The silvering sea still moves back and forth over the sand, though the children no longer scream with excitement. They play quietly beside their parents, all silhouetted against the sky. Soul music from the restaurants enhance nature’s bounty. And Gazzie gets his long held wish to stay on the beach until late.
We are in Spain. It seems almost impossible to us native islanders that we drove for less than two hours and are in another country. No passports, no queuing, no delays. Just an EU sign. Espana. Though, subtly, the houses look different, the road signs too.
Just yards from the border is La Jonquera, a huge shopping area where everything is cheaper than in France (cigarettes for instance are 5 euros. If you bought them the few yards over in France they would be 8!)
We pass by, looking forward to partaking of some Spanish culture, history, vistas. My eye is suddenly caught by a priapic sign to my left. “Sex Toy Supermarket. Come this way”. Naturellement, mes bloggees, being now largely French, we made a “”Pffffffffff” (an extra long one for such a sin against good taste) and drive on by. One of us looked slightly put out.
The view was beginning to change, from the rounded hills and vineyards of Languedoc, from duck and foie gras, the pouty child- like sexiness of Brigitte Bardot, across the Pyrenees to pan amb oli (bread with olive oil) hearty paella and the strident dark sexiness of Penelope Cruz.
The Spanish do try to maintain their cultural traditions Most hotels still put on at least one flamenco night a week, which is generally greeted with respect by tourists. Though there is usually some bleary eyed, beer bellied Brit expressing his knowledge of Spanish tradition by calling encouragingly, “ Show us your castanets dahlin” whilst spilling San Miguel down his England football shirt.
We are staying in Roses. It is a delightful seaside town. I’m sure in the height of the season it is heaving, but on a weekend in early June it was pleasantly full.
Of course we went on the little tourist train. Red this time and a disappointing song compared to the oompah song of the white train in Perpignan. 🎶 Roseees Expreeess🎶, played during every break in the commentary, didn’t quite cut it for us.
We walked. I know, I’m weary of it. The great taxi conspiracy has moved to Spain. It seems an impossibility to hire one. Anyone contemplating moving to Europe, open a taxi firm that also operates at night. You’ll make a fortune.
We walked four times from our hotel into town. 25 mins each way. I’m considering doing the marathon next year.
I digress. We walked into town for our special meal. Pretty awful food. Shame really, but yet again very pretty restaurant.
On the morrow we rose earlyish in order to do some sight seeing and there are many sights to be seen in this area : Collioure , Cadaqués, Figueras. Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso loved the area and so we decided that our first visit would be to Dali’s house in Port Lligat. What the chauffeur didn’t tell me dear bloggees, was that this visit involved yet another hair-raising mountain range, with the now familiar cries of, “Take me down this instant. No the view is not beautiful. And anyway I have my eyes closed.”
Dali’s house and Port Lligat
We looked at the house, but didn’t go in because there was a long wait And we had become fascinated by the reminders of the recent Catalan independence bid. Very obviously it had massive support here and the mountainsides were covered in pro independence slogans. In the car as we left Lligat we saw a huge olive tree, each branch bearing the yellow ribbon of the independence movement.
The stress of the high ride had rendered me a little tired, so following the inevitable tapas lunch we went on to the lovely beach and slept and read for some five hours. Which is where we came in at the beginning of this blog.
The rest of our little break will probably follow shortly, while I can still remember.
Wrinkleys Gap Year 
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