Shirley
May be it is because I am a ‘Pisces’ or because I was born a few yards from the beach in Sussex but it feels inevitable that my mood is always lifted and I feel most at peace with the sound of lapping water. How lucky it is therefore that I live so close to such a wonderful stretch of coastline.

(Pisces and swimming are as natural as the seasons, it stands to reason therefore that lying on a warm golden beach, granules of sand slithering through my fingers and the background sound of gently lapping water sends me into ecstasy. How lucky am I therefore to live so close to a wonderful stretch of coastline.)

At this time of year I have been blessed with almost my own little paradise, so few other folk are taking their stroll along my stretch of sand that I actually welcome the odd figure on the horizon. Especially if they are walking with a furry friend. My visits this winter are tinged with a deep sadness as my walking companion of so many years is no longer with us. Oh the joy she expressed when she knew where we were going, crying with excited anticipation. On lifting the tail gate she would shoot out like a rocket, run round in excited circles and bark at me ‘come on Mum stop fiddling with locking the car’! Then we were off. There are three favourite walks from this spot, one a scramble over some small dunes and straight onto miles of golden sand. The second is to turn right through the grass and into pine cone collecting mode under the majestic trees, a most wonderful spot for doggy sniffs and smells. The third would make her become completely deaf as she headed straight off to the left and where the Tech river comes down to the sea. It is amazing how dogs can hear a biscuit drop from miles away but can’t hear frantic calls and whistles! Being a not very brave dog the noise of a lapping wave was very scary but the river was another thing altogether, shallow fresh mountain water to drink, and even better sometimes lovely dark stinking sludge to really squidge around in.

Spring of course brings a few more visitors to enjoy the lovely promise of warm days and fun to come. Quite often the beach is littered with the remnants of winter winds and storms – great logs and trees end up in a high line stretching into the distance. All sorts of treasures litter the sand, shells, odd shoes and wonderful knurled pieces of drift wood, some bleached white evoking thoughts of where they might have originated. All this will be cleared before the main visitor season starts. As summer approaches I am always surprised how few folk feel it is warm enough to spend time enjoying this wonderful place. It seems that only those from northern climes delight in the barmy breezes and clear blue water, only frenetic July and August will suffice for the rest of France!

And so to high summer – although so very busy the beach is so vast that you can always find a spot to rest upon. In fact one of my secret pleasures is to head there before breakfast, picking up a pane au chocolat and newspaper on the way, laying my towel on the now pristine sand and throwing myself into the clear sparkling water. I don’t intentionally throw myself in, but the ever changing bank of sand at the waters edge forever thwarts my intended graceful entrance. After my chocolaty indulgence and a sunbathe to dry myself I find I have been gradually surrounded by excited children and families burdened down under great heaps of beach paraphernalia. I spend a short while watching the wonder shown by chubby-legged children dipping their toes in the sea for the first time. They are totally absorbed busy filling their buckets of water, spilling most on their way back to Mum and Dad. Great piles of sand are dispensed in all directions, and I would like to know how many holes does one beach need? I of course reminisce back to when my children were the same age, on this same beach, having the same time of their life.

September is the best time for us ‘Argelesien’ . Almost over night the migration goes rapidly in reverse and some of us oldies frolic in the warmth of the water and look thankfully at the still speed boats and almost empty life guard station. It is hard to believe we will have all this beauty of nature to ourselves and feel the warmth of the autumn sun right up until Christmas

Hilda
ASPECTS OF ESPIRA, MY VILLAGE

I stand in our garden and look down on the road, down on the Hortensia and Aeleagnus that line the route, down on lower homes opposite, perhaps built some thirty years ago. They are pleasing, set back amongst well-established gardens. Tall trees surround many of them and one may glimpse a chimney or perhaps a window glinting in the sun. Some have a more open aspect, one such has fruit trees to the side. Peach and Apricot can be a viable small business. Another puzzles me. I count five fanciful chimneys but only one postbox. Perhaps a fireplace for each room lived in? Maybe the salon and les chambres? Now, only one chimney smokes and the birds, I believe sparrows, have commandeered the others. I long to look inside this house of five chimneys.

