Just how cool does a place have to be to get away with anchovies as the local speciality? Pretty cool, obviously. As cool as Collioure, in fact. I mention this because Collioure isn’t only cool — full of art, history and bronzed people by the beachful — but also hot.
So deep in southern France that it wasn’t fully French until 1659, the seaside resort is, as summer seeps away, among the warmest places in the country. September noon temperatures average 25C and you can expect only a little rain on just four days in the month.
We are on the Côte Vermeille, of which Collioure is the poster child. (We’ll return to the anchovies shortly, and often.) The “vermilion coast” is what happens when the Mediterranean littoral, having been flat since the River Rhône, bumps into the final plunges of the Pyrenees. Spain looms. The seaside suddenly sprouts rocks, creeks, mountains, coves, vertical vineyards and hill-topping forts imposing memories of grandeur.
Right now the light is limpid, the air clear and the blues of sea and sky as distinct as colours on a flag. I go often at this time of year and will be going again shortly. I shall shrug off my cardigan, swim, maybe ride, drink strong wine in the shade and eat anchovies on garlic, on tomatoes, on toasted country bread, which is as profound a pleasure as anchovies afford.
And I shall appear unusually cool. Collioure is the only spot on the Occitan coast with the self-conscious allure of Riviera rivals way over east. The thing is, though, it isn’t the Riviera. This is French Catalonia steeped in rugby, anchovies and meatballs, moustaches and festivities as full-blooded as its late-summer sun.
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There are no Brazilian bankers or Russian billionaires. The place belongs to the Catalans, rather than the international flotsam and jetsam that clog the Côte d’Azur. And that makes it more appealing still.
Henri Matisse and André Derain showed up in 1905. “No sky in all France is bluer than that of Collioure,” Matisse said. From the fervour of the colours the artists wrought fauvism. Copies of fauvist works punctuate a stroll around the port and tight old town. Kick off at the Maison du Fauvisme on Rue de la Prud’Homie.
Next task is to walk up to the Château Royal, overseeing town and beach and lending weight to seaside frivolity. Collioure has been a key port since the Phoenicians. The Visigoth King Wamba (“Big Paunch” in Gothic) besieged it in the 7th century. The present castle, as masterful as most, hosted the kings of Mallorca between 1276 and 1344 as Catalonia shuttled between them, the kingdoms of Aragon and of France through to the 17th century.
Don’t try to follow. It’s an impenetrable story in which you might lose yourself further by trekking to Fort St Elme, high up a nearby hill. This is, though, a hell of a slog for a sunny day. So take the little tourist train. Such an approach wouldn’t have impressed the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, who built the place, but he’s long dead. It’s your thighs that matter today. Mine too. I’ll be on the beach in town or maybe one of the off-centre coves.
Or perhaps on the rocking, rolling route just south to Port Vendres. Collioure’s workaday neighbour remains a proper port big in fish and bananas. A rewarding idea is to explore the little town in the company of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. As you’ll know, Mackintosh was Scotland’s leading architect at the turn of the 20th century.
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Towards the end of his life he packed in architecture, moved eventually to Port Vendres and took up watercolours. Copies are placed where he painted the originals: firm of line and awash with greys and browns complementing the more excitable works of the fauvists. A tiny Mackintosh centre tracks the tale from 3pm to 5pm, Wednesdays and Fridays. It’s in the basement of the Dôme arts centre.
Over a headland or two, the bay of Paulilles is the Med cove of your imagination. Entirely predictable, then, that the French government — which parks nuclear power stations in beauty spots — should establish a dynamite factory there. “It’s a long way from Germany,” was the official reason. The Catalans nevertheless embraced it. The pay and conditions were better than fishing and farming and, although a few were blown to smithereens, most weren’t.
The huge factory shut in 1984; most buildings were demolished and the 75-acre site given over to wild boar, forest cats, birds and biodiversity. It makes for pleasant roaming and, beyond, the beach is known only to locals (and now to you). Swing round to Banyuls, its seafront bars perfect for pastis and talk of rugby, grilled snails and boutifarre (either black pudding or big sausage, depending on what’s stuffed in the intestine). Locals are fluent in all four.
You’ll notice sculptures by Banyuls’s star artist, Aristide Maillol. They invariably depict rather chunky naked women. “Young, luminous and noble,” claimed some blurb I read. Solid and glum, I’d say. Maillol lived out of town, a few minutes along the Roume valley. His home is now a museum, involving more glum women, which I have visited so that you don’t have to.
More interesting is that the Roume valley was the last stop before wartime refugees took the tracks over the Pyrenees — they rise sheer behind — and into Spain. Walter Benjamin was among them. In September 1940 the German-Jewish intellectual struggled up the mountains and down to Portbou in Spain. The Spanish authorities said they would have to send him back. He couldn’t stand that. He committed suicide, just before the authorities returned to tell him that they had made a mistake and he could stay.
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You might take Benjamin’s trail, but it’s a tough all-day hike. Easier is to continue slightly along the valley. The sides now press in. Vineyards rise perpendicular to unlikely altitudes, as if planted by eagles. The Berta-Maillol family have been farming here since 1611, so are largely on top of the job of producing the sweet, fortified Banyuls wines. These are spectacularly good with foie gras and blue cheese.
Venturing further will fling you up the Albères hills — alive with opportunities for rafting, canyoning, quad-biking and otherwise recapturing lost youth. Soaring vineyards may be visited on e-bike or scooter. Down at the seaside, you might dive, snorkel, sail or join in almost any other water-based activity short of piracy. For canyoning and rafting, try canyoning66.com or pyrenees-roussillon-aventures.fr.
Frankly, back in Collioure, I’ll be happy enough with the anchovies — from Anchois Desclaux or Anchois Roque, the two main providers. “These are not the anchovies you find on pizzas,” a filleter at the latter said. “These are anchovies of elegance.”
The late summer sun spangles the sea. The warmth is still biting. Mountains add splendour — and you have elegant anchovies to hand.
Contemporary Villa Colline has seven nights’ self-catering for eight from £2,524 in September (purefrance.com). Brand new are the Suites de Collioure in the centre of town with room-only doubles from £141 (les-suites-de-collioure.com). Or try longstanding favourite, the retro four-star Casa Païral, which has B&B doubles from £78 (hotel-casa-pairal.com). Fly to Perpignan
