Roussillon
September 10^th1995
Chateau de Jau

It is seven in the evening. We are preparing to go to dinner at Paulilles — a bit of a trek, but Sabine and Bernard have invited us all.

We arrived here last night later than expected. Our plane sat on the runway for nearly an hour. We had met Howard at Gatwick in the very slow check-in line at Terminal North. We ate with Dimitri, Sabine and Bernard on the terrace, the air slightly cooler than in July but very pleasant and balmy nonetheless. A delicious supper of baked vegetables, beef as soft as butter, crisp sliced potatoes, cheese and dessert with the lovely Jau wines from the light rose to the fruity reds to yellow muscat. I retired before the others. I was overtired because I haven't been able to sleep and resorted to half of one of Ralph's diazapans which had left me soporific the next morning.

Dimitri drove and our first call was to the rocky hillside turned into a vineyard by Robert Doutre which subject Ralph had covered in his first Oddbins list. A rock-strewn, scrubby escarpment had been turned into a shardy vineyard by smashing up the rocks and levelling the surface. The grapes were sweet. We walked to the far edge of the vineyard and looked across the ridges to the pale grey mountains. From there we made our way along a narrow road to Tautavel, a sleepy village dwarfed by craggy cliffs. Its claim to fame was the discovery in the 70s of 'L'Homme de Tautavel' or, rather, his skull. He was reckoned to be amongst the first of the race of Homo Erectus. The museum traced the discovery of the Evolution of Man with artifacts, videos and dioramas depicting life on this coastal plain below the Pyrenees 450,000 years ago.

To get back to the Chateau we drove along winding roads to the other side of the river and dipped onto an earth road on the edge of a vineyard with the river on our right. We clambered below a stone bridge and sat for an hour, our feet in the cool water. A white log straddled across the river and Howard sat astride it, his feet in the water. We chatted in a desultory fashion with long companionable silences in between, watching the odd butterfly and dragonfly. On our return to the Chateau road we passed Sabine and Bernard on their way to Paulilles where we were to join them for dinner. In the event they phoned to say it was too windy (the glasses were blowing off the tables) and instead we met them in an over-posh restaurant in Perpignan called 'La Villa'.

Monday, 11^th September

Sitting on a flat stone in the top vineyard with its stony slopes and views of the mountains purple and magenta under leaden clouds. The grape-pickers are handpicking the grapes, filling up black buckets and tipping them into green funnel-shaped containers which they wear on their backs and then tip into the waiting truck. It feels anti-climactic — this is what every one has been waiting for : the harvest. The pickers work their way through the rows of vines in such a mundane way. The colourful Spanish families who used to come have been replaced by local people for whom it is a casual job for a few weeks rather than a time worn oddysey.

The mountains look dramatic today. The clouds bury the peaks in misty greyness.

We stayed for an hour watching the progress of the picking, the groups receding up the ridge, the stalwart men with the green buckets strapped to their shoulders and tipping the purple grapes into the ever filling lorry.

Then back down to Jau to taste the new wines in various stages of transformation from grape to wine. And then to lunch at the restaurant at Jau by the carp pool. Smoke drifted from the gaping oven where pungent saucisson was cooking. The lunch was long with funny conversation with Dimitri and his extrovert Greek humour. We felt sleepy by the end of it all and slept till the evening.

We had supper with Sabine and Bernard inside though aperitifs and coffee were served outside.

Tuesday, 12^th September

We stopped by the road past the Chateau to watch a huge pale blue machine picking white Vermentino grapes. It engulfed and shook the vines as it invaded them in clouds of dust. We were all puzzled that they should use a method so detrimental to the grapes, crushing them and producing dusty, gritty juice. We watched the slushy grapes pour mechanically into a high wheeled truck. The machine missed 20% of the grapes. Those at the top of each row were missed altogether. A few were hand-picked but many were still left — a great loss, we all agreed.

We arrived at Paulilles just before a mighty storm with hail, thunder and pelting rain. We had stopped in a lay-by to see the three towers overlooking Portvendre and had time to see the pickers working on the slope behind the Clos. The pickers were picking the tightly packed bunches with greaty care under a grey sky, the sea a silvery band in the cleavage of the hills. The surly restaurant patron was carrying the tables from underneath the awnings into the room where Ralph's pictures are still housed. Then the heavens opened. The rain was dripping through leaks in the roof. Loud claps of thunder cracked outside as we ate a delicate lunch of tomato salad, jambon and goats cheese.

The rain eased and we wandered to the winery where they had shut up shop for the day and retraced our steps by walking up to the hills above the bay. The sea looked muddy from the silt that had been washed off the slopes and vineyards. The sun came out and suddenly the hillside felt steamy with the pungent smell of wild fennel and thyme. We picked a few clusters of wet grapes and as we descended the weather once again closed in on us.

We drove to Banjuls and took the high road above the town through ridges covered in black cork trees. Below we could hear goat bells from a farm below. A rocky escarpment across a ravine with cork trees on one side and terraced vineyards on the other. A white chapel with a red roof on a wooded ridge.. We could hear the furious barking of dogs. We climbed on into the mist, the landscape below obscured. We emerged out of the mist and stopped to look for mushrooms for we saw a man getting into his car with a bag full of them. Dimitri looked funny stooping in the rain with his 'Fear and Loathing' T-shirt and his baggy shorts, bending among the trees, like a pig hunting for truffles or a dog for rabbits.

At Portvendre we had a coffee and inspected the obelisk erected by Louis XVI to commemorate the French campaigns in America. And then back to Jau via the rush hour traffic in Perpignan.

Wednesday, 13^th September

Last night we ate 'en famille' at the Chateau. Sabine and Bernard had flown to Paris for lunch with some wine producers and were in fine form on their return. Estelle, their daughter, was back from various wine tastings with her lawyer boyfriend who had a high pitched nervous laugh. Moona, the maid, served us a delicious hors d'oevres of peppers and anchovies, followed by chicken and rice, then cheese and apple tart — all accompanied by the Jau wines, starting with a sparkling white and finishing with a dessert wine from the Mas Christine estate. The evening was akin to a gathering of the Dynasty clan but French style. Quite amusing but it would quickly become claustrophobic.

During the conversation we mentioned the Vermentino vineyard and the grapes left on the lower branches. It was decided to pick them with Estelle's help and make a barrel of wine — which is exactly what we started to do today.

There had been a wild storm in the night with high winds which we were hoping would blow away the clouds — and so they did. By the time we were in the vineyard the sky was blue, the sun was strong with the wind still blowing. We picked four pannets, finding huge bunches on the lower branches. It wasn't as back-breaking as I had expected. We got into a rhythm of picking, cutting the bunches with secateurs and emptying our buckets, proceeding up the long rows of rustling vines with the terracotta chateau to our left and the rows of dark Cypress trees at the edge giving us a feeling of solitude. Estelle directed the proceedings with great determination. By lunch time we had made a return journey to winery and picked eight pannets, each brimming over with greeny golden grapes. We had lunch en plein air at the Chateau restaurant. We had built up a powerful appetite for the Greek salad, parma ham with figs, barbequed steak and mergez sausage, all washed down with the light and fragrant Jau vin de l'ete.