On the path below and just appearing, is a wheelchair. It is moving towards the ancient village and seated in it, an elderly lady. She is small and frail and on her head a hat is pulled low to keep her ears warm. A coverlet does the same for her body and legs. Her gloved hands rest in her lap and she is smiling at something her minder has said. Everyday she passes by my home and I have never seen her frown. As she moves away, a Redstart appears, sits on our railings; a bright eye, a red splash and tail bob-bobbing up and down, up and down. I hope my ginger cat is busy elsewhere!

Our bungalow and the houses around us are not ancient. Our homes have been built on what was a fruit-growing area. Neat properties covering two lotissements have replaced neat rows of Apricot trees. Does the old lady regret this? I long to ask her. She would have passed the Mairie and the car park. She may have thought of loss as every year, on llth November at 11.00 a.m., the villagers meet here and walk behind the mayor and two local boys carrying a wreath. Solemnly we progress to the small cemetery. In this shaded, pleasant resting place and at the foot of the Memorial Stone, the wreath is lowered. The mayor speaks, there is a roll of drums and the boys take turns to call out the names of the fallen ‘sons’ of the Great War. It is moving. I think of all the villages doing likewise, and in sadness I think of the many young British men who died defending this land.

The village, towards which the wheelchair makes its slow progress, dates to around the tenth century. It reaches a junction guarded by the stone figure of a water-carrier beneath which stands a water tap and marble trough. This is where the village begins. Once and on wash days the women would have congregated here. Now, it is an historic reminder. Between tall, terraced homes, we tread the ancient alleyways. The sun’s rays struggle to light them and here and there an open door tries to encourage as much sunlight as possible. I glimpse patterned tiled floors, old and worn maybe but scrubbed and well cared for. I wish I could look inside! We move under an ancient arch, turn a narrow corner and emerge into La Place, the heart of Espira. An old olive tree stands to the side and left of it is the old and beautiful little church. It is small and not over-ornate and occasionally services are held; also baptisms and weddings. In Pablo Cassals season, quartets, chorale groups and choirs entertain us. The acoustics created by the vaulted church roof are ideal. Outside and on the right of the olive tree, is the Salle de Patrimoine. Through its glass doors, one glimpses old artefacts and the remains of an ancient unearthed tomb. If one wishes, one can enter and study this historic marvel.

Set on a rise, the village looks down on the woods, hills and grasslands of the countryside. Unseen, yet not unheard, is the life-giving river which nurtures it. Escarpments and hills rise above, and it is to these that John and I are drawn. We set off, following a stony path upwards into the vineyards. We climb steadily until we level out on a stony track. Already far below us lies our village. We can see our bungalow and the layout of our estate. We take a rest before we begin another upward climb. At the next level and far below us, villages nestle in the foothills of the valleys and in the distance a larger town, Illê-sur-Tet. Higher still tramp our boots, and the outline of Perpignan comes into view. On a clear day we may glimpse the sea. It is a breath-taking climb, not, I would add, because of the physically challenging aspects but because of the panoramic view.

A ‘bouclé’, a turn, leads us downward again. Cattle regard us; mothers call out to their young, fluffy calves. I wish I could stroke one. They look adorable. Hunters use these tracks. One Sunday and walking with friends, a boar ran across our path and ahead we saw hunters standing by their four-by-fours. Accusingly, they eyed us and we could hear their hounds baying among the trees and bushes. We should not have been there! Quietly, we hurried past. I hoped the boar would get away! We have seen adders slipping into the grassy verges; colourful red and blue-winged grasshoppers have strewn our paths. We have seen fields of wild mushrooms with enormous heads, gathered them in our coats and carried them home. They were delicious and one head sufficient for two of us!

Looking up from our lounge window, it is almost possible to follow the rambling routes we take. Towering above our rocky paths runs the ridge which then descends into the next valley. Standing on this ridge are my ‘green Indians’, lines of trees looking down, watching us and looking very like Indians appearing over the hills in a Cowboy Western. One misdemeanour, not in their or Nature’s favour, and I can visualise them rushing down, green twigs flailing, to defend their territory!

Even though our amenities are few, this is a very pleasant place to live in. We have a tennis court but not a café, we have a post office but not a shop, but it is of little import. We shall stay as long as we can. After all, Prades is only a ten minute drive away. Perhaps one day this will be too much but for now we practice self-sufficiency, grow as much as we can, walk often, admire our views and enjoy our village life.

Aspects of a Southern Paradise: Lizzie Price.

They ask me why I came, and why I stay! I reply ‘I simply fell in love.’ And that is how it was. I well recall the breath stopping emotion I felt when first exiting the motorway and seeing the majestic snow-capped peaks of the Canigou and the dragon-like contours of the Alberes, magnificent against the backcloth of a clear blue sky. I felt a magic that day: a stirring in the soul that is the stuff of true love. The magic has stayed with me, but as with all love affairs there have been frustrations, but those too few to mention.

I look out now over the wide river valley toward the wooded slopes on the far side, where ancient terraces of stark, gnarled vines rest amidst prolific scrub oak and the now sleeping cherry trees. Soon a profusion of white will appear, heralding the coming of the earliest cherries in France, and a once naked hillside will wear again its many coloured cloak as the wild flowers of spring burst into being, and bees become drunk on their nectar. On the other side of the hill the wide Roussillon Plain reaches out hungrily to the waters of the Mediterranean, whilst inland the Canigou rises, its commanding presence gently dominating all. But these I cannot see – not yet. For that I must first cross the river and climb the hill.

From the hilltop I gaze down to the valley bottom, where, from my high vantage point, the fast moving river snakes its way like a narrow silvery thread, heaving and gushing as it rushes down to the River Tech beyond. There was a storm last night with strong winds which moaned and whistled as they battered the ancient fabric of the house, so it is no surprise now to see tree trunks being carried along by its raging current like feathers in the breeze. The winds have calmed now so the walking is easy, but looking back down along the route I have just taken, I decide that the crossing of the narrow, mossy causeway – today barely passable because of the raised level of the water – had been a foolish gesture. I will return by some other less precarious route, I think!

But this is just one aspect of where I live: one season. It is December and winter snows have not yet come. When they do a mantle of white will cover this valley transforming it into a frosted wonderland like a scene from some northern fairy tale. In my garden, the grass is yet clumpy and damp from the morning dews; birds sing in the unseasonal warmth, and feed unimpeded from the feeders I have hanging like lanterns through the Judas tree. Hunting dogs howl from their pen on the hilltop in anticipation of yet another day’s hunting, and my garden is a testament to nature’s confusion, with roses blooming and trees budding well before their time.

The town lies hidden from the house on the other side of the hill, although clusters of dwellings straddle the undulating landscape between it and me. I am comforted by their presence; by the sounds emanating from the homesteads, and the spirals of smoke rising wraithlike from the chimneys with the ever present aromatic scent of burning pine, cherry or apple. As I look out over the valley and the concertinaed hills I see the distant Mediterranean – just a narrow ribbon of blue. The Canigou gleams white-topped against a cloudless sky. I walk briskly on past the cherry orchards, the olive groves and the dormant vines. Long abandoned casots are dotted here and there along the route, lending an out of time charm to the landscape. No longer needed to shelter the workers of the land, they serve now other needs as is evidenced by glimpsing the empty beer bottles within and the charred remains of late night fires without.

Soon, the glorious mimosa will thread a blaze of golden yellow throughout the landscape. It is already budding. It marks the first real promise of spring. It is the trailblazer of the season to come. They tell me that much of its blossom is destined for the Paris perfume houses, but I know that in the town market traders will be selling it for weeks to come. But, it is enough for me to breathe its delicate scent and gaze upon its extraordinary and vibrant beauty as I walk the many trails.

