Sorede on hold

On my final day in the Catalan village of Sorede, I am giving myself over to the wind. It's gusting fiercely today and having blown away all clouds, it leaves us with brilliant sunshine.

It's a time for an excursion. Or two excursions. It is also a time for eating that last good meal. A time for packing. And for getting ready to leave early in the morning.

It is not a time for writing long Ocean posts. I'll put up one photo, this one, a picture of contemplation and serenity (taken during my visit to the Cloisters of Saint Genis des Fonatines):





I'll return to the Sorede story tomorrow, as I speed on a train north, to Paris.

Sorede and beyond

During this Sorede week with friends, I have hinted, proposed, suggested and at times urged that we consider one thing or another from my Great Sorede List of the best of the best.

But of course, Ed and I did not touch every surface of this region. There is so much here to discover! And so I was especially happy that my friends suggested something for today that was brand new to me, even as it is so very old: the medieval village of Castlenou.

But first comes breakfast.

It's tempting just to drive over to the best bakery and eat there, but I'm a little missing the leisurely morning meal outside on the Sorede main square. This is the weather for it and though after this trip, my friends will be returning to warm climates (they all dumped the Midwest in favor of the south and southwest), I will not. And so I offer to drive out to that best bakery to pick up bread product for us to eat at the cafe bar on the square.

They are obliging.

The drive to the bakery is actually quite lovely...






The bread and croissant selections are equally splendid! Breakfast could not be nicer.






And now we pack ourselves into the car and off we go to Castlenou. (I worry: will there be parking? Will the place be packed? I look up the size of the town: 331. It wont be crowded and there will be plenty of parking!)


Perhaps it is just a tiny bit disappointing that getting there, we cannot lose our way. GPS has taken away that feeling of desperation and surrender that comes from circling around roads that lead away from where you want to be. Ah well... Excitement and worry replaced by calm. I can live with that.


We arrive. Or, almost. There is a spot where you can pull off the road and look at the entirety from afar. It's really stunning, even as you come to understand that life here must have been one catalogue of battles, and frolic, and disaster. Sure, we see ourselves on the brink of a precipice these days, but life surely was far more tumultuous in the 13th century (admittedly, the destructive powers then were much more limited than they are now).






We walk up the cobbled alley. It is a historic village. Surely a museum piece. No one lives here, right? The "331" is someone's idea of humor, no?





[I should add, too, that the weather today has you thinking that summer has surely returned, with temperatures topping at around 85F (30C). I mean, hot, for October.]


We walk up and down and all around and it is an incredible place, with beautiful plantings and intriguing descriptions of what life was like here, say, 800 years ago.











From the highest point of the tower, we can see the tiles of the village roofs, the Roussillon plane, the Corbieres. A stunning view!






There is a wee gift shop and in it I find a little wreath of flowers. Oh, it fits me! More importantly, will it fit Snowdrop?





There are two eateries in this village and we pause at one of them for a quick and delicious lunch. You'll notice the salad, beautifully prepared by the husband and wife team that run the place. Too, there is the creme Catalan -- a flan that is flavored by the local aperitif wine called Byrrh (pronounced "beer" and the fact that English speaking folk think this is simply a beer drives them nuts).





The wife is possibly the most delightful hostess you're likely to ever come across in any restaurant. She corrects that google number specifying how many live in the village.
Thirty-five, she says.
And are there kids? Do they go to school?
Yes, they get free taxi service to the nearby town of Thuir.

Thuir. Yes, we drove through it coming here and we're passing through going back. Is it worth a stop? Let's take a look.

We stroll past lovely little bakeries...






... and colorful buildings and quiet squares. But the big attraction here surely are the caves of Byrrh.





We go inside.

Oh, there are tours, but none of us wants to do the big walk through with a guide. And still, they welcome us here with open arms. Come in, come in! Try this special edition and that dessert version!





Byrrh has been advertised for decades on posters that are now a collector's item.





If Banyuls-sur-Mer has its fortified wine, Thuir has its Byrrh. (It's not exactly "just" a fortified wine, as it is a mix of several wines and quinine and spices.) I'm told Byrrh has been introduced for sale in America just a couple of years ago, but only in small amounts and with modest success. The name confuses everyone!

We spend far too long at the Byrrh Caves. You get caught up in the story, the rich history and it's hard just to move on.

The town itself is pleasant and we do walk up and down its honey hued streets...





