This isn’t one of those weighty stories about the tragedy of boatloads of refugees fleeing a war torn country and washing up on one of the Mediterranean shores in Europe. Rather, and without in any way minimizing or trivializing the plight of those forced to flee their country, this is the story of how a Canadian family came to be refugees in Collioure, France.
We hadn’t initially planned on going to Collioure. We had booked a nine night cruise to Morocco and the Canary Islands sailing out of Barcelona. The plan was to follow that up with a driving tour through Provence, central France, and ultimately to Paris.
We checked rental car rates and found that there was a prohibitive drop-off charge for renting in Barcelona and leaving a car in Paris. However, if you picked up the car anywhere in France you could drop it off in Paris for only a minimal fee. After studying the maps of the Spanish-French border region, it was clear that the first sizeable city in France was Perpignan. Weekly rates from car rental agencies at the rail station there, including a drop off near Gare Montparnasse in Paris, were reasonable. Train fares from Barcelona to Perpignan for a family of four were also relatively inexpensive. Transportation, the key element in any good plan, was feasible.
The next step was to find accommodation for one night in Perpignan. Unfortunately, the reviews for hotels near the train station were not promising. While the hotels themselves sounded fine, the description of the area around the train station was not so good. Several included comments about the smell of urine as they were walking from the station to the hotel so, having two young Pangeans in tow, we decided against staying in Perpignan. However, several of the reviews mentioned that the hotels were convenient for travellers arriving by air and heading the next day by train to Collioure. The references to the town and the area on the French side of the border, where the Pyrenees dip their toes in the Mediterranean, were intriguing. We decided that the small French town would be the perfect stopover for one night. We checked the rail fares again, this time with a stopover in Collioure, and found there was no cost penalty for travelling from Barcelona to Collioure one day, then travelling from Collioure to Perpignan the next. There was even a train scheduled for the early afternoon so it meant we could do a little sightseeing in Collioure before catching the train to Perpignan to pick up the rental car.
It’s a great feeling when plans start falling into place. It’s an even better feeling when execution of the plans goes smoothly. We disembarked from the Norwegian Jade in good time and took a taxi to the Barcelona Sants train station. After storing our luggage at the facility in the station we headed out for a walking tour of the City. We had contemplated taking the train from Sants to Montserrat, but decided that we’d probably need more time to fully appreciate Montserrat (definitely the case after visiting there recently – Montserrat review to come). After walking around Barcelona, we made our way back to Sants station, retrieved our luggage, and boarded the train that departed on time. The ride through the Catalan countryside with a few stops (including Girona) was uneventful. The change of trains in Cerbere after crossing into France (due to the differing gauges between the Spanish and French rail systems) was interesting, especially for any Pangean with an inclination to be a “train buff”. All in all it was a great trip to Collioure.
We had booked one night at the Hotel Princes de Catalogne in Collioure which was located close to the harbour. Collioure and the nearby villages of Port-Vendres and Banyuls sur Mer to the south occupy the slopes of the foothills of the Pyrenees as the mountains step down into the sea. The train station was in the middle reaches of the slope, with residential areas and terraced vineyards above, and the commercial heart of the town below. After disembarking from the train we headed down the streets towards the harbour, dragging our wheeled luggage behind. The town and harbour area were protected by fortifications on the two most prominent prospects and with its narrow streets, palm trees, quaint houses, and harbour dotted with small fish boats, any Pangean could see that it could be quite touristy. March, however, was definitely the off season and the place retained an aura of authenticity.
Check in at the hotel was easy and the hotelier and his wife were friendly. They suggested a couple of restaurants and after walking through part of the town we stopped at one of their recommendations. The place was small, the food excellent, and the service comfortable and unhurried. The waiter spoke English well and it was from him that we first received word of the possibility of “snow”. We dismissed this talk out of hand and hardly thought more of it. How could there be snow? We were sitting in a village on the Mediterranean, with palm trees all around, and the temperature throughout the day had been 10 or 15 degrees above freezing. Surely the talk of snow was some idle rumour or a remote possibility mentioned in passing by the weather office. We’re from Canada. We know what winter looks like and this place definitely did not look like winter. We settled up the bill and walked back to the hotel where we slept well after a long and eventful day.
It didn’t take us long to realize in the morning that it had indeed begun to snow sometime during the night. The windows in our room looked out over a white scene and when we headed out for breakfast we had to tromp through 10 cm of soft, slushy snow on the ground. We decided to try Cafe Sola, an interesting blend of cafe and sports bar located a couple of doors down from Hotel Princes. Breakfast was good and, while a little pricey, the ‘cafe creme’ was stunning.
