TRAVELOGUE
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After a week of meetings, it was nice to get out of town. Even if that
town was Paris, a place I really do not mind spending time in.
This trip, however, all I did the first week was attend meetings and take care of business email, and sleep, off
and on. Nice to wake up at 4 or 5 to do email, it is much cheaper to connect to the US.
But I saved my energy for Saturday morning, when I taxied to the Montparnasse station for my train south. A TGV
or fast train. Coming home I'll be on a slow train, but for a good reason.
SATURDAY
Train to Toulouse. First class. Faced passenger commuting to Toulouse, home, from Paris, work, every other weekend
for several days off. I asked if this was a permanent arrangement, he said yes. He looked to be little younger
than me if any. But he intended to retire here in the countryside near Toulouse, and after decades here Airbus
Industrie said sorry, but to stay employed you need to go work at the Charles de Gaulle airport. He saw the commute
as the only way for him to be able to retire to his country home where he has lived a long time. His wife agrees
this is the prudent thing to do. The commute is lowering their retirement cache some, it is not cheap to have a
small apartment by Paris either. But there is no other choice. Poor dog.
So, drove out of Toulouse, not always the easiest thing to do efficiently. Went inadvertently through the lively
heart of the city as the sun set, and was glad to have seen this lighter, livelier side of life in the city. Then
made my way to the toll way of the two seas and headed straight for Limoux where I wanted to start my journeyings.
Found a nice hotel right beside the town, across the river Aude, which had rapids that produced a pleasant sound
that gradually replaced the irritating traffic sounds from the highway below as the night progressed.
The heart of the city was pleasant enough, and in a restaurant-pizzeria-bar I sat facing a woman, a table away,
whose good looks were striking. She had a different shape to her face than the rest of her compatriots around the
table. She was a light brunette with blond highlights, and huge brown eyes that often widened to make perfect circles
while making eye contact with the lady across from her and listening attentively. She spoke animatedly with mild
gesturing. Her jaw was firm, and the chin and nose, when she turned sideways, protruded to about the same distance.
All the other ladies at the table, several of whom were also quite nice looking, had more rounded faces, this one's
face was oval, just as I had already described Beatrice to be. Did it mean anything? No. Beatrice was obviously
a person that made people, especially men, look again. This lady fit into that category, and her obvious animation
and concentration, taking turns speaking and listening, were noteworthy as I suspected Beatrice's mannerisms had
been.
SUNDAY
Limoux and Carcassonne. Then on to Belpech, Pamiers, Dalou and Varilhes. Then a late evening ride to the Catalonian south of France, ready to jump the
border.
I loved Limoux. It isn't much of a city, it isn't much to look at, but I felt peaceful there. Self hypnosis no
doubt. I felt peaceful just as I imagined Beatrice to have felt while she lived there, at her sister Gentille's
place.
Carcassonne. is the city of walls and towers. Quite spectacular. But the church of St. Michael was nowhere to be
found and I went on to Belpech. Belpech is where the two lovers met during her escape attempt. Nice little place.
Pamiers' cemetery was the highlight. All that is left of the Bishop's complex is an inaccessible tower.
Dalou I liked. And I really liked Varilhes and the road to Carol where she supposedly had yet another house from
her second deceased husband. It seemed cheery and countrified there, quite a contrast from Pamiers. I also went
to see the nice little square in la Tour du Crieu where the prison used to be. It was a nice little square, thoughtfully
outfitted for male visitors with outdoor urinals. I used one, people can be and were in the square behind me, but
hey, that's what a back is for.
Street names were interesting. Where the prison was, was next to Inquisition street. And Jacques Fournier has a
street named after him in Pamiers. There is also a Beguine street.
By the time I arrived in Prades in the deep south, between two ranges of the high Pyrenees, I was too tired to
write. So I thought I'd wait until the next day to write about the wild mountain ride to get here. Turns out I
had to wait another night. Oh well. One gets tired at this age.
MONDAY
Monday? Yes, even though it is 5 AM, Tuesday, 12 November 2002. I was up by 4:30 and started to get ready for the
day when I finally looked at my watch. So, now I am only half ready and writing my Monday account. Was too sleepy
last night.
Five hours sleep should suffice. I tell myself that if I get tired during the day I just come back and take a nap
(NOT likely since daylight is limited this time of year). This is now my base until Wednesday.
