A Small Village Tour

We step out of the apartment building into predawn darkness and empty streets heading to the Viator tour offices for A Small Village Tour of three ancient Spanish villages: Besalú, Rupit, Tavertet.

Before we have gone ten feet Michael tells me “I forgot my camera.”

“And I have on too many clothes,” I add. “I’m hot.”

We turn around, retracing our steps.

Back on the streets, with camera and sans too many clothes, we head to the metro station, finding that the trains are the one place where the people who are awake in Barcelona are hanging out. We went on a trial run of this trip yesterday, so we wouldn’t get lost this morning.  We arrive at the tour offices thirty minutes early. The rolling garage-type door that secures all shops in this city is shut tight.  All is black.  We walk back to the main street in search of coffee.

Our Viator Tour Guide

Sitting in the back seat of a snub-nosed passenger Renault van, I can’t help but like our Viator guide. Slim as a sprite. Youthful. Energetic. Charming. Lovely.  She gives us a tour and short history lesson as we stroll through empty passageways to the underground parking lot, stopping occasionally to point out something beautiful. Interesting. Important. She wants everyone to notice everything.

There are seven of us altogether.  Our lovely guide; a grandmother—traveling alone—from California; grandparents from Queen’s; a forty-something female executive from Apple who lives in San Francisco and is on a three month paid sabbatical exploring the world; Michael. And me.

An hour-and-a-half after we begin our small-village-tour-adventure we pull into an empty parking lot adjacent to the town of Besalú with a population of approximately 2,500—the largest village we will visit today. In the mountains, clouds blanket the sky; the air speaks of the winter to come. I wish for the wool scarf I left back at the apartment, and an additional layer of clothes.

“How much do you care about history?”

I pipe up with a, “Ten.”

“Ten…an overwhelming responsibility,” Alex says.

Another voice says, “Two.”

She settles on a level of six and proceeds to tell us why and where and how. Then enchantment takes hold. Walking to the foot of a wide bridge that accesses the village beyond, I am enamored.  That is where I want to be—on the other side of the long bridge, exploring narrow passages, getting lost in old stone.

Besalú

Alex charms us with her stories before leaving us to our own devices.  I remain on the square looking for a warm scarf; uninterested in shopping Michael wanders off. I find a length of gossamer gray wool that promises welcome warmth when wrapped around my neck, but — along with warm clothes — I left my credit cards and cash in the apartment.  I wait for Michael’s return to bail me out of my dilemma. Purchase made, immediately cozy in my new found accessory, we head for a bakery and muffins before wandering the winding maze of the village streets.

Santuri del Far

Tucked in the van’s back seat once again, Alex tells of her happy accident. Exploring on her own — turning left when she should have turned right, and driving to the end of the road — she found something wonderful. She is going to share this wonderfulness with all of us. Not part of the official tour — it is her gift.

Winding our way up the snaking mountain road, the back of the van is perhaps not the best place to be.  Visibility is restricted. Stomachs lurch. Heads spin. Our own vehicle would be preferable, but if we had our own car we wouldn’t know about this road…or Besalú or any of the rest of what may lie ahead.

We pull into a parking space fronting a picnic grove; the tables constructed of stacked stone and wide rock slabs.  Everyone goes left. I walk right, into the forest of tables, clicking several photos to share with members of the Woodcreek Parks and Recreation Committee. Turning around I see Alex running back to the van.

 “I have to get my camera,” she shouts, “it is too beautiful!”

Wondering at what I have missed, I hurry forward trying to catch up. The wind is raw and piercing. But before me lies a sea of blue-green and the promise of earthly paradise — Shangri La. Utopia.

Rupit

Our stomachs begin to grumble, telling us we have waited too long for lunch.  It is at least another thirty minutes to Rupit. We settle in for our twisting turning ride back down the hill.

Rupit, whose origins began before 985 A.D., is crowded with hordes of Spaniards. It is Saturday. Busy — like a Saturday in the Hill Country at any given  winery. We have to look hard for a place to park, even at the edge of the town.

This village is truly small with only several hundred people living here. The castle lies in ruins and a village church is across the river. Alex points out an alternate route. There is a suspension bridge that is a shortcut across this river back to the parking area.

I think I would rather climb the hill.

The name of this village, perched on a high ridge above the river, is derived from the Latin rupes, meaning rock. Rupit is stone on stone on rock on stone. We stop at a natural fountain, water dripping from a spigot in the wall.  Some of us climb the few steps and pretend we are school kids, leaning into the wall and drinking the fresh spring water. We are told that drinking the water will make us beautiful.

As Alex relays more stories intermixed with history, pointing out buildings and signs, she stops at favorite restaurants asking about space available.  The first restaurant we come to is expecting two large groups, the second has plenty of free tables.  I eye the clock as we trudge past, all of us wondering if we will get back before the hordes descend. It is a Saturday tourist destination.  However,  the side streets that climb the hill are devoid of the tourists that fill the many flower-laden-windowed-cafés.

Lunch in Rupit

Finally seated at a table for two, with lunch in our immediate future, I take a picture of the plate used to serve the complimentary olives.  I know it is made in Spain.  I just wonder where I can get a few of my own.  The menu has two options, a three-course menu for 22,00€ or a two-course option for 16,00€.  Since we won’t be eating dinner tonight we opt for three courses; Michael ordering pumpkin soup with goat cheese and rabbit, while I order Estella’s cannelloni and Catalan cod with tomatoes, pine nuts, and raisins.  They sneak half a hard-boiled egg and two slices of stewed apple onto the plate.  I accompany the meal with a split of cava while Michael has a beer.  I forgo dessert while he has burnt Catalan cream.

We decide to walk off lunch, climbing the hill toward the crumbling castle ruins.

In the Middle of Nowhere

On our drive to Tavertet we take the way less traveled, meeting many hikers along the winding, climbing road. I don’t understand the reason they hike this way — dodging automobiles — till we get to the top. We are in bucolic heaven. Cattle are everywhere, grazing on the green, green grass. Then we follow Alex and walk to the edge of the world.

“Breathtaking!”  Alex smiles broadly pleased at our combined pleasure. It is a one-hundred-and-eighty degree view you can’t absorb.

“Where is the bottle of wine?  The loaf of bread?” I ask.

A picnic here would be heaven. The young woman from San Francisco and I decide we are not leaving. We linger, looking at the outline of the cliff-mesa beyond and below—looking more and more like a broad backed lizard the longer I stare. You just have to be here!

“Charlotte, get down here.” Michael stands by the car and waits.

“I don’t think I want to leave,” I say. “Neither one of us do.”

We tear ourselves away from our dreams and wishes and wants, scrambling down the hill and piling into the van. Tavertet, a village of twenty-five permanent residents, is just down the road.

Tavertet

Green grass. Narrow lanes. One church. One restaurant. Homes that are homes. Homes turned into vacation rentals. A tiny green facing the church full of park benches.  This is Tavertet, a high mountain village originally founded on an agrarian life style. So peaceful. So charming. I am ready to unpack my bags and stay.

It has been a very long day. But rather than napping — even though exhausted — I stare out the window.