I was going to indulge in a lament about urbanisation. Boring and depressing. We've heard it all before.
I was taking a stroll through the plots of land around Corneilla de la Rivière, half an hour from Perpignan. Traditionally, these
low-lying grounds, known as the Ribéral (the river being the nearby Têt), were full of market gardens. The vineyards were, and still are, further up the slopes which culminate at Força
Réal.
A particularity of the landscape here is the irrigation canal: used since ancient times, the narrow canals require a strict set of
rules which allow farmers to take turns watering their plots by immersion. Symbolic of the importance of the water supply in an area with irregular rainfall, they are a very tangible remnant of a
long and unbroken tradition.
So, the other day, I was stuck by the state of disrepair of some parts of the canals and by the large number of fields left empty and
unproductive. The Roussillon once supplied vegetables to much of the rest of France - its mild winter and early spring enabling it to sell the lucrative ''primeurs''.
Globalisation, and Spain joining the Common Market, hit the market gardeners hard. I suppose that growing veg, even for family consumption
is probably more work than it's worth. Apparently, there are a lot of thefts of produce and equipment from these smallholdings, too.
As I said, nothing new here. The rate of social change is huge; ancient techniques seem worthless and we all eat the cheapest possible
industrial food imported from the other side of the planet.
I allowed myself to be distracted by half a dozen grazing sheep. The goatherd in me smiled at the two nanny goats, which, instead of
staying with the group, were straying into the hedges and onto the paths. My musings were fully interrupted by the man-and-his-dog. We exchanged the time of day, I learned that
one of the goats was giving him milk for his ''fromagets''. Then, to my delight, he offered me a two generous handfuls of lemons. Indicating a tree hanging over a nearby shed, he explained that
he had so many, he didn't know what to do with them.
Fifteen minutes later, I had squeezed myself a glass of fresh juice. Savouring the unique, strong, tangy smell the zest had left on
my hands, despite myself, I couldn't help thinking it ain't over yet.