Bedtime Journeys
Drift off to sleep with gentle travel stories that transport you to beautiful destinations around the world. Each day we explore a new location through soothing narration designed to help you relax and dream.
Bedtime Journeys
Drifting to Sleep in Colorful Collioure
There's something rather magical about a place that inspired artists to completely reinvent how we see color. In 1905, Henri Matisse arrived in Collioure and found light so extraordinary that he started painting pink waves and orange masts—and somehow it all made perfect sense. The locals say the light here "suppresses shadows," and when you experience this fishing village where the Pyrenees Mountains dip their toes into the Mediterranean Sea, you understand exactly what they mean.
Join me as we wander through narrow streets painted in boat colors, where houses cascade down the hillside in shades of apricot, rose, and butter yellow—the practical becoming beautiful in that perfectly French way. We'll explore the honey-colored Château Royale rising directly from the sea, its walls containing eight centuries of architectural evolution from Roman foundations to star-shaped fortifications. We'll visit Notre-Dame-des-Anges, the church with a lighthouse for a bell tower that can't decide if it serves sailors or souls, and whose pink dome glows in the morning light.
Our journey takes us to Anchois Roque, where families have been preserving anchovies the exact same way for 150 years—arranging them in crown shapes inside wooden barrels, layering them with coarse salt, and pressing them with 20-kilogram weights that create the most soothing settling sounds you've ever heard. We'll climb terraced vineyards so steep that everything must be done by hand, where 6,000 kilometers of dry stone walls have been built over centuries without mortar, held in place by gravity and skill. And as evening falls, we'll join the traditional Sardana dance where circles expand to include everyone, hands reaching out to strangers who become, for the duration of the dance, part of something larger.
Ready to continue this journey through France's most peaceful treasures? Subscribe to our premium service for exclusive access to our upcoming adventures through Uzès with its truffle markets, Saint-Émilion's underground wine caves, and so much more beyond tonight's free episode.
Hello there, fellow travelers, daniel here, welcoming you to our gentle journey through France. Tonight we begin our week-long exploration of this remarkable country, a land of medieval villages and Renaissance chateaux, of ancient wine traditions and artistic revolutions, of stone fortresses and colorful fishing boats. Over the next seven evenings we'll wander through some of France's most peaceful treasures, from the Mediterranean coast to the Loire Valley, from truffle markets to Leonardo da Vinci's workshop. Each night will bring us somewhere new and wonderfully tranquil. But tonight, tonight, we begin in perhaps the most colorful corner of France, collioure, where the Pyrenees Mountains dip their toes into the Mediterranean Sea. You know, there's something rather magical about a place that inspired artists to completely reinvent how we see color.
Speaker 1:In 1905, henri Matisse arrived here and found light so extraordinary that he started painting pink waves and orange masts. And somehow it all made perfect sense. The locals say the light in Koliur suppresses shadows. I'm not entirely sure how light can suppress shadows. That seems like asking fire to suppress heat. But when you see this place you understand what they mean.
Speaker 1:This is a fishing village that's been catching more than just anchovies for over 2,000 years. It's been catching hearts, catching light, catching that perfect moment between day and evening when everything turns golden. The Romans built foundations here in 120 BC, the kings of Mahorka made it their summer residence in the 13th century and fishermen, in a stroke of practical genius, started painting their houses with leftover boat paint, creating a natural harmony between the town and the sea that would later inspire an entire art movement. Picture houses the color of apricots in morning, sky of sea foam in sunset, streets so narrow that neighbors could practically shake hands from their balconies though, being French, they probably prefer to wave with a fresh baguette, probably prefer to wave with a fresh baguette and the anchovy workshops where families have been salting and preserving these little silver fish the exact same way for over 150 years. 20 kilogram weights pressing down on wooden barrels creating soft settling sounds that might just be the most soothing thing you've ever heard. The church here has a lighthouse for a bell tower. I suppose that's what happens when your town can't decide if it belongs to the sea or the land. You end up with architecture that serves both heaven and harbor. There's a windmill from 1337 that now makes olive oil, because apparently grinding grain for nearly seven centuries makes you want to try something new, though I suppose after 700 years you're allowed a career change years, you're allowed a career change.
