my travels: August 21-22nd

20^th August

Another hot and steamy day at Latour des Elne, we went for a drive down the coast on small packed roads, more tourists. I keep thinking they are English holiday makers in the mould of Hi Dee Hi but when they open their mouths out spurts French! You really can’t judge a tourist by its colour.

We were heading for a little village called Coulierre which is famous for its beauty and being an area which inspired many painters including……. The DK guide to Europe gives it a good write up, unfortunately everyone else in Europe had read the same entry as us, and all decided that Saturday 20^th of August was the day to visit. We drove through the village and out the other side on a road which reminds me of those 1950’s/60’s movies of blonde actresses being driven or possibly driving themselves in Carmen Ghias or other convertibles along winding narrow roads high above the crystal clear but shining blue and silver ocean below. Unfortunately (again) the roads are so narrow and windy with no places to stop/pull over to admire the views, so I got very rare glimpses as we trundled past and certainly no photos to share. Diana said it was a pretty village though, and postcards I have seen seem to support that.

We stopped at an olive oil “degustation” place, where we intended to try some oil and make a purchase as we all enjoy it, and Hilary in particular has taken to it drizzled on fresh baguette and sprinkled with tasty seasoning. We hadn’t anticipated French hours, it didn’t open until five that evening and we didn’t want to wait for nearly 2 hours. We haven’t quite got used to the concept of stopping work for 2 hours in the middle of the day, shutting up shop, business or whatever. We have been caught many times because the hours of closure aren’t always consistent, some it may be 12-1400 others 1230-1430 ….. it is quite strange to us, especially as often the businesses don’t open until 10 or 11 anyway, and they don’t seem to stay open much later than those at home. I’m actually writing this many days after the 20^th, it’s actually the 26^th, but the theme of closures brings to mind three stories, one was yesterday while we were waiting for the mechanics to fix our truck at the Fiat place in Perpignan, we went to a McDonalds just across the road so we could do some computer work, and also so we could sit for 3 hours without being in the way. While we were there Di looked out the window and said, “hey there’s a (can’t remember its name, something like Cash Converters, but not,) I wonder if they have bikes for sale, because we have been looking for some cheap bikes we can use while here, it would be great to have freedom, exercise, save petrol (diesel) and let us see places we wouldn’t have time to walk to, but can’t drive to. Anyway, she went and had a look while I tried, not very successfully to get some business done, when she came back (with Hilary they said there were three “possibles”, so I agreed to go and have a look. We decided to go back and check on the truck as the bloke had said, “ come back late morning” (well actually that isn’t what he said at all, but that is what we had interpreted his French/English to mean, and when we said “deuze” he had looked pained and indicated not then, and we said, oh yes lunch-time to which he grinned and nodded. So we didn’t want to make the mechanics late for lunch, and equally we didn’t want them to lock up shop for 2 hours with our truck inside so we went back at 1130. Now there wouldn’t have been an issue (not that it was really an issue, but the whole point of this diatribe which will become apparent soon(ish) wouldn’t have occurred if it weren’t for another wee French peculiarity. Actually, at the danger of becoming as tangential as my father that brings a few more stories to mind, so I’ll try to keep to the point, and bring them in later.

So back I’ll go. Shall I go to the bike shop? Or the strange practices of the French around purchases? Maybe the bike shop and then I can tie all the other stories together for tidiness.

So the getting the truck back took quite a while, so that by the time we got to the “Cash Converters” (for want of a more French name) it was about 1 minute to 12. Any chance of seeing around the shop? No way. They were closing for lunch and wouldn’t be open until 2pm. We went instead to Decathlon which is a huge “Warehouse cum Rebel Sport” and “Kathmandu/Bike shop” combination. It was amazing, we spent an hour and a half there, thankfully didn’t spend very much at all (because that is another story) but managed to fill in time while we waited for the second hand shop to re-open post lunch. We put our few purchases in the truck, (12 euro bike helmets because even though no one seems to wear them here, we value our brains and ears)….. and headed back to the second hand shop. It was one minute to 2. We were not allowed to look in the shop (even though the door was open, and instead watched two men (workers) wheel out about 10 bikes which they proceeded to arrange very carefully on a high scaffold/tier system (5 of the bikes) and the other 5 (or more maybe) in flat racks, fit chains and padlocks to them all (even though they knew we wanted to look at some of them), and even though it was now well after 2 , we were not allowed to enter until all the bikes were appropriately arranged and locked. Whereupon we entered the shop and said we would like to look at three of the bikes please, and had to wait while the man went and got the keys to the padlocks, unlocked them all, removed the chains, removed the three bikes we were interested in, rethreaded the chains through the others and relocked them all. Now they do this in the morning when they open, then bring them all in again two hours later, put them all out again 2 hours later, and bring them in a few hours later. Not just bikes, but exercise equipment and all sorts….. now I imagine the man was thrilled when we bought 2 of the bikes, thinking, “thank goodness, that’s two fewer for tonight”…… or maybe that’s just what you do.

Now to get back to my other thread, trying to settle an account with a man who speaks only French, when I speak only English, he has no apparent interpersonal skills, and very archaic systems to follow. Basically everyone seems to have their own role, the concept of multi-skilling or “de-silo-ing (a favourite in nursing) would not wash. There is a man who does reception work, a man who does accounts, and a few men who seem to walk around with pieces of paper from offices out the back, then there must be the mechanics somewhere else I guess, well actually no, we saw them when we drove out, it the cleanest, most orderly, grease-free workshop you could ever imagine. (Diana said she had a mechanic once who had been trained in the Rolls Royce aeroplane engine factory??? Or something, was very elderly (and she said, inconsiderately up and died on her so couldn’t service her cars anymore)- but he said, always judge a mechanic by the state of his workshop, the sign of a good workman is a clean and tidy workspace. If you walk through the workshop and feel you will get dirty it isn’t a good sign.

Oh how I digress again. When I went to settle the account, the first thing was to locate the paper copy of the work-sheet and account. Not unusual, that is what always happens in Chch, (but it doesn’t usually involve a hunt through 500 sheets of paper). The next thing he sat at the computer, and looked up a few things, they he transposed the figures onto paper. He then re-entered altered figures on to the computer, and then rewrote another paper copy of the account, thing went on for twenty minutes or so. I really have no idea of what went on, but the outcome was that it was a bit cheaper than we expected, still 600 euro for us, and 790 for the company who holds the guarantee. Just what we needed, a rather large bill, but thankful it wasn’t more.

Now we have had many experiences of single tasking on our travels, not just in France. I don’t remember if I have already re-counted the story of me and Hils in Mayen (Germany) buying ham. We went up to the counter and ordered our ham from one lady, who directed us to another lady. The second lady was the one we gave the money to. She gave us a receipt and directed us to a third lady who gave us our ham. The ham had been wrapped by a fourth lady I think, and I don’t know how it had made its way across the shop, possibly a boy on a bike??? I didn’t notice I was so interested in all the other carry-on.

Di says that the post office is equally as fascinating if you have the time or patience to be bothered being fascinated as you queue in never decreasing lines of people for attention at the counter. In fact it has got to the point that Hilary and I speak of alien kidnap whenever Di goes into a post-office as that seems a likely scenario with the length of time she disappears for. The latest experience was queuing for a number so you could know where to queue, and then once you got attention the woman at the counter had to do four separate transactions for each of the four packets of stamps (even though they were all the same). Another common thing is handwriting dockets, and entering sales into notebooks by hand. Not much seems computerised, especially in some of the smaller businesses, but it all seems particularly and strangely out dated behaviour and very labour intensive.

I think I started this entry discussing going to the olive oil producer, and have digressed greatly. Once we had decided that the day of small village experiences was not to happen, and the oil tasting didn’t work either, we headed off for a swim down at our favourite nearby spot, a “reserve” which the locals seem to use, quite off the tourist circuit as it isn’t served by public transport and isn’t glitzy and hyped up. Just a simple long stretch of sand, with mostly (but not by any means all, fully-clothed people) enjoying the sand and surf and clear warm waters of the Med.

Sunday 21^st.

We spent this morning sunning ourselves on the beach at the Reserve Naturelle du Mas Lameu, very warm and the sea once the water had passed arm-pit depth was very pleasant. The sand was scorching hot walking back up to the truck after our morning and early afternoon of lazing. The heat so severe that as soon as we left the sea, the sweat started to run. We had lunch in the truck and then headed to the next sea-side village Argeles sur la Mer, a packed touristy seaside resort town. All we wanted was an ice-cream, some bread and possibly a few postcards and souvenirs to add to our haul/collection. Finding a park was a mission, in the end I dropped the others off at some shops/food outlets away from the throngs and went in search of a parking spot. I actually found one quite nearby, under the trees, beside a park where some locals of all ages and sizes, both genders, were playing petanque in the sand under the pines. A very nice family scene. There is a lot of that here, families seemingly enjoying each other’s company doing nice activities together. I joined the others who were eating melting ice-creams by this stage, with a fresh baguette in hand, and an English newspaper (printed in Marsailles) which they had bought for 5 euro. It was that day’s paper though, so that was good. I can’t remember which one it was, but it was pretty trashy and very light on thought provoking or any intellectual type news, it was good to have some legible print though with a little information about what was happening in Britain at least, oh and it gave the rugby score for NZ against South Africa (we lost) which was good (the news, not the result). On the way back to the truck we spotted some baby aloe vera plants growing apparently wildly beside the road, so we snaffled one (which was looking quite dehydrated and skinny leafed, and took it back to the truck to resurrect. It drank and drank cool fresh water and looked really quite plump by the end of the day). We thought it would be good to have for any burns we may suffer at the hands of the stove/ each other and the sun.

We drove back to the camp-ground and had a quiet evening as we were heading off inland in the morning and wanted a n early start, and to feel refreshed after a good sleep.

Hilary at Latour Bas Elne

Di in the Med

Monday 22^nd.

Early today we headed for the hills. South West of Perpignan there is a Gorge called Gorges de Galamus, we had read about it in a brochure from the Saint Cyprien Tourist Information Centre and it appealed. Away from the crowds, experiencing nature, not far from the Pyrenees. The drive there was uncomplicated, reasonably slow because of the narrow roads and windy bits and a few reasonable ascents, but we made reasonable time. We even stopped at a Huile d’olive producteur, called Les Oliviers de la Canterrane, where we tried three different olive oils with quite different flavours, on crusty white bread the last sprinkled with a rock salt/herb/spice concoction a bit like the Catalan equivalent of dukkah. We ended up buying a bottle of oil (250mls) of the one we all enjoyed the most, and some “sprinkle”, very delicious, which will be enjoyed for weeks to come.

I had read in a pamphlet about the gorge that you should park your car at the “Hermitage” car-park, and walk through the Gorge itself as it is so narrow and windy. It is open to traffic, but not campervans (nothing over 2 metres high and I think 2 metres wide), and then only single lane and controlled by traffic lights at each end. We parked at a huge car-park at the very beginning of the road to the Gorge proper and had lunch in the very high heat. Afterwards we decided to drive a bit further in to the hermitage area as where we were was a long way from the action. Well the car-park there was very full, with no signs of movement out, and little room even if cars had left, so after the advice from a souvenir seller we returned to our original park and waited for a courtesy bus which took us into the hermitage car-park (only about 2 ½ kms down the road, but stinky hot and humid.) From the car-park there was a track down to the hermitage which was last used by a monk/hermit type who died there of cold and starvation in the late 1800’s. It is a fascinating sight, built into the rock face of this really steep gorge, pretty and sort of romantic I guess on a hot summery day, but incredibly bleak and lonely I imagine in the dead of winter, though I guess that’s what hermits want, refuge from others.

We had a look through the buildings which were open, including a Chapel in one large cave, and various shrine-like areas with saints and Christian statues/icons. After this we climbed back up to the road, through a tunnel, and walked the road through the Gorge. It being a Monday, though there were quite a few people around, it wasn’t crowded and the road was pretty much foot traffic only. Most of the people were groups going canyoning, basically walking the length of the gorge (at water level) and jumping into any pools of water that would accommodate them. The water at the bottom of the deep ravine was beautiful, very cool looking, green, and very very inviting!!!! We had told Hilary a swim was a possibility so endeavoured to find a route down into the canyon. The only one which was appropriate (as in, roughly where we wanted to go) warned “Steep and very dangereux” it was very steep, not straight-down, but in places not far off it. Di and Hilary don’t favour heights or extreme tracks, so I was very impressed that they managed to descend (with a little encouragement) into the ravine, and be rewarded with a play in the cold water before the climb back up and out. The pictures I took don’t give show the steepness of the climb or the height of the cliffs, but it was awesome!

From the Gorge we were going to head back into a camp-ground back slightly towards Perpignan, and then head to our next destination the next morning, however we decided to instead head towards Nyer where there was another gorge that sounded great, with a good sounding camping spot very nearby, so we looked on the map and decided to head straight there from Galamus.

Though the road looked a bit scraggly on the map, we hadn’t figured it would be quite as it was. Not only was it narrow, but it was windy and steep too. It wasn’t actually that high (as in metres above sea-level, but it was quite constant, the day was very hot, and poor “Kiwi” (the truck) suffered. We climbed over this peak, which in winter must be very deep in snow, the road markers had the look of those found in areas where they measure the snow-fall in metres rather than centimetres. On the way up one incline we passed three young (mid-20s) people, two women and a bloke who were sweating it up the hill, with thumbs held out in a plea-ful way. After about 100 metres I looked at Di and said, “What about it?” so we reversed down the hill and picked them up. They were only going a couple of kms, but were very grateful for the lift. It was not the route we intended, but the bloke knew of a small road which would take us back to our intended route very easily, so we took that and the detour didn’t matter an iota. It was nice to help someone out, and there is plenty of seating in the truck for extras. I suspect “Kiwi” would have preferred to be 210 kilos lighter than she was on the ascent though, because it was shortly after dropping them off that a red light came on saying she was too hot to continue. We stopped in the middle of the road at one point, a few people slowed to see if we needed assistance which was nice, but I just smiled a thank-you and waved them on. After she had cooled a bit (very slow as the outside temperature was well into the thirties and there was no breeze around) I took her a few hundred metres further to a spot off the road, where there was a big pile of shingle and a large flat area. She cooled while Hilary played soccer and we drank cups of tea.

We hadn’t quite reached the summit at this point so Kiwi needed a bit of TLC as we continued on our way. We got quite high into the mountains, I don’t think it is quite the Pyrenees, I’m not sure when they start but we were inland a reasonable distance. In fact when we arrived at the campsite we were going to stay at we were quite high in the mountains (which are in the Pyrenees), but the next day, we climbed higher (by foot) to provide some awesome gorges and drops.

Our campsite was supposed to have power hook up but like many in the book we have there wasn’t any. The site was a flat grassy area up at the back of a large asphalt car-park, actually it was on two levels now I think about it, with an area overlooking the main part. We were at the foot of a gorge with a wonderful outlook up to a viaduct (for the yellow train) and high rocky cliffs on one side. The yellow train, which is a tourist train which has a hundred or so kilometre route through the pass in the Pyrenees runs along beside the campground, up above it by about 5 metres or so, but the noise isn’t an issue as it only runs through from about 10-7pm and isn’t particularly loud anyway.

Once we had set up for our stay we went for a brief exploratory walk along a track into the gorge beside a very small creek (but with warning signs that it has a hydro-electric station up the gorge and therefore can run deeply very quickly without warning. We didn’t go far as the night was beginning to come on, and Hilary was a bit spooked by the signs I think, expecting a wall of water to engulf us at any time.