Part 2 of Glorianes

It’s too hard to write everything I want to write about my little trip-within-a-trip so far.  I could write for ages!  Where to start?  The trip down, where my churlish French lady GPS ignored my pleas and let me take an unplanned side trip to the wine country around Bordeaux?  The unbelievable price of tolls, the weird culture of rest stops, the endless vineyards and hot sun, the way the Pyrenees begin softly rolling then rise up in front of you, the smell of the loads of yellow flowers that fills the air (don’t know what they’re called, but they smell a bit like lily-of-the-valley and jasmine mixed together), the moment you see the Mediterranean and you know you’re so close….?  Do I talk about the amazing three days I spent with Lynn and her adorable family in their 600-year-old house, the fantastic dinners, the walks in the mountains to see a forgotten cathedral ruin?  Do I mention the white-knuckle drive to her small village, nine kilometers of a single-lane, no guard-rail, hairpin curve road to get to the top?  If a picture is truly worth a thousand words, then I will post several in the name of efficiency and let you imagine the rest for yourselves…

Christophe's handywork, restoring and reworking the original kitchen fireplace.  For many years, this was the only source of heat in the house.

A true "farmhouse sink"; makes you think twice before dirtying extra dishes!

The church right next door to the house.  It has two bells because one was hidden by villagers when Napoleon was using church bells to melt down for munitions.

The inside, appropriately dark and musty.  This is before we saw the snake on the floor and ran outside.

The view behind the church, adjacent to Lynn's garden.

Lunch outdoors.  Nothing better.

These little guys kept us company while we enjoyed the sun on the terrace in the afternoon.

The view over my shoulder as we climbed up to see the forgotten church ruins.  The photo also allowed me to stop and catch my breath--wow, do I need to get in shape.

Only the nave remains.  The church was part of a village of about 200 people who kept relocating up the mountain to avoid the Black Plague.

Last dinner, a white fish with saffron sauce, saffron grown by Lynn and Christophe.

The garden, early morning.

Those fabulous yellow flowers I was talking about.  They're everywhere, and the scent is almost overwhelming.

View of the house from the garden.

Lynn in her saffron field, bemoaning the endless weeding she'll have to do in the coming days.

Mountain sheep.  For Patrice.

About halfway down.  The road is quite wide at this part.

Entering the village of Rigarda/Rigardà.  The names of villages in this area are posted in French and Catalan.

I made the drive to Barcelona this afternoon, after a lovely lunch with Lynn at a bakery that used to be a convent, and a lively conversation with a 70-year-old local character who was trying desperately to figure out where we were from.  The drive to Barcelona was another adventure, of course, and this time I can't blame the GPS, since she was turned off and tucked away in my bag.  I arrived safely though, and look forward to seeing more of this beautiful city; I think I saw more of it getting to the hotel than I bargained for, though....