After lunch we returned to pick two more pannets and then repaired to the winery for the process of pressing the grapes which turned out to be extremely manual and 'footual'. The quantity of grapes was too small for the big presses so we literally had to do it by hand and foot. Ralph, Howard and Dimitri pressed the grapes by treading on them and then helped Estelle and I to strain them through a kitchen colander into a small fibre glass vat. This involved holding the colander against the sides of the container and squidging and pummelling the grapes through our fingers. All this took place among the large steel vats connected by hoses to receive the grapes that came in a continual flow from the loaded lorries that traced and re-traced their journeys to and from the vineyards. We pummelled and stamped and strained and sieved until evening, our hair, arms, hands (and in the case of the men) feet and legs covered in the sticky grape residue. At last we had filled the vat with juice (Dimitri being the bio-chemist, had added CO2 and sulphur to slow down the fermentation), keeping 10% back in a separate pannet since some is always lost with the sediment. Ralph and Howard staggered out into the sunshine to breathe in fresh air with splitting headaches from the accumulated CO2 that they had breathed in while stamping. We washed off as much stickiness as we could under a tap and set off for the Chateau. A car drew up — it was Steve Daniel, wine taster supremo for Oddbins and good friend of the Duares. It had been planned to have supper at the restaurant at Paulilles but we were too tired and didn't want to drive all that way and back again. Sabine and Bernard were staying in to watch TV, so on their recommendation we took the back road through the vineyards to Estagel to eat at the Hotel de Graves, a modest place with yellow stuccoed walls, a good still life on the wall opposite and a regional menu — sardines with orange, meat balls and beans, grilled duck with the Estagel rose. In bed by 10.30 and a good job too!

Thursday, 14^th September

Notes on the Road

Journey to Gascony. Estagel on the back road — the Foix road — valley of vineyards — fortification on a ridge. 'Vignoble de Maury'. Town of Maury. Spanish style church, pink and white school building, long main street, everywhere vines and ridges. St. Paul de Fenouillet, across railway track, round stone church, the valley had narrowed, ridges like teeth sticking from wooded slopes.

We stopped outside St. Paul for Ralph to sketch. Dark mountains ahead of us. Vignerons' huts with broken rooves. A chateau with white shutters. Valley had widened — wide, flat vineyards on valley floor.

The sky a translucent blue with metal coloured clouds. Church with red spire.

Cardies de Fenouillides — long main street — Cave Cooperative with crenallated top and tiles with grapes and vine leaves. Shabbily eccentric. Old signal masters' houses by railway. Dept. de L'Aude. Cathar country. Lapradelle Puilaureus — dramatic Cathar castle on a ridge. River with steep banks.

Gorge narrowing. Sun catching the ridges ahead. Woods on valley floor. A triple viaduct which seems to support the hill. Steep escarpments above gorge. Following dark green river. Rocks lean over the road. Ochre coloured. Arched stone bridge, rapids, river rushing over rocks. Buildings huddle between river and rocks. River rushes under bridge with greenr railings. Modest church with clock tower.

Steep rock faces, walls of rock, rocky overhangs, gorge narrows, just wide enough for the river and the road. Drive through hole in the rock. Town perched above the road. Town straddles the river. Belvanes. Allotments on the valley floor. Road winds above Quillan which lies in a hollow in the valley. Ever upwards.

Vistas of plateaux, red rocks, valleys, mountain ranges, forested slopes, chequered valley like antique quilts. Cows grazing on upland pastures. Stone windmill with red tiled roof at Neblas. Suddenly lush and green. Early autumn landscape. Leaves on the turn, gentle rises and hollows. Low farm buildings. Cathar abbey on hill overlooking the plain. Red newly ploughed fields. Buff coloured farm. Chateau Puivert. Puivert, cite du pays cathare. Pale gray church spire. Climbing above the town. Abbey on rocky vantage point on opposite ridge.

Misty drizzle. Le Roudier. Chickens on earth heap. Col de Teil. A tiny hamlet. Potted plants on narrow pavement. Lush pastures. Laborie. Ornamental stone balustrade. Belesta. Ramshackle wooden sheds. Weeping willows. Old mill house. Mairie. Woodyard. Scenery very Swiss. Small enclaves of buildings and farms. L'Aiguillon. Swiss neatness. Wild flowers on verges, yellow, white, mauve. Frog farm — Ferme de Grenouilles. St. Jean d'Aigues-Vive. Pink and cream 1930s Cinema le Casino. Sedate bourgeois town. Garden full of bright flowers in pots and troughs. A blaze of colour in the greyness. A teacher with a crocodile of girls with tennis rackets. They grin at us as we stop at the pedestrian crossing for them.

White cows graze in field. Lush meadowland. Buff coloured chateau. Field of corn. Tall pines. Nalzen. Violets on a window sill. Rain quite hard now. Dramatically misty landscape, outline of chateau on escarpment above the valley. Palot. Bessoul. Barn stacked with rolls of hay. Wild flowers in meadow. Enclave by winding road. Celes. Woodstacks. Bordeneuve. Dark brown wooden hay barn. Narrow street. Ivy covered walls. Dark slate church steeple. Stone public wash house. St. Paul de jarrat. Montgailhard. Foix. Looks industrial. A chateau like a Cinderella castle. Tall towers and turrets. Then awful featureless flats. A river with old bridge. Tree-lined boulevard. Bauhaus post office. We stopped at the Café du Casino with red awnings outside. It looked inviting but was dreary and plastic inside. Cold and wet. Drizzle, what a pity. Mist drifts down the slopes. Cream and dun coloured cows. Still climbing into the mist. Horses, cows. Gentle undulations, shades of green, rust tips of maize. Stalwart farm houses. More cows.

La Bastide de Serou. Three black ponies with long manes. Mown field looks like corderoy. Ruined house with no roof. Farmhouses with woodstacks, hay-filled barns, musty courtyards. Verdant hollows and rises. The road curves gently between green hillocks. Pure white cows. Aspens, rows of plane trees. Castelnau Durban. Stone bridge. Rimont — tall towered abbey with many windows and a clock. Lescure. Weeping willows by a river. Short-coated sheep, one with a red collar and bell. Church on hilly wood.

St. Girons. Wide river with rapids. St. Lizier. Spectacular buildings along the river, old stone, tiled roofs, towers and gables. Lorp-Sentaraille. Grey roofed chateau with grey shutters and creamy walls. Caumont. Church with arched mahogany door. Flock of chickens in farmyard. Prat Bonrepaux. Crumbling chateau on hill high above the town. Gabled church. Castagnede. More cows. Abandoned Maison d'Agriculture. It is. Two chateaux near each other on wooded ridge. Mane. Timber yard. Salies de Salat.

Fields of drying sunflowers. We stopped to eat at Martsaunes but the café full and the patron unwilling to move the plant pot on the last remaining table. So we carried on. Lady being sick into rubbish bin at side of the road. Ralph and Dimitri giggled hysterically at the poor lady's predicament. Giggling like teenagers. Beauchalot. We had lunch in a small restaurant. They said it would take half an hour to preprare the sole meuniere (Steve Daniel is a fishy vegan) — but in the end pretty fast and sizzling hot with great chips and white wine.

We've just stopped on a busy arterial road. The silencer on Steve's car has just fallen off. By chance we are in a road lined with garages. Got it fixed temporarily at a Total garage.

Wild plain at foothills of the Pyrenees. Sun coming out — warmer. On our side of the road is a wide tier of steps — perhaps for watching the sun setting on the plain below. Rows of poplars and fields of maize. Villeneuve de Riviere.

Dept. des Hautes Pyrenees. Here I stopped writing in the car. I felt too tired. As we approached Gascony the landscape softened to gentle sweeps of cornfield, pastures and fields of drying sunflowers. It would have looked wonderful in the sunshine with the nuances of greens, browns and gold. There were signs for foie gras, geese in compounds, signs for Armagnac and the vines, grown high and glistening in the rain.

The Domaine de Joy consists of two neat bungalows and a small winery, haphazard in a picturesque way. It is run by Roland Gessler and his brother, both in their thirties. We drank a glass of crisp white wine in the tasting room and then went to see the labelling machine. Ralph's Domaine de Joy labels aren't sticking properly. It is a mobile machine that travels between wineries in a lorry, rather like the mobile librairies we have at home. It is not yet clear if it is the labels or the machine that are at fault.

Then we drove to our accommodation, a gites or farmhouse, renovated with low-beamed bedroom ceilings, a swimming pool and outdoor terrace with a view of trees and cornfields. All very idyllic. Also a chef has been brought in to cook for us in the beamed dining room, complete with surgically white chef's coat.

At first we sat outside but it was too damp and cold. It was with relief that we went indoors and sat by a fire blazing with old barrel staves and drank champagne. The two brothers were there, one with his wife and also the oenologist/cum armangac maker and wife. A typically regional meal had been prepared for us — a choice of foie gras or king prawns, a tart of mushrooms and hearts (I left the hearts but the rest was delicious), salad in raspberry vinegar with what at first I took to be white nasturtium flowers but proved to be thinly pared sheep's cheese and a dessert of grape ice cream. Then coffee and local armagnac. Ralph drew the men at the table, including Steve with his Renaissance face. I'm in bed while the others are still talking downstairs. I'm glad to be propped up against the pillows and finishing today's entry.

Friday, 15^th September

We breakfasted together at the long table in the dining room. Then Dimitri took Ralph and me to the nearby town of Nogaro to buy film for our cameras. It is a pleasant town with a square and a narrow main street. Here we stopped at a rustic battered doorway with 'A Vendre' notices stuck to it. Inside we found an interior courtyard with two sad looking palm trees and wooden stairs leading to a balustrade and many rooms, all dilapidated.

We returned to Roland's estate and watched green grapes the colour of mint jelly being unloaded into a press that intrigued Ralph since it was fifty years old and very gentle on the grapes, though slower than modern machines.

The sun was shining but it was still fresh. We walked down the sloping vineyards, pausing to taste the varieties of grapes, red and white, eating table grapes, muscat and so on until we came to a fine view of fields, woods and a lake. We retraced our steps back to the domaine under apple trees and past a small plantation of young pear trees. One of them had half a dozen beautifully placed pale pears, almost too large for the fragile tree. It reminded Ralph of my papier mache sculpture at home called 'I had a little pear tree'. So I took a photograph.

We had lunch on the tiled terrace of Roland's father's house, also part of the domaine — a house painted white, spanking new which reminded me of the house in Mon Oncle, perfectly manicured lawns with clumps of flowers in artificial looking rockeries. The lunch was a cold collation of roast beef, mountain ham, tomato salad, fruit salad and crème brulee. The sun was out and it was perfect.

Later we drove a few kilometres to Panjas, a quiet village of old stone houses and a 12^th century church at the bottom of a street below the tree-lined square. Roland fetched the key to the church which has an arched transept covered in frescoes. They are badly damaged and consist of row upon row of naively painted tableaux. Scaffolding bore proof of the restoration work going on. The damage had been caused when the stone clock tower suddenly collapsed into the square in front. This tower has been re-built in the most hideous pebble dash. All the more horrendous when you look at the church with its mellow hand carved stones so many centuries old.

Behind the church stands a chateau, much reduced from its former glory but nevertheless with a touching grandeur in its curved steps, wide façade , round towers and beamed turrets. The owners wandered up to talk to Roland who explained that the chateau is only used in the summer when their children and grand children come to visit. The woman had been Roland's primary teacher. She had a high-pitched voice like Katherine Hepburn's and wore a white plastic mac. She had frizzy wind-blown hair.

We stooged along the country lanes stopping to look at old houses that took our fancy. One in particular was for sale and belonged to a lady called Mademoiselle Armagnac! A gracious house it was too with wide hallways and tall windows. The daughter showed us around. I was frightened out of my wits by a snake that slithered sideways down an upturned galvanised bucket in the overgrown garden.

On the way we caught up with the picking machine working on Roland's Cabernet vineyards. It was like a giant grasshopper. It shook the glistening green grapes into its maws. We stopped at vineyards, fields of maize and dying sunflowers, their seed heads black and bowed with pale yellow crowns that looked like old fashioned babies' bonnets.

And then back to the gite for a supper with Roland and his wife.

Saturday, 16^th September

A rainy day and we are ready to return to Perpignan. Dimitri drove fast and we were back in Jau by one o'clock. We stopped off at the winery to check up on our 'Rudolph Vermentino' barrel. Estelle and Steve were there and it was good , clearing nicely and a soft pale yellow colour. It must start slowly fermenting.

We ate in the chateau garden, a tart of onions and peppers, fish, cheese and slices of orange with goats' cheese.

Ralph and I are sitting by the river below the chateau while the others attempt to sunbathe on the terrace under slowly shifting grey clouds.

We howered, packed our bags and drove to the airport with Howard. He was returning home and we were to collect Sadie off the same in-coming plane. It was alarming to see the presence of so many soldiers there, equipped with rifles, grenades, the full kit. The airport was crowded. Howard had a long wait at the check-in since everything seems to be handled manually. No computers in sight; meanwhile we negotiated our car hire for the next two weeks, deciding on a Ford Escort instead of the Opel that Howard had been driving.

