostess, served baguette slices with the meal. One bite and Ed looks me in the eye: chewy!

So I have to ask her – which bread is this?

Valerie tells me – it’s not from the village bakeries. We get our bread from Fournil des Alberes. Ask there for La Petrie baguette.

Oh dear. I know about the Fournil bakery. It’s right next to the supermarket, some 3 kilometers outside Sorède. We poked our noses inside last year and snubbed it instantly. So modern! Industrial looking! So not part of the old Sorède! Add to it now – baking the most perfect bread in France.

Sunday morning. I try to put up a post, but I can’t finish it. So, Happy Father’s Day to all dads. Now let’s go. We shouldn’t delay. This is the day we climb Pic du Néoulous, the highest summit of the Alberès (the eastern most section of the Pyrenees Mountains).

The tiny map from the Tourist Office (oh, what a mistake to use those!) estimates it to be a 3.5 hour climb (and nearly the same on the return). We’ve never done it. Last year we got lost halfway up the mountain. We’re going to give it a solid try again now.

The weather’s good: there is a slight haze coming in from the sea and, too, from the western mountains, but the skies over the Roussillon plain are a gentle cornflower blue. It’s Sunday. The beaches will be crowded. The trail almost certainly will be empty.

We’ll drive to the trail head and on the way, we’ll stop at this new fangled bakery and take a look at that damn loaf of bread. La Petrie. Just this once. Because we’re in the clunker anyway.

So, first stop: Fournil des Alberès bakery. Whoa, so much traffic in the parking lot! And inside – the place is absolutely buzzing! Loaves (oh! and pains au chocolat too!) fly into the oven, out of the oven, into ready baskets, lots of them!

 

There’s a constant line of customers and they buy not one but two or three baguettes...

(Happy Father’s Day to you!)

The volume here is so large that I’m thinking – this must be a chain. But it’s not.

Talk about entrepreneurial grit and courage! Two years ago Castro, whom you see pictured above and below (Not Fidel, he tells me, not Fidel!), opened this place and began selling breads and pastries in a way that is just so modern and functional -- a food delivery system that you rarely associate with France. Especially rural France. At the Fournil, you drive up, you buy your bread, you leave. None of this ten minute chat with neighbors. Get your bread, perfectly made, exit.

Yes, there’s a café at the side and you can get your café crème and chocolat chaud and we do. But most don’t.

I study the list of breads and pastries. Oh! They have raspberry macaroons (on the website, you can watch a video clip of how they make them – it’s miraculous and simple and superb!) I ask about them, because I don’t see any on the tray of pastries. You’d like some for tomorrow? We’ll save you some! Just two? No problem!

So there’s the slow paced France. Where everything shuts down for three hours at lunchtime, where every exchange is valuable and not to be rushed, where café life flourishes, where wine flows, it seems to me, at every meal.

And then there is the driven France. The chef who works all hours, the one who wants to get out of the slow pace because he (and his wife) feels that his kids and he along with them, are falling asleep in the process. And Castro’s France – spirited, driven, geared toward great success. Locally. For now.

Isn’t it interesting that one doesn’t necessarily preclude the others.

Part 2 Up and Down

With all the fuss over bread and pastries, we aren’t at the trail head until 11:40. This time, I make sure that this is the correct starting point. I ask the person who lives just across the road. Is it? It is. And it says so, too. Okay. No question. Correct starting point. (Though the person who nods her head also suggests that it’s a bit of a long hike. Do we look like we’re mountain neophytes? Ed says yes we do.)

It’s a warm day, but the mountain is forested so we should be in the shade. And we pack five bottles of water, two for me, three for Ed.

I comment how the trail markers this year are fresh and much improved. Yellow tags are there every time there is ambiguity. Finally! A well marked trail is as good as gold. Up we go.

Ed falls.

Ed never has fallen in any of the dozens of hikes we’ve done. But segments of the path are covered with loose rocks and fallen leaves. A terrible combination.

