![]() ![]() From here, move onto the 13th-century Porte d’Espagne, a gateway through the town’s former medieval walls that faces towards Spain. A two-minute walk from here takes you to Place de la Liberté, where you’ll find the town’s war memorial, topped with Aristide Maillol’s sculpture of a woman, named La Douleur (meaning sorrow). Start at Maison Delcros (3 Rue des Évadés de France), the ancient building in which Picasso lived and had his workshop during his time in Céret (1911-13). If you’re after non-edible products, you’ll also find flower stalls bursting with color, as well as jewellery and pottery stands.Ĭontinue exploring with a walking tour past some of the town’s most prominent buildings. Absorb the sights and smells of the locally produced fruit and vegetables, olives, cheeses, cured meats and wines. Strolling through this local street market lined by rustic buildings is a treat for the senses. Get your day off to an early start at the Saturday market, which is at its best between 9:00 and 11:00. And for me? From my vineyard, wine will once again flow.Your surroundings may ooze laid-back conviviality, but that’s no excuse to sleep in. Out of the fire, will rise the Catalan phoenix, reborn. The flame will be transported on foot, in cars, even on airplanes to the far reaches of the Catalan Diaspora. It will be lit on midsummer’s eve, when the sun is at the height of its powers. ![]() We are constructing a bonfire at the summit of the highest peak in Catalonia. Too preoccupied with my own identity, my own hopes, I had forgotten the purpose of the fire.Īnd here is the crux of the matter. And yet I know how important the blood-and-gold flag is to the Catalans. Mine is tied with an old tee-shirt representing my village. The others are all tied together with red and yellow ribbons. As I put my contribution amongst them, I am embarrassed to realise how out of place it is. The chaotic sky persuades me to rise before the thunderstorm breaks.Īt the summit, 2785m above sea level, the wrought iron cross that marks the highest point is already surrounded by some thirty small bundles, brought up yesterday. It is about 4 am before things begin to quieten down and I get some sleep, but I am soon woken by the sun. This is the annual Catalan rendez-vous – trobada in medieval French, and we have all become troubadores. A surprising number are just passing through on a walk.Īs the evening dissolves into night, the musical tributaries merge and the singing coalesces around well-known songs: Les montagnards sont là, La Santa Espina, Se canto (strictly speaking an Occitan song) and Muntanyes regalades, of course. Most are from nearby villages, most speak French more readily than Catalan. I wander around asking people where they come from. It is simply fun, escapism, an outing with friends. Although last year giant screens were erected to relay the thoughts of local politicians, there are none this time. And the drug of preference is alcohol, though I think I detect the perfume of cannabis amongst the smoke of the pinewood campfires. There are young people, but there are older ones as well. There is French electro garage rock, but there are also traditional airs. And the secret ingredient which turns it into something else: a shared heritage, be it real or imaginary. Here, at 2150m above sea level, is a recipe for a rave party: ghetto blasters, musicians with primitive sound systems, young people, drugs. There are over 200 tents grouped in gaudy bouquets between the wild rhododendrons and broom in a clearing surrounded by pines and conifers. The chalet is normally bustling with activity but today is exceptional. I drive to Vernet on the west side of the mountain and take a little-used path to the Chalet des Cortalets 1400m higher up. I will strap a bundle of them onto my rucksack. They were two years older than I am, worn out and unproductive so I had them grubbed up. I think immediately of my vineyard, now dead, strewn with forlorn vine roots. And it must be labelled with where you come from.” He doesn’t question my accent and my evident lack of Catalan credentials. “ It must be something which belongs to you, that’s important. “Bring something combustible for the fire,” he says. I ring up the president of the organising committee. For some, it is also the emblem of a nation-in-waiting, to be reconstituted from the eponymous Spanish province centred around Barcelona, and the French département of the Pyrénées-Orientales.Ī Catalan friend had invited me to the trobada which takes place on Canigou in June but was hospitalised a few days before, so I decide to go alone. For Catalans, the Canigou mountain is a symbol of their one-time nation which straddled the Mediterranean end of the Pyrenees. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |