Travel Journal – February in the South of France – Le Canigou

Bonjour our dear friend! Quick! Come in! Close the door – it’s COLD out there! Let me hang your coat up while you stamp some warmth back into your feet. Even in the south of France, February feels like winter. Though Nice may be nice, here in the Pyrénées Orientales, at the southernmost tip of France by the Med. we have the sun and some of the warmest winter days – but I won’t kid you, nobody’s going sunbathing. That freezing wind coming from the northwest is “La Tramontane“. In summer we love its cool touch and it chases away the clouds throughout the year. However, when it blows down across the frozen center of France it gets a bit nippy even here! A good blaze is crackling away in the kitchen fireplace so “allons-y” (let’s go) and warm ourselves by the hearth.

Ah, that’s better. Here by the welcoming glow we can sit and relax a while. Today is a day for staying close to home, so I thought that when noon comes we’d stroll the one block to the Brasserie “Chez Filo” for lunch. Yeah, okay, maybe I really do mean “take a brisk march”. No, that gorgeous aroma hanging in the air is just some stock I’ve made for our dinner later. You’ll find that the brasserie has changed since last summer and I know Filo and his lovely wife, Stephanie, remember you fondly. We had crepes that time, but as you’ll see, they’ve discovered that pizza is a bigger crowd pleaser. Yes, I know, that made you laugh since in our village a crowd is twelve people or four cars speeding along the main street at the same time.

I remember you asked once why Canigou, that beautiful mountain we can see from our village, is sacred to the Catalan people. So, I did some asking around. Long ago, there were many small states in Europe and many tribes. In this region, stretching from Narbonne, north of us, to Barcelona in the south, were The Catalans. Their culture has survived in the place names and traditions of our region. Many residents speak the Catalan language that is neither French nor Spanish and they call Canigou “La Muntanya Sagrada” (the sacred mountain). Tradition has it that the tribes across the region would meet at its summit once a year to settle any disputes and to celebrate Midsummer. The tall snow-covered peak of the mountain called “Le Canigou” is the final summit in the chain of the Pyrénées. Volcanic in origin, it sweeps up from the edge of the Roussillon Plain just 31 miles from the sea. Sailors use it as a point of reference, for it is visible all along the Catalan coast. It was the obvious place to meet. I’ve been told of a legend that says in 1285 Pierre of Aragon conquered the peak, but since that story also included dragons, volcanic lakes and other fantastic features, I’m not too sure about its veracity.

Monsieur Bazan, the owner of the lovely guest house L’Hostelet in Argeles-sur-mer, told me that his father has run twice in the annual race “Les Champions du Canigou“. Since his father owns a hotel at the ski resort of Font Romeu, he is simply following in the footsteps of the originators of the race. In Victorian times, the hotel employees in Vernet Les Bains had to run up the mountain daily to bring back 24 pounds of ice in a backpack just for the hotel to use in the bar. Man, they must have been fit! Runners today follow the same route and can opt to carry a backpack of sand. Yes, I agree, that doesn’t sound like much of an option to me. Ah, I hear the town clock tower striking twelve, let’s go have some lunch.

We bundle up and head over to the brasserie with the Tramontane practically pushing us through the glass doors before we can open them. Inside, the ambience is warm and Stephanie spies us standing there at the entry. On our left runs the long shining marble topped bar where a handful of villagers sit on modern stools, talking and having a drink. The dark polished wood of the counter is set off by the gleaming brass handrail. A matching foot rail near the floor accents the old-fashioned black and white checkerboard of the floor tiles. We hear the voices of others at the tables in the room to our right, which we can see through the pillared arches that divide the bar from the restaurant. Stephanie greets you with bisous and says ‘bienvenue” (welcome)! Our neighbors look up from their conversations and call out “bonjour! or “salut!” We smile and return their greetings before following our host to a table. Soon, we have ordered and must decide whether to share a pitcher of the local wine or order from the 30 varieties of Belgian beer that Filo stocks. He returns with our drinks and for an appetizer, he slices some vegetable flan into small cubes.

At the table next to us, is old Pierre, who looks like the quintessential Frenchman of old movies with his dark beret covering his sparse grey hair and suspenders over his plaid shirt. I can assure you though, that he is Catalan to the core! I introduce you and after a bit, we ask him why Canigou is sacred to the Catalans. His face lights up with pleasure as he tells us that the mountain was a refuge for the Spanish who fled from Franco and adds that during World War II, the French resistance hid in its many folds. Pierre looks at us with large dark, watery eyes and his voice trembles with emotion as he says, “Le Canigou is our soul. It represents the strength of our Catalan spirit and the unity of our people who have been divided by the artificial border between France and Spain. We see our mountain and we know that no matter on which side of the Pyrénées we stand, we are one people. I have been to the top and can tell you that there stands a cross of iron and on it there waves a Catalan flag – red for our blood and gold for our wealth of history. Go my brave ones and climb the mountain. From that peak, you will see that I have spoken only what is true.” He pauses and looks reflectively at the large Catalan Dragons rugby league banner that hangs over the bar. We share a respectful silence. Then our pizzas arrive and we thank Pierre for enlightening us. As we savor our lunch, I tell you not to worry; we’ll take his word for it. I’m not the mountain-climbing kind.

With every morsel devoured, it’s time to head back to the house. I’d race you but I’m pretty full of pizza! Yes, I agree with you, it’ll be nice to sit with our feet up by the fire. We shed our big coats and add more wood to the fire. This old village house is good at holding in the heat once it gets warm. We sit watching the play of the flames and begin to understand why the French believe that a nap, called a “sieste“, is a good idea. We resist, though as there is so much for us to talk about and soon the afternoon becomes the evening.

It’s your turn to tend the fire while I slice the onions and my husband starts heating the oil for a hearty French soup. Later on, while it simmers, we walk over to buy some crusty French bread from Alain, the baker. It’s just what we need to accent our dinner. Some time later, we share a bowl of this delicious treat. What fun it is when you visit but now the day is done and sadly, you must go. What’s that you say? You’ll be back next month! Great! I’ll see you then, my friend, the Stationary Traveler, and together, we’ll find interesting things to do and see in the South of France!

In fact, let’s drive over to the coast when I see you again. I think you will really enjoy a visit to Argelès-sur-Mer , it’s a charming village that has grown into a beautiful town. See you then!


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