Guarding the Olives

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Issy's cold‘s no better. I leave her to sleep while I wander north along the seafront path that runs in front of the apartment. I'm joined by a small throng of people who look like they’ve probably retired here, out for their early morning strolls. It seems we’re not too far from Canyelles Cove, with its nice sandy beach, and a good supply of restaurants. We’ve spent a long time making the long trek into Roses and back for dinner the last two nights, and whilst I'm sure this is very good for our health, I think I'd rather follow a large plate of patatas bravas and a few cervezas with a short stroll than a trek halfway across Spain. I think I know where we'll be eating tonight, and probably the night after as well.

We extricate our car from its tiny garage and head off towards the Cap de Creus National Park. The first section of road is flat, but soon turns steep and windy as we head into the mountains. We reach the top of the ridge and head down through the National Park into the seaside village of Cadaques. The views from the Santa Maria church on top of a hill overlooking the waterfront are stunning. The village is built around a small bay, and the buildings are all painted white. It seems to be a very popular destination; there‘s no shortage of people around the main square and on the beach.

One of the reasons we wanted to come here was to visit a house where Salvador Dali often lived and worked between 1930, and 1982 when his wife died. It‘s now been turned into a Dali museum. We follow signs guiding us up over the hill and down into the nearby hamlet of Port Lligat.

We decide to stop for a drink along the way, so we wander into a hotel and stand patiently in front of the bar. Bar lady‘s busy vacuuming; her vacuum cleaner‘s very loud, and she’s got her mind well and truly on the job. We‘re struggling to attract her attention. She seems to be taking an awful long time; there can’t be that much dust behind such a small bar. We start to wonder if she‘s deliberately ignoring us. We're not sure why. If she doesn't like talking to people and taking their money she should probably think about a career change. Eventually we give up and leave.

We join the queue for tickets to the Dali house. Hmmm. It seems that today’s sold out, which is a bit disappointing. We didn't realise it was so popular. We’re told that we can however go into the olive garden next to the house, but that’s being guarded by a particularly unfriendly looking security guard with a large truncheon, so we decide to pass on that and move on. I didn’t realise olives were that valuable.

Next stop is a small church and cemetery on the ridge top. The graves are all in walls, and the views down over Port Lligat are excellent.

Back in Cadaques we head into a restaurant in the main square for some lunch. Dali seems to be a real feature here; there’s a large statue of him in the middle of the square. The waiter tells us we can sit anywhere, but then gets annoyed when we settle in at a table for four. We're not quite sure why. Lunchtime‘s nearly over and the restaurant‘s virtually empty.

Cadaques is beautiful, and we both comment that we now feel like we‘re really in Spain. Our apartment‘s very nice, but we agree that Roses feels more like a town on the Mornington Peninsula near home in Melbourne than somewhere on the other side of the world.

We head up over the hill towards Port de la Selva and turn off towards the Monastery de Sant Pere de Rodes. The road‘s steeper, narrower and windier than ever, but the views down over the coast are spectacular. The massive former Benedictine Monastery sits near the top of the ridge. We read that its true origins are unknown, and legend has it that it was founded by monks who came to the area with relics of Saint Peter and other saints to save them from the barbarian hordes. I thought that Saint Peter was supposed to be buried under the altar of St Peter's Basilica in the Vatican City, but maybe that was another St Peter. The first documented existence of the Monastery dates from 878, and it was finally abandoned in 1793 after repeated sackings by a range of undesirable hordes. It comprises a massive, high ceilinged and very impressive church, two main towers and some cloisters.

There are lots of cyclists and hikers up here. A lycra clad athlete on a mountain bike comes hurtling down the path towards us and we narrowly avoid a nasty collision. He then turns around, heads back up the path again, and a few minutes later we see him charging towards us again. I think now might be a good time for us to find another path. We saw the monastery's one room hospital a bit earlier. It didn't look like it had had any patients in it for a couple of hundred years; the dirt floor was covered in weeds.

We see a map showing that the Monastery‘s on one of the routes of the Camino de Sant Jaume - a nearly 400 kilometre long mountainous pilgrimage route from Narbonne in southern France to Lleida in western Catalonia. Issy says that we should think about walking the 800 kilometres of the famous Camino de Santiago from the Pyrenees to Santiago in north west Spain. She says that we’d need to train. I think she's right. I got a bit weary taking a short stroll through a pancake flat bird sanctuary yesterday.

We head to a fancy looking restaurant on the beach at Canyelles in search of dinner. The setting‘s idyllic. They hand Issy a menu in English, but mine’s in French. I wonder why; I suppose I must look French. Maybe they think that Issy‘s here for the weekend with her French lover, although on second thoughts maybe not; it’s not the weekend.

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