AT THE MARKET IN CERET

 

Well, yesterday rushed right by while we recuperated from our Cassoulet Misadventure in Carcassonne.  By late afternoon, we carefully felt our way into Amelie and searched out the "wee-fee".  A very small café just to the right of the bridge offered an isolated corner designed for crazy Americans and Brits who "absolutely positively, Monsieur,  must check our most vital Facebook, Twitter and Instagram accounts".  Voila!  A bit of trivial trivia and we are on the road to recovery.  Now, perhaps, a little wine or beer will complete our cure.  Oh, yes...          

 

Today, we've driven to Ceret--a very few miles as the crow flies--for their famed weekly Saturday Market.  You know already that I'm going to tell you Ceret is a beautiful village and, yes, it definitely is.  The Market winds through a neighborhood of shops, restaurants and offices.  If it exists, it's here somewhere in the jumble.  We "ooh" and "ah" over hand-crafted jewelry, luxuriously inexpensive scarves, cashmere (maybe) sweaters, provincial pottery, linens and produce.  Oh, the produce!  Gorgeous produce.  Fresh, smooth, flawless, and just off-loaded from the cute little Lego trucks still parked close by.       

 

 

Tomatoes, for starters.  Each one is perfect. 

 

And cheese--ah, the cheese.  Creamy, luxurious, rich, delicious...
 

 

A bit of lettuce, Madame?  Why oui, of course. 

  

Onions?  Garlic?  Oui, oui, oui!

 

And meats.  Despite my background in beef parts, I have no idea what most of this is, but isn't it great just to look at it?

 

Ah Madame, the chocolat.  Just a few.  Merci 

 

And these would be--sponges?  Unexpected, but fascinating.

 

And, late afternoon on Gaynor's sun-drenched patio, we enjoy the fruits of the day, and the chicken, and vegies, and bread, and wine...and forever memories.  

CARCASSONNE--PART 2

Although this entry appears just a bit forbidding, it is the front door (so to speak) of the Chateau Comtal, or Castle Comtal--however you'd like to think of it.  Apparently, in those early centuries, no amount of protection was too much, so this sturdy Chateau sits within its own set of walls which, in turn, are set within the double-walled City of Carcassonne.

 

Once through the Chateau's entryway, we find ourselves in the main courtyard which houses a conglomeration of connected buildings dating from the 12th and 13th centuries.  From here, we wander in and out of doorways, climb multiple flights of stairs, admire treasures from days gone by, and explore the northern ramparts.  It's cold, a little windy and spitting rain during our visit, all of which (as I mentioned in an earlier post) adds to the atmosphere of this massive medievel fortification.

 

We've wandered for awhile now, and the more we wander, the larger the Chateau seems to grow.  I've long since lost any feeling for north, south, east or west and, even though our brochure is written in English and we're all plugged into headsets,  I'm having trouble finding where in the devil I am.  I think I'm just going to enjoy the scenery which, even with the low clouds and drizzle, is gorgeous.

   Oddly enough, I don't think I've ever had a burning desire to go to France; not like I hungered for England, Scotland and Ireland.  I've been with a tour group in Paris and with another for a few hours in Aix en Provence, and while those were wonderful experiences, I've still remained neutral about France.  This trip, however, has changed all of that.  I would go back to France in a heartbeat to do the type of touring this trip allowed.  I think I'm actually  happier to cover a smaller area, as long as there is enough time to see it well...and to savor it with a bit of rich hot chocolate and friends. 

Obviously, the Chateau within the walled city sits on the highest ground, so we always seem to be looking down and over the countryside.  But, actually I'm OK with that. 

 

 

Uh oh...let me think about this.  We're standing in the courtyard (ground level) looking into a low window covered with iron bars and thick cobwebs.  My heart tells me "of course it's a dungeon."  I hope, however, that  it is not the dungeon in which Raymond-Roger de Trencavel--he who built and lived in the Chateau we are visiting--died under mysterious circumstances in the early 1200s, while negotiating his terms of surrender to the Papal Legate.  The Legate, apparently, was displeased with Raymond-Roger's suggestions. 