Once outside, we opted for a little sight-seeing. A festive atmosphere prevailed in the town. Children, their classes cancelled for the day, played in the snow, laughing and smiling. Many of the townsfolk wandered about with makeshift galoshes in the form of plastic bags on their feet. The town had obviously deployed all its resources in the face of this weather emergency, particularly the shiny new wheeled backhoe loader. It was fully equipped with high grip tires, an enclosed cab, and a 4-in-1 bucket on the front. It was capable of plowing, scraping, loading, pushing, and otherwise controlling the snow. Unfortunately, it did none of these tasks. The French municipal workers, fully decked out in bright orange Arctic survival suits almost as shiny and new as the backhoe they were riding on, were too busy driving about, disrupting the traffic that had ventured out despite the snow, and otherwise playing with their new toy. Two or three of them occupied the cab or clung to its side. Their smiles were almost as broad as those on the children frolicking around the town.
Although the snow continued to fall, we made the best of it and tried to see as much of the town as we could. The church on a protecting point that almost enclosed the harbour was interesting and the view from there, back towards the town and the fortifications, was amazing. After seeing as much as we could in the hour or so we’d given ourselves, we headed back to the hotel, stopping briefly at the Tourist Information office. Unfortunately, the woman in the office suggested the trains might not be running. Coming from Canada where the trains are only stopped by massive avalanches or temperatures so cold that there is a risk the wheels on the trains might freeze solid to the tracks, the thought that the trains here might be halted by a few cm’s of fresh snow seemed inconceivable.
We returned to the hotel and checked out. The hotelier was nice enough to offer to drive us up the hill to the station in his personal car and because of the difficulty in walking in the snow we gladly took him up on the offer. After he cleared out some of his toddler’s toys from the back of the vehicle, we loaded in our luggage, and headed up to the station. Upon arrival at the station, we thanked him profusely and set to waiting for the train.
We were early and so we waited for close to an hour. All the while the snow kept falling and falling and falling. We hovered in the walkway tunnel under the tracks and waited out of the wind and snow. When the board showed that our train was due in a few minutes we headed up to the track level and mingled with several locals who were also bundled up and gazing expectantly up the tracks. We waited and continued to wait and waited some more until the scheduled arrival time had come and gone. When the Arrival board flashed a couple of times and no longer indicated an arriving train, the locals looked about and slowly, in ones, twos, and threes, abandoned their wait and headed back to where they’d come from. The Pangeans lingered a bit longer, unwilling to believe that a little snow would stop the trains from running. However, as the last of the locals departed the platform we began to realize that there would be no train today.With no prospect of transport in sight, we decided to head back to the hotel to book a room for the night and the make the best of our circumstances.
Unfortunately, the snow had really accumulated while we’d been waiting for the train and we faced the unplowed road and at least 20 cm of soft, slushy white stuff. What had been an easy roll down the road on our initial arrival in town had become a struggle. Luggage was re-allocated for the carry down the hill, but Matthew, the youngest Pangean in the group, was left with a large bag which he ended up dragging through the heavy snow effectively plowing a narrow trail down the middle of the street. As we continued down we could hear the palm and pine trees cracking and breaking under the weight of the snow. Part way back to the hotel a gallant young man came to Janet’s rescue and carried her luggage. He explained that his mother was a doctor and that she’d lived in the town for fifty years. He also explained that the snow that day was only the second time in fifty years that snow had fallen in Collioure. He confirmed that all the roads out of town were closed. Arriving back at the hotel, he offered us assistance for anything else we might need while trapped in the town and we thanked him profusely.
The hotelier at the Princes de Catalogne was pleased to see us safely returned and offered us an excellent price on a larger room than we’d had the night before. We went back to the small grocery store next door and stocked up with more baguettes, cheese, meats, snacks, Coke in glass bottles for the younger Pangeans and local Banyuls wine for Janet and I. Our new room had a view out the back of hotel over the town and overlooked a massive rooftop deck of the building next door. The deck must have been at least 7 or 8 metres on a side and roughly square. Close to 30 cm of snow had accumulated by this time and it was concealing planter boxes, chairs, tables and some trellised plants. As we settled in with our provisions we watched in amazement as the fellow from next door set about shovelling off his rooftop deck with what appeared to be a large wooden spoon. It may have been a paddle or an extra large soup spoon, but it definitely did not look to be up to the task. Despite absurdity of the scale of the tool he was using, the fellow soldiered on slowing digging a narrow trail out to the edge of his deck.
A while later we stepped out for dinner and then hot chocolate at Le Cafe Sola. At the Cafe we heard about a group of Brits who’d been rescued from their car near the town. Apparently, they had buried it in a snow bank on the road above town. They were making the best of it in the sports bar. It appeared that as long as the beer held out they’d be fine. As we trudged the final few steps back to our hotel we noticed that the snow had stopped and that the sky appeared to be clearing.
