Secret Santa

After the evening on the beach, we had decided not to spend lots of money on restaurants.   We had learned that Roses was the home of the world famous restaurant “El Bulli” which closed in 2011.   We hadn’t found its equivalent, so back to the hotel for a quick wash, then over the road for a pizza.   ….. the size of a house.   I barely scraped the basement but Gaz got to the first floor so it didn’t look rude.  “An early night, darling?”   Yes.    Until we got to the hotel and heard a disco with a DJ so bad, the hotel staff were hiding under the bar, laughing, on their backs, legs waving in the air.    Too good to miss, this.

Soon I was dancing with the DJ, other guests, anyone really.  Much fun was had and many regrets the following day.   Aching in every part of my body.

We decided to take the country route home, via Figueras to see the Dali museum.    There was nowhere to park because of a big fete in the town gardens.   A quick photo of the outside of the museum and onwards through the elegant, sophisticated and stunningly beautiful towns of Cadaqués and Collioure.

Approaching the border we drive into Hell Land.  The gaudy shops of La Jonquera, packed with cars and people, buying cheap booze and cigarettes.   Then to the border town of Le Perthus.   Narrow roads, cars and vans blocking the road, thousands of people thronging around with bulging shopping bags, litter and desperation.   It would have been good to speed away, but the traffic was at a standstill.

Finally we were through the gates of Hell and into the beautiful countryside of southern France.   We decided to drive along the coast road and the outside edge of the Ètang Leucate, (de Salses).    We began to ask ourselves why.   We drove for maybe twenty miles of desertedness.    Mile after mile ( to be fair, kilometre, I spose ) of houses, apartments.    Empty.   Even waterparks.   Even Aqualuds.   Empty.    Was this a case of poisoned  water?   Of involuntary euthanasia?

But wait.   What do we see?   A lone figure.    As we grow closer (I promise you bloggees this is truth of the highest truthness).   A man, dressed in red, carrying a black bag, approaches a waste bin.   Looking up, we see he has long white hair and a long white beard.  True as I am writing this .  So, tell it not to children, but Father Christmas does not live in Lapland but in Southern France.   And who can blame him?

Also true, as above, “the highest truthfulness,” etc…    further along the road we see a younger man, coming from nowhere, going nowhere, dressed in red,  black beard and hair.   Son of…?

We are now in danger of munching on car seats as it has been six hours since soggy toast and hardly coffee was consumed.   Over the sand and sea holly we see a sign

We called to son of …..   We say, “Your secret is safe with us, mais, le café, est il ouvert?”  He say, “Oui.” We run towards the entrance.  Nada.   Rien.   Nothing.   Just some surf boards and a sign saying “Pas CB”.  No bank cards.   So even if they were open we couldn’t have partaken.

Bloody Son of Father Christmas has got a lot to learn.

Your weary travellers journey on.   Their weariness does not prevent them from appreciating the scenery, but they have a hot date with a sizzling sausage in Laurens at 6.30 and it’s now, as we drive into Leucate, 3 pm and hunger gnaws at our vitals, like the vulture from a previous blog gnaws on bone.  We see a sophisticated restaurant, open.   It will do.   We find a parking place in the next country and drag ourselves towards this hunger haven.   Then, suddenly,  like a mirage in a desert, we see a beach restaurant.   Brain numbing music pours out over the road.   Are we disgusted?   No.   We are the disco divas of Roses.   We swing by.   We grab a table.   Everyone around us, waiters and customers, are from generation Zog and they welcome us like royalty.   We feast on oysters and something else revolting in a shell (Gaz) and chicken dippers (Me).   We watch the mating rituals of the young and smile.   And laugh.  And thank God for being alive.

We journey homewards to meet friends and enjoy, once again the hospitality of Isla and Paul at Sarabande, with their gorgeous sausages and salads and wine.  And dear old Gazzie, having been driving for three days, disengages himself from the steering wheel.   And we go to bed.

Fred and Ginny, enjoying Sarabande: