This post is only two months overdue. I’ve been hording my memories of the Priorat, with occasional blubbery stories to relatives and friends, usually following a glass or two of wine. And, quite possibly, there was an incident involving whiskey and sodas.
Why so secretive? Well, quite frankly, I don’t want the word to get out just how wonderful this region of Spain truly is. After my group experience in Saint Emilion, I was ready to venture off on my own, again.
After a convoluted flight from Bordeaux to London to Barcelona (cheaper flights = some inconveniences) and having my head rammed in the door of the airport shuttle bus (no so subtle communication devise for non-Spanish speakers to indicate, we’re all full), I finally wound my way through the Rambla to Hotel Constanza.
The next day, I hopped a train for Tarragona where I stayed at the Hotel Lauria. Wondering the streets on a Sunday, speaking no Spanish, I finally collapsed on my bed, too tired to contemplate how to order food using my phrase book. Luckily, I had signed up for the breakfast, so I did not starve.
After my yogurt, rolls and coffee, I rearranged my rental car arrangement on the phone, since my reservation would have forced me to take an expensive cab ride to collect my car.
The EuropCar rental agency provided me with the keys to a silver Fiat Punta. After some lurching and neck-wrenching, I was ready to leave the parking garage and enter the (scary!) four-lane circle. After two wrong exits, I finally found my way to the highway.
With no incident, I found my way to Gratallops where I drove smack through the middle of town to find myself inching along, determined not to scuff my side mirrors on the ever-narrowing alleyways! After parking on the outskirts of town and regaining my composure, I forged through town until I found a sign in English, declaring the Celler Cecilio open.
Opening the large door, I was surprised to enter a cavernous room where I was greeted by a friendly man, the winemaker. He was finishing up with his tractor and he said, “My friend, in heaven.” Pavarotti’s booming voice consumed the airy space. After tasting his line-up, I wished I could buy them all. I ended up settling on the 2003 L’Espill, which I packed carefully home.
Stashing my bottle in the trunk, I wound my way to Torroja del Priorat where I took up residence at the Hotel Abadia Del Priorat. With a balcony overlooking one of the village’s passageways, I quickly settled. Like inns of the past, this hotel is unlike any I have stared at before. Serving delicious meals and stocked with local wines, the Abia provides remarkable, personalized service. (Their website, in case you are planning a stay, is www.abadiadelpriorat.com.)
A passage from my journal reads,”I’d move to Spain for the olives, wine and weather. All three are to my taste.” Along with the culinary and climate advantages, I would add hospitality and landscape.
After a harrowing drive along the potholed, narrow, switchback road, I reached Escaladei, the mecca of Priorat wine. Unknowingly, I had happened upon the Montsant park I had read about. With miles of hiking trails, I set out with my camera to try and capture the salmon and sienna cliffs. As I climbed in altitude, the fresh mountain air sprinkled me with a few drops of moisture. If only I could have escaped my constant companions (the fleet of pesky flies it would have been idyllic.
I know I will return to the Priorat and to Catalonia. There is so much more to see and explore. But, in the mean time, if you want, check out my photos on Flickr!