 

 

The stones used to build the Basilica of Saint Nazaire and Saint Celese (above center) were recovered from a 6th century church once located on the site.  Pope Urban, in 1096, blessed those ancient stones and some decades later, the church was completed.  Today, the exterior has been restored, while the interior remains rather stark, cold and Gothic.  As is my habit, I lit a candle for my Mom at St. Nazaire.  She, I think would have enjoyed everything about our day in Carcassonne.   

I do love looking through the windows of centuries ago and imagining what they might have witnessed.  I wonder about the people who passed here.  Did they (I hope) find some happiness in Carcassonne, even amid the uncertainty of the times?  What were the scandals of the day and where did the ladies' maids stop to gossip?  Will we ever really know?      

 

 

Frankly, as I'm sure you can tell, I can't get enough of these little blue round-peaked roofs. Actually, as I look at them now, I'm reminded that the Renaissance Faire is about to begin east of Phoenix.  These pictures make me think we should drive over, take in a bit of jousting, then purchase a couple of greasy turkey legs and rip them apart with our teeth.

 

 

If memory serves me right, this is one of the only times we saw color remaining inside of a building.  We're in the Vaulted Hall of the Castle Keep, which houses a museum containing treasures from the general area.  

 

 

Carcassonne is elegant in its history.  However, even those who live within its walls are subject to the every day duties of life.  Rain or shine, Thursday is, apparently, laundry day.

CARCASSONNE--PART 1

Some would say this attractive lady, she of the unfortunately misplaced knockers, is the person responsible for saving the city we are about to visit.  Research has told us that Lady Carcas, in the sixth year of a siege by Charlemagne's army, realized her town was quickly running out of food.  Only a sack of wheat and one pig remained.  She immediately fed the wheat to the pig and then flung the poor creature over the ramparts.  Charlemagne was so taken aback by this action (naturally assuming the city continued to be well-stocked with food) he gathered his troops and hurriedly left the area.  Bells began to ring throughout the city.  "Carcas Sonne" someone shouted (Carcas Rings), and the city was known as Carcassonne forevermore.**

 

 

If your first introduction to Carcassonne comes from Rick Steves, you will be led to believe that you must be there at the crack of dawn to gain entry before the hordes descend.  If, instead, you spent your afternoons reading Kate Mosse's descriptive Labyrinth, you won't care if the hordes descend or not.  You'll be too busy retracing Alais' early morning ride down the narrow winding city streets or, as you look through the multi-paned windows of the Chateau, imagine her running across the darkened courtyard to visit her secret friends.  She was everywhere during my visit. 

 

Carcassonne is huge and, depending on your approach, seen in its impressive entirety or in little bits and pieces.  Coming from Amalie, we didn't see the city spread across the hill.  Our approach was much more humble as you can see above.  We're walking toward the Narbonne Gate which leads into the fortified city. 

Carcassonne, under a variety of related names, was a trading center as early as the 6th century BCE.  The Romans eventually moved in with their fortifications, but control passed to the Visigoths 400 years later.  On and on it went until the city became an economic center a few hundred years ago.  Since reading Labyrinth, I was most interested in the 11th and 12th centuries when Carcassonne was home to a heretical group known as the Cathars who were forced from the city after they surrendered to the pope's forces.

 

 

As we enter the city through the somber, massive gray walls, we're immediately caught up in the colorful world of shops, people, restaurants, laughter and high spirits.

 

 

 

We've found the hordes, and they are us...polite, touristy and similarly curious.  Tacky T-Shirts hang beside lovely watercolors and, for the younger set, Princess and Crusader costumes are displayed from every storefront.  Plastic swords are de rigueur and had I known how to get them on the plane, I would have carried home an armload.  My grandsons would have been in heaven.

 

 

 

 

 Why yes, thank you.  I think I'll take the bare-footed young man in the middle.  He could be interesting!

 

 

After a short stroll through the twisty tiny village, we approach the gates of the Chateau Comtal.  Restored in the 1800s, it's a fortified manor house (so to speak) inside the fortified city.  We're eager to explore life under siege in the 12th century.  More to come...

 

**My Catholic upbringing and strict code of honesty forces me to admit that Lady Carcas probably never existed.  It's all a myth.  A relatively common myth at that.  And, Charlemagne never attacked Carcassonne.  I guess if you're going to make up a story, you might as well make up a good one.