Speaker 1:The wine here grows on terraces so steep that everything must be done by hand. Six thousand kilometers of dry stone walls holding back the earth, built by generations of vintners who understood that the best things in life require patience, persistence and possibly a head for heights. We'll walk through art galleries that were once wine cellars, bookshops, and medieval towers and courtyards where orange trees perfume the evening air. We'll discover beaches where the pebbles have been sorted by centuries of waves into perfect gradients of size and color. This is a place where time moves differently, where morning markets follow rhythms unchanged since medieval times, where afternoon siestas are not just accepted but expected, where afternoon siestas are not just accepted but expected, where evening means families gathering on terraces for aperitifs as church bells mark the hours.
Speaker 1:Before we continue our journey, I want to mention that, while tonight's episode is free for everyone to enjoy, our upcoming adventures through France, this week will be exclusively for our premium subscription listeners. Tomorrow, we'll explore Usess, with its truffle markets and silk-making heritage, then Saint-Emilion's underground wine caves and so much more. I'd love for you to join us for the complete journey, but for now, let's not think about tomorrow. Let's think about narrow streets painted in boat colors, about Mediterranean waves lapping against castle walls, about the scent of lavender and time drifting from hidden gardens. Let's prepare ourselves for Kul Yor, where the mountains meet the sea, where shadows forget to fall and where every corner offers a perfect spot for peaceful contemplation. Let's take a few moments to slow our breathing to match the gentle rhythm of Mediterranean waves. Find a comfortable position, letting your body settle like sand, finding its natural rest.
Speaker 1:Tonight we'll practice the ocean breath, a technique that mimics the sound of waves on pebbled shores. Begin by breathing in slowly through your nose. Imagine you're drawing in the scent of sea salt and wild herbs. Now exhale gently through your nose, creating a soft sound in the back of your throat, like waves retreating over smooth stones. Breathe in again, feeling your chest rise like the gentle swell of a calm sea gentle swell of a calm sea and release, letting the breath flow out naturally, carrying away any tension from your day. Continue this ocean, breathing in through the nose, drawing in peace, out through the nose, releasing everything you no longer need. Let each breath become a wave, washing over you, through you, calming every part of your being. Feel how your breathing has already begun to slow, matching the eternal rhythm of the Mediterranean. One more deep ocean, breath in and let it go sinking into complete relaxation. Perfect, so let's start our journey.
Speaker 1:We arrive in Kalyur as morning light warms the ancient stones approaching from the north. Where the road curves to reveal our first glimpse of this Mediterranean jewel. The town spreads before us like a watercolor painting, left out in gentle rain colors, soft and flowing into each other. Houses cascade down the hillside toward the harbor in shades of apricot, rose and butter yellow. These aren't the careful planned colors of modern development. These are the organic hues that come from generations of fishermen, using whatever paint was left over from their boats. The practical becoming beautiful. Isn't that just perfectly French? We park near the old town and begin our descent toward the waterfront on foot.
Speaker 1:The streets here don't believe in straight lines or right angles. They curve and wind, like streams finding their way to the sea following contours laid down when Romans first built their settlement here in 120 BC. Our feet meet cobblestones worn smooth by 2,000 years of footsteps. Each stone fits against its neighbor like pieces of an ancient puzzle, creating patterns that shift and change as we walk. The morning air carries the most wonderful collection of scents Salt from the sea, mixing with lavender from window boxes, fresh bread from the boulangerie and that distinctive Mediterranean blend of wild herbs the French call guérigue. Time grows wild here between the stones. Rosemary cascades over old walls. Even the air seems softer, somehow filtered through centuries of contentment.
Speaker 1:We pass our first anchovy shop, anchois Roque, which has been in the same family since 1870. Through the window we can see wooden barrels stacked in cool dim rooms. The sign tells us they've just celebrated their 150th anniversary. Recognized as Entreprise du Patrimoine Vivant, a living heritage company, the process hasn't changed in all that time Fresh anchovies arranged in crown shapes inside wooden barrels, layers of coarse salt between them, 20-kilogram weights pressing down to create that soft, settling sound.
