Departing from Barcelona in our Europcar rental, Gretchen and I followed the AP-7 184 km. north to Laroque des Albères, our lovely village nestled against the Pyrenees in the Languedoc area of France, arriving there on March 13, a Friday. We had crossed the Atlantic from Fort Lauderdale to Barcelona on the Allure of the Seas in 13 days. So, perhaps reaching our destination on Friday the 13th was prophetic and ominous. This was certain:  intrusive, disquieting thoughts about the coronavirus pandemic had followed us all the way to France.

Two thousand people live in Laroque des Albères. From high spots in the town you can see the Mediterranean, and Spain is a short jaunt away. Laroque is an ancient town. Documents from 843 AD mention the church of St. Felix, which is a five-minute walk from the house that we jointly own with dear friends. No one knows how old our house is, but it surely has existed for a few centuries. This is the Catalonia region of France. Rocatins (inhabitants of Laroque des Albères) speak French, Catalan, and/or Spanish. You will not hear English here. Hannibal crossed the Pyrenees through a nearby pass in 218 BC with 90,000 foot soldiers, 12,000 cavalry, and 37 elephants on his way from Carthage to Rome. That was during the Second Punic War.

Not far north of Laroque lies Carcassonne, one of the most visited sites in France. There you can explore a beautifully maintained and restored ancient walled city and castle. Charlemagne laid siege to Carcassonne in the 9th century. In 1560, Catholic pilgrims on their Crusades to the Middle East slaughtered the Protestant Cathars at Carcassonne.

Laroque snuggles up against the Pyrenees. Climb a short way up into them and follow the river that flows down into and nourishes Laroque and you will soon come upon caves where prehistoric hominids once lived.

Not far from Laroque sits the village of Céret. Céret is famous for two things. First, tenders of Céret orchards produce the best cherries in France. By tradition, they send part of the first harvest to the Élysée Palace in Paris, the official residence of the French president. We gobble up Céret cherries as soon as they appear in our local green grocery. Second, great artists such as Picasso and Bracht lived and worked in Céret. We always visit Céret’s art museum where we delight in the art of these and other artists. On a pathway through the Pyrenees above Céret, tens of thousands left Spain and fled to France to escape Franco. A few years later, they reversed the journey when the Nazis invaded.

Laroque also suffered under the Nazi boot. Today, we drive across the “Nazi bridge,” the demarcation line between free and occupied France, without impediment. Only clever smugglers dared to cross that line during the Nazi occupation. Every year on May 5, Rocatins celebrate their liberation in 1945 with bands, speeches, and much vin rouge.

Rocatins live life the way it should be lived. Wealth means nothing to them. A well-formed olive; freshly pressed olive oil; a glass of muscat or Rivesalte; pate freshly made at le Boucherie; a rich, freshly baked croissant; the ability to speak well and intelligently—these are riches beyond compare. It is unthinkable to enter a shop without saying “Bonjour” to one and all and “Have a bonne journee!” as you leave. We shop twice a day to ensure we have the freshest bread and vegetables for our dinners. Shopping is also a social affair. We often stop at Casa Lily for an apéritif and good conversation as we walk to the shops.

Every morning mothers or grandmothers walk their sleepy and complaining children to the town’s elementary school. Our sole policeman stops traffic as needed. Older kids line up at the bus stop, girls on one side, boys on the other, giggling and sneaking glances at each other. They’ll board the bus to the lycée (high school) in the nearby town of Argelès.

The shops close at noon each day and don’t reopen until 4:30 in the afternoon—and so do we! We eat our midday meal and then take our siestas. We always buy the boxed wine in a small grocery store. It is 10 liters of vin rouge produced at the local co-op from grapes grown in the vineyards we drove through as we approached the town. It is better than any wine we drank on the cruise and costs only one euro per liter.

Wednesday, market day, is a special day in Laroque. Cars normally parked in front of the shops leave and the market trucks move in. Vendors offer all kinds of delights. I can’t resist the pastel-colored bar soaps in shades of blue, rose, red, green, and even black. The soap purveyor also entices you with the special Marseille soap. Another vendor sells sausages and pâté from a charcuterie truck. You can buy fresh cut flowers to adorn your table or present to your sweetie. Clothes and small kitchen appliances are also on offer. I always begin my shopping at the cheese truck. Charles de Gaulle must have had that cheese truck in mind when he asked, “How can anyone govern a country that has 246 different kinds of cheeses?” Standing in front of the truck I just say to the gracious lady, “S’il vous plait, veuillez choisir pour moi.” (Please, you choose for me.) I’ve never been disappointed, and more often than not I’m thrilled with what she’s wrapped up for me.

In the afternoon, mothers or grandmothers retrieve their children from school. The kids ride their bikes or scooters or play pickup games of soccer, squealing in the street until we tell them to stop kicking the ball against our house. When the weather is fair, our neighbors host impromptu parties outside at their café tables. We join in, bringing a bottle of red, or if it’s summer, rosé wine. Or we might bring much-prized Belgian beer and cheese and olives. When the sun completes its daily journey, we all repair to our houses. Only the bangs of closing shutters disturb the mood. Then the swallows appear, darting and swooning, freeing the evening air of bugs.

Every weekend, tourists from all over France and Northern Europe flock to Laroque to enjoy the local wine, salade de chèvre chaud, and the blue skies on the terrace of Café des Artistes. Others choose to dine at the Michelin-recognized restaurant Le Côté du Saisons for a special meal and bottle of wine.

People hold frequent fêtes in Laroque, usually in the Place de la République, a lovely square bounded by the Church of St. Felix and the restaurant Le Catalan, which has been in the same location as long as anyone can remember. If you are lucky, you will be in Laroque when the Catalans dance their dance of Catalan unity and pride, the Sardana. The women wear crisp white skirts and red blouses, and the men wear red shirts and black trousers. They all join hands, arms upraised to shoulder height, and dance gracefully in a circle. It is beautiful and moving.

If there is a better way to live, to replenish your soul, to nourish yourself with the fresh, clear, clean stream of life, I’ve not encountered it. Not in my worst nightmare could I have foreseen that a horrible curtain would, in a few days, crash down upon it and us, leaving us and our Rocatin friends wondering why God had forsaken us, why He had retreated beyond the clouds, leaving us bent and cowed in the shadows, searching for the golden thread that would lead us out of this terrible labyrinth.

— Email comments to Julie@bayoucitypress.com or leave public comments below.
Contact us if your comment or reply won’t post.