Having walked the length of the high ridge I descend once more to the valley bottom. Crossing the river again – this time over a solid stone bridge, I take a detour off the main route down a quiet leafy lane. I know this leads to yet another, smaller tributary of the Tech, where I again find myself crossing a stream – less turbulent this time – and on to a narrow footpath on the other side which will hug the water’s edge unto my destination. The uneven rocky ground with its mass of tangled roots is strewn with brambles, bracken and ivy now as well as a scattering of empty chestnuts shells. Moss coated stones underfoot make the walking of it less than easy. But, later, violets will peep shyly through new green shoots, and cowslips unhindered, will thrive in the shade of the lichen covered trees. This wooded path eventually opens out into a clearing with a high waterfall cascading down over a smooth, time sculptured rock face into a large pond which, in turn, flows into the stream I have just walked beside. I call it the Fairy Dell. I come here often when the intense, unrelenting heat of summer, and the inevitable visiting crowds, become too much for me. Then, I sit listening to the sound of the water and the cacophony of birdsong and the buzzing of bees, my mind alive with imagined stories of the Otherworld. This place does that for me.

I do not linger today for it is winter still and I am anxious to be on my way before darkness falls. I know that on the other side of the dell the valley sides are steep, pathless and hard to climb. Even so, I have climbed them often, holding on to roots, rocks and any likely protuberance to pull myself ever upward, it always seems, to eventually reach the old donkey trail leading to the ancient hilltop village. This trail was at one time the main route connecting the nearby villages and the town. It is narrow but one can see still the deep stone terraces put in place centuries ago for man and his donkey. I try to imagine how it must have been and the kind of people who would have walked it. I recall that in summer wild roses and blackberry bushes line the track, but that is for another day: another season. Deeper into the valley, although I cannot see them, are the remains of old talcum powder mines, and mines which reputedly once yielded semi precious gemstones.

In winter, like a jealous lover, I relish the feeling that the valley is mine alone. Few people are to be seen so it feels then a very private place, existing just for me. I cherish the sense of intimacy between it and me. I can meditate on the ever changing nature of life through contemplation of the seasons and the promise inherent in each. I know that once summer comes the valley will be as a different land; will wear a different garment. The delicacy of spring and its promise will have burgeoned into the intoxicating, heady scents and exotic flora of summer. The sounds, too, will be different; then chirping crickets, the deafening call of frogs at night; the cheeping of the swifts, swallows and house martins who return each year to take up residence in the stone crevices of the house, will create a summer symphony. And not to be forgotten, the imperious Hoopoe and the shy, fleeting Golden Oriole will once more visit my garden, and the now hibernating bats will perform their nightly fly past.

In the late afternoon sun I will sit, watch and listen and know that all about me is perfect. But in summer, too, my peace will be temporarily shattered as tourists arrive en masse to claim their share in this land. And, share it with them, I must. I do not own it: rather it owns me. And so, when the summer heat brings the World to my door I try to remember that I am one of the privileged few who can call this place my home through all its seasons and aspects.

Sue

My Place in the Pyrénées-Orientales

At dawn in mid-January the sun is blearily opening one eye. Punctuated by trees and hills, a faint red glow stretches across my horizon beneath a cloudless turquoise sky. Ah, this will be a good day for going to My Place, I feel.

I step from my door dressed in stout shoes, warm trousers and sweater, and suddenly realise that this is, after all, January, and I nip back in for my snuggly scarf – the one Louise gave me for Christmas. Suitably swathed, I sally forth in a south-easterly direction, crossing a gravel path and passing a parked car. I’m rather irritated by its presence, because its cold metal hulk takes something away from this pure pink-hued morning. I walk on, and very soon my still-sleepy senses fill with the delicate aromas of fresh pine trees and eucalyptus – nothing like the household cleaning fluids that claim the same scent.

