Postcard from Beget

I don't normally go with S on his walking club weekends, but this weekend he convinced me to accompany them to Beget in the Spanish Pyrenees. It's a very pretty village where he had stayed when he was walking the length of the Pyrenees last year, and he assured me the hotel was very comfortable. The weather forecast was excellent, so I agreed.

There wasn't a road to Beget until 1963 and even then it wasn't asphalted -- that arrived in 1977. Even now the narrow cobbled streets are more or less closed to traffic -- you have to park on the edge. The magnificent Romanesque church is the first thing you see as you descend to the village, which although it has few permanent residents has been immaculately restored. The commercial activity consists of one hotel, one restaurant, and one bar. Plus a lot of holiday homes.

At the hotel, the friendly patronne, instead of cramped individual rooms, showed the six of us to a three-bedroom apartment with a large living room, a kitchen, a sunny terrace and a balcony, both with splendid views. 

First stop thereafter was the church, where a fine 12th-century Christ looks fairly miffed to be sharing his space with some very overdone gilt-laden Baroque additions. Afterwards we had a stroll around the village admiring the vernacular architecture modelled on the church door, and the inhabitants' taste in very showy pansies. The last photo also shows the carline thistle head often pinned to doors to protect against witches. There's a small album of further photos here.

Back to the hotel where we all thirstily glugged glasses of sangria before heading to the dining room for dinner. The owner came and put two bottles of the house wine on the table, clearly drawn from a larger container (probably the same one he'd used to make the sangria). Six French people, one a wine-maker, raised their glasses, took a sip, and reeled back in shock. By the time he came back to take our food order, we'd agreed to send it back as it was undrinkable. He didn't look the least bit surprised; this must happen fairly often.  Unfortunately I was allowed to choose from the wine list and I made the mistake of picking another local wine, as I like to drink local when possible. It didn't taste as vinegary as the first lot, but it wasn't very good, as evidenced by the fact that between the six of us we didn't even finish the bottle ... S and I tried in vain to convince our chauvinistic companions that there are Spanish wines worth drinking. Still, we had a convivial evening unlike the locals in the bar morosely watching Sevilla draw with Barça, and headed off for an early night.