And there was Sadie, looking forward to two weeks in the sun (ha! ha!) — as we were to find out to our dismay.

We said goodbye to Howard and drove back to the Chateau with Sadie. Everyone was gathered with an aperitif wine in the drawing room. Sabine and Bernard had just returned from a wedding in Spain. They had come back early because Bernard was feeling unwell. Estelle, Steve and Dimitri were doled up to the nines for a last night out together, dinner in Pepignan and a night club. They had booked for us to go — no one had actually asked us beforehand. We decided to opt out and took Sadie to the Hotel Graves in Estagel where she regaled herself with a huge steak with roquefort cheese. Unfortunately, her room in the chateau annex was sparse and bleak but it was only for one night. Sabine and Bernard were watching TV on our return. They never look really relaxed there. It is such a public room somehow.

Sunday, 17^th September

The day dawned grey but with the promise of better weather in the afternoon, according to Moona the maid, the only person we saw at breakfast time, presumably the three revellers were asleep after their late night.

The sun was warm as we drove to Perpignan on our way to Paulilles. We drove to the centre of the town to buy provisions. We stopped at a Boulangerie to buy bread and the lady behind the counter told us to follow signs for Marchet Republique — a covered market with the streets around buzzing with cafes and vegetable stalls. Here we bought fruit, vegetables, cheeses, chicken and sat to drink coffee and watch the world go by.

Then on to Paulilles where we ate our favourite sort of lunch — fresh bagette, tomato and onion salad, pate and cheese with a Paulilles wine.

The weather began to close in a little after lunch so we took Sadie on a windy walk across the cliffs. It was exhilarating and we picked wild rosemary to flavour our coq au vin.

As I cooked we could hear thunder and it began to rain. I set the chicken to cook on the stove and it bubbled away merrily for half an hour. Then nothing. The lights went out, the stove went out, the water stopped flowing from the taps. We were plunged in gloom, both physically and spiritually. All our hopes for prolonging a little summer dashed to pieces. Our moment of low spirits.

We found out from the chef and his waitresses in the restaurant below that the whole Clos had been affected. The transformer had broken down. We sat glumly as it got darker, hunting out candles and wondering what to do. So Ralph went down to the restaurant again where candles flickered in the kitchen. He came back to say that the gas hobs were working and we could finish off our chicken there. They were very kind. We drank wine (too much of it really but it dispelled the gloom). We carried one of the restaurant tables and some chairs in front of the blue gas flames. The chef brought candles and we sat in the wind and weather, enjoying our precariously salvaged meal. The electricity came on again before we had finished.

Monday, 18^th September

Gloomy skies again — and the water went off just as Ralph was about to have a shower. Sadie and Ralph were ready to call it a day and go home but I rallied the troops and the water came back on shortly afterwards. I forgot to mention that last night as it got darker during the power cut I couldn't find the keys to the flat. It was dark by this time and we searched fruitlessly. I even looked in the rubbish bin amongst the onion parings and chicken giblets.

Anyway we decided to make a go of things and set off for Banjuls, our local town. We hit the Champion supermarket for all the basics from toilet rolls to tea and strings to cellotape — also plastic sacks and newspapers for Ralph's work area. We wandered along the sea front and sat by the beach to have a drink and then returned for our lunch of salad, pate and cheese on the terrace. The clouds, though a dark grey over the mountains, were thin and hazy by the sea.

I helped Ralph set up his work space and then Sadie and I walked down to the beach with the sea smashing up to the ramparts. The water foamed brown and grey from the silt. We sat on the beach playing scrabble, putting our cardigans on and off as the sun came and went. We had to finish the game rather quickly because it started to rain and on our return found that Ralph had done a drawing of Daniella, the grape-picker from Paulilles with her nine knotted chord which was supposed to help with lifting and bending.

It is now 7.30 and we have prepared our supper of green salad with crispy bacon, haricot beans and the rest of the coq au vin.

Tuesday, 19^th September

We've certainly had our peaks and troughs — more troughs than anything. So much so that I couldn't bear to write my diary for a few days. So now it is, in fact, 21^st September. The fact is that it has rained non-stop for two days — real downpours that battered the vines and made rivers and pools out of the furrows on the slopes and valleys.

At last I can sit outside. This morning it is breezy but sunny. We woke to blue skies and the banging of the shutters in the wind, though there are grey clouds inching over the mountains behind me. So I don't know if the weather is really settling down or not. Ralph has finished 'Daniella, the grape picker' and also the 'Grape pickers ballet' — very intricate and expressive — amazing he could achieve that with the dampness and the drear of the weather and our spirits too.

To get back to Tuesday. We took Sadie for lunch at Portvendre to escape the rain. She was beginning to regret coming — added to the fact that there is a big party in Leamington Spa at the weekend. But we continued our scrabble marathon, though I detected a malaise creeping into our previous enthusiasm for the game. Anyway, our lunch was long and satisfying, fish soup with aoli and croutons and Sadie and Ralph shared a paellea while I settled for grilled sardines.

Back at the apartment we sat glumly in the blue sitting room, reading in a desultory fashion while Ralph worked. After supper Sadie declared that she couldn't stand it any more. 'I'm sitting in this blue box and I can't do anything or go anywhere' — some holiday. And there it was. I felt dreadful because I had really pushed for this respite for all of us: this 'last of the summer wine' few weeks with the sun and the sea. Ralph directed his camera at my tear-filled eyes. I ducked under the table to avoid the recording of my dismay which resulted in a funny polaroid picture. Sadie had involuntarily covered her face with her hands. Sadie and Ralph went into the other room to watch a poorly transmitted Errol Flynn film on TV and fell asleep. I sat in a deep funk, played scrabble against myself and finally went to sleep at about 4 o'clock in the morning. Ralph wandered about in the early hours. I could hear him crashing about in the kitchen.

Wednesday, 20^th September

The rain still bucketing down on the dreary hillsides. The walls closing in on us. Ralph had spent much of the night thinking of alternative plans. For Sadie to fly home and for us to drive to Paris and get the shuttle. For us all to go if that was what was wanted. But to me the work is so important that we couldn't just run. Amazing how the lucid light of day makes such a difference — and so it was decided that we would put Sadie on a plane at Perpignan and we should stay and sit things out.

