Here, There and Everywhere again! Part one: Port Vendres to Banyuls

Although many restrictions still remain and we wait patiently for restaurants, cafés, cinemas and theatres to reopen, it was with a light heart and a silly grin on my face that I flicked the button on Vera Van’s keys and heard the satisfying clunk of her doors unlocking. After months of sitting unused she was a sorry sight. Winter rains and winds had left a film of grime on her paintwork and drifts of dead vegetation were decaying in all her nooks and crannies. Inside, spiders had taken up residence and draped their webs across every window and hatch. A good spring clean was required.

I set about the task with gusto. The ten kilometre limit on journeys from home had gone and thanks to the Ascension holiday we had 5 days of freedom ahead of us.

The weeks of waiting were over, the dashed hopes from earlier in the spring were in the past. The first jet of the power washer, like a powerful gust of wind, sent leaves and muck and grime flying across the car wash car park. It felt as if I was banishing all the months of inactivity that had caused this buildup and announcing a new start. Vera emerged gleaming from the onslaught of high pressure soap, water and wax. The spiders and their sticky traps were evicted, the bed was made, the water tank filled, new gas bottles installed. Food stores were replenished, hiking clothes put back in the cupboards. When Gill arrived home from work Vera was ready and without wasting a minute we were back on the road again.

As I manoeuvred round the tight bend that takes us from home to the road out of the village, Gill, according to tradition, rang the little souvenir cow bell we had bought in the Slovenian Alps. We were officially off.

For days we had been watching the weather forecast and as what had begun as an atrocious forecast evolved into a “maybe it won’t be so bad” even bet, we decided to head for the Pyrenees and the rugged stretch of coast just before the Spanish border. There is a coastal path that links the small commercial harbour of Port Vendres with the little resort town of Banyuls sur Mer. Our plan was to walk the 12 kilometres between the two towns. From there we would head up in to the mountains. For a long time I have wanted to walk up to the monastery of Saint Martin de Canigou and although the monastery would be closed because of the COVID restrictions, we’d be able to see it from the outside and enjoy the mountain views. After months of anticipation we were like overexcited children.

We arrived in Port Vendres just as the afternoon was mellowing into evening. The sun was shining and both the sky and the sea were that special blue you only see on a windy day in the South of France. We found a snug spot to park the van between two gnarled trees and headed out to find the start of the path for tomorrow’s walk. The air was crystal clear and it seemed as if you could see forever. The colours of the sea, the sky, the roofs and the vines on the surrounding slopes, almost too bright to be real. We sat on the cliffs looking down as a ship slid into the port. Port Vendres is very much a commercial port. Unusually for a small, picturesque town on the Mediterranean it has remained almost completely tourist free. It specialises in the fruit trade and as we would find out the following day this ship was carrying a cargo of pineapples.

Vera was beginning to cast her special spell on us. It already felt as if we had been away for days. The time between our last trip in the van and this one had dissolved and the only reality was now. The months of frustration, of worrying about work, of fretting over macabre statistics and of waiting for vaccine appointments to go online had miraculously disappeared and as Gill pottered in the kitchen casting her own magic spell on the food, I took a sip from a glass of wine and a profound feeling of well-being came over me. We ate blushing lamb chops and asparagus and new potatoes slippery with salty butter and climbed into bed and slept better than we had for a long time.

The enthusiastic singing of a bird in the tree above us was the first indication that our bet on the weather had paid off. It was a beautiful still morning. The wind of yesterday had gone and the sea was like a sheet of glass. We hurried to get ready, eager to be outside and moving.

I love the moments just before setting off on a long walk. To pack the rucksack is in a way to anticipate the day ahead. We left with every eventuality covered. Wind breakers and rain gear were rolled up in the bottom leaving enough room for shed layers to be packed if it was warm. As there was still a good chance of heavy rain and storms we had enough change to get the local bus back if necessary.

