A Very Very Long Way

It wasn’t easy getting to Barcares (accent on the first syllable). No-one 30 miles inland had ever heard of it. I was beginning to think it must be an old fishing village with rundown shacks, with our timeshare condo being only marginally more modern.

The train lady in Narbonne affirmed that we could get off the train at Rivesaltes, a tiny dot on the map but seemingly closer to Barcares than Perpignan. We would learn that it isn’t miles, but available transportation, that counts. Everywhere else we’d been, buses were handy and ubiquitous so we assumed . . .

Or we could hitchhike.

The train stopped for about 30 seconds at Rivesaltes. We got off, one person got on, and there we were, facing a tiny closed building, lots of weeds, a falling-over wooden fence, and a dirt path leading to a deserted road. For a Saturday, Rivesaltes was mighty quiet.

Undaunted, we hoisted our backpacks and hiked into the tiny ghost town. When we reached what looked like the town square, we saw two people, a man and a woman, sitting outside a tiny café. Since they were our only choices, we asked if they knew how to get to Barcares.

They exchanged glances, shook their heads, then shrugged their shoulders and the woman answered doubtfully, “It’s a very long way from here.”

That didn’t faze us, so we asked which road to take. The woman pointed across the plaza to one which would take us not only out of town but also past the bus station and the post office. Obviously the narrow one-lane road was a major artery.

“Does the bus go to Barcares?” I asked hopefully, in French, of course.

She didn’t know. Didn’t even know if the bus ran on Saturday. But since she knew of Barcares, that gave us hope that we were in the right area, anyway.

The weather was great, it was only about 1:30, so we had plenty of time. Mary seemed energized by the thought that we might have to hitchhike. I wasn’t enthused, but it often happened like that. When one of us was down, the other was up, so we kept each other going.

The post office and the bus station were deserted. The posted schedules did not list “Barcares” as a destination. Undaunted, we kept walking. And walking. After a couple of miles, we were in a sparse residential area where we found a workman repairing a house.

To be sure we were going in the right direction, I pointed to the road and asked, “Barcares?”

He nodded and then warned that it was a very, very long way away. In the back of my mind was the thought that maybe he’d offer to drive us, but that didn’t happen. Later I completely understood why. Barcares was, indeed, a very very long way.

We were far enough into the country now to hitchhike. I wrote "Barcares, s'il vous plait" on a large piece of paper that we held that behind us as we kept walking and holding out our thumbs. Four miles later, we gave up. We were at a bus stop. A schedule suggested that a bus might come in about 45 minutes.

To our surprise, a young woman stopped her car and asked where we were going. When we said, “Barcares,” her face fell and I could tell it was still “a very very long way.” But she could take us to “the large highway”. We thought maybe she meant the one we could see not far away, so thanked her, but stayed put.

Eventually, a white van pulled up. It was the bus! The driver opened the door and I asked if he went to Barcares. That started a lively discussion among the three female passengers of a certain age, one of whom took charge of us, motioning us to get on! Get on!

We got on, paid our fare, and she and the driver managed to get through to us that down the way we could transfer to a bus which would take us to Barcares! Hosanna!

It was a very very long ride to the transfer place, about an hour. The lady in charge and the others were going to the big shopping center at the stop. But first, to make sure we got to the right place, our leader walked us across a four-lane highway to the bus stop, pointed to the posted schedules, told the others waiting that we were going to Barcares, and then hurried back to join her friends.

While Mary amused herself stomping on the ants rampaging the shelter, I asked a quiet young man sitting opposite if he knew where “Ile des Pecheurs” (our timeshare) was. He did! It’s farther still than Barcares, but the bus actually went there. He would show us where to get off! I'm using a lot of exclamation points because it had been a very very long day!

Immense relief flooded me. We would be all right! It was now about 5:00 and I’d been wondering . Not worrying, just wondering. OK, worrying a bit, too.

A big tourist sort of bus showed up and took us what seemed to be another very very long way. Several times I glanced at the young man and he shook his head, “Not yet.”

We went through Barcares, a clean, neat colorful vacation town, and then out onto the peninsula between the Mediterranean Sea on one side and a large inland water something (bay? no, inlet? maybe) on the other. It was like the outer islands guarding the east coast, or so I guess, never having been there.

After winding through tiny streets, squeezing around confusing roundabouts, and moseying past lots of condos an palm trees, the young man nodded his head, the driver stopped, and we were finally at our home for the next seven days.

Next time, a week of adventures on the southern coast.