Patrick O'Brian was a secretive and private man. The villagers in Collioure, his home town, protected him and his privacy. This we knew. What we didn't know was that they would continue to protect him even in death.
He had died earlier in the year, his death, like his life, shrouded in mystery. So, we decided to explore his home town and look for his grave.
We had heard lots of different stories.
The trip to Collioure is easy. The TGV goes from Paris to Montpelier at 200 mph in a ride so smooth you'd think you were cruising on a pond. From Montpelier, we grabbed the local rattler - a heavy weather sailer - for the final few hours down the coast. The scenery is classic Mediterranean and the weather was hot. We did our best to stay on the shady side of the car.
We arrived as the train station was closing, but managed to get a cab to a hotel near the beach.
Searching the graveyard in town we found nothing. We went out to dinner and toddled to bed.
Next day we toured the town by taxi, past the old fort, through the streets and once again back through the graveyard. Nice town but nothing to see of POB's grave
So we started asking. Where is POB's grave? We got two different false leads.
First, we were told there is no grave stone (pierre cemeterie?) only the guitar murals you will see below. I took the pictures, walked back to the cab and said in very convinced (if not convincing) voice, "no." Something's wrong here. The murals were painted in 1993. No.
We then asked a bartender - a friend of the driver - about POB's grave and he told the standard whopper. POB was cremated - "brulee" - and his ashes scattered at sea. No stone, he asserted. He's lying, I thought. For some reason it made me mad. I didn't know what the truth was, but I was very determined to check all the cemeteries in the area.
The driver was convinced I was wrong, the fair Zelda was starting to turn that attractive red color that says she's getting embarrassed to pursue this further. "Come on, there's no stone. Let's go," she said.
So, I gave 'em my speech: "I traveled 5000 miles by plane, a thousand more by train, wandered through stupid French graveyards, been lied to by bartenders (who never lie to me here), and I'm not giving up. If we have to stay another day, I will. I'm not leaving till I know for sure."
So, we headed off, accompanied by two very unconvinced mates shaking their heads at my stubborn attitude.
I asked the driver if there was another graveyard?
Cabbie says, yes, but back in the hills.
Overlooking the harbor, I ask?
Yes, she says.
Let's go. I want to see it.
Climbing out of the cab, the view is a panorama of the Med. Perfect, I think. I walk in the gate, turn to port, and three spots in, off the starboard beam there it is. The pictures are below. You can tell from the shadows that we found it about noon.
POB picked a nice town. But they don't tell tourists in cabs the truth.
Maybe they don't know the truth yet.
I'm not telling.
At the end the driver is taking us to the train and she wants to know if I want to go back and tweak the bartender's nose. She's eager for battle with this guy. He's lied to her too.
I tell her to do it. I've gotten what I came for.
I'm confident she roasted him good. And I'll bet she enjoyed it.
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