Campervan Therapy

We park up in Torroella de Montgrí carpark, which happens to sit among olive groves. Croissants never tasted better. The winding path is rugged, make no mistake. Up we wind, until the sounds of the school yard and traffic below fade, and we’re surrounded by ochre and russet rocks, mica shining in the sun.

The cobbled path appears and disappears, its stones worn smooth by the footsteps of the miners who dug out the rock for the massive fortress that squats on the top. The castle, never finished, was built in the 13^th Century, during the tug of war between the Counts of Empordá and Barcelona, only to become redundant as Barcelona seized power.

As we turn a corner there’s a blast of cold and on the horizon there’s the snowcapped peaks of the Pyrenees. From the castle there’s 360-degree views of L’Estartit’s cliffs and islands, L’Escala’s broad arc of sand and always the distinctive blue of the Med.

I don’t attempt to follow Seán onto the battlements as it’s possible to look right down to your imminent death through the gaps in the metal stairway. So I sit, the sun warm on my back, watching the bumble bees feast on rosemary flowers, and the butterflies flutter by.

I’m not sure how we manage to lose the track down into the valley, to the Sanctuary of Santa Caterina, but soon we’re sit-sliding down the mountain side, the limestone worn smooth as marble.  Luckily, some kind walker has stuck a stick in the rock face, and guess that it marks the path. Just when we stagger to the bottom, the cliff falls away towards the Sanctuary. It is so frustrating as the sanctuary is so close yet impossible to reach.

Our hearts constrict as we look up to follow the path up another mountain ridge, two men walking down it, kitted out with all the hiking gear. There’s no choice, but up. Though we are richly rewarded when we walk through a herd of Pyrenean Chamois. They are feasting on the maquis, totally unbothered by our presence. One stares straight into my eyes. I look away so as not to seem a threat to this peaceful creature.

As if this wasn’t payment enough for the slide down the mountain side, the vivid purple of the Crimean Iris pokes up through the scrub. It never ceases to amaze me how life can cling to the thinnest, driest soils.

 

Just as we’re contemplating not being able to get off the national walking trail which crosses the Pyrenees to the coast, we see a sign for the Sanctuary and the path down is a gentle one through the scented rosemary and lavender.

We are tempted to gate-crash the huge party of picnickers who’ve laid out a massive spread of Iberico ham, Manchego, olives, crusty bread by the sanctuary. Locals love the picnic site for any celebration. Not only that, but the hermitage, which is only open Sundays, has a glorious Arabesque frescoed interior which belies the chapel’s humble exterior. We promise ourselves we’ll come back on the lower valley route on Sunday, as it’s become rather a pilgrimage for us whenever we visit Catalonia.