Speaker 1:A bit further along we notice something peculiar about the houses. Many have two doors, one at street level and another several feet up the wall. These upper doors open onto nothing but air now, but they tell the story of a time when the street level was higher before centuries of feet wore down the stones, was higher before centuries of feet wore down the stones. An elderly woman emerges from one of these colorful houses carrying a woven basket. She wears the kind of practical dress that suggests a lifetime of Mediterranean mornings and she nods to us with that gentle acknowledgement that needs no words. This is the pace of Collier unhurried, unworried, understanding that most things worth doing are worth doing slowly.
Speaker 1:As we continue downward, the sound of the sea grows stronger Not the crash of ocean waves but the gentle whisper of the Mediterranean water that knows how to be both powerful and peaceful. We turn a corner and there it is, the harbor of Colliure spreading before us like a living postcard. Fishing boats painted in primary colors bob gently at their moorings. Fishing boats painted in primary colors bob gently at their moorings. The famous church of Notre-Dame-des-Anges rises directly from the water, its pink dome glowing in the morning light. But it's the castle that truly takes your breath away. The Chateau Royale rises from foundations that disappear directly into the sea. Its schist walls the color of warm honey. This isn't a fairytale castle with delicate towers. This is a fortress that has weathered centuries of Mediterranean storms and emerged more beautiful for it. The beach between the castle and church is already dotted with bright umbrellas. Families are settling in for a day of gentle swimming and sun-soaking. Children build sandcastles that echo the real castle watching over them.
Speaker 1:We walk along the Boulevard du Boromar, the waterfront promenade where Matisse had his apartment in 1905. Small metal frames on stilts mark the exact spots where he set up his easel. You can look through these frames and see exactly what he saw, though presumably with less pink in the waves and orange in the sky. The morning light here really is extraordinary. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, bouncing off the water, reflecting from white walls, filtering through salt air, until shadows simply give up and fade away. Street artists have already set up their easels along the waterfront. They paint the same views that Matisse and Duran painted, though with perhaps a bit more attention to actual colors. One artist works entirely in blues, every shade, from midnight to powder, creating a collure that exists underwater. Café owners arrange chairs and tables on terraces, adjusting angles to catch the perfect amount of morning sun. The sound of cups and saucers creates a gentle percussion against the background whisper of waves. The background whisper of waves. This is how Collioure wakes up slowly, beautifully, with the confidence of a place that has been perfecting its morning routine for two millennia.
Speaker 1:We approach the Chateau Royale through narrow streets that seem designed to build anticipation. Each turn reveals another glimpse of ancient walls, another angle of defensive architecture softened by time and climbing plants. The entrance fee is modest just a few euros to explore eight centuries of architectural evolution. The ticket seller, a young woman with the kind of gentle manner that suggests she genuinely enjoys her work, tells us the castle is relatively quiet this morning, perfect for peaceful exploration. We pass through the main gate and find ourselves in the first courtyard.
Speaker 1:The walls here date from different periods Roman foundations at the base, visigothic additions above medieval expansions and finally Vauban's 17th century star-shaped fortifications. It's like reading a book written by eight different authors, each adding their own chapter. The schist stone changes color as clouds drift across the sun now golden, now gray, now almost pink in certain lights. The ancient mortar between the stones has weathered to the texture of coarse sand, rough under our fingertips. We climb stone steps worn into gentle valleys by centuries of feet. The kings of Majorca climbed these same steps when this was their summer palace, from 1276 to 1344. Their footsteps are here somewhere mixed with knights and servants, soldiers and queens.
Speaker 1:From the ramparts the view extends in every direction North toward the Pyrenees, their peaks still carrying traces of snow even in the warm seasons. South, along the Vermilion coast toward Spain. East across the endless Mediterranean and west toward the terraced vineyards, climbing impossible slopes. The sound up here is different wind and seabirds rather than waves and voices. Swallows nest in the ancient walls, their swift movements creating shadows that dance across the stone.
Speaker 1:We descend into the underground galleries, where the temperature drops by several degrees. These passages once stored provisions for sieges that never came. Now they're home to exhibitions about the castle's history. Dim lights illuminating displays of medieval pottery and weapons. The acoustics in these tunnels create interesting effects. A whisper at one end carries clearly to the other effects, a whisper at one end carries clearly to the other. Footsteps echo and multiply until it sounds like a medieval army marching through time.