Of course, there are dangers. Not from sanglier or snakes, not here, but as I look upward into the highest, sunniest parts of the pines, I can count maybe 18 nests, all fluffy-white and innocent-looking, of processionary caterpillars. These are the beasts that will soon be forming single-file to commandeer the area, miltary-style, with their vile allergy-inducing hairiness. French combattants in the First World War were known as ‘les Poilus’, but I’m sure these hairy horrors are more worthy of that sobriquet. They should be declared National Enemy Number One. I wonder what they are for, exactly; apart from procreating themselves, that is. I take a slight detour, so that I don’t feel directly under threat. And what are those cedars up to, so elegant and tall, so dark green against a solid, now bright-blue sky, so Mediterranean? They cleverly conceal their eye-watering pollen. Luckily there is no breath of wind this morning, so there won’t be any of that blowing around yet. As I pass mimosa shrubs, with their feathery fronds, I remind myself that all that glitters is not gold. Their subsequent gleaming glamour will not be all that it seems. In a month or two there will also be tears. I tell myself to cover myself from head to toe, and to wear mask and goggles while outdoors for a couple of months. Staying indoors is definitely not an option, amongst all this beauty. I sneeze loudly, but there is no-one around to hear, thankfully. I feel sorry for breaking the silvery silence. A little further on are lovely oleander, beginning to show new green leaves, ready for their summer-long display of cream, pink and crimson. I love these hardy ubiquitous shrubs, which are so generous with their long months of flowering right into late autumn. Of course, I know they are utterly poisonous, but then, I’m not going to actually eat one. So I can be forgiving of their particular hidden sins. I remind myself to come back with my secateurs to pinch a few cuttings for my back garden. Now I come upon several huge cacti, with their spiny lobe-like growths. I love them when they are in flower -large pom-poms in bright orange, but right now they look a bit sad, with their squashed purple fruits lying around on the ground.

As I walk on , turning slightly to the right, I now espy massive Pic Néolous, white-capped with early-morning frost. The sun will soon take care of that, so I enjoy the temporariness of the sight. I’m not sure I like the communications mast atop the peak, but needs must, I suppose, in a 21st-century world. In such clear conditions, I wish I was up there myself this morning, gazing down on the Mediterranean coast roughly to the north, and across to Spain to the south. What a reward all that always is, in return for the slog of getting there. I make a mental note to visit the charming Chalet des Albères again soon, for a scrumptious lunch and views down onto Fort Bellegarde and beyond to distant hills, each one enveloping the next in the distant mists.

As I walk, treading carefully over one or two rough stones, I am remembering how My Place was waterlogged, several inches deep in heavy rainwater, only a couple of months ago. An underlying layer of clay prevents water soaking away quickly here, so this walk would have been unpleasant back then. Sometimes I have picked mushrooms here, and after getting approval from the pharmacist, I have made delicious soup with them. Bounty, then, and not yet another health hazard. Now the soft earth is giving up fine blades of grass, and there is no hint of real dampness in the stony, sandy earth. It’s easy to see why vines thrive so vigorously in the area, this type of soil being well-suited to them, I’m told.

A fence is blocking any further progress straight on, but I decide not to retrace my steps – always a defeatist option, I feel. So the alternative is another gravel path, which is very straight, and slightly uphill, but nothing strenuous. Ahead of me now, in the distance, I can clearly see snow-capped Mt Canigou, that symbol of Catalanity, rising majestically above all else. Today’s sun certainly won’t suffice to melt that, and the ski-resorts would be glad of more snow in the coming months, I’m sure. I won’t be going that far, not today at any rate. To my right now is a pretty house, though unoccupied at the moment. It is owned by some second-homers, who come down from Paris about 6 times a year. I know them quite well. Originally from Guadeloupe, they ooze happiness and friendliness, and I always stop for a chat when they are around. Along their fence are the beginnings of jonquils, piercing their way through the crisp earth-coating. I do hope they don’t get too eager, then get frozen off in a late frost, or even snow, before reaching their full head-bobbing potential.

Soon I arrive back at my starting point. I am refreshed, ready for breakfast, and all is well in My Place. You must know this place – it’s my garden.

