History and a load more art

Royal Chateau, Collioure

In a change of mood that could almost be seen as a case of morning after the night before, Saturday morning brought a spell of sustained and heavy rain to follow the fireworks and festivities.

Having taken the opportunity for a lie in, as the rain petered out, we decided then to amble around to Boramar for … well, pretty much anything that took our fancy.

By the time we sat down at one of the cafés overlooking the village’s central beach, the weather had not simply improved – it had turned into a glorious day.

A refreshing Coke later, we took the opportunity to make our way up to the chateau.

Vauban's work at Villefranche-de-Conflent

Part palace, part fort, the latter was begun in the first years of the 13^th century by the Knights Templar and integrated into the royal castle in 1345.

Added to and changed over the following centuries, after the French finally annexed Roussillon in 1659, Vauban – his age’s number one artist when it came to military engineering – took it in hand.

Marshall of France to Louis XIV, he added substantially to its structure as well as upgrading Fort Saint-Elme, which watches over Collioure and Port Vendre from a nearby hill, while Fort Miradou, which stands at the back of the village’s Mouré quarter, also bears his hallmarks.

As I’ve said before, this part of the world is peppered with fortifications – a sign of its importance over centuries of tiffs between France and Spain as they fought to gain control of Catalan country.

You can pick out Vauban’s work quite easily: the chateau had thick walls added that also make it into a star fort – a form that made it harder for canon fire to do serious damage, while also allowing defenders to lay down overlapping fields of fire.

View across Port d'Avall

And then there are the classic Vauban sentry boxes, which I swear I’d recognise anywhere, having seen them not only in Collioure, but at Villefranche-de-Conflent too.

There, Vauban not only fortified the tiny town itself, but also built Fort Libéria on the hill above it to defend this crucial area in the Pyrénées, with the rivers Têt and Cady nearby and the plain not far away.

Anyway, back to Collioure.

We’ve been around the chateau before – and even attended a concert there – but it’s well worth a ramble around in it’s own right, plus there is usually an exhibition being staged. Or in this case, two exhibitions. So all that for €4 – you simply cannot go wrong.

One was made up of photographs of Dalí, who was born not far away, over the border, at Figueres.

Sculpture, Félix Valdelièvre

Now I don’t mind a spot of Surrealism, and some of his earlier work (The Persistence of Memory, Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening etc) I actively like, while it also makes me wonder how much of an influence he was on the likes of Chris Foss and other sci-fi and fantasy artists.

This exhibition provides no revelations, but it does remind you – should it be needed – that Dalí’s main work was himself, and that his was an ego that could make Picasso seem like Uriah Heap.

And this without mentioning that Dalí’s politics were, to put it mildly, highly dubious, given his admiration for Franco.

‘Stark staring bonkers,” we kept muttering. But very, very clever too.

There was one actual Dalí work there – a piece that, frankly, looked like a Rorschach test, with title and signature daubed in the corner.

We all, to a greater or lesser degree do what Dalí did: we make decisions about how to present ourselves to the world. If we choose, for instance, to follow fashion, we are making one statement. But if we choose not to follow fashion, then it’s every bit as much a statement; a deliberate attempt to convey something; to say something to the world about who we are.

Dalí took that and commoditised it – more than any other artist, his own face is iconic.

If the ability to paint the wildest imaginings influenced some artists, how much did the artist as a work of art influence others, such as Tracey Emin, who has subsequently commoditised herself and others in her own career?

Sculpture, Félix Valdelièvre

After musing over the photos, we made our way further up through the chateau, past the bakery – a tiny little room with a double ‘oven’ that is, in effect, outside the main part of the building – and to the highest points of the chateau.

From there can be enjoyed magnificent vistas. And if you want a single reason for our continuing love affair with Collioure (and there are many) look at the sea at Port d’Avall.

Photographed on an iPhone and with no adjustments to the colour, that really is what it’s like.

Having wandered around Vauban’s walls, we made our way down to the chapel, to see the other exhibition.

This was a very different affair.

Félix Valdelièvre is a sculptor from the south of France, whose first exhibition was in 1999.

The works on show here were from his Volumes selection. And the more you look at them, the more intriguing they become.

Not only are the shapes themselves interesting – and many of them appear to defy gravity – but the manner in which he achieves and uses different textures is too.

Anchovies, Au Casot style

They seem to be primarily created from pieces of stone that are then sliced and polished or roughed up, to provide some of the contrasts, with contrasting stones and metals used sparingly to offer further contrasts.

