Our home for seven weeks in early autumn is in this small but deceptively lively mountain village in the heart of north Catalonia.
The house is over three floors, which is actually way too big for us, but with spectacular views to the mountains and forests.
Unfortunately there are no shops in this small village though a bread lady comes by each day in a van and honks her horn. If we manage to hear her we dash down and can buy a baguette or two but usually I miss her. My ears aren’t yet attuned to her gentle car horn.
There’s a very friendly couple across the road and down a path by the steam who have an outside kind of party tent/lean-to affair with loads of bottles of various French drinks inside, table, chairs, party lights and a lovely old tree beside it with some pretty spectacular party lights set up by a roadie from a rock band. Then there’s an actual ageing roadie from a rock band —English—who lives down the road a bit with his lovely red-haired German petite cherie. And then there’s Pierre, the amazing Catalan dancer.
So far we've been to a drinks party that turned into a rabbit and chicken barbecue and a Catalan festival.
All very jolly for such a tiny sleepy village.