I made two phone calls to British Airways and got cut off both times. So Sadie packed her bags and we drove to Perpignan airport in the rain and booked her on a 3.15 flight via Paris. We had time to drive to nearby Rivesaultes for lunch — a strange town. Somehow it seems to have lost track, fitting neither into the tourist route nor into an everyday commercial centre, though it had a grand tree-lined boulevard and narrow streets behind with old shuttered houses, secluded squares and a medieval clock tower in yellow stone. We found only one restaurant after quite a walk, at the La Tour de l'Horloge Hotel. It was an establishment caught in a time warp of faded gentility where M. Hulot would not have been out of place. The narrow dining room had yellow flock wallpaper and floral carpets. The service was slow and the atmosphere cloying. The majority of diners were old age pensioners with woolly waistcoats and anoraks placed neatly on the backs of chairs. There was only one waitress in an often-washed cream cardigan and floral pinny. She was obviously overworked and amazingly cheerful with it.

We had parked the car on the wide boulevard at the top of which stood a grand yellow mansion with a fountain in front. Someone must have tipped washing powder into it as a joke or maybe a drunken prank because there was foam spilling out of it — a surrealist sight.

Sadie's flight was on time and we waved to her as she went through the barrier. We made our way through the drizzle back to the bedraggled hills of Banjuls where we made a cup of tea and pondered on our decision.

We drove to the supermarket at Banjuls to collect our films and to buy a hair dryer for drying the pictures. The films weren't ready so we followed a sign off the road to La Musee Maillot. The artist's house crouches in a sunken garden below the twisting road of steep verges of brush, prickly pear and olive trees. It had been turned into a gallery of his work. His gravestone was set on the lawn in front of one of his monumental nude female figures, a green patina worked onto her thighs and toes that seemed to reflect the damp greenness of the trees that sheltered it. Maillot's figures brought to mind Picasso's bathers — not so surpising if Picasso had been influenced by the sturdy grace and impenetrable stares of the bronze models.

The prints were ready at the supermarket. We had a drink at the café opposite the sea-front road. We looked at our newly processed photographs. A good collection, though tragic that two films are missing from the Gascony pictures — my fault because the plastic bag had a hole in it!

I cooked up ravioli which we ate with salad, bread and a bottle of red wine, the rain and wind still making the shutters creak and groan.

Thursday, 21^st September

We woke to blue skies at last which confirmed the momentous decisions of yesterday. Even good weather would not have assuaged Sadie's desire to do her own thing and be with her friends. She has become in the last three years very independent. It happened impercetibly — and there you are. A co-incidence that there was an article in the 'Europeen' about the increase in young people who are forced by economic circumstances to live with their parents.

The sun on the sea and the glow of the mountains galvanised me into tidying the room, sweeping the floors, washing the clothes in the bath and hanging them up to dry over the railings on the terrace.

Then I called home from the restaurant. Everyone fine — Sadie happy to be back with her friends and a rapturous welcome from them. There was a message from Sabine to say she'd like to take us to a town over the Spanish border called Gironne. We decided that it would have to wait a few days because Ralph wanted to get more pictures finished. I sat on the terrace to guard the washing that threatens to fly away in the wind and wrote my diary.

It is an incredible vantage point here on the terrace — nearly 360% of sea, slopes and sky at the same height as the tops of the trees, olives, pines and oaks. Beyond the middle distance of copses and vineyards the mountains recede in lightening shades of blue, a perfect example of Leonardo da Vinci's aerial perspective. I turn my head sideways and beyond the top branches of a massive fir tree that stands like a tasselled umbrella turned inside out, the aquamarine sea lies between its branches and the craggy shore points into its purple shadows and out to sea at one and the same time. In the valleys created by the series of green slopes runs the road, the cars shining like silver beetles and catching the sunlight into moving stars as they steer up and down the coastline.

We had our usual lunch on the terrace and Ralph worked again for an hour while I read a book: 'Rushing to Paradise' by J.G.Ballard. An apposite read (one of my rushed purchases from Waterstone's in Maidstone) — about a campaign to save an atoll where the French are bent on testing a nuclear bomb, seen through the eyes of a naïve and confused adolescent — parallels with Empire of the Sun too.

We walked through the vineyards which were beginning to dry out after the rains to the beach where Ralph snorkelled and I sat on the shingle gazing vacantly out to sea and watched an Englishman in a wet suit preparing to dive. It was funny to watch him waddling like a penguin backwards into the water with his over-sized flippers.

Then we headed for Banjuls, buying first fruit and veg in one of the back streets and then sitting in our favourite café watching the mixture of tourists and locals as they passed in the yellowing autumn sunshine. My attention was also caught by the café awnings that fluttered in the breeze producing a visual syncopation with the dark leaves of the roadside trees.

We ate in the restaurant downstairs — indoors, unfortunately, but at least we could look at Ralph's prints on the walls and find some amusement in the echoing hush in the room. Two other tables were occupied, behind me a couple and in the corner a family with an over-tired toddler who alternately complained and allowed himself to be distracted by his zealous grandmother who played finger games with him — which always ended in 'cou cou cou'. It's the same the whole world over.

Friday, 22^nd September

Sunny and windy again. We phoned Sabine from the restaurant. She said she would give us details about the bullfight at Ceret and would phone back . I hung around the empty tables for 15 minutes and then asked the nice plump dark-haired waitress to take a message when she called back. Ten minutes later the waitress brought a neatly written note saying that we should book our seats before 3 o'clock on Sunday afternoon and that Sabine would meet us for dinner afterwards.

Ralph spent the morning touching up and colouring the drawings from his sketch book — in a way stalling the moment to continue the scenes on grape pickers. In the afternoon we returned to the Musee Maillol which gave us both a renewed spirit of hope — to look at the strong and peaceful sculptures, the hopeful maidens with their resigned yet purposeful expressions. We bought a fascinating book there, produced by the Dina Vierny foundation. She was Maillol's model and the book traces Maillol's life and friends and the other artists whose work Dina herself collected.

We carried on up the winding road between tall escarpments and slopes with their tiny cross-hatched vineyards above which reared rocks glistening black and ochre. For a time the road followed an archetypal babbling brook of romantic poets and idyllic childhoods. We stopped at a shadowy copse of old trees with black trunks beyond which pale green vines shimmered up an incline.

In the evening I prepared pot roast pork in olive oil, garlic and onions. While I cooked Ralph started on another picker, the 'tosseur', a backview of a man tipping grapes from his hod into a truck. Our ennui had been dispersed.

Saturday, 23^rd September

It is early evening and by now Ralph has got well into his picker series, working away in his corner while I prepared a steamed coq au vin, artichokes, beans and potatoes.

It's been another glorious day with the usual morning routine except that we washed the sheets, or rather Ralph did, with the same technique he used for the grapes — in the bath by stamping on them. While I wrote my diary on the terrace I had to keep an eye on the sheets flapping on our makeshift clothes line to stop them parachuting across the countryside.

Today we decided to take a picnic up the 'Haut Banyuls' road, the same one we had taken in Dimitri's car in the fog and rain. This road climbs out of the town up to the tall crest with its observation tower and descends again to Port Vendre. It hardly seemed the same road as before. For now instead of fog and drizzle there was sunshine and long vistas as far as Perpignan to the North.