He’s not damaged except for ripped pants (wouldn't you know it, in the crotch) and a bloody elbow, but it is a good warning to both of us – slow down! And I find an assist – a stick to add balance. Ed will have none of it. You use clips for bicycling, why wont you use a walking stick? I don’t need it. You don’t need clips either but you use them. Yes gorgeous.

We continue. The cork oaks are lovely here – even if they always look a tad naked when half their bottom is take away.

In the first hour, there’s shade, but there’s no breeze. Warm, sticky air brings out the buzz of flies. We have no desire to take breaks.

But then the trail opens up a bit. A breeze will pass through, then a stronger one and by the time we do rest, maybe halfway up, the air is significantly cooler and much more pleasant for a steady climb.

Two thirds of the way, we pause again. We see the peak – we’re making good time. I’m thinking this year, we’ll make it!

Indeed, we’re already at the cliffs that jut out in front of the peak. You can see them from Sorède – here you go, they look like this from down below:

I toy with scaling them, stick and all...

But change my mind early on. I want to get to the top.

The peak stands at 1256 meters (4121 feet). It is exactly at the border with Spain and as you can see in earlier photos, there is a tower, so there must also be the road that somewhere leads up to it. But it’s a long curvy road that follows the ridge for many miles. On the French side at least, the best way up is to hike the trail.

The last hour is through a most lovely forest of tall trees. 

 

Ed wants to pause – always wanting to smell roses along a hike path. I want to chug along. He is the sailor who like the sea, I am the traveler who loves to get off the plane and finally settle in.

Again the trail opens up. The sea is there, of course, with the tail end of the Pyrenees cascading into the water.

We haven’t seen a soul until nearly at the top when we run into...

...a bull. I say soothing words about my love of cows and bulls, about how I haven’t eaten beef in ages (Oh! I forgot about Barcelona!), about how bull fights horrify me. The bull contemplates my stream of words, buys it all and moves on.

And now we truly are at the top. Here, we encounter a couple of hiking groups. None are from our trail. We’re at the intersection with the GR 10 (the trail that goes through the entire Pyrenee range, from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean) and a few other trails. And here, too, on the Spanish side, we see pastures with cows grazing.

There is, in the distance, the Costa Brava, and to the west -- faintly, half hidden in puffy clouds, the taller Pyrenees. 

But mostly., what you experience is the wind. I take a few photos and we huddle behind the stone post...

 

... and I twist Ed’s arm to pose for a photo taken by a fellow hiker...

...and we try to make friends with a young bull (note how he pushes back with his hooves) -- one that has climbed up to see what the commotion was about...

...and then I’m ready to retreat. The wind is cool, too cool for me if we’re not moving. And in truth, there are finer places to rest just before you reach the tower. The barricaded tower gives the peak a bit of an industrial look. It’s much nicer on the meadows just a few feet below.  There are views toward the plain, the sea and faintly -- toward the small etang right by it.

And now we are in reverse mode and the going is slow, because we want to be careful. We follow the yellow trail again. Easy. Familiar now.

Until it somehow doesn't feel so familiar. I ask Ed -- where are the fallen trees we had to crawl over on the way up?
Oh, we must have walked around them.

And do you remember this fence?

I think so. But I don't remember this gate.

We really have terrible memories! ha ha ha... 

Confidently, we descend. The warm air at the base is now again filling in the spaces in the cork oak forest. It’s very late in the afternoon. The colors are gentle, the scent is lovely.

But when we come head onto a dirt road, we know we are terribly, terribly lost. Yellow trail? Yes. A yellow trail. Our trail? No, not even close.

It is at this miraculous moment that a pair of hikers comes along. Well equipped with a good map. We study it. We’ve walked down toward the wrong village. Not Sorrède at all. This is leading towards neighboring LaRocque. Our car is many miles from there.

Nice, super nice hiking couple (from northern France) takes pity on us. Come down to LaRocque, we'll give you a ride to your car, they tell us.

We follow them, so very grateful for their offer. But oh my, do these people fly down the mountain! No roses for them, not even a pause for water. I worry that our shoes – not great hiking material by any means (travel light!) will slide us right into a couple of broken feet and twisted ankles, but somehow we manage to keep up. Here’s a blurry photo (snapped while running behind) of our most genial friends from Brittany.