And finally, in the very late (very late!) afternoon, we head back to Sorede. As I am the driver, my friends have to suffer through the occasional pauses as I pull up at the sides of narrow country roads to take photos of the vineyards and the fantastic cascading mountains. Yes, you can spot the tower on the last grand peak that tumbles down to Collioure. (Yesterday's hike!)





By 5 p.m. we are in Sorede again. Two from our group are nap inclined. One putters in the kitchen. Me, I set out to the sea.

On my way out of Sorede, I come across the children of this village leaving school with parents and grandparents. French kids end the day late, but their after school activities and assignments are limited, leaving plenty of time for family and friends.




















I turn the car toward the sea now. If ever there was a day for swimming, this is it! Who would have thought that an October day could be this warm, this sunny, this summery?!

Le Racou beach isn't crowded, but it definitely has drawn out the locals for that last hurrah that an unusually warm Fall day delivers.





I am there too. And I take a (time release) selfie. Perhaps I look pensive in it. This would not be an incorrect depiction of my mood. Is this the last time for me to come back to Sorede? Is it? Would I come back even without Ed, or friends?





This view of the gentle beach and its small community of homes and boats hasn't changed much. Will it be the same next year? Or thereafter?





I splash, swim, think. I shower in the outdoor shower, I drive back home.

Did I just write "home?"

Barbara has fixed a veggie dinner for us. It's a wonderful break from restaurants, pizzarias, and bread and cheese meals.

We eat it outside. Of course! October in Sorede is far gentler than it is back home at the farmette.





Tomorrow is our last day in this Catalan village. I'm putting aside ideas or suggestions. I have done all that I wanted to do here and then some. Will my friends leave with the same love of Sorede that I have held in my heart for all these years? Maybe. I mean, it's all in the memories, isn't it? We surely have had some grand ones here this week.

and another!

The Sorede trip is like a whirligig of beautiful events, spinning into one long dance that is both fast paced and absolutely dazzling!

Today the sun is brilliant (so Mediterranean!), the weather perfectly warm (I'm guessing low 70s F, or low 20s C), our ambitions are tremendous.

We want breakfast of course. That's a given. We trot first to the square for some fruits at this new and lovely store...






... and then the four of us drive down to the superb bakery for the usual breads, coffees and such.





We shall ignore the fact that Nina spilled freshly squeezed orange juice all over the table. It happened after I took the photo.

And now we pile in the car and under my expert driving and sense of direction (none are required -- the trip is a breeze!), we travel the short distance to Banyuls-sur-Mer.

Some of you may know this town from reading past Ocean posts. Others, the wine folk among you, may know it as producing the distinctive drink -- Banyuls, a fortified wine served as an aperitif or digestif. Sweet and bitter at the same time -- it is this area's specialty!

But we do not come for Banyuls-the-wine. We come because this is where the GR10 -- the footpath that spans the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean -- ends here. Or, originates here, depending on whether you're hiking west to east (the preferred way) or east to west (our way, though please do not think that we are hiking to the Atlantic coast; we are ambitious but not crazy!).

Banyuls changes your perspective on this whole region. Everything elsewhere is low key. Banyuls has a pulse that's more pronounced. It is not a beachy summer vacation place. It is a coastal town that does business with the world. And from the perspective of the hiker, Banyuls is magnificently placed at the foot of a beautiful chain of mountains. We are not in forested hills here: this is a land of scrub and vineyards and oak groves and and stone.

The four of us have different climbing ambitions today. I'll just address my own: I am on fire! Raring to go! I apologize to the others and sprint forward. Water to the right, vineyards like quilt pieces all around, mountains to the left -- yeah!






I pass a sheep farm. I look at them, they look at me. I have the better view.






Mountains. For a while, it's all about the cascading mountains. You can see all the way to Spain! (I'm poking fun here: of course you can! Spain is a mere 10 km from Banyuls.)







Mountains and sea, sea and mountains, mountains and sea...






All trails lead to a summit, but of course there are so many summits! This is my summit for the day. It calls for a (time release) selfie.





And now it's all downhill, no?





Well not exactly.

I'm still speeding like the demon and so I think I have time to do a little side-trip and still not keep my friends waiting.  Here's the thing about the GR10: it has all these local off shoots. Trails that lead you to interesting places in case you want to digress. So I digress.

I head toward a sea view. If you had a really good magnifying glass (or if you zoomed in on the photo, but really, don't bother because it's not worth your effort), you'd see the vast expanse of the shoreline heading north.






