SPAIN DAY 3:  HIKING(ISH) BY THE SEA

Did I mention we went off-roading last night?  I probably forgot to mention it because it was very, very brief, my front passenger tire slipping off the edge of the narrow, curvy pavement for just a brief second with a big THUNK.  But I’m reminded of the trip this morning by the very same tire having mysteriously given up all its air pressure.  I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, but it requires my attention just the same.  The Audi doesn’t come with a full size spare, or even one of those temporary doughnuts, that space being home to a subwoofer.  Because deep, rich bass from the stereo won’t get you home in the event of a flat, tucked beside the speaker is a portable air pump and bottle of tire goo.  Skeptical, I follow the pictogram and the tire blows up just as Mandy walks outside with the picnic lunch our hotel has prepared us for todays hike in the Pyrenees.

We drive to Roses, a fashionable seaside town on the Mediterranean Sea.  The trailhead is here, but so is the Mediterranean, and it doesn’t take much to decide among the two.  We didn’t even bring our hiking boots, so our motivation was questionable anyway.  As the sidewalk winds along the coast, shops and cafes become houses and Mandy and I chat about what it would be like to own one, a favorite conversation on these walks.  We decide on the balcony from this one, the location of that one, the color of that one over there.  Two bedrooms with a big open plan kitchen, please.  The weather is lovely, and we literally walk for miles, up the mountain to until we run out of sloped sidewalk, the back down and just keep going.  We sit on the sea wall, unwrap the baguette cheese sandwiches and munchy chips provided by our innkeepers and watch as a v-shaped storm cloud assembles itself, the business end pointed right to us.  We duck into a shoe shop and by the time Mandy settles on pair of buttery soft leather sandals, the storm and its four minutes of rain have become a memory.  Ahhh, lazy days at the beach.

(click on the image to see the full size photo)

We wind our way back and chill by the pool.  We have a 4 pm wine tasting scheduled at Vinyes dels Aspres, a winery in the tiny village closest to our hotel.  The drive down the hotel driveway is longer than the rest of the trip.  The village is what we now know to be common in this part of Spain, tight, neat rows of townhouse and apartments, all with balconies, most balconies adorned with flowers or laundry or both.  Maybe a dozen charmingly narrow streets, and at the end of one, our host is waiting outside.  With a big smile and a wave he calls out a heartfelt “welcome my visitors from America!”  He introduces himself as Ricard when we get out of the car, and walks us through the closest fields telling us about the history of the winery and how the rocky land, sweeping winds and dry clime conspire to produce grapes so willing to be fermented for our pleasure.  Ricard goes on to tell us that besides wine, they make their own olive oil and even their own corks.  I admit that until this moment I thought cork was its own plant.  Or maybe a nocturnal animal.  It took me just 55 short years to learned that cork is not its own species, rather it is made from thick slabs or bark removed from oak trees, dried, then punched out.  It also explains why so many trees around here are naked from the waist down.

In some of the windows in the town we noticed 5 gallon glass carboys of fermenting wine, and there are dozens more along the railings of the winery.  I always assumed that wines were happier fermenting in the dark, cool of a cellar, so I ask for the story.  He explained that this was their regional sweet raisin wine.  To make a sweet wine that is not gooey syrupy, they dry the black Grenache grapes (which are red) into raisins (which are black) then press the raisins into juice (which is red).  The yeast is added then the juice is put into the glass bottles which will sit outside in the weather for 54 months.  Ricard explains the yeast’s job “is to eat sugar and shit alcohol”, but like humans, too hot, too cold or too drunk, the works stops.  So in the winter, it’s too cold and the yeast doesn’t create alcohol.  Today in the hot direct sun, no working.  And when the alcohol level in the jugs gets too high, the yeast “gets drunk and won’t work either”.  And so goes this ferment-a-little, age-a-little process for four and a half years.

 

We tour the winery, Ricard proudly telling us about the recent renovations which involved the design collaboration of an architect and an artist, combining the old with the modern, all through the lens of Spain’s national respect for the arts.  The spaces are fully functional for the work of making wine, but beautiful enough to host high end events.  The tour ends on the elevated courtyard at the huge aged wood table so common to wineries around the globe.  Ricard pulls out three glasses and four bottles, pouring and talking, telling us about each wine, telling stories of his life and generally hosting us to a leisurely Spanish afternoon.  Four more bottles, and I’m pretty sure Ricard stopped using his spittoon somewhere along the way.  Stores about food and drink and travel comes to a discussion about the American craft bar scene.  He asks Mandy about her go-to cocktail, and when she mentions an Extra Dirty Martini, he had not heard of one.  We spent the next 10 minutes explaining how to make one and wondering how, in the middle of the olive capitol of the world, no one here thought to use the olive juice.

Around bottle ten, a calico cat wanders onto the scene, figures that we’ve been there so long we’re now part of the furniture, and jumps onto my lap.  Ricard saved the best bottles for last, and they were great as far as we can remember numbers 11 and 12.  Oh yea, as a closer, number 13 was the raisin wine, Bac di Ginesteres.  As we make our purchases (they wouldn’t sell me the cat, but I tried…) Richard asks us our plans for the rest of the trip.  When we mention Barcelona, he invites to meet him at his home on the upcoming Saturday and drive to some wineries together.  In vino amicitia est!

We’re leaving early tomorrow, so dinner is schedules at the hotel.  We’re starting to understand the late dinner thing here – you need a little time to sober up.  We’re not sure what to expect in this lower level breakfast room.  The table is beautifully set, the waiter brings a wine list and tells us to pick any bottle gratis.  With his help find something nice from the neighborhood and order off the creative menu.  We split the salad with roasted veggies and lots of white asparagus, a real treat this time of year that we learned about from our friends in the Netherlands.  Mandy orders the mixed seafood plate (which apparently included everything from the boat that day) and I get the lamb ribs.  Both were exquisitely prepared with very fresh provisions.  We were shocked when our bill came to under 75 euros, a meal of this caliber easily being triple that at home.