I initially harbored a vague preference for Italy, or perhaps Spain, over France, based on the fact that I had already been there - i.e., to Paris, for maybe a week - before. (I know. I know. I'm a moron.) As you can imagine, as you're probably wiser than I, the Pyrénées-Orientales, snugged up against the Med in the southern, central point of France's border, is just slightly different to the City of Lights.
It adjoins, and indeed was once the northern part of, Spanish Catalonia. Although Catalan has been supplanted by standard French as the language spoken by most of the region's inhabitants, the rolling, sun-soaked vineyards are eye-wateringly (to borrow a phrase) Mediterranean, and you're as likely to find paella or the aforementioned sangría on a local menu as escargots or foie gras.
We based our weekend out of Elne, a small fortified hilltop town that overlooks the plain of Roussillon.
Looking west towards Mt. Canigou
It is the oldest town in the historic province of Roussillon, scored a mention by the Roman historian Livy, and was (re)named after Helen, the mother of Constantine, in the fourth century. It's also quite conveniently situated from a tourist point of view, located just a handful of miles from both the sea and from Perpignan, the capital and largest city of the region. All of which, of course, is very interesting. But did I happen to mention that it overlooks the plain of Roussillon?
The hotel room view. If we weren't in, you know, France, I could've sat in this window all day.
 | We stayed at the Hotel Cara-Sol, which turned out to be an extremely serendipitous Tripadvisor find. Perched on the ramparts of the fortified town, it sits just around the corner from the medieval cathedral (pro tip: there is always a medieval cathedral, or castle, or abbey, or something, at the center of these hilltop towns). A short stroll takes you around the helpfully-signposted circuit touristique of the old city, which is just absurdly picturesque. | |
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The hotel itself is a gem. Its owner and head chef is actually an English expat, which might seem odd until you partake of his hospitality via either accommodation or restaurant - neither of which, I'm pretty sure, could be bettered by the natives. There was an amazing set dinner served up on Easter, and every day he fetched fresh croissants and baguettes from town for breakfast - and yes, he did it on this. (Until I heard it motoring in to park early one morning, I'd been all but convinced it was just part of the décor.) As the hotel is on the smaller side - perhaps a dozen or two rooms - you're spared the swarm and hubbub of guests that sort of reaffirms your own touristhood. Sipping an apéritif on the terrace one evening, I could almost convince myself that this was our own little villa of a getaway in southern France.In short, it was a welcome, welcome destination to end an exceedingly long first day, which started with work the night before, segued directly into a bus and then a train, and involved dealing with Bournemouth so-called International Airport, where I'm pretty sure they've never heard of America before. (At least, they couldn't determine my lack of need for a visa to visit France without consulting four different security agents and a manual, which evidently did not have the US included as a country...) But the less said about that, the better. So much for the first day. Here, have one more picture.
