Le Perthus to Banyuls-sur-Mer….with Patrick O’Connell  

(Walking the GR10 Trail in the French Pyrenees).

The final chapter of Patrick’s retrospective travelogue, part anecdotal, but also a social history of the Pyrenees Mountains he’s walked, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea.
“Hopefully, it will give encouragement to readers and walkers of all ages. As Mark Twain once said: “Explore, Dream, Discover”.

“Cheap beer and pastis and Cuban cigars,
Lizards in alcohol and ladies in bars,
Whiskey and vodka and gin all aflow,
Street vendors hassling – so hard to say NO!

(Kate Hareng: An Hour in Le Perthus)

Le Perthus, one of the border towns through which half a million Spanish Republican refugees poured after the fall of Barcelona to Franco Fascists troops at the end of the civil war.

It probably was one of the most tragic mass exoduses of all times and sadly the French refugee camps were not the most accommodating places for the Spanish; trapped on the beaches, surrounded by the sea on one side and barbed wire on the other. The local paper wrote, ‘a haunting cohort of civilians, armed fighters, vehicles and their animals’. The refugees were ungraciously considered “foreign undesirables” and dubbed “The Reds”.

Today the town is a no man’s land dedicated to gaudy consumerism, with discount stores on its main street literally straddling the French/Spanish border. The town property tax has recently been scrapped with revenue now provided by parking charges from the huge influx of week-end shoppers. A good political idea from the incumbent Maire, Albert Chiscano, although it may also be partly attributed to the controversial brothel on the Spanish side of the town.

Standing outside a closed Office de Tourism I’m approached by the local Municipal policeman making it his business to converse and discreetly check me out. Border town surveillance is still active here and one also cannot help noticing the old customs post at the Spanish end of town as if waiting for a future date to be reopened again.

Le Perthus frontiere border
French-Spanish border at Le Perthus                                                                                                  

My problem now at almost 5.30pm:  I’m 2 ½ hours away from Chalet de l’Albere, leg weary and hungry, even after my rest day in Le Boulou. My ideal solution is a taxi, but the policeman informs me the local taxi has stopped travelling up to the chalet following a few accidents in the past.

He suggests a phone call to the Chalet to explain my dilemma. I receive a sympathetic response from my host and thirty minutes later a white Peugeot van screeches to a halt outside the Office de Tourisme. Yannick, from the Chalet, jumps out and warmly greets me before throwing my backpack into the back and continues a roller coaster ride up the narrow forest road through scenery so breathtaking I almost forgot to be terrified. It’s little wonder the local taxi decline to take fares to the isolated Chalet.

Later in the evening as Yannick serves dinner, I express again my appreciation and give him a generous contribution which he reluctantly accepts. Nice Guy.

Having paid my bill after dinner, (first time eating beef cheek), I give a deserved tip and suddenly, the waitress rings a brass bell behind her, followed by wild cheering from the kitchen. This seemingly is normal ‘fun’ response to tipping. In France tipping is not an obligation as the service charge is already added to the bill total but a small contribution is a nice way of showing appreciation for good hospitality and service.


During after-dinner conversation I learn of an incident that took place locally in 2000. An English nurse had been missing for seven years and was found dead near to where I plan to stay the following evening. This story intrigued me and, on my mind as I stayed, all alone, in the ‘cave-like’ Refuge Tomy. On my return home I did some research and received good information from the informative Pyrenees Orientales website, P-O Life.

It is a story of happiness and heartbreak when a young English couple seek out a new life in the Pyrenees Mountain commune. They refurbish an old church and turn it into a secluded holiday retreat. Unfortunately, the marriage ran into difficulties leading to mental health issues and the ultimate tragedy of her disappearance.

The story is told in the husband’s book, “Daybreak into Darkness” and on my return I sourced it from a second-hand book shop in the UK. Ironically, my book had a signed message by the author to his friend in the local Pyrenees commune. I wonder how the book found its way to the UK book shop. Another story there, I’m sure.

“Night can be black, blacker than coal, when there’s cloud in the way, but when that cloud rolls back other worlds unfold that you can’t see by day.
(Johnny Duhan: The Dark Side)

An early morning departure from Chalet d’Albere leading up through the forest, only to face a cold buffeting wind above the tree line and not relenting until the shaded protection below Pic Sailfort.

The morning sun rises higher in the sky, but the biting wind continues to nag my face.  I cannot but think of Victor Hugo’s Gastibelza, “Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne me rendra fou …” (The chill wind over the mountain will drive me wild …)   Refuge Tomy will be a welcoming sight for sure, even though it’s literally ‘a hole in the wall’.

The refuge, which has astroturf flooring, is barely the size of a 4-man tent but is well protected from the harsh elements. A bush nearby resembles the head of a wolf, presumably shaped by the incessant winds! Hanging from rusty angle-iron struts in the roof are bags of nuts left by previous walkers for emergency provisions. It is lovingly maintained by a man from Perpignan, named Maurice. A well-worn and crispy guest book makes interesting reading (from my Google translation):

“16th June 2011: Last stop on the Pyrenean way. The only thing left is the descent to Banyuls. It’s the end of a marathon because it started in 2004. When we started there were five of us; now we are only three. That’s life … Claude, Bernard and Christian from Perpignan (three seventy-year-olds)”.

“7th July 2011: I came looking for quiet. I found a spirit, undoubtedly the spirit of Maurice and of those who feel at home in the Pyrenees. It is good to be here. Franck”.

Seeing the sun rise at dawn is both magical and memorable as the apricot dawn blushes over the eastern horizon.  Can there be a better place to spend the last night of an epic mountain adventure? All alone but surprisingly not lonely.  When you’re on your own, you can get a little judgemental with oneself. Incidents you’ve forgotten about, remembered from the past, all of a sudden flash right in front of you. I know one cannot change the past but soulful reflection can make future decisions easier to manage.