Our picnic spot was to the left of the narrow winding road, a wide grassy ledge with a panorama of the Pyrenees folding into one another as far as Spain and beyond. As we munched out baguette, saucisson and cheese and sipped our wine, we gazed appreciatively at the view. The texture of the foothills, separated from us by a deep valley, reminded me of a bag lady's dark green bobbly sweater. The shape of one ridge was like the bowed shoulders of such a woman and behind her another ridge resembled a sleeping vagrant outstretched as if in a vast doorway.

From such big things to the very small: an ant swerved and bobbed towards the picnic crumbs across the tufted grass and commandeered a piece of bread many times larger than itself. It heaved it away. It was followed by others and we threw crumbs to them much as one throws bread to ducks on a pond.

Our next visitors were of the human kind: four ladies climbed out of a car and wandered over to admire the view. They were genteel and sensitive to their invasion of our small picnic space. We chatted for a moment and they graciously retired back to their motor car saying: 'We have so many things to see.'

Below the ancient look-out tower was an observation platform with a view not only of the coastline from south of Banyuls to Perpignan in the north but also of the high plateau of Banyuls vineyards and its southern slopes. Well worth seeing for our wine researches.

A short walk around Port Vendre, its pink church glittering in the sunshine and the fishing boats bobbing in the harbour, and returning to Paulilles to our nicely dried sheets.

I felt a little queazy on our return — maybe a surfeit of sun, picnic and wine. I woke up at two in the morning and was sick. In the morning I felt frail but purged.

Sunday, 24^th September

The weather was warm and thin clouds drifted from the mountains. Lo and behold, we had a message from Sabine: she would not be meeting us at Ceret but would see us back at Paulilles for supper at Coullioure. That's fine by us.

We set off for Ceret, inland between Argeles and the mountains on the flat plain to the north which we had seen from above Banyuls.

Ceret is a picturesque town with views of the mountains all around and old houses forming secluded squares. We lunched in one such square with a fountain in the middle and grey shuttered balconied houses. It was a scene of animation with tables set up in front of small restaurants and large parties of family and friends babbling away to each other — a festive air pervaded. It seemed that everyone was going to the bullfight. Certainly, the long table behind us was full of people bound for the arena. A girl behind us with long blonde hair we saw later exercising the horses.

We had already located the arena but all had been shuttered up. It was beyond the old part of town among neat modern villas with stuccoed porches and neatly paved garden patios behind freshly painted 'grillages'. It seemed incongruous to come upon the pale terracotta and blue circular walls of the arena and its bright orange Catalan flags. We had been told that it didn't open until 3 o'clock. So we had plenty of time to have a meal. Still feeling a little fragile I had ordered crudite and a plain omelette while Ralph had crudite and a steak hache with chips.

Bac to the arena we went past the neat villas. The small windows in the arena walls were now open but there were still no people around. After a certain amount of prevarication we bought two tickets three rows from the front in the ombre/soleil section. It was nearly three so I asked the man if we would be able to go in soon. No, he said, the hour changed today so it was not yet two — if only we'd known. That's travelling for you.

So we had another hour to kill and wandered back up the hill to the old town again exploring the narrow streets and squares and ornate balconies with pots of flowers. We sat for a coffee in a square where a platform had been erected flanked by the familiar orange and white striped flags. An indifferent pop band played so badly that all you could hear were the thump, thump of the drums. A lady leaned out of a window, its ledge crowded with empty flower pots.

At last the time had come to go to the 'corrida'. Alas, we passed the Gallery of Modern Art where there was a Tapies exhibition on — but now we had no time to see it.

There were queues at the ticket windows and people milled about, greeting each other, getting out of cars and drinking at the circular kiosk outside the gates. We went round to the far side of the arena which overlooked the exercise yard for the horses. High walled concrete stalls for housing the bulls were cut off from public access by tall railings. And there was the girl who had sat for lunch behind us wearing a fedora hat and long over-jodpurs. She sat astride a white horse with its medieval accoutrements which consisted of a padded cloth in ochre chequered in red reaching to its hoofs. Stocky men milled about and the matadors strolled tensely in their brilliantly coloured outfits — green and silver, purple and pink. It all added to the air of expectation that lay over the scene — our waiting had keyed us up all the more.

We threaded our way along the narrow concrete circular seating and found our places. There were still many places to be filled and the top rail was crowded with people leaning across the balustrade, their gazes fixed on the scenes below them. On inspection, I could see the preparations going on. Two men walked on the concrete ramps above the bull pens on a last minute inspection, though I couldn't see the bulls themselves. The groups of toreadors and the stouter, pot bellied picadors were in there rich costumes with squirled embroidery and braiding.

The tension continued to rise as more of the seats filled up and the minutes ticked towards four o'clock. The band members in maroon jackets took their places above the entrance where the participants would appear. Their instruments caught the sun which lay below the clouds that drifted silently across the mountains. A pile of pink cloaks with yellow linings were draped on the innermost barricade and young men in black breeches, white shirts and red Jacobean caps appeared carrying sand rakes. Three men in shirt sleeves stood behind the barricade marked 'Medicos'. A man in an apple green jacket smoked a long cigar and surveyed the scene in a proprietorial way — a bigwig, it seemed, because later he sat in the flag-draped box of honour, with his corpulent, well-lunched silvered haired compatriots. He reminded me of a rotund Jason Robards watching the proceedings with an avuncular air. All the while, Catalan songs were crackling through the tannoy system.

At last the band piped up their high pitched overture and two riders on white horses pranced across the sandy arena and bowed their heads to the box. These riders were a man and an adrogynous young girl/boy both dressed in black cavalier outfits. The man, it transpired would subsequently enter the ring to supervise the dying or dead bull and attach chains to the horns before it was dragged out by the two horses, leaving its last traces of blood in the sand behind it. The rest paraded around the ring with an iconographic emblem scratched in the sand. Then the two men in the red caps raked it up and scooped it into buckets along with the fallen horse droppings while others raked the sand smooth again.

Next a man with a silk suit and no tie walked into the ring and displayed a large placard with the name of the bull and its date of birth. All these rituals would be played out after each bull had met its untimely death, the raking , the placard, the re-painting of the two white semi-circles by one of the red-capped men using a contraption that looked remarkably like a baby carriage — an irony there, we thought.

Then the real spectacle began with the opening of the doors to the bulls' pens, the expectant pause while two men leaned over the door to see that the bull was coming and their backing away a sign that the animal was on its way.