Lesley
I wonder what it was like to live in an ammunition factory village in a beautiful part of France. Hard to imagine that something so dangerous should be placed in beautiful surrounding in a cove in the South East of France but it was.
The people that worked and lived there considered themselves to be lucky. The pay was better, the work easier and the live style and surroundings better than for those people working on the boats or in the vineyards. It was a lovely village with a large hall to work in, schools for the children to be educated and there were dances, fetes and even marriages that took place.
Some of the younger female workers considered the beaches to be their own private parts of heaven. They were not supposed to be on the beach or swimming there as it was too dangerous but on a bright sunny, hot summer day it must have been hard to imagine dynamite exploding, body parts being blown apart so close to such tranquility and beauty.
There were beautiful gardens as well as a beautiful shoreline and the children were allowed to run and play there as they wished. Food was good and the clothing for workers were warm and clean in the winter and cool and clean in the summer. The children enjoyed going to school together. Great friendships were made there between them. They took it in turns in the winter to bring in the firewood, set the wood burning stove and keep it alight throughout the day. Sometime that stove smoked a little and made them cough a bit but the warm clean wood smell was so comforting.
Mothers used to be a little tired and breathless sometimes, it seemed that this happened most when they were working with the nitro glycerin – they used to laugh and say that their hearts would beat faster for the stuff as if for an errant lover. Time had a special meaning for the workers on site – it was important to keep the processed glycerin cool and to pack the boxes with the dynamite in time for shipping. There must have been some excitement when the batch was being escorted off the village site to go by train to the waiting ships for transportation. The workers often talked about what the places must be like and about how without their work canals would not be dug, railways not able to run through mountain areas.
The Saturday dances were fun occasions and romances started there… there were more than a few marriages that took place because of those dances. Children were born and christened. Picnics sometime took place and the life there seemed so good. Then there were the accidents, some not too serious and some ending in deaths and mutilations. However like child birth the experiences were pushed to the back of people’s minds in between and the workers consoled themselves by thinking it was a workers error, or a particularly hot day or a stray batch that caused the problem and it was unlikely to happen to them. The people who died here were buried here. Life went on.
Now the place is used for tourists and I sometimes wonder if whilst lying on the beach sunbathing or snorkeling in the waters in the bay, do they see the ghosts of those people who lived, worked, schooled, laughed, loved and died there. Do they hear the laughing children? Do they smell the sulphur smell or feel their hearts racing with the remnants of glycerin.
I sometimes wonder at those times past and wonder if there existed a small nervous child as I once was who sat at the back of the class in school, ran home to Mum for tea and secretly prayed that Dad would come in that night handsome and safe, with a smile on his face, in his acid eaten overalls ready to swing her in the air and laugh.
I hope most of the memories and ghosts on the site are happy, even those who died there glad that in doing so they may have given their family a good live. I look at the plants and wonder what the garden looked like and where the trees stood. I imagine a summer, a dance in the evening and the young women planning what they will wear while the men wonder what music they will have to dance to and what drink might be available. I imagine that there were church services for christenings, marriages and deaths.
I feel attached and linked to this site. I often want to smile and then sometimes to cry when there for no real reason. Who knows why? I am just glad that the memories are being preserved and the place kept safe for the future. Some places have a big place in history and my Clos De Paullies is one of them. If you visit give a though not only to it’s beauty, the sea, sand, plants and walkways but think of the work, the danger, the history as well. More that all of that imagine yourself as one of them living and working in that village and that time. Say a prayer for those that were lost and a thank you for the fun and sunny days they also had.

Ethel
THE CHAPEL OF SANTA ENGRACIA

The hermitage of Ste Engracia is a chapel found on the summit of a hill to the South of Amélie-les-Bains, and to the North of Montalba d’Amélie.
When Charlemagne won Northern Catalonia from the Sarrasins in 811, he installed a feudal system which was adopted throughout the rest of Europe. The mountains were covered with castles, especially on the frontier of the Empire. One such castle was named the Chateau of Mont Dony, after the hill it was built on.
It is the chapel of this castle, abandoned and then destroyed, which was granted a reprise by the first pilgrims. There came an edict to restore or rebuild these chapels for pilgrims and hermits. The hermits of Roussillon, between 17C – 18C, were not religious persons living in isolation; they were members of catalan civilian society, physically accessible, possessing knowledge and very much respected. Locals would consult them to resolve problems, especially those of moral nature.
But this situation lasted only until the French Revolution. All the religious edifices not providing a parish seat, had to be sold as possessions of the state. This was the fate of Ste Engracia. The chapel’s namesake, St Engrace de Saragosse, was a virgin and martyr; but her history is another story! Several years later, these anti-clerical rules were relaxed, but Ste Engracia remained abandoned.