In art speak, his website explains that he “puts the asymmetry in symmetry, the elevation in the straights, while recognising a taste for contradiction”.

Well, I found myself ‘seeing’ insect cocoons, torpedoes, sci-fi creations and strange armour. As I said, very interesting.

These were firmly non-figurative, but Valdelièvre’s work also includes more figurative pieces.

You can find out more here.

Suffice it to say that art can be found in many things. And later, when were headed to my beloved Au Casot for our first evening meal out of the holiday – and our first return visit to this restaurant – there was art on a plate too.

Squid, delightfully presented – superbly cooked

After enjoying an exquisite starter of two varieties of anchovy, with hard-boiled egg, roasted red peppers and black olives (pretty much a Collioure salad), it was on to baby squid with a persillade dressing.

Now go on – tell me that doesn’t look like art? It tasted like it too, because the chef at Au Casot keeps food simple, but knows how to top-quality, regional ingredients to absolute perfection.

Oh – and the coffee ice cream and apricot sorbet (my own special combo) that I had to finish was the highest quality too.

There’s no end to the art that’s available to enjoy here in Collioure.

Stage 7: Villefranche de Conflent to Collioure

The train to Perpignan was due to 2.26pm - or so we thought. But getting back to the station in good time - we had to buy tickets - there was a shock in store.

That departure was on weekdays only and this was a Saturday. We had, in checking the timetables, forgotten to verify such a tiny, but deeply important detail.

The next train, then, was for three hours hence, by which time we were supposed to have already met the agent for the cottage in Collioure and taken possession of the keys.

There was remarkably little swearing. We tried to see, via the internet on our phones, whether there were any buses that did the journey to Perpigan. Nothing appeared.

If we waited three hours, where would we wait and what would we do?

After a few minutes, The Other Half asked what the state of play was cash wise and, receiving a positive answer, rang a taxi firm whose number was displayed outside the station, asking what the fare would be to Perpignan.

It turned out to be acceptable, so he asked for a cab. 'Tout suite' turned out to be a little longer than we might have imagined, but that was probably, in part at least, because we were still at the edge of panic. Or perhaps it was simply that the driver had his lunch to finish.

But after the discomfort of Le Petit Train Jeune the day before, this was welcome luxury: a modern, air-conditioned car that did the journey smoothly - and in less time than the scheduled train, at any time of the week, would have managed.

And as if we were not already aware of just how near the heart of Pays Catalan we were, it also allowed a first glimpse of Canigou, the Catalans' sacred mountain, which soared above as we left the Têt Valley behind and bore across the plains that we're most familiar with, approaching the Corbiere hills in remarkably short order.

Perpignan station - the centre of the world, as Surrealist artist Salvador Dali described it when he managed to find his way out of Figueres in Spain - was crowded. But improvements in the last 12 months meant that we were able to get to our platform without having to carry the bags up or down stairs, as previously.

The train from Narbonne was on time and we joined the game of hustling on board with all the other people making for the coast.

It's just a trio of stops, with the sea tantalisingly just over the near horizon and the foothills of the Pyrenees sloping down to the Mediterranean in front. Elne, Argeles sur Mer and then through the final tunnel that brings you to Collioure.

Standing and with bags ready by then; ready to be off; ready to walk past the tiny arena and down the hill into the town itself. Sights to welcome and to greet once more; a sense of the intervening year simply fading away; sangria waiting by the beach.

We'd made it. We were back.

History seeping through the walls

When we'd been putting together our itinerary, the part of our trip that had imposed itself least on my mind was the final overnight stop in Villefrance de Conflent.

Paying rather less attention than to our other stopovers, I had a hazy picture in my mind of a Vauban fort on a hill, with a tiny village enclosed within it.

Thus, when we arrived, my thoughts were entirely on how we could visit the fort. That there was a village at ground level and that there would be anything interesting about it had not occurred to me.

In fact, what I'd mentally done was to conflate two things: Fort Liberia, which is indeed high up the mountain side, and was built as part of a strategy to defend the Têt Valley, and the tiny Cité of Villefranche de Conflent, which lies below.

After that welcoming and refreshing beer at the B&B, we headed toward the village, taking the scenic route described by our hostess. At first, it wasn't very scenic at all, being through a large car park that ran alongside the railway station.

But after climbing rough steps to a small bridge and then following a path around the side of the mountain, we caught sight of a bridge leading directly into the village. I say 'directly', but you had to walk through a gatehouse first, which stood opposite a door in the rock.

