Perolles, Picnic, Prehistory and Pumps

The abandoned village of Perolles is on a plateau at the top of the white calcared peaks of the Pyrenees. Its existence can be traced to at least 1397 when the Signor Raymond went on a pilgrimage to Ireland, the first mention of it in history.

Now only a few stone walls of former houses, a church and a well stand far from civilization. In the early twentieth century residents had deserted the place for villages in the valley.

I stood with my three friends listening to the bird song, the wind and the buzz of insects. Poppies and purple wild flowers grew along the paths. A fig tree, ladened with fruit, dipped its branches. Butterflies of all hues flew by. The air smelled summer hot.

We walked to the cemetery where crosses in the mid-19^th century style, were propped upon stones carved with dates difficult to read but several centuries older. Outside the crumbling church wall was a single cross.

“Maybe it was a Jew,” one of us guessed despite the cross. There had been a Jewish nation here before centuries were marked with four numbers.

“Or an Arab workman.”

“Or a suicide,” I volunteered.

No matter how we guessed, there was no way we could know. Thus we went back to the car to find a place for our picnic and we did.

A stone table and two benches were under a small group of pines. A barbecue had been set up and we had brought Catalan sausages along with the charcoal, potato salad and the last of the season’s cherries.

Below vineyards stretched across the valley until the Pyrenees rose into the blue sky. We ate slowly, talking about the Perolles. We even played a game of Boules while we waited for the last of the sausages to cook.

Our last stop was to check out the caune de l’Arago (cave) where the Tautavel Man was found.

At the bottom of the peak where the archaeologists were working a young woman brought down a sieve full of debris to wash in the river. The water was clean and clear so we could see the trout swimming. They varied in size from that of my thumb to large enough to feed two people.

Another archaeologist, this one a young male, came by to check her, and we talked with them about their work. The two flirted and she splashed him. He lectured her on respect, but his eyes were twinkling.

There is something about being in a place where history isn’t 400 years old like Boston, or 4000 years old like Europe or even 6000 years old like Syria. But 440,000 years old.

www.culture.gouv.fr/culture/arcnat/tautavel/en/comp_chas4.htm

www.greatarchaeology.com/behavior.html

Slowly we made our way back to Argeles, stopping at Fitou for wine. One cave had won several gold, silver and bronze citations for the quality of their wine. The walls were wood lined and there was an old red marble sink with wine glasses from tastings were drying.

My friend had plastic containers and the woman filled them from a tank with a nozzle not unlike those at the gas pumps. I wished my wine snob friends could have seen the process.