(from July 27) Chris drives, I ride shotgun, the ladies are in the back seat. We wind our way west from Céret, through tiny towns clinging to the Pyrenees foothills. Arriving in Prats-de-mollo, we park, walk through ancient castle gates, settle on a cute little restaurant where yam and mashed potato swans swim on an edible hand-painted landscape.
A brief rain, a respite in a church filled with Christian art of questionable taste, and then we climb the walls around the cathedral. Looking north, past the cemetery, the fort standing guard looks close enough. We make our way up through endless tunnels, arrow slits providing the only light as we climb and climb. And climb.
We reach the top, enjoy the view, take a few photos, take it all in. Prats-de-mollo is a enjoyable surprise, an uncommon common French town.