Speaker 1:Back in daylight, we explore the triangular courtyard added by Vauban. This military engineer understood that the strongest shape in nature is the triangle, so he redesigned the castle's defenses accordingly Every angle calculated to deflect cannon fire, every wall positioned to protect another. Yet even Vauban's military precision has been softened by time. Wild flowers grow in cracks between stones, fig trees have somehow taken root in the walls themselves. Nature and architecture finding balance after four centuries.
Speaker 1:Leaving the castle, we walk the short distance to the church of Notre-Dame-des-Anges. This is the church with the lighthouse bell tower, the one that can't decide if it serves sailors or souls. The entrance sits below sea level. During storms, waves actually wash over three sides of the church. The locals say it's been blessed by both heaven and sea. The locals say it's been blessed by both heaven and sea, which seems appropriate for a town that's never quite decided which one it belongs to.
Speaker 1:Inside, the Catalan Baroque altarpiece glows even in the dim light. Created by Joseph Sunyer between 1698 and 1720, it's carved from wood and covered in gold leaf. For one euro you can illuminate it properly, watching as light reveals layer after layer of intricate carving. Angels and saints emerge from the golden shadows. Vines and flowers wind around biblical scenes. The craftsmanship is extraordinary, each fold of fabric, each facial expression carved with patience and devotion. The walls are lined with ex-votos, offerings from grateful sailors who survived storms. Small painted panels showing ships in distress, with the Virgin Mary appearing in the clouds above Some date back to the 1700s. Their paint faded, but their gratitude still visible. The pink dome was added in 1810, giving the lighthouse bell tower its distinctive profile.
Speaker 1:From inside, we can hear the bells preparing to ring the hour. There's a moment of anticipation. Then the bronze voices speak deep and resonant, sending their message across water and stone. The sound vibrates through the floor, through the walls, through our bodies. For a moment, we become part of the church itself, resonating with centuries of calls to prayer and navigation. Outside, we sit on the low wall that protects the church from the sea, or perhaps protects the sea from the church it's hard to tell which needs protecting from which the Mediterranean stretches endlessly before us, its surface scattered with diamonds of reflected sunlight. Small fishing boats work the coastal waters, their movements slow and purposeful. They're not the colorful tourist boats, but working vessels continuing traditions that predate the church, the castle, perhaps even the Romans. The rhythm of waves against stone creates a meditation all its own. Stone creates a meditation all its own, not the dramatic crash of ocean waves, but the gentle insistence of a sea that knows it has all the time in the world, advancing and retreating, giving and taking, breathing in and breathing out.
Speaker 1:We begin our artistic journey where it all started, at the apartment on Boulevard du Boromar where Matisse spent the summer of 1905. A small plaque marks the building, easy to miss if you're not looking for it. From his window on the second floor, matisse could see the entire harbor, the boats, the church, the castle, the endless play of light on water. He wrote to a friend that the light here was blonde, golden, and I am delighted. The metal viewing frames along the waterfront mark 19 spots where Matisse and Doreen set up their easels. Looking through them is like looking through time, seeing not what is, but what could be if color broke free from reality. At the first frame, positioned to capture the harbor view, a reproduction of Matisse's painting shows pink waves and orange boat masts. The actual view is beautiful enough blue water, white boats, the honey-colored castle. But Matisse saw something more, something that existed in the space between light and perception.
Speaker 1:We follow the trail up into the old town, the rue de la caronque. This narrow shutters in the green of weathered copper Doors, the blue of deep water. An elderly man sits in a doorway Repairing a fishing net, with movements so practiced they require no thought. His fingers know the knots by memory passed down through generations. Pairing a fishing net with movements so practiced they require no thought. His fingers know the knots by memory passed down through generations. He nods as we pass his hands, never pausing in their work. The trail leads us to a small square where another viewing frame captures the church from an unusual angle. Here. Duran painted the bell tower as a purple shadow against an orange sky. The actual tower is pink stone against blue sky, but somehow Duran's version feels more true to the spirit of the place.