When we awoke the next morning the sun was shining brilliantly through the windows of our hotel room. Everything outside was glistening under a coat of white and we planned to make another attempt to catch the train to Perpignan. However, while sipping our coffee and hot chocolate at the Le Cafe Sola we heard word that the trains still weren’t running in the morning: “maybe this afternoon” was all the proprietor could suggest as he gave a traditional gallic shrug. He also confirmed that the roads out of town were still blocked. Meanwhile, the stranded Brits were into the beer early. Hopefully, the bar and the town was well stocked!
After checking with our hotel to make sure we could stay another night and phoning ahead to the hotel in Arles to cancel the second night we’d planned to stay there, we again wandered about the town. However, the going was much more difficult, even with good footwear: everything that had soft and slushy and wet the day before had frozen solid. Also, the joyous revelry of the day before had dissipated as the townsfolk contended with ice, ruts, and slippery surfaces. On the roads huge ruts criss-crossed the town and had frozen solid trapping parked cars from moving and blocking off most of the roads. The few cars that were able to extricate themselves or had actually been dug out the day before were forced to content with high ridges of ice and the ruts. Many of the latter bore the unmistakable tread marks of the municipal backhoe that had been roaming about the day before.
For lunch we made another trip to the grocery store next door and stocked up again on wine and meats and cheese and, what looked to be, one of the last few loaves of bread. Fortunately, there was lots of wine and it was inexpensive! For dinner that night we found a restaurant open and tried French pizza (not so good) and sausages (very good).
The storm: http://en.rfi.fr/france/20100308-freak-snow-storm-covers-southern-france
The next morning we decided to walk up to the train station to see if there was any word on whether the trains would run that day. On our way up the hill we marvelled at the fact that the only cleared route up the road to the station was “Matthew’s Trail” made the first day as we retreated to the town from the station. We also marvelled at the fact it was still exactly the width of his rolling suitcase. Despite all the houses and businesses up the street, and despite the presence in the the town of the aforementioned backhoe with a 4-in-1 loader bucket, and despite the presence of the French commandos stationed in the fort above town, nothing had been done to widen the trail or plow the road. As a consequence, Matthew’s Trail became an important artery and transportation corridor. I suppose that’s something he can put on his resume someday.
Upon arriving at the station we found everything looked locked up and quiet. Even the Arrivals sign was turned off. Definitely not a good sign (no pun intended). We tapped on the door of the station house to see if there was anyone inside who might have some insight on when the trains might be running again, but it was good and truly shut down and silent. Only a little discouraged (since we were on vacation and the weather and town looked truly spectacular in its coat of white) we headed down the hill once again taking Matthew’s Trail into the town.
We had only made it part way down the hill when were accosted by a gentleman all bundled up who spoke to us rapidly in French and gestured for us to follow. Since we really didn’t have anywhere else to go we followed him down into the town and `it became clear that he wanted us to go to their town hall. Once inside he presented us to a clerk who appeared to speak even less English. I immediately worried that some of my comments about the use (and misuse) of their backhoe had gotten back to the ‘powers that be’ and that the Mayor was about to banish us from the town. However, as the two conversed, one word kept getting repeated: “refuge” “refuge”. The man also gesticulated and it became apparent that he was referring to food. It was at that point that we realized that they considered us to be refugees and that, upon registration, we were being offered food and accommodation. It was all we could do explain that our hotel was great, the room comfortable, and that rather than going hungry we’d likely gained several pounds eating bread, pate, meats, cheese, Coke in glass bottles, and wine – lots of wine. We thanked them profusely and finally were able to convince them that we didn’t need to register.
They must have thought us a little odd – turning down their largesse, but at the time we just didn’t feel like refugees. However in hindsight, I suppose that’s exactly what we had become for those two or three days in March 2010. And that is how we came to be the reluctant Canadian refugees of Collioure.
Did we ever catch our train? Did we escape the town? No, and yes. Later that day we were again sitting in Le Cafe Sola, when the proprietor told us that a taxi from Perpignan had been spotted in town. We knew that this meant that at least one of the roads out of town was cleared and he asked if we’d like him to call his cousin who had a taxi. We gladly accepted his offer and a little while later he came back to say his cousin would pick us up from our hotel in 30 minutes. After checking out, we met up with our ride and finally made our escape to Perpignan. There was a lot of snow on the route up to the highway, but within two or three kilometres outside of town the ground was completely clear.
We made it to Perpignan that afternoon, were able to pick up our rental car (even though we were a couple of days late) and headed off to Provence and the rest of our adventure. While the cost of the taxi was significantly more than the train, we were able to recover some of that since the French railway authority refunded the full unused portion of our tickets.
As a footnote, in writing this all down I checked Wikipedia to get the correct spelling of the town. Interestingly enough at the end of the Wikipedia article there’s reference to a freak snowstorm on January 21, 1870 that dumped a metre of snow on the town. I guess our experience was not unique.