Crossing the border

Social networking via internet: love it or hate it, you do keep in contact with a much wider range of people than ever afforded by wax tablets and their modern derivatives.  

What has this to do with holidaying in south west France?  To explain: Dearly Beloved obtained, while holidaying in Edinburgh, an electronic tablet. It has since  been returned to its maker, but we took it on holiday where no doubt the significant change in temperature, water and air  caused it, like us, to constantly need rebooting. All of which is a roundabout way of saying we had internet access while on holiday and through said social networking site, discovered that a friend was holidaying only an hour away. In Spain. Well, we had already had a day away from our trans-frontalier life style of skipping across three borders to borrow a cup of sugar, and we were missing the frisson of doing so with the fear of never knowing if we had the right papers or phrases to get where we wished unimpeded.

Network Friend and I were at university together and had not seen each other since graduating, ooh, must be a couple of years ago now. She and a group  from Barcelona, an hour further down the coast, rent a house throughout the year in Colera, on the Costa Brava. And it was our privilege to join her there for the day.  

The route took us along the La Corniche of La Cote Vermeille which the Michelin guide threatened would be hair raising – but the route along the motorway would be less spectacular and almost twice as long. So, with the whites of my knuckles already glowing from the bumpy road down the hills from our holiday gite, we set the Sat Nav and headed even further south.

And we were so glad we did. The road has either been  improved since the Michelin inspector wrote his description, or he has not ventured up the death defying sides of the Picos de Europa in Northern Spain. Or he is just lily livered. The road was extremely curvy as it hugged the cliffs and hillsides along the coast. The temperature was already nudging 30 and  the sea was a delicate cornflower blue, the sun bright white through the heat haze, and the vines growing right down to the road’s edge, yellow green and glistening with ruby red grapes, the rocks a deep vermillion .

“ We must go there, oh, and there and there,” I sighed as we drove past bustling seaside villages, where the houses clung together  up the steep hill sides so as not to fall into the sea. We stopped to view the panorama shown on the map, and looked over Catalonia, the Pyrenees behind us and the Mediterranean Sea before us. A catering van with a number of customers called to us, saying that even the Luxembourgish could not resist such a deal that he was offering – 6 bottles for the price of 5. Even at 9.30, the local and world famous Banyuls aperitif was selling well…setting you up for those twisty steep edged roads.

 Arriving in Colera and driving under the gantries of the Eiffel designed bridge, we skirted the square built round a huge tree where Network Friend waved from the balcony. The square on which the house sits has cafes and bars,  perfectly placed for a pre-swim beer. Locals called to Network F, pleased that we had arrived safely; the waiter bringing us our drinks had been a small boy when NF first came to the square. The beach, merely 5 minutes walk away, curved deeply in a secluded bay; we learned why all locals wear shoes or sandals in the water – the beach and sea bed tending to shale and tiny pebbles; the larger rocks provided shelter for hundreds of pale banded fish; DB took off with his snorkel while we floated and chatted, basking in the sunshine. Before lunch, we took a light aperitif of beer with nibbles of Pop (octopus) and anchovies and tomatoes on toast, and enjoyed the ligth breeze sea where we sat looking over the bay.  Lunch had been pre-ordered at NF’s favourite restaurant, where she had recently assisted in the translation of the menu into English. We were surprised at the need to do so, as it seemed not to be a tourist spot for Brits. It was mainly for those who do not speak French or Catalan – the Dutch in particular take long road trips to the southern coasts.  

So on to the paella – fresh cooked, (ordered to be low salt) fat yellow mussels bursting out of their shells, pink prawns, red peppers and charred chicken, a bed of soft saffron rice in a stock tasting of sunshine, wine and sea -  paella is surely the holiday dish  above all others…Coffee, a digestif of cava, and DB willingly poured me into the car to go home, clutching my presents of fresh herbs and a jar of liquid gold - a first pressing of olive oil from the local groves.

The trip home was as beautiful, the light now softer in the evening sun, our route defining our itinerary for the week to come.

A bientot.