The first five minutes of the path take you down a narrow lane between sheer rock faces. On the side of the lane were panels with copies of paintings by the Scottish architect, designer and artist, Charles Rennie Mackintosh who spent the last two years of his life in Port Vendres. Ill health forced him to return to Glasgow but after his death his ashes were brought back and scattered on the Mediterranean. I thought I too would like to spend eternity on that sparkling blue sea with the mountains soaring upwards into the intense blue of the sky.

Celtic Christians talked of “thin places”, where the barrier between heaven and earth seems weak and heaven feels very close by. As I started to climb the narrow path that led steeply upwards through wild flowers into the azure of the sky, this place felt very thin and not for the first time over the last couple of days I felt as light as air.

Climbing through this rocky landscape, I kept stopping and turning round to look at the sea. The fishing boats that were hard at work along the coast became smaller and smaller while at the same time the sea itself became larger and larger until it was a vast expanse of silver blue that met the sky and merged into it and became one with it.

Looking along the coast the great peak of Canigou, still snow capped this early in May, rose implacably against the blue of the sky. Its bulk and solidity drew me back down to Earth and I felt once more the sharp stones through the soles of my boots, heard the harsh calls of the sea birds, smelt the powerful scents of honeysuckle, broom, rosemary, thyme and lavender. Today was about living again. Heaven could wait.

The ‘sentier du littoral’ hugs the coast and rises and falls with the coastline. The path is mostly stony and you are either climbing or descending which makes the walk a little challenging at times. There is a stretch not far from the Cap Béar lighthouse which levels out and continues for long enough to give you a break from the constant ups and downs. This section of the path is particularly pretty. On both sides of the track is a profusion of scented wildflowers. You are high up at this point and the breeze is at once refreshing and heady. As I walked, less intent on where I was putting my feet now, I noticed a butterfly fluttering along the path ahead of me. Every so often it would settle as if waiting for me to catch up and then guide me a bit further along the the path. This was my first real outing after months of confinement and the emotions I experienced following a butterfly along a path lined by wild flowers were almost overwhelming. If the past year had taught me anything it was never to take even the smallest pleasures for granted.

The path descended steeply and the view at this point was particularly arresting. We stood still and drank it in before scrabbling down a difficult stretch of path to a little cove where the water was so clear you could see every pebble on the seabed and the waves sighed on to the shore. We sat for a while watching the water and ate some of our picnic. From here the path climbed very steeply and then dropped down onto a sandy beach where there were a few holiday makers. The final stretch into the town of Banyuls is through vineyards. The small vines grow on terraces separated by stone walls and the grapes are made in to a fortified red wine similar to port. The wine bears the same name as the town. We looked for somewhere to buy a bottle but sadly everywhere was closed.

Banyuls is usually a bustling seaside resort and with a holiday weekend approaching you would expect it to be busy. In normal times, cafés and restaurants line the seafront with their umbrellas up. Every table is full and waiters dash between them with laden trays. Today however the town was eerily quiet. A few elderly couples were strolling along the seafront or sitting on benches looking at the sea. It felt very odd not to be perusing menus and sitting down to a plate of grilled sardines and a glass of chilled white wine. We looked at each other not sure what to do next. We went to look at the fabulous Maillol sculptures on the prom. With the sea behind them it’s easy to appreciate how this great of modern sculpture, born here, pioneered a return to form and volume and the relationship between the sculpted and empty spaces in a work. These female figures looked magnificent.

By now the wind was starting to get up and there were white horses galloping across the bay. Ominous clouds were billowing up behind the mountains and we decided not to risk the walk back. The bus ride was short and cheerful. The bus driver was jolly and chatty and wouldn’t take our fare. We got off in the town of Port Vendres and walked back to the van past the docks where trays and trays of sweet smelling pineapples were being loaded on to lorries from the ship we had seen dock last evening. As we reached the van the wind whipped up and the first heavy drops began to fall. We had made the right choice.

We kicked off our boots and settled down for a quiet evening. We both felt tired after the walk and the fresh air, our faces burnished by the sun and wind. Maybe things would never be quite as they had been but today had been a good day and I was sure there would be many more.

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