From Bourdeaux to Dalì Land

Farther on we found ourselves in Lourdes as darkness was descending. The town lies in the foothills of the Pyrenees and in typical European fashion there is a spur of the Pau river running through its midsection with numerous bridges connecting its two banks and lots of fat trout in its pools. We were on our way to northeastern Spain and our choice of destination was random so it was a surprise when our hostess at the Grand Belfry Hotel informed us that this was one of the biggest nights of the year in Lourdes and a great spectacle would be taking place in less than an hour. That Saturday night capped a six month season of Christian pilgrimages to the city, which apparently is the second most popular tourist stop in France next to Paris, with travelers from all over the world coming to pray and seek divine intervention and Godly miracles.

Candlelight procession of religious pilgrims in Lourdes.

We walked down the steep hill to the river and soon joined a stream of thousands of people speaking so many languages walking toward a cathedral built into a massive rock face. Two centuries ago a young woman named Bernadette is said to have been visited at this site by the Mother Mary and the water from Lourdes has since been believed to possess magical powers. Cathedral bells rang and a mass was delivered through loudspeakers and the long stemmed white candles illuminated the faces of the pilgrims in the brisk darkness. Hymns were sung and prayers recited and numerous clergy and robed congregation members read scriptures in many tongues. Much was said about unfortunates who had died in childbirth and prayers were made for mothers who cannot bear children and a procession began forming an impressive glowing line behind a cross bearing clergyman. They traversed the river awash in soft white candlelight and walked along the river bank singing and praying and renewing their faith. Such an experience felt so much more spiritual or at least meaningful than our short visit to the papal palace at Avignon, which struck me as the epitome of the cold power of the Roman Catholic church made to squeeze obedience and humility out of the common believer.

The next day we zigzagged across forested hills of southern France with the jagged peaks of the Pyrenees on one side most of the day on small roads through occasional stone villages with castles and cathedrals and plazas and ancient houses. After many hours of driving we descended onto a plain dominated by a wind farm. Huge white blades lurked like alien creatures in the howling wind. I stood by the roadside snapping a few pictures of the spinning turbines as the wind whipped the brush into an ominous frenzy. We passed through a cheesy Tijuana-like town into Spain and there was no doubt we had crossed a cultural border — all the stores were open on a Sunday — and headed down a road built into steep hillsides to a once sleepy fishing village called Cadaques.

The wind rarely relented our first few days there. Our windows rattled and from the balcony we could watch the Catalonian flags rippling with their red and yellow stripes and blue triangular patch with the white star in the middle. The lumpy arid hills of northeastern Spain rolled to the sea rimmed with rows of red tile roofed white houses and stone terraced olive orchards embodying centuries of handiwork and care. Many of the plants species were analogous to those of northern California. I am no botanist but there was almost not a single one I couldn’t recognize, if not name. Smashed olives were everywhere underfoot on the cobbled streets reminding me that the fruiting varieties have no business as a public landscaping tree.

This was our fourth week into the trip and the fourth place where we were resting for five or more days in an attempt to establish a bit of a base camp and a routine, rather than just a passing familiarity. Two days later the wind calmed and the flags flapped more leisurely as did the many blue banners with white circles and Sì in the middle, declaring their support for the Catalonian independence referendum which had many of their political leaders in serious hot water.

Olive orchards terraced with stone walls.

I was glad to be in Spain where I had a solid grasp of the language, even when French words kept popping out in the most unintended places. Cadaques was where the 20th century artist Salvador Dalì spent his summers, on a cove down by a quiet harbor. Now a museum, his home expanded up into the hills in a complex of connected delightful buildings that sparkled with simple elegance and zany expressions of eccentricity like the jewelry laden taxidermied white bear in the foyer. One room was round with a domed ceiling and benches built into the curved walls and amazing acoustics. Dalì’s studio had a special metal framed pulley system that allowed him to work on huge canvases while sitting down. Mirrors were artfully angled to reflect light from the sea and white walls. The swimming pool seemed to be shaped like a two-headed penis. Piscina is Spanish for pool. Would that be a piscinis?

The French have discovered Cadaques as it seemed every visitor we overheard was from France. The locals weaved in and out of French, Catalan, Spanish and English with such fluidity it almost didn’t matter what you said, everyone understood. The water was blue and green and clear and seemingly clean and you got the feeling that you could almost have been in Baja California as easily as the Mediterranean. Our initial sense of moving from France to Spain was that we had crossed not just a political boundary but a definite attitudinal and aesthetic shift. France was so perfect and precisely complex while Spain felt a little looser, lower key, not quite striving so hard.

While we could count the number of excellent meals we had in a whole month in France on just a few fingers, we now enjoyed a series of excellent restaurant experiences, one to the next. The seafood was fresh. Many of the restaurants had their own house wines and newly pressed olive oil, which was green and peppery, right from the trees tended among flat stone dry stacked walls that terrace all the way down the steep hillsides to just a few meters above the sea. Just as the language was much easier for Quincey and I to understand than French, the Spanish food was refreshing, not trying to do too much, flavorful without being too rich or saucy.

One of Salvador Dalì’s painting workshops with pulley system (right). 

The owner of a bakery directed us to a restaurant called Compartir, which means “to share.” We have never been true fans of microgastronomy — this-was-once-a-solid-then-a liquid-now-a-foam precious food painstakingly plated with tweezers. Had we known a little more about the restaurant’s approach to food preparation, we might have changed our minds. Thankfully we didn’t miss this place, with its great vibe and off the charts flavor combinations.

Our meal started with a cocktail of passion fruit, coffee and rum with rich cream on top and a few toasted marcona almonds. A salad of small tender endives arrived, with walnuts and white pillows that looked like a half dozen halves of burrata cheeses, that were actually foams of airy, tangy, gorgonzola. A red canoli followed. This was tuna tartar rolled inside a wrapper of thinly sliced tuna drizzled with balsamic vinegar, basil, capers and olive oil. The plates were all sized with plenty to share and we had a bottle of white minerally Albariño wine from Galicia. Next came a vegetable medley of green beans, peas, carrots, quail eggs and shrimp, with more foamy pillows that held the dish together with the creamy vinaigrette flavor of a salade nicoise. The restaurant was packed and we were in a cave shaped room, but things were remarkably quiet and mellow without a lot of waiter razzle dazzle or fuss over the miraculous food we were so enjoying. Our entree was two pieces of fish that had been poached or sous-vide then grilled accompanied by a sauce of mushrooms and almonds. We splurged with a glass of porto (served cold) and chocolate balls filled with liquid chocolate and raspberry sherbet. It was Halloween night and they looked like eyeballs. The bill amounted to not much more than we pay for a pizza, appetizer and bottle of wine at some restaurants at home.

The next day we walked 10 miles to and from a lighthouse where we could see the French Pyrenees sloping down to the Mediterranean on one side and the Spanish sea on the other. It was a hilly rocky path winding through the terraced olive orchards and hills dotted with manzanita and prickly pear and reminded of us a walk on the Horn of Africa that we took many years ago. At lunch time we huddled into a rustic restaurant bar for a cerveza and tapas to give our feet a rest before heading back out on this movable feast. We will fondly remember Cadaques.