And this is not Sorède.

...It's LaRocque.

Part 3 Le Racou

It’s nearly 8 in the evening. There isn’t even a question. We’re pumped up from the hike, the getting lost part, the final run down. To the beach, the closest lovely little Racou.

It’s Sunday evening. People are leaving. It’s not empty, but you have the feeling you’re among true beach lovers – those who can't quite get themselves up and away.

Happy Father’s Day to you!

We plunge in and the water is bracing and wonderful against our overheated bodies. Ed swims, I tread and I can’t remember ever a better moment in the sea.

We shower, shake off the excess wetness (no towels... who knew we’d be swimming) and go across the road to an old favorite pizzaria. Oven baked pizzas with mushrooms and olives, a salad, a small carafe of rosé. Food that tastes so wonderful because somewhere along the way we never had a chance to eat that most perfect baguette. It’s in the car, waiting for the lunch that never happened. (Whatever portion Ed manages not to eat on the way home or the next day will go to neighborhood chickens that happily accept donations of stale baguettes.)

Our car is parked by the beach and so I take one last look at the last group finishing their supper on the sands...

...the beach, empty, in hues of pink and orange...

It’s after nine. The sun has nearly set. When I stay in a place long enough I get to know where you can catch a good sunrise (at home – along Lake Waubesa) and a good sunset. We’re minutes away from one such spot, just outside Sorède.

As I pull up to the side of the road, the sun makes a final dip behind the hills to the northwest. It’s a beautiful evening to be out and about, with a bit of salt from the sea still in your hair and a feeling of contentment that comes after a long day of mountain climbing.

Saturday

Good days pass quickly. I’m really stunned that a week in Sorede has gone by, that I’m now counting how many more eggs we’ll need, how many tomatoes, how many dinners I’m likely to cook. In the first week here, if we go to one beach, it’ll be the first time. In the second week, if we go to any beach, it will likely be the last time for that one.

Our mountain hikes have been fewer, our times at the beach have been more numerous. Two wimpy hikes in the course of the first week, daily trips to the sea. And every day the weather grows more perfect for swimming and less perfect for mountain climbing. Sunshine warms you when you’re done chasing waves. Sunshine heats you to a sizzle when you’re climbing straight up for a handful of hours.

Today again I offer an excuse not to hike: it’s Saturday! Ceret market day!

If you’re new to this, or get your towns and villages mixed up, Ceret is an artsy little place about a half hour from where we are: if you crawl along the base of the Pyrenees due west, you’ll get to it. I say artsy because others have deemed it so. Many early twentieth century greats have passed through it. Now, many twenty-first century tourists pass through it, especially from England, Germany and the Scandinavian countries.

Ceret is very pretty. Think tall trees that tower over stately three story buildings.

But this isn’t why I want to go there. It’s the market. If you have to do one big market in the region of Languedoc, Ceret’s Saturday affair is your baby.

But first thing's first. We do not neglect our walk down to the bakery, where the very nice salesperson has put aside two Napoleons for us. And a good thing! They bake them only once a week and by 10 am they are all sold out! (Could it be that they should bake more?)

At the café on the upper square, the pace is slow. It’s Saturday! People are starting their bon weekend. (I always marvel how everyone wishes each other a good weekend at the start of one. As if they really intend to do fun things and have a grand set of days.)

We come to the café in time for the free mini croissants with the coffee (and for Ed the hot chocolate. Why? Because he's figured out it's cheaper than the soda water he'd been having).

I keep saying – we should hurry and then I, we don’t hurry. We're on extra slow mode. Enjoyably so. (Though Ed’s habit of petting every cat that’ll let him come near on the walk to and from the village square is perhaps too protracted. I tell him he’ll get bubonic plague from the cats, but he just laughs.)

Okay, Ceret. Market photos. I’m going to go easy on those. I post a lot of market photos and so I know they tend to run into one  another. One fruit vendor here is not much different than fruit vendors elsewhere, at other markets. I'll post things that we bought:

Olives.

Honey. After the hike in the Corbieres, I was hoping to find the second (after wine) treasure of the hills there – rosemary honey. I did. Plenty of it at this market.