Speaker 1:We continue climbing toward the Roca Alta Donbel, matisse's favorite painting spot. The path winds through residential streets where normal life continues despite the artistic pilgrims. Children's bicycles lean against walls, laundry dries on lines strung between windows, cats observe our progress from sunny spots. The viewing point is just 7 minutes from Matisse's studio, but the climb feels longer in the warm air. We pause frequently, not from exhaustion but from the desire to absorb each view, each angle, each play of light on colored walls. At Roca Alta Dombelle, we understand why Matisse chose this spot. The entire town spreads below like a painter's palette. Every color seems more intense from here the blue's bluer, the pink's pinker, the green's, practically vibrating with life. A reproduction of View of Collioure shows how Matisse translated this vista. His family called it the stained glass because of its luminous quality, colors seeming to glow from within. Standing here, you can almost see the moment when he decided to let color speak for itself.
Speaker 1:Freed from the burden of description, we descend toward the Port de Val district, where most of the town's 30 art galleries cluster. Each gallery has its own character, some specializing in contemporary work, others in reproductions of the faux-viste masters, a few showing local artists who continue to find inspiration in Collioure's extraordinary light, in Collioure's extraordinary light. The Musée d'Art Moderne occupies the Villa Pams, a beautiful building with gardens overlooking the sea. The permanent collection includes works by Matisse Duran and local sculptor Aristide Mayol. But it's the temporary exhibitions that often surprise contemporary artists. Still drawn to collure, still trying to capture what Matisse called the blonde light, we spend time in the museum's garden where sculptures are positioned to catch different lights throughout the day. A bronze figure seems to change expression as clouds pass overhead. Abstract forms create shadows that become part of the artwork itself.
Speaker 1:The Hôtel des Templiers requires a special visit. This isn't just a hotel but a living museum, where 2,000 paintings cover every available wall space. René Pousse, who ran the hotel for 40 years, welcomed artists who often paid for their stay with paintings. The collection grew organically, each painting finding its spot, creating conversations between different artists across different decades. A small Matisse sketch hangs next to work by an unknown artist from the 1960s. They speak to each other across time, united by their love of this place.
Speaker 1:The hotel bar is particularly atmospheric Dark wood, maritime memorabilia and paintings covering the ceiling as well as the walls. The bartender, who seems to have been here forever, serves drinks with the unhurried grace of someone who understands that good things shouldn't be rushed. We sit with a glass of local rosé, its color perfectly matching the sunset beginning outside. The wine tastes of salt air and wild herbs, of sun-warmed stones and patient time. This is what Matisse was trying to paint. Not just the colors, but the feeling of them, the way they settle into your consciousness like welcome guests.
Speaker 1:The afternoon finds us at Anchois Roque, relocated to the hilltops at 17 Rue d'Argelay for optimal salting conditions. The building is unassuming from outside, but stepping through the door is like entering a time capsule. The scent hits you first salt and fish and wood, but not unpleasant. It's the smell of tradition, of something done the same way for so long that it has become part of the building itself. Our guide, marie Claire, is the great-granddaughter of Alphonse Roque, who founded the company in 1870. She wears a white coat and speaks with the quiet authority of someone who knows their craft completely. Speaks with the quiet authority of someone who knows their craft completely. She leads us into the salting room, where wooden barrels stand in neat rows. The temperature is kept at exactly six degrees Celsius, cool enough to preserve, warm enough to allow the transformation that turns simple fish into something sublime.
Speaker 1:Fresh anchovies arrive daily. During the season, which runs from May to October. They must be processed within hours of catching, while they still carry the essence of the sea. Marie Claire demonstrates the salting process. First, the anchovies are arranged in crown shapes inside the barrels, heads pointing outward, tails meeting in the center. It's surprisingly beautiful, this careful arrangement of silver fish. Coarse salt from eggs mort is layered between each crown, not too much, not too little, the proportion learned through generations of practice. Then comes the weight 20 kilograms of pressure to slowly extract moisture and allow the salt to work its preservation magic. We can hear it, the soft settling sound as the weight presses down. It's rhythmic, almost like breathing, this gentle compression that transforms fresh fish into preserved treasure. The barrels rest for 15 to 24 days in this first salting. Then they're emptied, cleaned and the anchovies are repacked for the long maturation. Three to four months of patient waiting.
