Empordaguia

A Sunday afternoon in autumn, or even in winter: In the slanted sunlight the villagers go to the pastry shop. We set out to discover the ancient nucleus of Roses.

We could also try this in May, when the sun commences its slow decline behind the mountains of the Pyrenean range. A quiet walk through the old town of Roses will stimulate our curiosity. It was built in the late 18th C. according to the standards set by colonial towns in the Americas, something quite new to the Empordà. The frail dwellings of fishermen, ornaments here and there, amusingly built streets, or measured spaces for quiet reflection are but part of the appeal of the narrow streets of Roses. Light penetrates timidly here and gives value to that which the eye must seek out among the sediment that years of tourism have left. There is no doubt that tourism has greatly altered the old town; but it is also true that vestiges of bygone centuries can be found in a multitude of details; these may be without importance, yet they powerfully remind us of past forms of life.

The structure of the town makes us divide our walk into two routes. First there is the neighbourhood of Roses, from the stones of the Fortress (Cuitadella) to the Ginjolers creek. This was traditionally the neighbourhood of the well-to-do bourgeois, the local elite that did so well in Catalan politics as well as in business: the Pi Sunyer, the Rahola, the Llorens, and the Mates families. Their legacy survives despite the destruction, and we must admire the remaining art-deco houses on the seafront: the Casa Mallol, the Casa Magtes, the Casa Canals, Can Güero, the house of Ramon Rahola, or that of the Marquess of Llinàs. They remind us of a way of life that was established during the economic rise of Roses, when the sea was full of boats and ships that plied coastal waters or set out in transatlantic commerce.

Parallel to the Rhodes Avenue we find the street of Trinitat Castle that lies to the rear of the neighbourhood. It is as straight as was possible in those days, commercial, with the dignity of old ladies. On a walk along the Trinitat Castle street you will stumble upon many small discoveries: the triangular Angel square, cul-de-sacs on the sides, imposing wooden windows, streets where the last farmers of Roses live, or an air raid shelter built in 1937. At last we stand in front of the immense Ginjolers creek. This is the backbone of the town, the new rambla that turns indolent walking into something that makes sense, spoilt only by the poor architecture of the fountain by Pelai Martinez Paricio that reminds us of the important work that women have contributed to History.

Crossing the physical and emotional barrier of the Ginjolers takes us to another world, a popular one, and a world we are close to. This used to be the neighbourhood of poor fishermen, La Punta. Its streets are narrow but well planned by some military engineer. It is a small maze of sensations, traditional fishermen’s houses, artisan dwellings or shops that were only feasible decades ago. The streets are full of the hubbub of passers-by, people doing their daily chores. Built around the neoclassical parish church of Santa Maria, the streets permit incredible views. Their names are a compilation of local history and take us back for years. A careful onlooker will see the ghostly members of the Mairó family pass by, or he can detect the street with most porters. Religious invocations are plenty among fishermen and confirm the fate of many inhabitants of Roses. There are few high façades here, there are doors that smell of anchovy, hand-made windows, and ceramic gutters. The neighbourhood of La Punta is the ideal place to get lost in and to forget the 21st C.

The Eixample, the more recent expansion of the town that locals here pronounce Enxanxe, is a failed intent at worldliness built in the 1870s around the square of General Prim. It’s a sweet and protected place, tranquil and unknown. This is the quintessence of the Roses that, a century ago, lived peacefully, where work progressed slowly but continuously, where life boringly followed the cycles of nature; things were done in a different way then.// JOSEP MARIA VALLES RUSET