\  

THE MEDITERRANEAN

Today, we're visiting the Mediterranean, which lies about 20 to 30 miles east of Amelie.  Yes, real people live minutes from that historic Sea and think nothing of driving a short distance to wander along its coastline.  On the way, we turn off the motorway onto the network of narrow but, oh so scenic, side roads still, occasionally, lined with Plane trees.  If your imagination is turned on, it's very much like driving into an impressionist  French landscape  We quickly arrive at Argeles sur Mer, a village located on one of the longest beaches of the Mediterranean.  Today, with tourist season winding down, that beach is nearly deserted. As we walked toward the water, we looked to our right to see the gentle mountain slopes descending into the "Med" itself.  Behind us, the colorful line of apartment buildings are being shuttered for the winter and only a few families are pushing baby carriages along the wide brick-lined walkway.  Autumn is in the air.   

The water is indeed a beautiful blue, but cold.  I'm dressed in slacks and a jacket and glad of it.  Our friend, Linda, the most adventurous of the four does not let the opportunity to wade in the Mediterranean pass her by.  Now, in retrospect, I wish I would have walked in with her.

 

Instead, I join the more sedate Denise and Gaynor on the beach drinking in the atmosphere--from a dry distance.

After lunch (the Gallettes of a previous post) we drive the short distance to Collioure where we board the "Little Tourist Train" for a sightseeing tour of the area.

Since I don't do photos well while bouncing around in a small cutesy train, my selection is limited, but here they are.

 

We quickly climbed into the vineyards, stopping near this well-preserved fortification for photo opportunities in all directions.

Since I had no sense of direction and the brochure I picked up was in French, this may be Colliure or Port Vendres.  No real matter, as they are very close together--the little train visits both--so please forgive that research lapse.  I loved them both. 

 

And here are the vineyards--in some places seeming nearly vertical.  These are the Banyuls sur Mer vineyards, known for their sweet white wine which, I must admit, is not really my favorite.  I loved the trip, however.  Plop me down in a vineyard nearly anywhere and I will be a happy girl.

 

Here is a little better look at Collioure.  It is a lovely town...one to which I would return.  Enjoy.

 

 Yes, it's the Mediterranean in the distance, shops and restaurants on the left and historic fortifications on the right.

 

 France is nothing, if not green, lush, ancient and beautiful.

 I think many of us are tourists here, although this group may be French speaking and not terribly far from home.

You know, I would bet a significant amount that these gentlemen gather here every afternoon, enjoy it immensely and wouldn't miss.  Actually, it looks a bit like Sun City Grand.  Guys (of a certain age) who want to get out of the house are the same the world over.

  

 Same could be said for these little fellows.

EPIPHANY OF ANOTHER SORT

BC and I just finished taking down our skinny Christmas tree that spent most of December in a cozy little corner of our patio.  That pencil tree is disassembled, the ornaments--mostly made by children long since grown--are wrapped in decades old tissue paper and stored on a shelf in our garage. 

The two newer three foot trees that grace the buffet which defines our entry way are also safely tucked away in their box.  The little gold sparkly balls that Target featured a few Christmas' ago are lined up in their plastic bags and the White House ornaments--a slowly growing collection--have been placed quite gently in their elaborate boxes which, if truth be told, probably cost more to produce than the ornaments themselves.  White House ornaments are gorgeous, though, and I love them.

When I was growing up, the Christmas season ended on the Feast of Epiphany which, if I'm remembering correctly, was the sixth of January.  That was the date the Church chose to mark when the Three Wise Men arrived at the stable which housed Baby Jesus.  Never mind that the Wise Men may have arrived with their gold, frankincense and myrrh months, if not years, after Jesus was born.  In our family, it was the sixth of January and that date signaled the tearing down and packing away of all things Christmas.  And there was always a lot of Christmas at our house.

My Mom loved to decorate.  She collected pine cones, spray-painted them gold and scattered them all through the house.  As the years passed, she spray-painted more and more things gold until we joked that even the dog wasn't safe.  She tied red bows on all sorts of objects--candlesticks, candles, door knobs and, regarding this project, she did decorate the dog.  It was wonderful.  I loved it all and thought that ours was one of the prettiest decorated houses ever.

I don't know how she felt when the decorations came down--it was usually a school day and she had finished before I got home.  I remember thinking the house looked very plain without the green tree, gold pine cones and red bows.  The sparkle was missing and life was very ordinary again.