Its lovely, but then it's all lovely. Every last piece of this hike.

There are some trail bits that are incredibly steep. You cannot possibly step down. You need to sit on your butt and hope you'll slide without a calamity.

I come to the spot where a small stream is flowing out of a spout embedded in the rock. I remember it well. Ed dunked his head here and drank like a camel. This time, two women are sitting at the spout and filling bottle after bottle after bottle (old Banyuls bottles) with water.

Why? -- I ask.
Oh, the hips! Good for the hips. And the other parts of the body! Very special!

I fill my little water bottle and put it in my pack. I'll bring it to the table tonight and offer miracle cures to my friends!


And now, a mere four hours after heading out, I am down at the car and Diane is there too and as the others are still stumbling on the rocks somewhere above, she and I go down to the sea front to grab a coffee at one of the numerous cafes that dot the coastal road.





Eventually we all reunite and it is late of course and the sun is about to begin its descent, but we are very very close to the artsy coastal town of Collioure and this is perhaps the most popular tourist destination of the entire region, so of course we must stop and take a look.

But it takes us a while to find a parking spot and so by the time we set out to explore, my stomach is begging for lunch. A late lunch to be sure (it's after 5), but still -- food! We need a spot with sunshine because suddenly it is pretty cool in the shady walkways that border the sea. Hey, how about this place?






It's perfect.

Squid with a parssillade dressing, catalan veggies, potatoes.






The place is full of French people enjoying this still sunny evening.






But it's time for us to set out and explore. You could spend many hours walking this way and that way in Collioure, but really, the best way to appreciate the town is to head out to the chapel that juts out in the old port and look back. Oh! See that small tower on the mountain (to the left)? That was our hike! And the old port and the fortifications in town! They're all so incredibly beautiful!

Someone asks -- can I take a photo of you three? Well of course!






Images of friendship... Of traveling together... of the four of us walking the stone wall to the light house of Collioure...






Of the happy married couple....





We have all had a grand day!

So much love floating around the mountains, all the way to the sea... so many steps taken, so many stories shared...

And so I end this post with what? With cookies! We enter the store where the assortment is delicious (cookies with pear pieces or dried orange slices? Clever!).


 


We pack a bag, find our little car and head home to Sorede.

such a day!

If all the best of a stay in Sorede could be rolled into one day, in my opinion it would look a lot like today. To love this place is to love the colors, the sea, the backdrop of mountains. The villages, the people, the Catalan foods and wines. It was a day built on dreams and that's a risky proposition, but the day delivered.

It is Tuesday and the rains are a thing of the past. Yes, there are clouds over the mountains, but they look like morning clouds. We shall have lovely weather for sure!

My friends and I go down the hill to the lesser square for a breakfast of breads, fruits and coffee. (Is it really a lesser square? Well, it doesn't have the linden tree, the vast openness, the carefully arranged cafe tables. But it does host the twice a week market and the rather informal cafe bar has a handful of tables that offer a perfect view of market activity.)

As for breads -- I'm back at the boulanger (baker) that was and is the best in town. True, it cannot compete with the one just outside Sorede, but still, it's homey and solid and the woman who runs it has been handing over loafs of bread since I started coming here now many years ago.





So, breakfast at last:






(Diane takes a photo of Ocean author!)






But let's not forget the market photos: it is such a typical village market! Grocery crates, a cheese stall, olives, some seafoods, baskets, clothes, and a lot of people coming together to exchange a few thoughts about life. For example -- one vendor wants to know where I am from. I tell him. He whistles in surprise, then says -- you people are in a crisis! I walk away wondering which (so many to choose from!) crisis he is referring to.

(Fruits and veggies...)






(... and chestnuts)






(... and pumpkins. Cut to order.)






(... and olives, and Catalan flags, and local dogs, waiting to either bark at, or sniff with affection the other village dogs)






(The market, in the cloak of Fall...)






I should note that some shoppers come to the market in the sportif mode, baguettes packed into the front basket of the bike...






...But most dress up for it: hair neatly pinned, clothes pressed, lipstick expertly applied.






My friends and I had discussed different ways of attacking this day: the married couple likes ancient cities and I, of course, am dying, really dying to go back to my beloved Franqui beach. Can we split the day and visit the beautiful old city of Carcassonne and then end with some time on Franqui? We can and initially I am content with that, but at breakfast I begin to fret.