And there it was, the black bull charging into the ring and then stopping dead in its tracks , goaded by the nimble footed banderillos with their pink cloaks to be prepared for its ultimate fate. I was horrified by the blind strength of the bull and the unfair conflict that would ensue. As the bull threw itself at the wooden barricade the slatted wood splintered. The force was terrific but the men had slipped behind the barricade to safety. Each time the wooden slats were cracked apart a man ran up with a hammer and banged them into place again, casting sideways looks at the bull to make sure it wasn't too near.

Once the bull had become confused enough by the capes flapping at it from all sides, the bandilleros skipped forward and, poised like ballerinas, thrust their festive darts into the bull's back. A roar came from the crowd and another roar when one of the darts fell out. Three times the bull received these darts that looked like children's festival toys with their brightly coloured paper trimmings inn blue, red and yellow.

Next appeared the paunchy picador on his horse, his box-shaped stirrups, his legs in armour like knights of old and the horse blindfolded with a thin cotton rag tied around its head. The picador kept the horse reined-in. The bull charged at the horse. Its rider thrust his cruel spear into the bull's back. Sometimes the horse was thrown up into the air with both the force of the bull's charging and the resistance of the barrier against which it was pinned. The picador's stabbing was relentless and his job was only accomplished once rivers of blood were flowing down the bull's flanks.

Then the final dance of death began - the toreador prancing and pouting and stamping and teasing the unfortunate beast by first turning his back on it and then glancing at it with a wicked look. And when it was done right, if you can ever call it right, a lunge in the right place brought the bull to its knees and the end had come. Almost as an after thought with a final stab to the inconscient head by one of the knife wielding bandilleros. The bull is lucky if it is despatched with speed and skill. Too often it suffers the incompetence of a novice, or so it seemed and I suppose there lies the irony. For how else can a toreador learn his trade? The crowd hated the incompetence but loved it at the same time. Booing and clapping and roaring and jumping up to demonstrate the collective emotion that had taken over.

Night was falling as we approached Paulilles for our rendez-vous with Sabine and Bernard Daure. Sabine was hovering in the restaurant kitchen with a plate of hors d'oevre while Bernard and Clovis, the dog, sat talking to a couple of customers at one of the tables. We were allowed time to change and sort ourselves out.

We ate on the terrace of the Hotel le Templier in Collioure — a haunt of Picasso's in the fifties. He lived here for a year with his children, Claude and Paloma, I think. The restaurant interior and bar are lined with pictures — good ones, portraits in oil, landscapes. Bernard took control of the menu in his quiet way — the Jau rose wine, anchovies and red peppers and grilled turbot. Sabine talked about Collioure in the old days.

Monday, 25^th September

The weather had taken a turn for the worse. A chilling wind with leaden clouds racing across from the mountains and an eerily bright light over the sea which was brilliant blue under the cold sky with its surface flecked with white, ever moving sea spray. It could have come straight from a Canaletto painting of Venice. The wind rattled and banged the shutters and lowered our spirits. I tried to carry on with my drawing of the view from the terrace but was defeated by the freezing wind. Ralph finished off his 'tosseurs' and started on the four old men sitting on their bench after lunch. Mid-afternoon we decided to drive up the Haut Banjuls road and take a look at a sign post to a pottery that had intrigued us with its hand painted sign. This road was more precarious and winding than the road to the observation tower. The road wound around the mountain, its edges precariously near the sheer drop of rocks and steep vineyards. It was the vast blue of the sea that precipitated the feeling of vertigo and dizziness. While the wind buffeted us and whistled past us, it played a more delicate game with the sea, transforming it into an endless vastness accentuated by the myriad flecks of white, like a vast eiderdown of raw silk about to billow on a washing line.

The pottery turned out to be a square orange walled house sloping down a steep incline with a path too steep and narrow for us to have the will to negotiate. So we passed it by and made our way down the familiar road to Collioure which was full of departing charabancs being directed out of the small seafront car park by a gendarme in a smart blue uniform. The wind was still strong and becoming colder as evening approached so we bought a Sunday Times and sat for half and hour in Le Templier cosily out of the wind.

In the evening Ralph worked on his 'Good Old Boys' and I cooked pork chops, sauteed potatoes and haricot beans. After supper I read Ralph my account of the bull fight and we fell asleep to another crackly movie — this time with Robert de Niro — it never seems right dubbed in French somehow.

Tuesday, 26^th September

The wind was less fierce this morning — and sunny. So the good times had come again! Ralph finished 'The Good Old Boys' — the crowning touch being two photographs, one of a Tautavel/man tableau and one of an old man walking — as a collage. It all fitted beautifully. Also a landscape of the rocky escarpment above Tautavel.

As the morning proceeded the wind died down to nearly a breeze and I spent a pleasant morning carrying on with my drawing and diary. Before lunch we walked down to the beach all quiet and gleaming in the sunshine. Ralph had a cold swim while I sat reading. Then lunch and a walk along the cliff path and a read and swim (not me) and contemplation in the sunshine. Then back for a little more work — Ralph drawing his 'Tautavel Crossroads' picture in sepia ink — a very delicate and fine start.

Then a quick trip to Banjuls to collect film and go to the supermarket. Spaghetti and salad for supper — and a game of scrabble.

Wednesday, 27^th September

The best weather so far with only a smidgin of hair-ruffling breeze. No problem sitting and watching a few shirts drying. No more flapping clothes threatening to take off across the vineyards. I sat most of the morning in the shade of the pine tree whose top branches bow down to the other side of the terrace railing. Ralph has drawn Clovis, The Daure dog, and collaged his photos of the Banjuls slopes into a starting point for another landscape.

Went down to the beach and sat watching Ralph snorkelling. An idyllic picture, the beach empty with the sea aquamarine and the sun shining on the vines all around. When we went back for lunch I tried to rig up a parasol with the broom stuck into the umbrella stand and a sheet tied to both the broom and the railings — a dismal failure: the sheet just flapped about and the sun blazed down. So Ralph went down to the vineyard below to find a stave to put in the other umbrella stand. He returned proudly bearing a real sun umbrella. The chef in the restaurant had asked what he was doing wrestling with bits of wood in the vineyard. I folded away the sheets and put the broom away. Ralph had created another mountain landscape with montage and ink. So we headed for Portvendre for supplies and a drink at the sea-front café. A fishing boat returned with its catch. People sauntered along the harbour.

On our return I sat on the terrace watching the sunset — all orange and pink against a turquoise sky with a delicate sliver of silver moon suspended in the middle distance. Before supper Ralph montaged his photo of a Maillol sculpture on to the mountain collage and the line work for a drawing of Chateau de Jau.

Thursday, 28^th September

Today we had decided to go to Spain until Saturday and our journey home. It took us until mid-day to pack ourselves up, clean the flat and for Ralph to do a few last minute touches of work. It was cloudy again but not cold and later, as we set off, the clouds had begun to disperse from behind the mountains. We stopped first at Banjuls to post some cards and luckily the bank was still open so we could get some Pesetas.