Speaker 1:In another room we watch the uncle uses at work, these women, and they're always women, marie Claire tells us, because they have the patience and delicate touch required, remove the bones from matured anchovies with movements so precise they seem choreographed. Each anchovy is held gently. A quick movement removes the backbone, leaving two perfect fillets. The women work in companionable silence, their hands moving in rhythm, occasionally sharing a quiet word or gentle laugh. The fillets are packed in glass jars with olive oil infused with herbs from the surrounding hills. Each jar is a small work of art the silver fish arranged in perfect spirals, the golden oil catching light like liquid sunshine. We visit the aging room where hundreds of barrels rest in cool darkness. Some have been here for over a year, developing complex flavors that can't be rushed. The wood of the barrels adds its own note to the preservation, a subtle earthiness that glass or metal could never provide.
Speaker 1:From the anchovy workshop we wander to samuel villiviel's boat restoration workshop near anse de polil. The twelve kilometer journey takes us along the coastal road, past small co coves where the Mediterranean shows different shades of blue and green. The workshop smells of wood and varnish, of rope and tar. Traditional Catalan boats, called Barques Catalanes, rest in various stages of restoration. These boats are pointed at both ends, designed to slice through Mediterranean swells with minimal resistance. Samuel works with hand tools that haven't changed in centuries Planes and chisels, saws and sanders, each one worn smooth by use. He explains that each restoration takes at least a year, sometimes longer if the boat requires extensive rebuilding. The wood is maritime pine, chosen for its resistance to saltwater. Each plank must be steamed and bent to the precise curve, a process that requires patience and understanding of how wood wants to move. Force it and it splits. Coax it and it becomes part of something beautiful. The boats are painted in primary colors red, blue, yellow, green. These aren't random choices but traditional combinations, each family having their own pattern passed down through generations. The paint isn't just decoration but protection, renewed each year to keep the wood healthy.
Speaker 1:Back in town, we discover La Maison de Prosper, where traditional Catalan espadrilles are created. The owner, lawrence, shows us bundles of jute rope that will become soles. The rope is woven in tight spirals, creating a sole that's both flexible and durable. Flexible and durable. The sound of rope being woven is surprisingly soothing a soft swishing combined with the occasional tap as the weaver tightens the spiral. The workshop smells of hemp and cotton, natural fibers that have clothed feet for centuries. Uppers are sewn by hand, each stitch precisely placed. The traditional designs haven't changed Simple, functional, beautiful in their purposefulness. These are shoes for dancing the sardana for walking cobblestone streets, for living life at a human pace. We watch a woman creating the special ribbons that wrap around the ankle. Her fingers move with practiced grace, the ribbon flowing through her hands like water. She's been doing this for 40 years, she tells us, and still finds satisfaction in creating something useful and beautiful. This is what Collier preserves not just buildings and views, but ways of working that connect hands to materials, traditions to daily life. Each craft maintains its own rhythm, its own relationship with time. Nothing is rushed, because rushing would break the connection between maker and made.
Speaker 1:Late afternoon draws us into the hills above Collier, where vineyards climb slopes that seem impossibly steep, the road winds upward through curves that reveal new views with each turn, the town shrinking below the Mediterranean stretching endlessly eastward. These are the terraces called faixas, built from schist stones, cleared from the fields over centuries. 6,000 kilometers of dry stone walls imagine that. Enough to stretch from here to New York. All built by hand, stone by stone, without mortar, held in place by gravity and skill, without mortar held in place by gravity and skill. We stop at a viewing point where we can see the entire system. Spread across the hillsides, the walls create a giant staircase climbing from sea level to 400 meters. Each terrace holds just a few rows of vines, sometimes only one or two on the narrowest ledges. The engineering is remarkable Built into the walls are drainage channels, called pews de galle, rooster's feet, fan-shaped stone arrangements that channel water from the torrential Mediterranean rains that come in autumn. Without these, the terraces would wash away in a single storm. Everything here must be done by hand. No machine can navigate these slopes, some exceeding 50% incline. Workers carry everything on their backs tools, harvest baskets, even small amounts of soil to replace what rain washes away.
