In Verdaguer’s charming poem, written in the Catalan tongue, the old abbey tower is made to moan:—“Campanes ja no tinch”—“Bells I have no longer.” This is no longer true, for in 1904 the omnific “Évêque de Canigou” (really the Bishop of Perpignan) caused to be hung in the old crenelated tower a new peal, and to-day there rings forth from the campanile such reverberating melody as has not been known for centuries: “Campanes ja tinch”—“I have my bell; Oliba has come to life again; he has brought them back to me.”
The present Bishop of Perpignan, Monseigneur de Carsalade du Pont, in recent years took steps to acquire proprietorship in the abbey church, that it might be safe from further depredations, and solicited donations throughout his diocese of Perpignan and Catalonia for the enterprise.
In 1902, this prelate and his “faithful” from all the Catalan country, in Spain as well as France, made the Fête de Saint Martin (11th November) memorable. To give a poetic and sentimental importance to this occasion the bishop invited the “Consistoire” of the “Jeux Floraux” of Barcelona to hold their forty-fourth celebration here at the same time.
On a golden November sunlit day, amid the ring of mountains all resplendent with a brilliant autumn verdure, this grandest of all Fêtes of St. Martin was held. In the midst of the throng were the Bishop of Perpignan in his pontifical robes, and the mitred Abbé de la Trappe—a venerable monk with snowy beard and vestments. At the head of the procession floated the reconstituted banner of the Comte Guifred, bearing the inscription “Guifre par la gracia de Dieu Comte de Cerdanya y de Conflent.” The local clergy from all over Roussillon and Catalonia were in line, and thousands of lay pilgrims besides.
At the church, when the procession finally arrived, was celebrated a Pontifical Mass. At the conclusion of this religious ceremony the Catalans of Barcelona took possession of the old basilica and the “fête littéraire” commenced.
The emotion throughout both celebrations was profound, and at the end there broke out seemingly interminable applause and shouts of “Vive la Catalogne!” “Vive le Roussillon.” “Vive Barcelone!” “Vive Perpignan!”
Back of the Canigou, between it and the main chain of the Pyrenees, is the smiling valley of the Tech and Vallespir.
The route from Perpignan into Spain passes by Le Boulou, on the Tech. If one is en route to Barcelona, and is not an automobilist, let him make his way to Le Boulou, which is really an incipient watering-place, and take the diligence up over the Col de Perthus and down into Spain on the other side. The hasty travellers may prefer the “Paris-Barcelone Express,” but they will know not the joy of travel, and the entrance into Spain through the cut of Cerbère is most unlovely.
France has fortified the Col de Perthus, but Spain only guards her interests by her carabiniers and douaniers. The little bourg of Perthus consists of but one long main street, formed in reality by the “Route Internationale,” of which one end is French and the other, the Calle Mayor, is Spanish.
Above the village is Fort Bellegarde. It looks imposing, but if guns could get near enough it would doubtless fall in short order. It was built by Vauban under Louis XIV, in 1679, on a mamelon nearly fifteen hundred feet above the pass, and its situation is most commanding. To the west was another gateway into Spain, once more frequented than the Col de Perthus, but it has been made impracticable by the military strategists as a part of the game of war.