Yesterday was filled with seriously impressive sights in high mountains, including rain, snow and fog coming back
towards France over the pass called Port de la Bonaigua. I started the day in the city of Prades in the Ter river
valley, a steep sided valley with a few dramatically situated towns, abbeys and fortifications that would have
been my usual haunts for photos, but . . . you can see them at the region's tourist web sites instead at http://www.cg66.fr,
or http://www.paisos-catalans.com . Especially feast your eyes on Saint-Martin du Canigou and Villefranche-de-Comflent,
for just two examples. I made a mental note to come back to this beautiful region, with snow-capped peaks in its
background to both the north and the south, and an occasional thriving palm tree in the valley. A reminder that
we are close to the Mediterranean Sea: we were about 60 miles west of that body of water when in this particular
Prades, the Prades in the Cerdagne Valley, in fact.
But I was on a mission. This was a pleasant deviation from it. Why did I come here? A happy mistake. I saw that
Prades was a key town in the history of Beatrice de Planisolles, 700 years ago, so I went there. Looked it up in
a tourist guide and sure enough its main church was St.Peters'. I arrived well after dark, after walking the town
and eating too much at a Brasserie went back to the hotel to plan the next day's pilgrimages to Caussou, within
two hours' walk, supposedly, and Montaillou, just a little further in the opposite direction. So I finally did
what I should have done a month ago, and opened the book "The Yellow Cross" to its map. I was in the
"wrong" Prades and had just taken pictures of the exterior of the "wrong" St. Peters'! Within
a hundred miles of each other as the crow flies, more that two hundred as the car rides, are two towns with the
same name and the same church name! But, I was only about 35 miles off my route to see the Pallades region in Spain,
so no harm done to the trip, I was deeply impressed with the area and promised myself I'd be back someday. Then
I spent the day driving and hiking a little in Spain.
I stayed at the Hotel Hexagon, and the staff was very warm and friendly. The nice looking and acting English lady
that checked me in was very eager that I know all the famous tourist attractions and how close they were. I had
pointed to some pictures on the wall and asked in broken French where they were. She had detected a struggle with
French so answered in proper U.K. English. They were very close by. She then told the story of how she and her
husband had visited here once, and when Europe's borders opened for work across boundaries, they came back and
looked for, and actually both found, employment here. So they plan to stay the rest of their lives. They love the
dramatic look and feel of the region, the climate, and the people.
Now I am writing this the next morning, remember? I am at Tarascon
on the Ariege (there are at least two other Tarascons in Southern
France that I know of, one larger than this one, have to be precise to make your way around). This is my third
stay here in this town. The first time I pulled off the road because I was attracted to its setting more than the
town itself. The second time because I wanted to show my wife this little town I liked to use as a base of operations
for visiting this inspiring countryside. And now I feel I have come home after three days of what seems like very
long days of being driven by the urge to pack in a lot of sites in a lot of territory.
And the sites were ever elusive. Even with "The Yellow Cross" as an excellent guide (after I chose to
finally consult it) I can see why its author took the time to check out the detailed historical maps in the archives
to locate the smaller historical villages, and asked for local help in finding the likely locales within them.
Many appear on no modern map, and some, once found, no longer contain the historical feature of interest. And then
there was Prades. Prades was easy. It was a fantastic ride. On the narrow mountain highways I was passed uphill,
around curves, etc., by impatient locals. They seem to survive. I saw no accidents this whole trip, so far. Was
I going that slow? I went the speed limit, maybe 10 over where I thought it OK, both around mountain curves and
in town, which is a pace that seems to infuriate people. I had mild cases of car sickness after several hours of
the interminable winding around tight turns at serious speeds, for me. This was unusual for me, since I had the
wheel in my hands. It is usually a passenger's disease (feeling threatened without control). I had several near
misses with people coming the other way over the line because of their speed. Tense faces with panicked looks,
but they never slowed.
It is a sport. A man thing, mainly, though several out of every dozen or so of the mountain hot-shots were women.
I saw a car parked in a P spot with the man urinating away from his car and a woman bent over throwing up in the
same direction. Reminded me of my mountain rides with my daughters (and wife who got sick but did not do what the
littler ones did. Throwing up in the car or out of it put a stop to the nonsense of seeing this activity as a family
recreation thing). This was a weekend, a time for relaxation in the mountains, and entering each valley was a relief
even though we all seriously sped on the level roads, but I didn't mind doing so, between towns!