Speaker 1:We visit Domaine Latourvilliers, where Vincent Cantier works vines that seem to grow directly from bedrock. He's been described as an artist from another era and meeting him, you understand why he speaks of his vines like old friends, knowing each one's personality, its strengths and challenges. The vines are pruned in the goblé style shaped like goblets to withstand the tramontane wind that blows one day in three. Shaped like goblets to withstand the tramontane wind that blows one day in three. Some of these vines are over 80 years old, their trunks gnarled and twisted into natural sculptures. Vincent explains that the yields here are tiny 20 to 25 hectoliters per hectare, compared to 50 or more in easier vineyards. But what the vines produce has an intensity, a concentration of flavor that can't be achieved any other way. The struggle makes them strong. We taste his Collioure Rouge and it's like drinking the landscape itself Notes of wild herbs, thyme and rosemary that grow between the vines, a mineral quality from the schist, the warmth of Mediterranean sun and underneath it all, a hint of salt from the sea breeze that bathes the vines daily.
Speaker 1:At Domaine de la Rectorie, less than a kilometer from the sea, we meet the Parse brothers, thierry and Marc. Their family has been making wine here since 1635, nearly 400 years of working the same land. The cellar is cool and quiet, filled with oak barrels and the patient sound of wine aging. Temperature and humidity are controlled not by machines but by the thick stone walls and underground location. This is how wine was made centuries ago and the brothers see no reason to change what works. They produce just 80,000 bottles annually from their vineyards. Each bottle is numbered, dated and signed. Not mass production but craftsmanship, each one representing a specific piece of land, a particular weather pattern, a unique moment in time.
Speaker 1:We visit Cave de la Bayreuse, named after the priest who developed the wine business in the 1870s to fund church restoration. This cooperative unites 753 individual producers managing 700 hectares across 750 separate parcels. It's democracy in action Small farmers working together to survive in a world of industrial agriculture. The cave house is what they claim is the world's largest wooden vat, a monster that holds thousands of liters. The wood is over a century old, shipped here by boat when roads couldn't handle such cargo. Wine aged in wood breathes differently than wine in steel, slower, gentler, developing complexity rather than just preserving fruit. But it's the Banyuls that truly captures the essence of this place.
Speaker 1:This fortified wine, made from grapes grown on the steepest terraces, ages in a way that seems to defy logic. Terraces ages in a way that seems to defy logic. At Cave Cooperative L'Etoile in Bagnules-sur-Mer, we see the traditional du paillet method Glass demijohns filled with wine are placed on terraces exposed to sunlight and temperature changes Summer heat, winter cold, the daily cycle of warming and cooling, all contributing to the wine's evolution. This deliberate oxidation would ruin most wines, but with Banyuls it creates magic. Flavors of dried fruit, honey, nuts and spice develop over years of patient exposure. Nuts and spice develop over years of patient exposure. The oldest bottles date from 1945, nearly eight decades of transformation. We taste a 20-year-old Banyuls, and time seems to slow down. Each sip reveals new layers, first the sweetness, then the complexity, finally a finish that lingers like a beautiful memory. This isn't just wine, it's liquid history, the essence of this landscape concentrated into a single glass.
Speaker 1:As evening approaches, we walk through the vineyards on one of the Vin O'Hrando trails. The path winds between terraces, past ancient stone huts called casots, where workers once sheltered during harvest. The stones of the walls radiate warmth from the day's sun. Wild lavender grows and cracks its scent, mixing with the earthy smell of soil and vine. Below us, collier's lights begin to twinkle as the town prepares for evening. We reach the hermitage of Notre-Dame de Consolation just as the sun touches the horizon. This small chapel, surrounded by vines, has watched over the vineyards for centuries. From here, the entire landscape spreads before us Terraced hills, the town nestled in its bay, the endless Mediterranean, now turning gold and pink. A group of workers is finishing their day in a nearby vineyard. They move slowly down the steep paths, sure-footed from years of practice. One carries pruning shears, another a basket. They nod to us as they pass, the universal acknowledgement of people who understand the value of being in beautiful places at beautiful times.
Speaker 1:As darkness gently embraces Colliure, the town transforms into something even more magical. Street lamps cast warm pools of light on cobblestones. Restaurant terraces fill with the soft murmur of conversation. The smell of grilling fish and garlic drifts through narrow streets. We make our way to Place du Dix-Huit-Joints, where evening life centers around the gentle ritual of the aperitif. Families emerge from afternoon siestas refreshed and ready for the social hours. Children run ahead while grandparents follow at a pace that suggests they have all the time in the world. At a small café we order the local aperitif a glass of banyuls served with salted almonds. The wine is amber in the lamplight, sweet but not cloying. Glasses, the scrape of chairs on stone, laughter that bubbles up and fades like waves. Church bells mark the hour with bronze voices that have called this town to prayer, to celebration, to rest for centuries.
