postcards from Cerbère

I don't know quite why this tiny town fascinates us so much, but at least it does - all of us I mean. It would be awkward if two of us wanted to go and the other remained disinterested: 'Oh no, not that windswept end of the planet again.' Or suchlike.
Happily, it's become a place of family pilgrimage, at least twice a year: in the howling winds of March, when the railings sing and everything is pretty much shut except the 'Cafe de la plage', and usually at the end of summer; a last chance to bathe in the Med, eat a special meal on the seafront and wander at night in the soft breezes, listening to the squeaking train wheels.



Even the journey there has become sacred: the stop at Marie's dodgy-looking truck café after the spectacular drive through the valley; the first glimpse of the sea as the car reaches the hill top coming past Port Vendres; and the ritual stopping and letting runty dog out before he throws up on the winding bends of the coast road.
This time I got a room at the wonderful 'Dorade' hotel on the seafront. Friendly and with (by my reckoning) an excellent restaurant. We were given room number nine on the top floor. The patron smiled, handed us a chunky key fob and informed us that we would be staying in the room he was born in.
One and a half days passed in tracing our previous steps, swimming, walking and idly looking in the estate agent's window to see what has sold.



Not much has changed: A few more boats bob in the newly salvaged marina (ripped up in a major storm three years ago) the 1920s concrete hotel has lost a few more bits of its structure, and someone has taken over the wasteland near the railway signal box and made a garden.
See you again in the winter, Cerbère.

Building No 17

Do you have anything to declare?
Yes. The intention to buy this place, do it up and make it into a fabulous bar/restaurant called Border Point or something.
This building or rather collection of buildings is of constant fascination to Mark and I - the old customs control between France and Spain, high up above our beloved small seaside town, Cerbere.
I don't know how long it's been abandoned; whenever they stopped checking passports, obviously, anyway, a long time.
The rounded 50s structure in the middle of the road still holds a coat rack, a couple of desks and the ghosts of deceased or at least, retired, rubber stamp-wielding customs officers. Even a couple of brooms and dustpans -  there, all done. Well, I'll lock up and er . . . well, see you then . . . 

I stayed in a B and B in Cerbere a few months back and the owners, who seemed to know all manner of news about the town, said that apparently the buildings are owned by a man who refuses to sell them and hangs onto the license for the bar by opening it once a year, thus preventing anyone else doing anything with it. Bastard. It would be such an awe-inspiring place to sit and have a beer . . .

Cerbere

Woopee, family holiday. Two day break in our favourite place - tiny town or seaside village next to the Spanish border. I have probably blogged many times about this magical place,  but indulge me once again . . .
Unlike Cadaques, (we tried to visit but gave up when encountering the five mile tail-back to get into the town) Cerbère was fairly quiet. Our usual cove, (above) was this time completely full of the most wonderful driftwood. We several happy hours collecting it and making rubbish boats that capsized. Mark fashioned a few pentatonic xylophones and we entertained, or not, the other beach dwellers with a an impromptu concert.
Below: the happy family pictured with a fine specimen of a 'dog-head train' on one of our numerous rambles around the station sidings area.