I do know how I felt when Epiphany rolled around.  Especially when the kids were young, I dreaded it.  It was a sad day full of melancholy because my babies were growing up much too quickly.  Another year had flown by and I hadn't appreciated all of its varied moments.  I have a tendency to remember the bad rather than the good, and I could absolutely wallow in self-pity and self-flagellation at my short-comings for most of that day.  I would tear up as I reached for an especially sentimental ornament.  I would sob when I thought how impatient I had been with one or another of my sweet children..  I would vow to be a better mother, wife and person-in-general, and kick myself for not producing the picture perfect Christmas for my family.  It was awful.  I remember everyone of those January's...like it was yesterday.

Today, I'm sorry, but it's true, I was relieved to de-clutter the little bit of Christmas decorating we had done and return to our normal, rather minimalist lifestyle.    Perhaps with age, we look forward more than back.  We have a limited horizon and we've learned we can't change our past.  The tricky exercise is learning to accept that past with only a reasonable amount of regret.  Some do it better than others, but that may be my Epiphany on this Epiphany Eve.  Acceptance.  It isn't approval nor disapproval.  It's simply what it is...part of who and what we are.

And that, as my mother used to say, is the lesson for the day.     

FIRST DAY IN AMELIE

Home base, during our week in France, was the relaxed, charming village of Amelie les Bains located in the far southwest corner of France--very close to the Spanish border.  After my arrival, I was embarrassed to learn that I had been mispronouncing Amelie each time I had cornered someone to tell him or her about my unexpected opportunity to visit France.  It is Amelie (short A) lay Bahn...not ever Amelie (long A) la Banes as I had so often said.  Natives most often just call it Amelie.  This view, from our front window, includes the nearby Pyrenees foothills, a glimpse of Gaynor's patio and some of the surrounding homes.  We drank in this view every morning with our coffee and tea.  It is a gift from heaven to vacation with a group of women who ease themselves into the day one steaming cup at a time.

 

 

Amelie is a small village of about 3,700 souls.  It has a laid-back atmosphere, small daily market and thriving tourist trade "taking" the hot, steaming waters that have been springing out of the ground at least since the 600s when the Romans began to capitalize on them.  I'm told that in France, if you have a doctor's prescription, the government will pay for a cure at the hot baths.  Two weeks in Amelie, all expenses paid.  The area near the baths are exclusively doctors' offices, pharmacies, and picturesque small hotels. 

This photo shows the lobby area of the baths which are built on the remains of the early Roman baths. The lovely Romanesque building is purely medicinal while its neighbor, the spa, is hedonism run rampant.  Linda and Gaynor had taken a turn there the week before we arrived and, to the credit of the spa, they still looked great!

 

Nearly every afternoon we wandered into town, finding a new street with shops to explore.  Then, we secured a table at a small café for our afternoon coffee, hot chocolate, wine or beer.  It's a lovely lifestyle--one I could grow into within minutes.

Each day, as we walked into the village proper from Gaynor's home, we crossed this lovely river--the Tech.  It flows clear and strong and--much to BC's excitement--hosted the international trout fishing contest in the mid 1990s.  When he saw the pictures, I could tell he really wished he had been there.

 

I often hear people mention how snobbish the French are...how they're just rude.  We didn't find that.  As I was reading Rick Steves before we left the U.S., he described the French as a formal people.  Not unfriendly, formal.  One greets the shopkeeper as you enter the door.  Bon Jour, Madame or Monsieur.  It's expected, it's customary, and it takes very little effort.  And, again, as you leave, say good-bye--in French if possible.  All conversation in between is comfortable and not unlike here in the U.S.  Sure, it's a little more difficult if you don't speak French or they don't speak English, but plain old friendliness and courtesy go a long way.  It worked well for us. 

I've always been a sucker for a balcony--large, small, or simply hinted at as on this lovely building.  Geraniums are one of the greatest flowers ever.  They can make peeling paint and cracked walls look elegant.

These photos (and many more) were taken on our first day in Amelie.  Denise and I had been up for more hours than human beings should, so by this time, if we weren't in motion we were nodding off.  It was time to wander home, sip a little wine and snuggle into our cozy beds.