Total isolation, like here in a mountain cave, can be somewhat comforting to allay the night fears. Luckily one doesn’t have to worry about bear attacks but more like the intrusion of tiny furry friends’ activity during the night.

Thermal sounds of the mountain: the wind sounds changing continually. What does the wind sound like on Mars? Funny the things one thinks about in total isolation. The calmness and enjoyment you get from a night in the open terrain must be experienced even once for simple life fulfilment. Stephen Graham in his ‘The Gentle Art of Tramping’ mentions, ‘Until you have spent a night in the rain or lost your way in the mountain and eaten all the food, tells whether you have a stout heart and a readiness for every fate’.

wind tree pic neoulous

I know I’m a devout Francophile, but French images keep appearing in my head: food, table settings, flower arrangements in a provincial hotel, colourful local produce at markets, pavement menu boards, faded blue window shutters and red geranium window boxes; putting pride into the simple things of life, flying that ‘vive la difference’ flag for all to see. France is culturally very complex …the southwest Spanish influence, the southeast Mediterranean habits, Germanic historical ties dominate the East and the Atlantic coast lean towards the ancient Celtic culture; throw in the North African presence in the major cities and you have some melting pot to contend with. You can understand General De Gaulle’s famous comment: “How can you govern a nation that has 246 different varieties of cheese”.

Thoughts on the French-Irish connection

From a very young age I’ve had huge interest in France and its culture. Early school history classes one learned of the Flight of the Earls in 1607, when Hugh O’Neill, 2nd Earl of Tyrone, and Rory O’Donnell, 1st Earl of Tyrconnell, and their followers, left Ulster for exile in France following the British Settlers Plantation, thus ending the Ancient Gaelic Order period.   And, the 1798 Irish Rebellion against British Rule, when a French expeditionary force landed in the west of Ireland in support of Wolfe Tone and his rebels. The connection between France and Ireland over the centuries has got to be admired and respected, having further blossomed with the advent of the European Union.

The French noticeably share the Irish obsession with land, religion and that rebellious trait of ours. I simply love the statement by Austen Chamberlain, British Statesman and Nobel Peace Prize winner: “I love France as one loves a woman, and I love her even more because of her faults”; and  one of my favourite philosophical comments by Louis Pasteur, “A bottle of wine contains more philosophy than all the books in the world”.

Charles de Gaulle

One of my all-time heroes, Charles De Gaulle: his great–grandmother was Marie Angelique McCartan whose father came from Northern Ireland. He always had a passion for Irish history and when he controversially resigned as President, he turned to Ireland, secretly spending a ‘six week exile’ in South Kerry after losing a referendum on constitutional reform.

France also provided safe haven for many of our writers when they were not appreciated at home: Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde and Samuel Beckett. The latter received the French “Médaille de la Résistance” for his bravery with the Resistance movement during the Nazi occupation.   In reverse, Ireland gave refuge to the French Huguenot group who emigrated to Ireland after Louis XIV’s Edict of Nantes.

Today, almost 8000 French are domiciled in Ireland.

Finally, not forgetting Patrice de Mac Mahon, a descendant from The Wild Geese, who became President of the French Republic in 1873.

These thoughts on the French-Irish connection, in an isolated cave deep in the d’Albere Massif, makes one proud to be associated with this history. Vive la France, Vive l’Irlande.

Suddenly, without warning, the warm ‘autan blanc’ wind gusts up from the Mediterranean, blowing incessantly for over an hour and then dies as fast as it came: reminding how   conditions, without warning, can change on the mountain. I had a restless night trying to get into a comfortable position and woke early, in anticipation of the momentous day ahead. Banyuls-sur-Mer and the Mediterranean are just a couple of hours away and the final stop of my Pyrennian journey. Long time coming to celebrate my achievement at the end. Many times, along my journey I dreamt about this day and sometimes wondered if I’d ever make it.

As the blueish blush of daylight creeps into the pre-dawn sky I can finally see the Mediterranean glistening in the distance and quickly becomes discernible as Banyuls-sur-Mer, just about three hours away.

The bright early morning light triggers feelings about the tides and the moon phase of this great wide world of ours. All alone but not alone. This is therapeutic on a grand scale, managing any circadian rhythm disorders existing around your head. There is something primal about watching the sun come up over the eastern horizon.  An unforgettable experience.

watchtower
Tour de la Madeloc

Ready now for the descent to Banyuls-sur-Mer …With Pic de Sailfort behind me, hiding the rest of the Pyrenees and Tour Madeloc watching above me I start my final descent. From here you can almost smell the sea. The herb scented vineyards gently roll down towards the sea; swallows dive and swoop in the pleasant heat of a late morning as I make my way cautiously down through the vineyards to Banyuls-sur-Mer.  The end is in sight.

Walking distance down through the vines I cannot help but see the many terraces, murettes (low walls) and pied de coq drainage channels preventing the soil and vines sliding down to the valley floor. It’s a well-manicured terrace of nature.

Banyuls-sur-Mer                                                                                                                                             

Finally, the rugged mountainous terrain that had been with me for as long as I can remember now transforms into a palm tree-dappled Mediterranean landscape as I approach the welcome seaside town. The tunnel under the railway bridge at the edge of town is ahead and I’m almost there. It gives me the chance to shout one last time, “Which way is Banyuls-sur-Mer?”.

My journey has ended, for now, but it’s a bit like the aphorism of the dog that has succeeded in catching its own tail and the question is now: what next?

Patrick O’Connell                            

November 2022

 

Comments


  1. Great stuff, atmospheric desciption of the route I travelled in 2010. Walking the GR10 forced my hand and I bought my home here in 2015.

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