Hillside wanderings

So far I have discovered two ways to reach the hills surrounding Cerbère: one, is to walk in the dry river bed (very wet during occasional monumental downpours) at the back of the town; through a long echoing tunnel, (over which the train activity happens), more river bed and then into olive and lavender filled hills.
The other, is to walk through the sprawl of mega-villas at the top of the town and follow the road until the houses run out and you are left with a pot-holed tarmac 'chemin'. These two routes eventually meet up, thus creating a circular walk of great variety.
Last time, I intended to follow the road to something called 'Las Rocas"indicated by an ancient bull-shaped wooden sign. I didn't get that far but did enjoy a couple of hours of total silence except for bees and occasional distant sounds from the railway sidings.
Another walk we have done a few times is up to the old border point customs building (now unused, even the café - what a missed opportunity . . . mm, interesting thought) and over the hill to Port-Bou on the Spanish side.
A lovely hike-ette with the plus of being able to eat a great meal for very little money when you get there, and then walk back/get the train if you've over-indulged.

          Beware bees

       View from bee area

Gecko house

Last swim of the year.

I think last year the final swim must have been around the end of October, just cold enough to ice the ends of my toes.
This year, it may have been the end of September on my last visit.
I swam at seven in the morning when the water appeared to consist of ink blue and iridescent turquoise, silk strips; the morning star and crescent moon hanging in a never-ending expanse of dawn sky.
Collecting a pebble from the beach to add to my 'number of sea swims this year' jar, I walked up the hill to then drink tea, sitting on the front step of our flat.
I watched the late summer swallows weaving and dipping, and tried to recall what the same street was like in January when the Tramontane wind swirled leaves and pine needles from doorways of holiday homes, and the harbour railings sang their mournful four note lament.

Add-on to post - last swim was actually here (next photo) in October, in the poetically named 'beach of no troubles' which it was - completely empty apart from another woman swimming, and someone fishing.

Street art

There's lots of this in Cerbère. Over the years various contemporary art events have left traces all over the town: some defiantly visible like the oblong of violet paint with the word 'Miracle' written in gold paint that decorates the beach wall; or the huge gold letters saying 'You see what it is I want to say' (in French) also gracing that same wall.

A meander down the back streets reveals other works in unexpected places - a beautifully painted woman (picture of, not woman) holding giant antlers at the top of someones garden steps, or this fabulous orange fish near the entrance to one of the town's tunnels.

Dotted about are smaller paintings - a series of pigeons with moralistic phrases accompanying them, skulls, and all the real graffiti that graces walls, doors, steps and tunnels.

One of the passenger walkways tunnels has itself become a work of art by Jean Truel spanning many years.

I wonder if the likes of Picasso and other artists made it as far as Cerbère - they spent time in Collioure, a few kilometres up the coast. I can't imagine they wouldn't have stopped off, intrigued by the Belvedere Hotel perhaps (see last post). On their way to see Dali in Cadaqués perhaps? Someone in the town must know . . . another little project.

Landmark

We discovered Cerbère after failing to find a hotel in Cadaqués (mad season of August). A friend had suggested taking a look around Cerbère instead - 'I think you might like it . . .' she had said. And we did - very much.

Pictured - the Belvedere de Rayon Verte, a hotel built in the 1920s to serve the large numbers of fairly wealthy travellers voyaging from Frence to spain and vice versa (tennis courts on the roof, cinema on the first floor) when the train lines were installed, along with the extraordinary arched railway bankings that curve through the town - apparently designed and made by the 'Eiffel' company

We stayed here in a decrepit 'suite' with a view of the sea to one side of our balcony and the tracks to the other, and were serenaded by the 'singing railings' (four notes that strike up with certain wind directions) and the rumble and squeak of the trains. I believe the guest rooms have been done up in recent years, but luckily nothing done to alter the rather decaying but beautiful dining room, cinema etc.

Looking from high up on the Spanish-French border, the hotel is an extraordinary landmark; almost snaking itself along the train tracks in a long curve. If time travel were possible I would love to be transported back to the time when the building had just been opened in all its elaborate concrete-ness (one of the first concrete habitations in France).

Home to many art projects and other events, the Belvedere opens its doors to the public for the excellent annual film festival - 1st to the 3rd October. Link below.

http://www.rencontrescerbere.org

where to start . . .

Hello, world, from a tiny cove on the very edge of France as it slips (tumbles, perhaps) into Spain. I'm always fascinated by border points: how they were originally delineated; whose rock/tree/lavender bush was who's, etc. Spanish parasol pine or French parasol pine? Or a bit of both?

Cerbère is classed as a village, or possibly a very small town, and was once part of The 'Banyuls' commune - a real town sized town just along the vertiginous road from Cerbère, about ten km, or perhaps six if you could walk in a straight line.

It has a post office, bread shop, two grocery stores, pharmacy etc, and several good eateries for somewhere so minuscule. I was talking to the owner of The 'Dorade' restaurant recently about how I felt comfortable in Cerbère. He described it at 'cocooneuse', meaning protected and sheltered (thank you spell check for suggesting I meant cocaine use). And it's true, even when the 'Tramontane' wind is blowing at 130 km an hour it feels oddly . . . cosy. I'm sure folk who have their goat shacks blown away, boats sunk, or worse might not agree; but in the middle of January, when the sky in leaden, and everything except the bread shop is closed, it still feels comfortable . . . to me anyway.