Spain was a marked contrast at first, presenting a more relaxed ride, with less traffic and a wider road, N-260
from Bourg-Madame on the border until La Seu de Urgell, a big city just south of Andorra. The next 52 kilometers
took an hour because of unbelievable hairpin turns and heights in mountains that were hard to believe (I thought
surely there was a way into the valley of the
Pallars by staying low and winding through a series of valleys.
There was, but my route of choice was a shortcut. Plenty of pullouts to let cars go by, a bus, and later a truck,
even used one to let me go by. And very little traffic. Very nice, and when I came onto the sign saying I was entering
the Pallars region I had a very profound "homecoming" reaction, which changed over time to my desiring
to not stay there but to come home to Tarascon the same night instead.
So, why did I want to get on with the trip? Three reasons. The terrible mountain road to Lladorre and Tavascon, much
of it torn up and without pavement, temporarily. But the worst part was what to me seemed like senseless locals
(mostly mountain taxis, a local specialty for both locals and tourists) all with their ATV's roaring up and down
the valley. They seemed to take pleasure in driving very aggressively when they disdainfully encountered my more
conservative rock-and-hole avoidance pace. But I was driving a tiny, low to the ground, Peugeot. It had French
plates. Perhaps six times the mud-caked grill of a Land Rover or a Range Rover was in my rear view mirror, within
a foot at times. Obviously, threatening to pass in some very unlikely locations was a recreational thing for them.
When eventually I found a spot to pull out on, they would roar by kicking up dust and rocks. Reminded me of the
way dogs halfheartedly attempt to cover their messes. That aggressiveness leaves a bad taste. Out of their vehicles,
however, natives occasionally waved and smiled and seemed downright friendly. (Not unlike people in the U.S., for
that matter.)
Another reason for wanting to get back across the mountains is that as I hiked, the most pleasurable part of the
day, it looked like snowfall was beginning to obscure the peaks and clouds were coming down lower and lower. I
had a pass to pass. And I didn't even know at the time that the road through the pass had no line in the middle
for most of its length because if people were to stay on the other side of a centerline, they would be off the
road half the time! Snow on that would have been interesting.
Being passed in a narrow section in a curve that I felt good about taking at 30 km as the sign suggested reminded
me of how narrow the road was. We were in falling snow, but it was not yet sticking on the road, and there was
fog. His mirror, I felt, looked as if it threatened my mirror as he appeared beside me honking his horn for me
to move over. Move over? There was only a ravine to the right. Luckily there was actually a guardrail, so I did
the best I could. But a hundred yards later there was a wide spot with a passing zone. He must have known that,
so what was the point? Show the Frenchman he is an inferior driver? Mais, ouis, Monsieur! C'est un verite!
It snowed on the pass, then rained in the valleys below, but I drove out of it all as I got back into the French
lowlands. But how was I to know it was probably not a serious storm? I had no chains. I was horrified at the prospect
of having to reverse my entire day's route to get back to France the next day using the convoluted way that I had
come. That way also included a pass, but one with a lot of traffic and a 5 km long tunnel under the peaks to avoid
the worst snows. Mandatory chain-up areas were provided in case, however, and helpful merchants sold chains on
the way up!
The last reason for wanting to get back to the Ariege is that when I saw the actual places I had been looking for
I appreciated their undeniable beauty. But I also saw why a person would want to move back to the friendlier aspect
of the Ariege (or Aude) valley across the mountains. Life would simply be less taxing in the rolling, wooded hills,
in neat little towns where every step is not necessarily either steeply up or down. Little level ground in those
towns, to be sure, but the angles are gentler.
As in any mountainous area, unless one has all the modern conveniences which was not the case in the early Fourteenth
Century, beauty means a harsh life for those who live surrounded by it. So I felt I understood now the reason for
Beatrice and Barthelemy's leaving this very picturesque place after just a year. And I wanted to get on with doing
what they did. Don't think I did not feel at home in these mountains, but I just wanted to get on with the story
and get back across the passes into France
before the snow closed them. An unnecessary fear, as it turned
out, but it looked pretty good for snow and fog at the top.
But they walked, across the mountains. I drove and was still quite exhausted by the time I reached the Ariege valley
again. It took them several days to do what I did in several hours. Those people were tough!
