Martigues – Madremanya
WEDNESDAY 22nd JUNE Posted 3 weeks later
Martigues – Arles – Béziers – Narbonne – Leucate – Argelès – Port Bou – Figueras – Girona – Madremanya. 408 km / 254 miles.
Downhearted? Us? Never! In the morning Milo & I went to collect the mercifully undamaged car and brought it back safely to the now vacant hotel car park. Passing a boulangerie I bought a baguette from the stunned, seated and grimacing woman inside— no artisanal loaves in this woman’s bakery — for our picnic. Then Von & I set about the hotel’s buffet breakfast — I got three big cups of café au lait. I do like my tea / coffee in the morning. There was no point in moaning to the receptionist about the car park or anything else, so we just left.
We drove across the Camargue towards Arles — no white horses, black bulls or pink flamingos. We did see a field of black cows and a single white horse later that day, but by then we were well out of the Camargue. It rained fitfully (Gwyn driving) but it was always the intention to stop and buy picnic stuff because the forecast said it was going to clear up later. There were Dégustation / Vente signs all along the road throughout the Corbières so when I saw I was going to be stuck behind a particularly lumbering tractor I swung violently off the road and we found ourselves proceeding down a long, stately avenue of old plane trees. I got out of the car just as it began to rain quite heavily, and ran to the Dégustation gate where a notice stated quite clearly that the times they were ouvert were 0900 – 1200 and 1500 – 1800. It was ten to one. There was a small nut brown woman holding a bottle of wine and locking the gate, and I cried “Est-ce possible d’acheter un ou deux bouteilles de votre vin?” “Certainement”, she replied and unlocked the gate. There were cats everywhere in the picturesque courtyard. We hurried through the rain to the chai which smelt magnificent, like all chais. I said rather apologetically “It’s just for a picnic” as she brought down the €200 Specialité du Chateau, and she replied “Then this will do perfectly,” handing me a bottle of 2006 Chateau de Java. “I make it myself,” she said proudly, “I’m the vigneron.” With a good grasp of English, as well. “I’m from Oxford,” she added, “and my husband’s from Stoke-on-Trent. His family are potters.” I bought two bottles of the Java and a bottle of her Merlot, and very good they were too. So if you’re looking for a sound AOC Corbières we can strongly recommend Chateau de Java, made by Penelope et Paul Dudson, SCEA de Haute Fontaine, 11100 Prat-de-Cest, Narbonne. Tel 04 68 41 03 73.
First audio book finished — Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. I didn’t much care for it.
We stopped at a super to buy the other picnic necessities and I spotted a Gillette Mach 3 razor, the type for which I have been regularly buying blades for years without actually having one, so I was forced to buy it. Marketing, eh? It was getting warmer and Von was scanning the map for green bordered (Michelin maps = picturesque) roads. She selected one between an étang and the sea at Leucate and we stopped again for some reason at another super in the new village then we pulled off the road onto the old, abandoned route départemental and turned into a field of maquis. Cosseted by good air-conditioning, we hadn’t noticed the temperature climbing and when we opened the doors, two things hit us — the heat and the clamour of crickets. The Mediterranean at last.
Picnic with the crickets
Milo went exploring, so did Von, who came back with dill, rosemary and thyme. Just walking through the brush released so many scents. And Penelope’s wine was delicious.
We carried on down the coast, Von driving, and went through a succession of indistinguishable beach holiday villages, ending up at Argelès Plage where 45 years ago Gwyn and 13 other students including Heather “I know” Moffat slept on the beach having driven down from London non-stop. We had had a camp site booked inland at Laroque but it was too hard to find after 24 hours driving so we all crashed out on the beach. Nobody minded — at least no one who wanted to disturb fourteen tired but healthy 20 year olds.
We chose the winding, picturesque route over the border through Banyuls and Port-Bou, past immense marshalling yards on both sides of the now abandoned border (well done Schengen, bad luck Milo who once again didn’t get his passport stamped). Once in Spain the road improved dramatically, winding through spanking new tunnels and immaculately restored villages. If Spain is a country in deep financial doo-doos at least they frittered the money away on infrastructure and home renovation, so they’ll have somewhere comfortable to live while they pay back the bankers.
We stopped at the third super of the day in Figueras, once again finding parking impossible. Bought Spanish dog food, BEER and GIN as well as comestibles.
From Figueras we took the autostrada because I had forgotten to buy a map for Spain and Frieda, our 10 year old satnav, only covers Ermine Street and Watling Street. We had to come off at junction 6; we sailed past the sign but there was no trace of an exit. Von had clearly missed it in the roadworks, or while I was weepily singing along to Don Henley’s magnificent and moving “A Month of Sundays”. It was miles to the next turning and we’d have to schlep all the way back on the autostrada to get the right turn off, and pay double the toll, and there was the dream of a cold beer in the sunset getting more and more distant — and then there was Junction 6. The sign to the exit was posted at least 15 miles before the junction. Very confusing. Once off the fast road La Bisbal d’Emporda was clearly signposted, as was the turn off to Madremanya. Then at the village we found the one track lane to Mas Caterina, set on a hillside south of Madremanya. Von had booked it for 5 nights, and I hadn’t shown much interest, knowing that she rarely puts a foot wrong.
Mas Caterina, Madremanya
She well and truly plonked both feet in it this time — both feet completely right. Mas Caterina is lovely. A rabble of dogs greeted us, jumping up on the car, dying to attack Milo which of course they did as soon as we let him out. Milo’s first steps in Spain! Poor boy. We were met by Jenny, one of the owners, who walked with me and Milo up to our shack while Von drove. Jenny was monosyllabic and disinclined to chat. “How long have you lived here?” I asked brightly. “Long,” she grunted. The shack is great. Huge bed, living room, bath, shower, two loos, kitchen with all the necessary implements, terrace facing north and east with lovely views of the countryside. Just what we wanted.
The view of the village of Madremanya from our shack
Next to the cold beer I had planned, of course. We unpacked, glad of the respite from daily travel. Milo was pleased, as well. We asked about local restaurants and were told of three — La Riera, which we’d been to with Shaunagh a few years back, a tapas-y bar in Cellins, and La Plaça in Madremanya itself — very elegant and pricey. Travel stained and weary, we opted for the tapas bar. When we got there the village was shuttered and deserted. Very clean though. Immaculately restored. But closed. So we turned round and went for La Riera. Closed.
Third choice, La Plaça. Yes, it was posh, with immaculate roughstone vaulting throughout. But it was open, and we could just have one course. Von had magret with a fruit sauce and I had fish with topinambour (no, you’ll have to look it up too). Delicious, topped off with a fresh Rosado. Interesting to hear a party of Brits and Dutch loudly discussing the financial problems of the Grampian NHS in one of the more expensive Spanish restaurants.
We slept soundly.