Speaker 1:A small group has gathered in one corner of the square. Musicians are setting up for Sardana, the traditional Catalan circle dance. The cobbla band consists of 11 musicians with instruments you won't see anywhere else the flabiol, a tiny flute that sounds like birdsong. The tambourine drum, no bigger than a coffee cup and the distinctive wooden winds called tibles and tenoras. The music begins softly, almost tentatively. A single couple steps forward and joins hands, beginning the measured steps of the sardana. Others watch, waiting for the right moment to join. This isn't performance, but participation, community expressed through connected hands and synchronized steps. Gradually the circle grows An elderly man in a beret joins, then a family with children, then tourists who've learned the basic steps. The circle expands to accommodate everyone, hands reaching out to include strangers who become, for the duration of the dance, part of something larger.
Speaker 1:The Sardana isn't vigorous or showy. It's measured, dignified, democratic. Everyone faces the center, everyone follows the same steps. Everyone is equal in the circle. They say it represents Catalan values unity, equality, peaceful resistance through cultural preservation.
Speaker 1:We wander down to the waterfront, where restaurants have set tables practically on the beach. Candles flicker in glass holders protected from the sea breeze. The sound of waves provides nature's dinner music. The menu here is gloriously uncomplicated Grilled fish caught this morning, catalan specialties like escalivada, roasted vegetables dressed with olive oil, pa amb tamaket bread rubbed with tomato and garlic. Simple foods that rely on quality rather than complexity. At the next table, a French family is finishing their meal with crème catalaine. The waiter brings a small torch to caramelize the sugar on top the flame, creating a brief performance that delights the children. The crack of spoon through caramelized sugar is one of dining's small pleasures.
Speaker 1:Along the harbor, fishing boats bob gently at their moorings. Their work is done for the day, nets cleaned and hung to dry, ready for tomorrow's pre-dawn departure. The boats seem to be resting like tired workers enjoying well-earned sleep. The castle is illuminated now. Its ancient walls glowing golden. Against the dark sky. It looks less like a fortress and more like something from a dream solid yet ethereal, ancient yet eternal. Solid yet ethereal, ancient yet eternal. We climb once more to the ramparts for a final view of nighttime Kaliur. The town spreads below us like a constellation that's fallen to earth. Lights from windows, street lamps, restaurants and boats create patterns that shift and shimmer Out at sea. Fishing boats work the night waters. Their lights attract fish using the ancient lamparo technique. From here they look like fallen stars floating on dark water, creating their own constellation on the Mediterranean surface.
Speaker 1:The air has cooled to the perfect temperature warm enough to be comfortable, cool enough to be refreshing. It carries all the scents of Collioure's evening grilled fish, blooming jasmine, salt air and that indefinable smell of ancient stones, releasing the day's warmth. Somewhere below, music drifts up from the Hotel des Templiers. Perhaps artists are gathering as they have for decades, sharing wine and stories, creating the kind of memories that end up as paintings on the hotel's crowded walls. A church bell rings the late hour, its bronze voice carrying across water and stone. The sound seems to settle into the town like a blanket, a gentle reminder that even magical days must end, that rest is as important as activity, that tomorrow will bring its own light and color.
Speaker 1:We descend slowly from the castle, our footsteps echoing on ancient stones, through narrow streets where cats emerge from shadows to inspect, passing ankles, past doorways where television light flickers behind lace curtains, through squares where the last dancers are dispersing hands, releasing their hold on community until tomorrow. This is how Collier ends its day gently, peacefully, with the confidence of a place that has found its rhythm over two thousand years. The fishermen will rise before dawn to seek the sea's silver harvest. Visitors will discover what matisse discovered that some places hold light differently, transform ordinary moments into art. The lighthouse bell tower stands guard over sleeping streets and, somewhere in the darkness, wooden barrels settle with soft sounds, as anchovies transform slowly, patiently, into tomorrow's treasures. Sleep well, fellow travelers. Let the rhythm of Mediterranean waves carry you into peaceful dreams painted in all the colors that Matisse saw when light learned to dance in Collioure.