TUESDAY
Tuesday was flawless. All the targeted sites were visited in turn: Celles, Unac, Cassou, Prades and Montaillou. The scenery, once more, was breathtaking. Getting back to Hotel Confort in Tarascon
was a real comfort. I was tired, again, from taking several little hikes and from not sleeping all that much the
previous night.
My page on Tarascon benefits from some insights and pictures gained
on a previous visit, regarding the great outdoor/indoor museum there.
So what did I learn? That France has even worse roads than the ones I dared complain about the previous days. But
at least I had no problem with aggressive drivers. I had about 20 km of single lane mountain road, was passed by
one car all that time. I had seen him on a switch back below me and pulled out where the next opportunity came
to do so. There were very few such opportunities, but the two cars coming toward me were, miraculously at times
when either he or I, once each, could get halfway off the road, allowing the other to creep by. I was glad to meet
a road, finally, with lines in the middle!
Did I have any "special" feelings when seeing these sites? I was pleasantly surprised by the church and
homes across the creek at Celles, could picture Beatrice and her family in the ruins of an old house with a high
stone fence and gate. Unac and its environment were very pretty, and the same is true of Caussou, a thousand feet
higher in a tributary valley. It was the road from Caussou, the D-20, that was narrow and scary until it hit the
pass, where it met the D-613, which I could have taken instead of the D-20. But I am glad I did the whole routine
because the D-20 criss-crossed the walking road used to get from Caussou to Prades, the one undoubtedly used several
times by that tough lady Beatrice.
It is hard to imagine how much these people walked. From Caussou to the church at Unac was a long way, steep too.
But from Caussou to Prades was at least four times as long and gained four times the elevation. And then it was
an "easy" walk from Prades to Montaillou over a small mountain range or around it. I saw several people
on the "around it" trail. Only one went part way on the mountain trail, me. Else how would I get the
good pictures? Of course I cheated and started on the higher side at Montaillou, and then only climbed until I
got a view of Prades. The greenery, even this late in the year, was impressive. Trees were bare in these higher
villages, but not along the sides of the lower valley, the valley of the Ariege river.
WEDNESDAY
The goal today, of course, is to get me to the train on time. But that is not until 11 PM. So I intend to check
the car in at 10. That gives me about 3.5 hours of dark and if I leave the hotel at 9 AM I'll have 9.5 hours of
light. What will I do with all that light? Make my way to Castelnaudary for no good reason, since I can also spend
some night-time there, eating no doubt. And on the way there I will try again to find some of the places where
Barthelemy worked.
So I left the hotel and drove to Varilhes without a hitch, then on to Rieux-de-Pelleport which was where perhaps
one of Beatrice's married daughters lived. Then on to Benagues. And when I got to where I thought Mas-Vieux should be, it was already the suburbs
of Pamiers. Then on to Belpech and its surroundings. Then I found both Mezerville and Mas-Saintes-Puelles. I really
liked Mezerville, even made contact with a local family there out pulling their little boy in a wagon and walking
their dog who pretended to attack me.
Had lunch at Mezerville. Then went on to Castelnaudary. Was going to play tourist there, really, but as with any
big or even medium sized city the traffic was a bother and there was no place to park. So went on to Avignonet
instead, where there was no traffic and plenty of space to park.
Visited the church there, built on the remnants of an older church in 1385. Very nice. Avignonet was where in 1244
a posse from out of the fortress at Montsegur came down and slaughtered the special emissaries of the pope, Inquisitors
who had just arrived there to start reinforcing the work underway already. They were putting heretic believers
in prison, and executing the leaders in public, fiery spectacles designed to burn a clear message into the people's
memory. The slaughtered Inquisitors are considered martyrs, of course, and their bodies have an honored place in
a cathedral in Toulouse, according to a sign in the church. That sign also did a fair job explaining Cathar beliefs,
why they were more popular with the people than the local priests who had a poor reputation, and that the Inquisition's
work was something that was acceptable in those times. Fair enough.
From there approached Toulouse and while the sun was setting stopped to walk along the Canal du Midi just to capture
some of the magnificent trees along its bank. It was a canal for moving barges, basically, between the Atlantic
and Mediterranean. Quite an engineering feat, and now a long recreational site not unlike the Erie Canal in the
US.