Basics. We pick up some basics, because I did not like them at our own local market: carrots (we love to munch on good carrots), strawberries (we finished them on the spot).

And Ed got hungry for an extraordinarily simple and wonderfully delicious tart. With raspberry jam. Making me think that when I return home, I really should go back to baking more often.

And finally girolles. That would be chantrelles in English, no? These guys with scrambled eggs are such a superb supper that we certainly should have them before we leave. (Childhood memories: I used to pick them after every rainfall in the forest by my grandparents village home in Poland.)

I also purchase a few table napkins (pretty, easy to carry, cheap) and pick up something that is abundant and free at the markets here – a wooden packing crate. I have a little collection of them in the mudroom back at the farmhouse and if I can fit in the suitcase, one of these would be a welcome addition.

At one stall, we buy a bottle of something that I love – wine grape juice. You can find exquisite blends of wine grapes (it’s the juice of the grape before fermentation, so it’s nonalcoholic) in France and Ed says I should go into business selling it in the States and this is a key difference between us – he has the largest dose of entrepreneurial spirit I’ve ever encountered in anyone and I have none of it. Business ideas excite him and they scare me. He sketches out three different business plans by the time we are done with the market and at the end of it all, I just want to drink the juice and not think anymore about failure. Blame it on my Communist Poland upbringing (an easy target, don’t you think?).

A few photos of the pretty houses of Ceret...

...and of the extremely abundant café life here. Please agree with me that people watching at these places is over the top wonderful. Look at the woman in the pics. She waves her baguette in animated conversation. Then she keeps up the conversation as she lovingly caresses the back of the guy she's with. Eventually, her hand goes under his shirt, below the belt line. Such talent!

As we leave Ceret, I pause for one last view of the skyline...

...and, at the periphery, I get out to take a photo from the bridge. Ed says – you’ve done this already in previous years. I say – but the skies are clear and the view onto the Canigou mountain is unusually good!

Here’s me (Ed takes this from inside the car, hence the slight fuzziness):

Here’s the view of the mountain. (Note announcements of the bull run: Ceret has a love affair with bulls and on Bastille Day - July 14 - men chase bulls down the streets, attempting, so far as I can figure out, to hold on to their tails... Hey, I can't love everything about the region!):

And now we’re home for lunch on the terrace, where the featured items are gong to have to be the Napoleon (or mille feuilles, as they’re called here) and the wine grape juice.

Late in the afternoon, it is beach time at little and sweet Le Racou. The weekends here can get busy, but not packed. If you arrive after five, you'll be able to watch people trickling home...

And in any case, very few people swim. Which puzzles me, because the water, though still a tad choppy, is absolutely refreshing and superb.

Talk. Watching people talk. Always there is the chatter.

A beach outing is never boring.

Our evening meal tonight is special. In the course of our two weeks in France, we don’t really eat at the sprinkling of fine places in Sorede, or nearby villages. But we make an exception at least once and the place of choice for us is, hands down, La Salamandre.

It’s a tiny restaurant just off the square. He cooks (and does the dishes afterwards!), she serves. And the food is exquisite! I start with pate with figs and Banyuls (the intense local fortified sweet wine, made from grapes of these southern Pyrenees) and then both of us have the mixed fish dish.

The room is crowded with French people (expats prefer the larger menu of the grill place across the street) and it is wonderful just to listen to the snippets of conversations around us (Ed had the kitchen view – a good lesson for anyone who hasn’t worked a restaurant kitchen at how hard that job actually is). Our hosts are still spinning dreams of selling this lovely little place and moving to Canada or the States. My husband wants to try opening a place in Texas! Imagine, he doesn’t even speak English! I assure her his talents will take him far. Entrepreneurs and Texas seems a fine combination, no?

The walk back home is as 'delicious' as the meal. The range of temperatures between day (a pleasant 75) and night (a warm 68) is small. I dangle a sweater on my arm thinking how nice it is that I never have to use it.

As usual, the black and white cat waits, halfway up, and Ed spends a long while rubbing him behind the ears.