Then we headed south where we crossed the border at Cerbere — hardly a border — a couple of soldiers in a prefabricated kiosk. They waved us through disinterested in our passports. The road was narrow and hugged the coastline of precipitous rocks plunging into the ultramarine sea. The landscape was more savage than the neat vineyards of Roussillon. We had breath-taking views of the mountains layered like tissue paper into the distance. Ralph wanted to sea a village called Roses, where he spent his first holiday abroad at the age of 21. We followed the road down to the sea a Llanca, a wide natural bay but not an old building in sight, all band box gleaming white villas and apartment blocks with a spanking new marina where boats bobbed up and down in rows against the quays. We ate in a glass covered outdoor restaurant — chicken, chips and salad — simple and fresh. The place, in spite of its newness, was quite splendid in its way with the gleaming white buildings, the space between the receding mountains and the wide expanse of sea. We walked up a new cement path to a vantage point where all below looked breathtakingly clean and orderly. The light was incredibly bright, enhancing the blueness of sea and sky and the green and purple mountains.

The village of Roses was nothing like the tiny fishing village that Ralph remembered. Still, we parked the car and dipped into the sea and sat in the sun for half an hour before driving to Fugeras where we were keen to see the Dali Museum but it was nearly five o'clock and the town didn't look too inviting as a place to stay the night. So we drove on to Gironne. The countryside inland past the coastal plain and its tatty industrial sites and shabby hotels changed to undulating hills and valleys with verdant woods, bamboo bending in the wind, harvested cornfields and mellow farm buildings.

Gironne turned out to be a nightmare for traffic. We became completely phased out trying to get to the old part of the town along one way systems so we drove into an underground carpark which, either by luck or design, was near the old part of the city with its roseate buildings and old stone bridge over the river.

We stopped to take breath in a café and consulted a Tourist Office which was conveniently placed right there and found a hotel called the Peninsular which was less a hotel than a rooming house and there was one room left, small and sparse but clean and overlooking a narrow stair well. After showering we emerged into the night to explore the city which rose towards the 12^th century church through narrow streets that wound up and down in a spectacular way. The church at night was amazing — a moorish influence but also very Spanish in decoration with wide stairs and stone balustrades that dipped steeply down into a square of tall houses far below. No wonder Sabine wanted us to see it. We found a small restaurant and then went back to our room which was, as Ralph remarked, like the bedroom of a B-movie assassin. No sooner had our heads touched the pillow than we heard an echoing telephone ringing in a corridor and a loud Spanish woman's voice rattling on and on — probably saying things that were very mundane. During the night we heard people coming and going with no thought for the sleeping guests and the clanging of lift doors. For all that, we slept well, grateful for the convenience, if not the comfort, of our room.

Friday, 29^th September

Had arranged to meet Sabine at the hotel at 10.30. We breakfasted in a café in the Ramblas and strolled away from the old streets into the newer part of town. Sabine was waiting when we got back and we spent the morning with her in the old town, entering the cathedral and visiting its museum of catholic artefacts — from wooden carvings of the stations of the cross to the embroidered accoutrements of the church hierarchy. The two special things we saw were a 12^th century embroidery depicting the creation, so beautifully naïve and the 10^th century book 'Beautus' or 'Codex of the Apocalypse' that we were to see by appointment at closer quarters that afternoon.

We walked through the University of Gironne, its newer buildings cleverly integrated into the cathedral precincts and on top of the ancient walls with views of the city, ancient and modern, and tantalising glimpses of plant filled terraces, secluded gardens and juxtaposed roofs. We also visited the ancient Arabic baths with vestiges of the water and heating systems. Then we lunched in a tiny restaurant tucked away in an old street with a terrace with rampant vines as its canopy — asparagus, goats' cheese salad, peppers stuffed with spinach and fish — and Penedes wine — and Sabine talking about the significance of wine, art and local history.

Then we returned to the cathedral museum to look at the Book , its pages open as before at an illuminated illustration of apocalyptic content, the paper made from animal skin in which you could still see the precisely scored lines ruled to take the careful calligraphic text. The thick leather binding gave it a sanctity within the glass case. An round-faced custodian, or was he the director, I don't know, who had been hovering in the museum shop, unscrewed the casings and lifted of the glass front with magnetised flanges. Gingerly he lifted the book and set it to rest on the plinth with all the reverence of a high priest holding a holy relic. I expected to be issued with antiseptic white gloves but we were allowed to turn the pages ourselves as if we were scanning a telephone book. We were careful, of course. It was a special feeling to touch the old vellum and to feel the faint score marks with our fingers. We leafed through images of earth, heaven and hell, people and animals, the devil in black grasping hold of pink bodies which fell from the higher purgatorial zones downwards to damnation — images of angels, of the wind, the moon, sun and stars, Babylon burning in flames depicted with zig-zag lines drawn with childlike simplicity. There were pictures with a definite moorish influence in the round arches and arabic patterns, in colours from cochineal to vermilion, ochre and green. The other visitors, not so privileged as us, craned their necks to see over our shoulders and to touch the pages.

Having left Sabine we got our car from the underground car park and set off for Jau to spend the night there. We drove across the border back into France and dipped to the coast as Ralph needed to collect his last batch of film from Banjuls. A bit of a detour but we arrived at the supermarket just as it got dark. The journey to Jau from Perpignan was a bit of a nightmare with impatient French drivers hooting and flashing their lights to overtake us. We arrived back at Jau at about eight o'clock with much relief and ate a simple supper with Sabine and Bernard of roquefort tart, salad and apple strudel and an early night.

Saturday, 30^th September

Sunny/misty autumnal nip in the air — a solitary breakfast in the chateau dining room. We saw Bernard briefly as we packed the car. Drove to Tautavel to the museum in search of more information about Tautavel man. Bought a video that might help. Then climbed (by car) up the steep drive-way to a newly built amphitheatre overlooking the plain below and and a hoarding with a plan of the valley. It all made sense and we could see exactly where the 'Caune de l'arago' was — a caged-in hut where the excavation of Tautavel man was done. We drove towards it, parked at a small camping site below and decided to walk up the steep path to the site. Suddenly a convoy of four cars passed us and a troop of Spanish families got out — very noisy — our peace had been shattered but it transpired that they were with an archaeologist who had a key to the site itself: inside the mouth of the cave. We followed them inside. A steel door clanged behind us. We stood like prisoners while the families received a lecture. If only we could understand what he was saying. It was exactly what we needed to hear but in English. After about half an hour we sheepishly asked to be let out. Sheepish because before we had been cursing them for their intrusion. From the front parapet at the cave entrance was a view of the plain and the mountains. Hot and sunny. We had a cosy lunch in the square at Tautavel and drove to Estagel, a sad town without the sun. And then to the airport at Perpignan.

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