That was locked at such an hour, but we knew it contained the 1,000 steps that offered one route up to the fort itself - an 'improvement' added by Napoleon III and one that, even given the time, I would have foresworn for the rather older hairpin path that wound its way up the mountain side - and, Vauban being Vauban, would have allowed plenty of opportunities to take out unwanted visitors.

We passed through the gatehouse and then, via gates, over the narrow gauge railway we'd arrived on just a short while earlier; then over the bridge, with its high walls and firing holes on each side.

Now we were within the fortified walls of the Cité itself, and a narrow, ancient street took us to one of the two main streets in this tiny village.

It was, quite simply, astonishing. If Carcassonne is a miracle, then this is even more so - not least because it doesn't attract the numbers of travellers each day, so you don't feel overwhelmed by a crush of humanity waving plastic swords, but have the chance to take it all in.

That night, we ate at a local grill that our hostess had recommended. I had a truly delightful salad, of a local goat's cheese from the nearby commune of Conat, which was wrapped delicately, together with a small piece of ham, in a filo parcel that had been crisped beautifully, just warming the contents, and was dressed with Balsamico.

It came on slices of apple, which in turn sat on a pile of crisp, tasty lettuce.

To follow, I opted for pintade - or guinea fowl - with a thick, marmalady sauce of figs and Banyuls. Lovely stuff.

Ice cream was, as so often, the perfect conclusion.

We ambled back by the shorter route, along an unlit road, over the river Têt, and slept easily in a charming room that, in daylight, offered an excellent view of the fort.

The next day, with plenty of time until our 2.26pm train, we headed straight back to the village, again taking the scenic route. With nobody else around, it was a delight of a photographic expedition.

Those who say that time travel is impossible have never been to Villefranche de Conflent. And yet it is also a living, breathing place, not simply a museum or an amusement park for history buffs.

Not that there isn't plenty of history.

Vauban was the military architect to the Sun King, Louis XIV, and is even celebrated with a statue in Versailles. His influence was not confined to France or even Europe - or even his own century.

I first became aware of him when we started visiting Collioure, as he was involved in a number of the forts that dot the town and the wider area, from a period when there was still plenty of scrapping going on in the region, including incursions from nearby Spain.

We paid the small fee necessary to walk around inside the ramparts - again, unhindered by crowds. It was a fascinating experience, with The Other Half's greater military history knowledge proving an additional guide.

Not that Vauban built the place: its origins go back far further. Indeed, the church is evidence of that, with its simple, Roman lines that pre-date the Gothic. No, Vauban merely reinforced the town, with lines of fire that covered every angle, and the little sentry posts that we recognised from various buildings in Collioure.

We lunched very simply at a local bar cafè that seemed to double as the headquarters of the local firemen. In my case, feeling like little, I opted for a portion of chips, while The Other Half ordered ham and chips. It came with a slice of baguette, toasted lightly and spread with a creamy, almost gel-like substance on, which the cheese-hating Other Half instantly identified as that and handed to me.

Fool that I was, I reported instantly that it was not cheese, but garlic. He grabbed it back. In fact, as I realised a day or so later, it was the most traditional form of aïoli, made from garlic, salt and oil, but no egg yolk.

We popped into a cavernous and quite wonderful local pottery, where I picked up two tiny bowls and little wooden spoons for all the salt I'd bought in Carcassonne, and from which I nearly had to be physically removed before buying loads more pots and bowls and vinegar dispensers.

Our little kitchen in Hackney looks ever more like it's been transposed directly from France.

We enjoyed a drink in the tiny square next to the church and bought the usual pieces of tourist kitsch that I cannot resist (the fridge door at home is a tale of our travels), and then we had to head back to pick up our bags and journey on.

In many ways, unexpected as it was to me, Villefranche de Conflent was all I'd hoped for in Carcassonne and somehow felt was just missing. It was an unexpected treat.

I'd loved to have had a longer stay: there were two nearby grottos with stalactites and stalagmites to be seen, plus the fort itself and even 4x4 trips to nearby Canigou, the Catalans' sacred mountain.

It had been a stunning, all-too-short break. But somehow, I don't think it's the last time I'll visit.

Stage 6: La Tour de Carol to Villefranche de Conflet

Continuing our desire to get decent luggage space on small, local trains, we ambled along the platform with some time to go before departure. And it was high fives when we realised that the doors to Le Petit Train Jeune were unlocked.