In Toulouse I got stuck several places in rush-hour traffic. Drove through downtown several times just to use up
gas and time, and when it got dark turned in the car. Still four and a half hours before train time, so am sitting
on the hard floor of the train station next to an electric outlet, typing and loading in my pictures. Except for
waiting, this last day in the south of France is over.
Speaking of waiting. Here I sit on the floor minding my own business, and this joker stands close by and lights
up. This country needs to get serious about smoking in public places!
Always sad to leave a place, but am ready for home. Have an all night train, a sleeping car with two to a room.
Home my partner doesn't snore worse than I do.
Then a taxi from the old Austerlitz train station to the airport, and eventually, the same day, United Airlines
willing, home. But, it is only Wednesday evening, and I am already describing Thursday.
THURSDAY
The train was a pleasant surprise. An hour before departure there were only two persons waiting by my assigned
car. A woman and I. She was going to work the next morning, did this kind of thing weekly. She produces television
commercials in both Toulouse and Paris. With over 60 places per car I was surprised she was in the bunk next to
mine. I told her if no one else came I would get my own compartment, each compartment sleeps four. She said to
put my luggage away, under my bed, since whoever else came would also be looking for luggage space. So, I was surprised
and asked her if she thought the train would be full. It always is, she said. She was right.
Two guys came at the last minute and piled their bags partly under her bunk and in racks above their upper bunks.
We all said good night, the lights went out, and we began to move exactly on time. My watch said 11:12, the advertised
departure time. About seven hours later a voice came on saying we would arrive in 10 minutes. It was a very good
sleep. Wish it had lasted another hour.
I only woke up twice, thanks to the Diet Cokes I had been drinking all evening to help me stay awake in the waiting
lounge. Missing the train while asleep was a worry. A needless worry, however, since the police came and threw
everyone out of the waiting rooms an hour before train-time and took us to the check-in area to have our reservations
double-checked and our tickets stamped and punched. I guess they did not want to wake us up to check tickets during
the night.
The outside-facing waiting rooms were being locked up for the night, even though there was still another train
an hour later. There was an interior waiting room that would be locked up an hour later. The exterior one gave
access to the train that could have been a problem if someone snuck into a bed without a reservation, since everything
was full.
So, what did we talk about, the four of us? After lights out it was a choral ‘bon soir' and when leaving it was
‘bon jour' or ‘bon voyage.' One of the guys offered to show me where the train for the airport could be caught.
But since my bags are very heavy I said I would do a taxi instead. To walk to the underground from the long-distance
trains was not easy with bags, and baggage carts were not allowed into the Metro/RER stations connected to the
train station underground. So, that was that, and two hours later here I am, just like in the Toulouse train station,
sitting on the hard ground typing with the computer plugged into a wall socket. I asked the nearest security person
if it was O.K. to do that. She said yes.
Before I spotted the wall plug (only one was accessible in the whole concourse, there was one other one by the
security checkpoint, not a good idea) I was having a decent conversation with a Senegalese woman headed to her
daughter's place in Los Angeles. She has married kids in LA and New York, as well as two at home in Senegal. Interesting.
She said if I like France for its sights I would really like Senegal, a beautiful place she says. I'll have to
look it up on the Internet.
Began another conversation with a person sitting close by who had also been to the south of France. We began to
share impressions. I told her I was chasing ghosts all over the Pyrenees to be able to illustrate a fairy tale,
historical fiction. She said she just finished a Danielle Steel book called "Ghost," that it told a similar
story, and just gave it to me. How nice. Will read it when I can. Of course I gave her my web site address and
said the fairy tale would appear on it within a month. That gave me a target time to finish up.
So, between these two conversations I sat with my butt on the cold floor just to keep my batteries charged so I
can play with my pictures on the plane for 3 hours. It is supposed to be an 11 hour flight to San Francisco they
say. It was. Then another flight to Las Vegas. Then finally home and a nap until 4:30 AM. The return has begun.
Worked from home for a few hours, then napped again.
So, it is finished. Well, all except for editing the pictures and making a story out of them. There are almost
300 of them. Some pretty decent, some suck. Many ones I really wanted to come out right were blurred. I keep having
to remember that when I am hiking, or walking uphill, especially, stopping to take a picture requires setting my
arm or the camera on a solid object. I am not as steady as I used to be. So, this picture preparation business
may take a while. Quite a while. Maybe I can do a lot of it when awake early in the mornings from jet lag. That
will be good for about 4 days.
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