I rewrite the day for us: Carcassonne is nearly two hours away. Believe me, you wont want to spend just a couple of hours there and I wont want to rush you. Why don't we take separate cars?

And in the end we do just that: the married couple heads out to Carcassonne and Diane and I head out to Franqui beach.

How sweet of her to tag along with me, even as she herself is a Floridian, one who lives only 200 feet from sandy shores of the Gulf! Oh, but she knows all too well how much I love this most sacred place! She has read about Franqui here on Ocean, heard me talk about it, and has seen all the deep love I feel for it in my eyes.

It is a bit of a drive: some 45 minutes away by highway. But the roads are almost always empty and the sun is coming out to join us on this adventure and the Corbières Massif is to our right and to our left -- well, the sea.

(This corner is well known for the oyster beds and, too, for the Corbières vineyards...)








We are here and my eyes fill with tears.






Franqui: low key, vast, and if you know where to look -- with long tongues of shallow sands reaching out into the sea. It is October. Everything is calm. But of course, it's calm year round. Men undress, women skip the top part of the swimsuit. Not to show off. Just because it's more comfortable that way.










Ah, but the wind is kicking in today! The kite surfers are out!







And what's this?? The beach has rearranged itself: the etang (inlet) stream has been filled in at this end and so there is only the vast expanse of sand, stretching far into the horizon.

 



One of the nicest features of this place is that on one corner, you have a small hamlet of cottages, with a few beachside cafes...





... and then the hamlet ends and the vast etang and green shrub of the regional park take over. It's you, the water, the wide stretch of beach and beyond that -- the Corbières Massif. Right there, behind Diane.






We had walked until we came to one of those lovely sandy tongues and there we plopped down and pretty quickly, I am in the water. Shallow, as warm as I've ever known it to be, delicious!






If you cannot be happy here, on a day like this one, well then life has really given you too big of a punch in the gut!

I want to call Ed, I do. This was our discovery, our treasure until he stopped seeing it as a treasure. But, it's early there and my phone fails me anyway and so instead, I take a walk. I watch the sand surfers -- the wind makes them fly and behind them, the wind powers the turbines...





... and it makes my towel fly! (This is a selfie; just because Diane is an excellent photographer, doesn't mean that selfies are not in order. Remember -- the beach is a place of joy, of play... )






And then she and I pick up our towels and head back to the hamlet, where a caffes with noisette coffees await us.

It's the late afternoon. Time to turn around and start the trip back. (Though not before we say hello to the horses and ponies that are quite common to this corner of the  Languedoc...)






But on the way home, as I spin around one of those circles that tell you Argeles and Sorede are that way, and Ceret is this way, I'm thinking -- maybe we should pop over to Ceret? It's less than 10 kilometers from where I'm spinning round and round at the round-about.

(Pause in this mad circle to take this photo of the mountains to our west)






Ceret: a village that was (perhaps is) home to artists, painters and poets. Picasso. Matisse. Modigliani. Maillol (oh! have you forgotten his sculptures already??).

We're on it!

I remember well the first time I came to Ceret. I was with Ed then, but he was not (yet) traveling with me. It was late in the day. Everything was closing. I thought it was both beautiful and melancholy. The tall plane trees and the shuttered buildings cast long shadows early in the evening. I kept thinking that it's already dark and I still have to drive home (I was staying in Pierrerue then -- a good two hour drive north).

I came back to Ceret with Ed, always for the Saturday market, which is grand and expansive and crowded and colorful and a little bit over the top. Still, we came.

But today's visit was the best of the best. On an October Tuesday evening, you could not spot tourists if you tried. The sun is poking through the tall planes, not yet low, no longer high.







The light is fantastic!






The Museum of Modern Art is open. We go inside. Duffy, Picasso, Matisse, so many others less known, but expressing their love for this place through their art...





Diane and I take it all in. The town fountain! Who designed it? I don't know. Let me ask a shop clerk.

She doesn't know either. She asks another local. They all stand around chastising themselves for not remembering who built it.





Diane and I haven't eaten anything since the pain au chocolat (mine!) in the morning. It's nearly 6. We pause for lunch!






The bruschettas are nothing short of amazing! Fortified, we continue just a little more. For this view of Ceret.






Home to Sorede now, pausing only for this roadside view at the edge of the village.





Such beauty here, at the foot of the hills that touch the sea. Such incredible beauty!