DM Grant

The Walter Benjamin Memorial takes you
from a sunny Spanish postcard to oblivion.
The top is a lonely doorway,
appearing unexpectedly, brutally,
at the gate to Cementerio de Portbou;
a traditional graveyard
overlooking the Mediterranean.

It’s straight down.
Inside there is nothing but down
to a sudden clear glass panel;
a literal and metaphorical dead end.
You hang there precipitously
almost falling into the heaving,
rolling sea.

Your fall is broken,
but you get the idea;
It’s the logic of exile and suicide.
Poor Walter Benjamin (and the rest of course).
Etched (in German) are words:
It is more arduous to honour the memory of anonymous beings than that of the renowned. The construction of history is consecrated to the memory of the nameless.

The invitation is to take a lonely path,
to walk as Walter did,
with walls closing in,
fascists on your tail,
and nowhere to hide and no hope.

A walkway to oblivion.

Sitting outside of Jimmy Watson’s in Lygon Street Carlton, each of us nursing a glass of wine, my friend is adamant: Too many Australians simply jump on the train between Paris and Barcelona without discovering the delights of the Mediterranean coast. We are sitting there with his large folded maps tracing out the Canal Midi and finally we focus on the part of the Mediterranean coast where France meets Spain. I have my iPad with me but there is something exciting about poring over physical maps.

‘There!’ he announces, triumphantly pointing at a dot on the coast. ‘You need to go there to see the Walter Benjamin Memorial. You won’t forget it.’

I am taking this European travel after an extended period caring for my brother who has passed from lung cancer. As another friend tells me, if you are going to be miserable you may as well do it surrounded by the beauty of Europe. They aren’t wrong.

My first clue that this is not a standard journey is the difficulty I encounter trying to piece together a rail journey from Narbonne in France, then Collioure, Portbou and then onto Barcelona. The otherwise useful Interrail app could not make the journey make sense. It had me heading to Portbou and then backtracking to Narbonne before heading to Barcelona. My friend had been convincing and so even though the rail planner makes no sense, I set off. (It is only later after connecting with a local that I discover a much more direct and local train from Portbou to Barcelona which only costs 12 Euro.)

There is a different character of light in this part of southern France. Ancient buildings cast colossal shadows and yet on the train ride I am surprised to see how flat the land is and how dry. The Pyrenees suddenly rise up and there are unexpected bodies of flat water on each side of the track. I catch glimpses of the brilliant blue waters of the Mediterranean but nothing prepares me for the beauty of the town.

Collioure is like an incredible set and every view in the town is breathtaking. There are narrow cobbled lanes with building painted in yellows and pastel pinks and blue. There is the beach and the ancient fort and the famous church bell tower famously painted by fauvist artists Henri Matisse and Andrè Derain and later Picasso and Braque. You can spend the day just walking from beach to church, to beach. I even make my way to the prominent Moulin de Collioure (windmill) which only a short ten-minute walk from the town offers incredible views and is a relaxing spot to contemplate.

The beaches here are all stony. As I lay my towel down and jump into the warm, clear water it strikes me not having sand on a beach is a more comfortable way to bathe despite how Australian’s often put them down. And the water? Despite my host saying he feels the water is still a little too cold, to this Melbourne skin the water is deliciously warm and as I bob delightedly, fish of differing sizes edge closer to size me up. 

Crisp Catalan flags striped yellow and red are proudly displayed boldly through the town but the place is also a very French showcase. From the frogmen who unexpectedly emerge from the waters while you bathe through to their regular manoeuvres on water and on land (there is a commando training facility in the town) and dotted in the hills are ancient forts which at some point offered protection from the Spanish invaders just a few kilometres away. The abundant and delicious cuisine features Catalan sausage and locally caught white anchovy. On my last day I find my host entertaining at an anchovy and wine tasting event where local fishermen and sommeliers provide free samples on the jetty as multicoloured boats gently bob nearby. It is a wobbly journey to the train station with my suitcase which now sports a bottle of local rosé shoved in at the top.

The short journey across the border to Spain to Portbou also proves complicated. For some reason the train will not make it through to Spain, stopping a stop short at Cerbère in France. Officially it is about the impact of COVID on staff numbers, but I suspect it has something to do with all those ancient protective forts which dot the hills. I message my host in Portbou and he tells me to wait for the next train. I wait and eventually a graffiti covered train, on the Spanish gauge, emerges from the Baitres tunnel.

It is the nature of the craggy terrain that the train cuts a direct line through the coast in tunnels. I finally emerge from the tunnel and disembark at Portbou railway station – an incredible structure which once served as a customs point between France and Spain. As a result it is huge, easily the largest structure in town, and large parts of it are disused and in ruin, Even so, it is incredibly beautiful.

Entering into the town I am struck by the transformation over just a short distance. The light is the same, and the water just as warm. The buildings, though no less spectacular than Collioure, are more run down. There are less people, and now all the signs are in Spanish. You get the sense that this is a place where simple matter-of-fact pleasures are central. The pomp from the French side is nowhere to be seen. In its place are unpretentious and relaxed cafes on the beach where the food is decent and cheap. I eat a plateful of delicious calamari and wash it down with a local Spanish beer as I look over the beautiful cove at children dive-bomb from a floating blue platform just a short swim out.

The next day at the thoughtful and haunting Walter Benjamin Memorial, designed by Israeli artist Dani Karavanhe, at the local cliff top cemetery I use the opportunity to reflect and grieve the passing of my brother. It is a sombre reflection. Through tears I look across at one of the most beautiful and relaxing places on earth.