VilleFranche de Conflent, Vernet les Bains et le Abbaye sur le Montagne

October 18th Sunday
The morning began with Tintin's new habit- waking me up with sloppy dog kisses to the face. The shutters were wide open and the sun was up, shining brightly into the room. The air was windy and cool. Across the street, a neighbor's colorful clothing waved from a clothesline. Sitting up in bed I could hear the coffee machine two floors below, hissing and gurgling. I could hear the utensil drawer open and close. Tintin, feeling successful, jumped off the bed. She paused to issue a beckoning glance and then scurried down the stairs into the kitchen.I followed her down a few minutes later and greeted Sylvie and my father with the usual "bonjour". Breakfast was coffee and toasted slices of a Pave au Lin with local orange marmalade. Over

breakfast we talked about the general plan for the day, and since we were going to Villefranche de conflent they asked me to be ready to leave after breakfast.

Once on the road, we drove due west for an hour and a half. We drove through the valley along

the base of the Pyrenes, through Ille-sur-Tet, Marquixanes, and

then Prades where we stopped briefly to find a restroom and get gas. There was a McDonald's at the gas station stop, so being curious I walked in to look at their menu and use the bathroom.

In the bathroom there were animated ads on the urinals which I

thought was mildly invasive. When I came out and looked a

t the menu, a simple cheeseburger was 2 Euros and a Big Mac was 5.50 Euros. No wonder why the french dislike McDonald's. It's not even cheap!

We left the rest area and continued on the road, finally stopping in the town of Vernet-les-Bains. Vernet-les-Bains is a small town situated at the base of the Pyrenees, and it is famous in Europe for its hot mineral spring. During peak vacation periods, lots of retired folks come here to bathe in the spring and walk the mountain trails up to the Saint-Martin-du-Canigou abbey. One notable visitor who lived here prior to World War I was Rudyard Kipling.

Giving a nod to themountainside retreat, he wrote a short story entitled "Why snow falls at Vernet." Apparently the story mocks the

English habit of always talking about the weather. As you might guess, I am told that he story is much enjoyed in France.

Hunger limited our interest in Kipling so we walked from the bridge named after him and turned onto the main avenue toward the smell of food. It was noon and the first street brasseries were putting out their chairs for lunch. We stopped at one with reasonable prices (8 Euros for a full 4 course meal) and I had a

childish laugh at their bread

advertisement. The food was good, especially for the price. I had shredded vegetable crudite, and then a Bull meat stew with pommes frites. I had half a glass of the house vin rouge which was a nice compliment to the beef. Dessert was included so I chose the gateau chocolat, not expecting what came next. When the cake was served it was a small unassuming little thing. I put the first bite in my mouth and then I abruptly forgot where I was. The flavor and texture of the cake was

so incredible that nearly all other stimulus just faded out of my conscious awareness. I could only sense and taste microlayers of folded chocolate in my mouth. My eyes were unfocused and I didn't hear for a few seconds. I was in total shock and ecstasy and the look on my face was embarrassingly public. If I believed in angels I probably would have heard some singing, it was that effing good. Sylvie and my father had a good laugh but I couldn't have cared less. I just kept slowly eating the cake. Each new bite was mix of intense pleasure and a growing sense of loss and regret- because the cake was slowing disappearing. With a long melodramatic sigh I savored the last bite for as long as I could and then composed myself for our hike up the mountain.

We walked to the base of the mountain trail, passing an enclosure of goats on the right. The narrow footpath wound up the mountain back and forth between stone cliffs and clusters of chestnut tree forest. It wound back and forth as we rose further and further up the side of the mountain. Tintin led the group, marching steadily with a good sized stick in her mouth. My father and I followed about 50 meters behind Tintin. Trailing further behind was Sylvie, anchored to Pollux's leash. The little pudge-ball was really struggling to climb. His belly sagged, his panting was quick and it sounded like his mouth was dry. Pollux's pace was painfully slow, as he stopped every so often to catch his breath. At about 4000 ft, Tintin, my father and I arrived at the Abbey of St Martin of Canigou (the peak is at 9000 ft). 10 Minutes later Sylvie arrived carrying Pollux. He collapsed into a pile of wheezing and sweat (he was either sweating or oozing) when she finally put him down. Near the thousand year old stone Abbey was a small stone fountain. In its center was a bronze statue long ago turned green.

Sylvie carried Pollux to it and he lapped furiously at the cool water, stopping only to gasp every so often. As he cooled down, we explored the Abbey complex and took pictures of the fantastic view. Before leaving, we stopped at the abbey market and I bought a small flask of the abbey-made creme de framboise.

After our walk around the Abbey and a brief stop for water we turned around to descend the mountain, but poor Pollux just couldn't hack it. I propped him up on my shoulder and carried the little sac of bricks down the mountain.

Finally through with our hike we made our way back to the car and drove down the rode a few miles to the village of Villefranche de Conflent. Villefranche is a fortified city whose construction dates back to the 11th century. Stone walls, a moat, narrow cobblestone streets all make Villefranche a unique stop. There are thousands of pictures on the internet, so we took few. Many shops sold and were decorated with toy witches, witch dolls or witch totems. We were told that this is related to old Catalan customs which say that having a witch idol in your home brings good luck. I don't know much about the origins of the belief, but I blew a kiss to a witch statue on our way through. Before leaving, we stopped for a beer and then hit the road for the hour and a half drive back to Argeles.