Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans, Pyrenees Orientales, Languedoc-Roussillon, France, Catalonia.

I’ve written very little about the village that we’re staying in here. To a certain extent that’s because its no longer where we’re travelling to, its where we’re travelling from. But we’re still exploring here, trying to figure things out – and that’s a great adventure in itself.

Our ‘tower’ is part of a large structure at the top of the mountain in a mountain town. We live at Place Publique (write us letters!) between the parochial buildings where catechism classes are held and the church. There is a wee font on the ground level, with Mother Mary looking down benignly.  The square that we are on is really more of a parking lot – filled with the cars of people who live in the nearby buildings, or those visiting La Mairie, or town hall, which is behind us. Above us is the church tower – quite an impressive structure, topped by French and Catalan flags that rings every 15 minutes from 8 am until 10 pm – two minutes earlier than the other church in town.  It also rings very enthusiastically for church, for catechism classes and other apparently significant times.

As is obvious, this place is pretty religious. Or at least it was.  There was a church here from the 1100s it seems, and the large landlords (the Christmas family, the Vilaros) that were still present until recently.  

Today, the village is only 10 km or so from the Spanish border. In 1661, the Treaty of the Pyrennees tried to establish borders in the region and gave this part of the land to France. Right from the beginning, the people here weren’t too crazy about this. In 1663, six guards of the salt tax collectors were killed by local inhabitants. Yii!

By 1667 or so there was a lot of war and smuggling through the region.  There was a French Brigade of customs officials set here. A few years later, our tower was built. Our fireplace has 1721 carved above the fireplace, and other buildings nearby have similar dates on their doorways. The population began to grow around this time. In 1730 until 1745 a bizarre puritanical Pastor Bonaventure Xaupi showed up here. He was apparently a Jansenian, and was pretty popular with ordinary folk around town. Nonetheless, he was condemned for heresy and killed.

  

Around the same time, the forges began to be the base of the local economy, and the taking of firewood to fire the forges was becoming a bit of a sore point with the local lords. The same lords didn’t really like paying taxes, so in some ways, things were ripe for the French Revolution.

But economics and religion can complicate things. In 1769, the iron industry in town is in crisis, Charles III of Spain bans coal exports. Of course the town is dependent on this coal. Then there’s a bad harvest.

The French Revolution comes in 1789 and locals ask for a ban on iron ore exports to Spain, to try to defend their local industry. They don’t get much of a response.  It takes a bit time for folks from Paris to make it to this neck of the woods. People are happy to take from the rich locally, but when the Jacobins arrived, they report back that people in the village live in a feudal state, and are hella superstitious. “They are many centuries away from the revolution,”say the Jacobins.

But perhaps the folks from Paris didn’t understand the entire deal. In 1793 the town was a centre of counter-Revolutionary sentiment and action. Apparently, locals travelled to Spain and talked with the folks there and told them when to invade to attack the French troops stationed nearby. So when Spanish troops did invade, most of the 1700 people in town supported the Spanish. The following year, most of the men in the village sign up on the Spanish side in the Legion of Vallespir. Weird.

Then there’s a big gap in the history. But suffice it to say, the museum tells us that for a long time there were two sides in town – the white, called the Chateau (where we live) and the red, called the Moulin (or Mill).  These two sides didn’t get along.

And then there’s the Spanish Civil War. Thousands of Republican refugees flee over the border (the Retirada of 1937) and end up in town – which turns one of its two churches into an infirmary. There are many committed anarchists and communists in the crowd. Many settle here permanently and alter the politics and life of the town.

Which may explain the fact that the mayor Guillaume Julia from 1947 until 1971 was a member of the Communist Party.  Apparently he united the town – for the first time ever. He’s still much loved – with a giant Karl Marx beard, he apparently played Santa Claus or whatever at the holidays. His picture is everywhere. During the twentieth century, the town’s industry turned to the making of espadrilles – those rope and cloth sandals. Until the 1990s, large cooperative workplaces were the main game in town. Today, the ‘cooperative syndicat’ buildings remain as the center of the community and a large fabric manufacturing business continues some of the local tradition. There are also three places to buy espadrilles, should any of you want them (they’re quite lovely).  

More recently, the town has suffered the depopulation of many small towns. Whereas it had 1700 people in 1900, it now has about 1000.  Many people come here for weekends in the summer, as the air is clean, the mountains healthy, and as one woman told me, the iron in the ground is good for you. This area also has over 300 days of sunshine a year.

In the summer, apparently, there are tons of ex-patriots. We ran into a couple from Jersey (Channel Islands, not US style). Mike told me that the difference between summer and fall ‘is like chalk and cheese’. We arrived shortly after the mass exodus. I think the 1000 person population figures may have been taken in the summer.

We’re trying to make friends. We’ve met one person – a lovely Swiss retiree called Ann-Marie – who speaks English. We are also gradually learning to figure out when things might be open. Despite its name, the main shop – 8 a 8, is not open 8 a 8, but instead closed on Sunday afternoons and Mondays, and open other days only in the morning and evening. The credit union is open two hours a week. There is a newsagent, a small bar, and two small bakeries. There is a butcher too, but he’s gone on vacation for October. One needs to plan.

We have spotted a couple of mysterious anarchists that are closer to our age. They’re friendly, but every time I think I’m going to try to have a conversation in French, I balk and scurry away. But today I both made a phone call in French to try to find a source of dry firewood. That felt like a victory – except that he didn’t have any dry firewood. Then I asked at the 8 a 8 about the sign that seemed to suggest that they sold pizza and firewood on Friday evenings. Apparently it was actually advertising pizza from a wood burning oven. Geez. Well, we are here partly for entertainment.  But it looks like we’re going to need firewood soon. The tower, despite its charms is chilly. When my mum and dad came for a visit last week we finally tried the baseboard heaters, but toes were still icy. 

 While Mum and Dad were here we went on one of the main activities of the region – hiking (along with wine drinking!) One can get into woods, farms and trails in mere minutes. Amazing. After Mac homeschools Sidney in the morning and I work, we often try to go for a walk, and then take an 'apero' at the bar as school lets out. We have a lot left to explore. 

BTW – Homeschooling.. Mac is doing amazing things with Sidney and I really think he is becoming more inquisitive, and more enthusiastic about learning than he was before. Especially in terms of science and math – which seem to be his current interests – other than Star Wars Lego, which rule Supreme. 

In other news – on Thursdays we go to Perpignan (2 hours each way) for French classes. Our teacher looks like Gwyneth Paltrow. Seriously. She's from Alsace, but has a Breton name - and explains that the Catalan identity we're finding has really been more activated in the past ten years. But around the french..  Its kind of funny/painful that after years of resisting French classes, we’re now paying for them. But its terrific to have a space where we get our mistakes corrected and get to ask silly questions like ‘how do we use the phone?’

Last week we went to Barcelona with my parents. It was amazing. I’ll write about that soon.