The chapel, situated on a hill dominating the Montalba valley, can be dated to the 11th or 12th C from its Romanesque construction. It is dedicated to the virgin and martyr Ste Engrace de Saragosse, born to a Christian family in Bracara, Portugal.
A military leader of the Narbonne Galia asked for her hand in marriage; thus began the long journey across Spain to Narbonne, under the escort of her uncle and eighteen other companions.
On the journey, Engrace observed the violent persecution of Christians. During the period 112 – 313, The Age of the Martyrs, the Emperor Diocletian, by a series of decrees, ordered general persecutions against them over the whole of the Roman Empire. In Spain, these persecutions began in Gerona and finished at Saragosse – where Engrace and her eighteen companions were killed.
When she arrived in Sarragosse, Engrace went to see the governor of this town, to reproach him for his cruelty and indifference. This exposed her allegiance to Christianity and she was imprisoned and martyred in 303, as were her companions. She underwent innumerable tortures; her companions were decapitated.
The remains of Ste Engracia were laid in a crypt in the Parish of St Engracia de Saragosse. A basilica was constructed on this site to honour the Innumerable Martyrs of Sarragosse, witness to the massacre of the Christian community of that city.
This is one version of that Saint’s story; she must have had a different name prior to saintly status, and there are other accounts!

In 2003, a campaign, to “Safeguard the Patrimony”, was launched by a local association. Much restoration work was needed on the chapel; a new bell was installed in the unique arched pinnacle; the sturdy door is typical of the region, with iron spirals and a great bolt of iron, with a beast’s head, to fasten it with.
It’s not just the chapel that’s a favourite place, nor the climb up there: it is a combination of the effort involved and the sense of openness and peace at the top of the hill which makes it a memorable experience.
Let me take you there!
There are several points of access to the chapel. I favour the last one, on the route to Montalba, so signed, just as you leave Amélie-les-Bains: The fort above the town is passed, and the road followed around its many bends, until you face south, the peak known as” La Donna Morte” visible. There is just room to park opposite the track entrance, signed to the chapel.
At first the track is wide and open, with views to the east. Then it steepens and becomes more stepped and loose- stoned, the trees screening either side. From time to time, “windows” appear among the trees, revealing a glimpse of the landscape beyond: here, to the east, a view of the plain and the coast – if it’s clear! there, a framed picture of Amélie down below in its valley, which seems narrower from this angle; then, a section of the higher hills just after Amélie appears, often along with reverbations of gunfire and the barking of hunting dogs!
At a certain point, there is a choice of route: east to a view-point with a large metal cross; continue west to a ‘source’, the next nearest, or on and on – to Arles-sur-Tech and beyond; perhaps to join up with the GR10, the main track spanning the breadth of the Pyrenees. But step up in front of you and turn right onto a narrower, more uneven track, running alongside the south face of the hill, with “La Donna Morte” lying to your left.
Finally the trees open onto a clearing leading to the chapel. It is TINY, beautifully restored and, until recently, without electricity; the main lighting is a large candelabrum on a rope pulley. There are small stained-glass windows; a solid stone altar, with a modest, rather foreign statue of the Virgin and Child.
The acoustics are wonderful! If there are not too many other walkers (the chapel is much visited), I sing to my soul’s content, just for the joy of it. As it was that time of year, there was a lovely crèche,( with the usual Catalan pooper in the bushes!), built using natural materials from around the chapel.
When it is very clear, you have a stunning view over the whole of the plain to the coast, from the view point, just past the chapel; someone has built a small wall, curved, and topped with those illustrated tiles, detailing all the features of the panorama.
Most recently, I made this visit on the first day of this year. My sister was staying for two weeks over the holiday. We both woke early, in spite of staying up to see in the New Year. The day was perfect – clear, warm and still.
I like to mark the end of one year and the beginning of the next with some memorable activity.
A breakfast of boiled eggs, ryvitas and a flask of coffee accompanied us, and by 10am we were eating it in beautiful sunlight and the stunning surroundings of the Chapel of Ste Engracia.
Not every place of pilgrimage and worship has a beneficent ambiance, but I feel this site, devoted to St Engrace, does. It encourages contemplation, stillness, silence – and song! It makes my soul sing – quite literally!!