44/23 The Long and Winding Road

Wednesday 28th July

“Happiness is Barcelona in a rear view mirror.” So says Tony as we drive off the next morning. Whilst I was pretty non-commital about Barcelona, Tony openly disliked it. We programme the GPS for France and take off. Fussy Felicity has no way of knowing of course which roadworks will tie us up, or what streets are closed for markets, so we drive around in circles for over an hour before hitting the toll road, which actually starts just a hundred metres or so up the road from where we were staying!

A friend told me of a place he visited many years ago, and suggested we had to see it. At the northern end of the Costa Brava, peaceful and serene Cadaques was once home to Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso. I looked it up months ago on the net and the little promenade was bursting with ambiance, the sand was pale gold and the Mediterranean a rich blue in all the photos. So that is where we are heading. I love the water, love to swim and here I’ve been in a European summer for 6 weeks without a swim. I have my swimsuit on under my skirt and blouse…..lead me to the sea!
When we leave the tollway the route becomes frightening, across mountains via narrow winding roads. There’s a crisscross pattern of old stone walls and tiny abandoned stone huts all across the mountainsides, as though some ancient civilisation has left behind its calling card - or maybe it’s just the local shepherds.
The winding road seems endless but suddenly there is the Mediterranean below us and I can see Cadaques….. All whitewashed buildings with clay roofs. It’s like a dream.
But dreams turn into nightmares quite quickly on this adventure. When we descend the mountain to go into the town, we are trapped in a terrible traffic jam. There are police trying to ease the congestion by directing everyone to a large and garish carpark. I can’t see the promenade or the beach at all. And I never will! This time it’s me who suggests we give up. Hiding our disappointment we find a place to turn the car and brave the halted traffic and polizei and we beat a quick retreat.
Instead of a swim and lunch in Shangrila - we buy a loaf of bread and stuff it with what is left of our cheese and charcuterie - but it’s hard to swallow with a lump in your throat.
It seems that everything that man does in the name of progress leads to the destruction of something that was simple and beautiful. Cadaques was once an idyllic spot - now it is simply a tourist Mecca that you have to queue to even reach. Whatever it was 30 years ago is gone - and will never come again.

We feel an overwhelming sense of relief when we finally cross the border back into France and instantly we relax again. We’re going home. The old farmhouse welcomes us as if it’s truly glad we’re back; there’s a light breeze to temper the late afternoon sun and, tired from the drive and disappointed with the trip, we find smoked salmon and melba toast and make a kir with cassis. The TV has the opening of the European athletics championships in Barcelona so we watch until we really need to lie down and sleep. Barcelona looks spectacular. Were we actually in the same city? So much of our perception depends on our state of mind.