Though we have lived in the French Catalan village of Vinça and still spend much time there, we continue to marvel at its seemingly endless succession of festivals, writes Billy Fitzpatrick.
One of the most colourful is that of the "Trobada", which takes place in early summer. Each year on the weekend before June 24th, the feast of San Joan (St John), people from villages, towns and cities all over the region make the long ascent of Canigou (2,785m), their sagrada montanyaor holy mountain, which stands just inside the French border overlooking the Mediterranean. Commenting on its largely pyramidal shape, Hilaire Belloc called it "everyone's idea of the perfect mountain".
Mount Canigou is surrounded by lesser summits falling away in successive layers and dominates the horizon from far out at sea. It was used as a navigational aid by the Phoenicians and is mentioned in chronicles from even earlier periods.
Despite its historic appellative and summit cross, there is nothing outwardly religious about the Catalan pilgrimage to Canigou. The event is more of a gesture or symbol of national unity and aspiration, a homage to Catalonia which can be deeply affecting for the small number of outsiders who take part. Perhaps because we had lived in Vinça for over a year at this stage, our children attending neighbouring schools, I was invited with my son, Fionn, to join the local group in making the annual ascent.
Our first attempt was not a happy one as I had disregarded advice to carry warm gear in our rucksacks. The temperature was over 300C in the village. Scarcely an hour into the climb, however, we noticed clouds begin to thicken and cover the valleys below us. A light rain began to fall and soon it was raining steadily. Two hours from our overnight camp the rain had turned to sleet, then snow.
The first field of snow was about 80 metres wide and a few hundred meters long, angling steeply downwards; if you lost your footing, you would skim all the way to the rocks at the end of the snowline below. We should have been roped in, but weren't. At one stage my son's fingers were so cold he couldn't open the knot of his shorts to have a pee.
We passed what I thought at first was an illegally dumped car almost 2,000 metres up! "Plane wreckage," Sonia from the mairietold us. It was believed that the high concentration of metal in much of the mountain caused navigation instruments to malfunction and planes were eventually advised to fly clear of the area. The mountain's flanks were dotted with similar wrecks, she said.
By the time we got to Cortalets, the last refuge before the peak, the snow had changed to torrential rain and the wind had picked up to gale force. We crushed into a narrow lean-to while people offered us oddments of dry clothing. In the swirling cloud and rain we could occasionally make out the riders and walkers arriving from all over Catalonia. Then word came through: the Vinça truck containing all our tents and main provisions was refused authorisation to travel the difficult mountain passes due to the worsening weather. We were to descend immediately. I was secretly relieved, but I could see the disappointment in my son's eyes.
Twelve months later to the day, in June 2005, we were back up at the refuge of Cortalets. This time the sky was blue and the temperature 200C, even at 2,150 metres. As we pitched our tent, we tried to take in the scene around us as pilgrims from all over the region arrived on foot, walking or running, on horseback, alongside pack mules, on racing bicycles, in jeeps and 4x4s, all festooned in stripes of blood and gold, the national colours of Catalonia. Most carried faggots for the Flamma del Canigó, the summit fire.
Buglers and drummers answered each other from the various encampments. As soon as darkness fell, each village group began visiting its neighbours exchanging food, drink, music and patriotic songs.
Breakfast at 6 am consisted of rosé wine, orange juice, cheese, wild boar sausage and bread. At 7.30am we passed the lac de l'Estanyol, the highest lake on Canigou, first mentioned by Peter II of Aragon-Catalonia in the 12th century. We were now less than two hours from the summit and the track grew narrower and steeper. The Catalan trompettesounded at irregular intervals, a few notes only before dying away, deliberate and somehow sad. Pilgrims nodded or smiled or said quietly, " Viva!" as if in prayer that Catalonia's day, too, would come.
Our group grew silent, even tense, over the last few hundred metres until we reached the peak. Then all was suddenly transformed. People were shouting and cheering, others hugging one another and laughing. Bundles of sticks were already wrapped around the squat iron cross at the summit and these were stuffed with what looked like family mementos and other oddments such as local team flags and colours. The scenery itself was oddly disappointing: the grey and brown villages in the plains below us looked distant and indistinct in the haze as if seen from an aeroplane.
I found myself making an unexpected speech explaining that we felt privileged to have been part of the experience and that, being of a minority culture ourselves, we appreciated it all the more. I finished with " Viva Vinça, Viva Catalonia," and, rather mischievously, " Viva USAP!" This was greeted with raucous cheers. USAP is the official name of the famous Perpignan rugby club, which provides yet another focus for Catalan nationalism.
In a few days the Flamma del Canigówould be brought down to the surrounding villages, from which St John's bonfires would be lit to start another round of celebration. For these Mediterranean peoples at least, it seems life and celebration must go on and on.
- The writer is again taking part in the or pilgrimage to Canigou and his younger son, Fiachra, has this year been invited to puck a sliotar from the summit cross.