Stashing bags, we took our pick of seats and settled down for three and a half hour trip through the mountains and down the Têt Valley.

It was bumpy. Very bumpy. But this isn't just a train for scenery-seekers; it's a vital service between towns and villages at the heart of French Catalan territory.

There are 22 stops - Bolquère-Eyne, at the midway point, is the highest railway station in France.

These are the sort of stations that Dr Beeching would have axed, with little thought for the impact on the communities that were affected.

Instead, tourism helps to maintain the 101-year old line, with many visitors taking a two-hour journey from Villefranche de Conflent and then returning.

Two hours, frankly, would have been more than enough.

After being jolted about as the train twisted and turned around the mountains, and after so many people joined it that it was rammed, upland pasture lost it's allure, the skies greyed and even the fleeting sightings we'd had of small birds of prey ceased.

If anyone fancies Le Petit Train Jeune, don't do more than two hours either way, unless, like us, you're using it less as a sightseeing trip and more as a method of transport from A to B.

I was utterly fazed out for the last 90 minutes or so; hungry (our picnic hadn't been anywhere near enough), uncomfortable and desperately needing to be able to stretch.

Fortunately, the B&B we were staying in was only around 100m from the station - and on seeing our weariness, our hostess instantly offered the most welcome beers of the entire week.

And with that, we settled in for the our brief stay.

The holiday count down begins

You could be forgiven for assuming that, with conference safely in the history books, life would return to whatever passes for normal. But that is not the case.

The production timetable is set out in such a way that we have only the week immediately after to get pretty much an entire journal out. Now this makes complete sense – it’s the issue with all the conference reports in, so members need it as soon as possible. But it’s still a busy week.

It was at this stage, four years ago, that I first realised how bone tired I am by now. We hadn’t booked a holiday, but had been thinking of taking a week in Barcelona.

I said to The Other Half: ‘I can’t do it. If I do a city break, I’ll run around with the camera like a total lunatic, wanting to do as much as possible. I need to sit still and do nothing’.

We were incredibly lucky, so late in the season, to get into a hotel in Collioure for 10 days. We’d visited before, but never stayed there.

It was the first time I’d ever had a real beach holiday. I took something like nine books, because I didn’t really think I could just still for all that time, doing nothing. It didn’t take long to discover just how wrong I was.

We will be back on the same beach in a few weeks, after a week making our way there on trains, via Bordeaux, Carcassonne, Foix and Villefranche de Conflent.

My food aims are already taking shape – well, food and drink, since we’re starting in Bordeaux!

It’s totally perverse, of course, to eat cassoulet in the summer, but one has to make sacrifices sometimes, and in a region that prides itself on that dish, I’ll find somewhere to give the real thing a whirl.

But there's a little time left before I get too excited.

The weekend's food plans dissipated in utter sloth. But a sea bass that I'd intended to use on Sunday evening was deployed on Monday – albeit in a different way.

In an à la River Café way, I par-boiled some new potatoes and then sliced them thickly. These went into an oven dish with olive oil and sliced tomatoes, to be seasoned and then topped with the filleted the fish, before a really generous squeeze of fresh lemon was added.

And then it was into a pre-heated (200˚) oven for around 12-15 minutes (check the potatoes with a knife to see when they're completely cooked).

Nice – and far from difficult or time-consuming.

Tuesday's risotto at the top was made in my usual way: sweat finely chopped shallot, celery and garlic in olive oil. Add your risotto rice and let it pick up the rest of the oil.

Give it a slug of Noilly Prat (or vermouth or white wine) and let the rice absorb that too. Then start adding the simmering stock, a ladle at a time. This was a home-made chicken stock, which was brought gently to a simmer with some more of the dried porcini from Lina Stores.

I'd picked up some lovely mushrooms at Sporeboys on Broadway Market on Saturday, so chopped a few of these and sautéed very gently in more olive oil. A little more of the booze and a squeeze of lemon juice were added, and it was left to gently cook through.

Once the rice has taken on the stock, add some chopped parsley and then the mushrooms and stir gently.

At this point, I added some more of the truffle butter I'd used last time and then lidded it, while I heated a little more oil in the pan I'd used to cook the mushrooms – and then fried two thin slices of 'shroom I'd cut off earlier.

Those, together with more fresh parsley, then topped the finished dish.

And not only was that not at all bad, it was very much another instance of cooking as therapy.