The Ups and Downs of the French Alps

After leaving the goat farm last week, we decided to head east and so found ourselves in an ancient volcanic area. The Romans obviously knew about it as can be deduced by the names Cyssac, Coysac Polignac etc. Polignac, in fact is a very strange looking place as half of it is built up on the top of volcanic plugs, while the rest sits at the bottom of the bowl. Le Puy en Veley, on the other hand, spreads all over the base of a huge bowl and was terribly hot while we were there. Luckily, they have one of the many little tourist trains which trundle around the area and show you the main attractions, so we hopped on to that and were pleased that we did as the sights are quite far apart. Le Puy is also renowned as a lace-making centre and we saw numerous women sitting outside souvenir shops with their cushions and bobbins. Another feature of Le Puy is that a few of the landmarks are built on the top of extinct volcanic vents, the three major ones being a church to St Michael, built, apparently in 962 AD, which stands at the top of an 80 metre pinnacle, and is only reached by 268 large steps; the statue of St Joseph, which is itself 22 metres high, but stands on a lump of rock which looks as if it is also 22 metres high; and the Statue of Notre Dame de France, also 22 metres high, but standing on a plinth, the whole lot mounted on a hillock of 110 metres. It really is quite impressive when driving down into Le Puy to see these three landmarks sticking out way above anything else.
After our ride on the little train, we decided to move on as the heat was unbearable, especially down in the valley of the town. So we found a camp-site on a hill-top near a little town called Anneyron, which is a bit south of Chambery. We hadn’t gained much though as it was still very humid and everyone in the park was lazing around trying to fnd the slightest movement of air.
Finally, after three days, and when we realized that the weather forecast wasn’t going to change much from the 29’ and 30’ we had been having, we dragged ourselves away. We had wanted to drive into Vienne on the way as it seems to be a really interesting place, but it was a frightening experience. We are not sure why the town was so busy, as it was a Thursday and what we would consider mid-week, or why the road signage was so appalling as up to now it has been first class. Whatever the reason, we found ourselves in the centre of a town full of one-way streets that were never intended to accommodate vehicles of over 2 metres wide; absolutely no parking, and every one of the town’s 60 000 inhabitants out on the street. Suddenly a right-hand turn spewed us out onto a main road, so we decided to leave Vienne for another time and to continue on. It must have taken several minutes for two hearts to slow down to normal rhythm again!
However, all was not lost or in vain. Some time later we came across a farm stall so we stopped to buy some fruit – mainly more cherries – and by the time we left, the very persuasive sales lady had managed to convince us to buy a melon as well, to say nothing of the six bottles of wine to go into the van’s cellar. Actually, we came away with eight bottles, as she gaily announced that as we had bought two bottles of each of three types, that constituted a box and every box sold was entitled to two free bottles of rose! And No! We are not becoming alcoholics!
Our next objective was the French Alps so we asked ‘Jane’ to take us to a place called Bourg d’Oisans which in the foothills. We had read a glowing write-up of a park within walking distance of the town, which sounded fantastic, but when we got there we were met by an extraordinarily grumpy lady and exorbitant rates, so we went off to look for somewhere else and found a truly delightful place about a kilometer down the road.
In fact it is also on the road to Alpe d’Huez, an Alpine village known to cyclists the world over. One could almost say that for the cyclist, doing the climb to Alpe d’Huez is as climbing Everest is to mountaineers. So, naturally, we had to go and see what it was all about.
The road starts in the valley at Bourg d’Oisans at about 700 metres above sea level. The height at the top of the ride is 1850 metres. And the road with its 21 hairpin bends, is 13 kms long. The average gradient is about 10% and it is a steady, relentless climb. I am very pleased to be able to report that the old lady managed to get all the way to the top without missing a beat – the van, that is. But we are filled with admiration for the people who do the ride, and there are hundreds of them – all the time, not just during the Tour de France or other big races. There are notices all the way up and down the road exhorting motorists to beware of cyclists, and cyclists to keep to the side of the road. In fact on the way down, we were overtaken several times by fellows on two wheels going at least 30 or 40 kms faster than we were!
Up at the top of the hill, in the village of Alpe d’Huez, there is an almost festive air. Everyone who crosses the line is a winner and there is even a permanent winners podium for those who want their pictures taken by family or friends, against a suitable background.
For us, though, the drive with it’s spectacular scenery was prize enough. The road to the top is an engineering masterpiece as anyone who has watched the helicopter shots of the Tour de France will agree. Driving it is great fun and as it is not one of the skinny roads we have had to contend with in the past, it is also a pleasure.
For our next trick, we thought we would try another mountain pass road and so, having first found out if there could be problems in attempting it with our large lady, we set off for La Berarde, 30 kms into the mountains. Once again we were accompanied by dozens of cyclists. We had armed ourselves with pamphlets and leaflets of all sorts, so that we would know exactly where to go and what to look for along the way. Even so, when we stopped to admire the view at one spot, we asked again and were told there would be no problem. So on we went, higher and higher, bend after bend, the views becoming ever more breath-taking.
We stopped at a tiny village to inspect their market, but bought nothing. It was all very colourful though. Amplifiers were blaring out ‘Alpen music’ and there were flags everywhere. Everyone seemed to know each other and they all seemed to be doing a lot of talking to each other and very little else, but they were obviously having fun.
At about lunch-time we reached Saint Christophe en Oisan, and as one of our guidebooks had recommended that one should stop at La Cordee for a meal or at least a coffee, we decided to do just that. We walked into the front part of the shop, which is minute and crammed with goods like an old-fashioned general dealers store and as I was in front, asked in my halting French if we could have a meal there. With a beaming smile we were shown through to the back of the building which opened out to accommodate about six tables. We ordered something cold to drink, and a few minutes after they had arrived, plates were put down on the table. Over the next twenty minutes or so, the table was slowly laid around us, in between serving people at the other tables,or in the shop. Eventually we were asked if we wanted a salad or cold meats as a starter. We chose the salad, and some time later a large bowlful arrived. It was quite delicious and had some unusual ingredients like artichoke hearts and something that could have been anchovies. The bread was home made and crusty and just perfect for mopping up the sauce from our second course which was a choice of veal, beef or……..but she couldn’t remember the English word and neither of us could recognize the French one. Thank goodness, as the third choice was lamb shank, which looked divine, but would have been far too much for either of us. In several ways it was a memorable meal, not least because we were eating a traditional meal, in a restaurant that had no airs or graces. It was truly delicious, and we were having this meal in a village clinging to the side of a mountain.
Shortly after we left our lunch stop, still on our way to La Berarde, we came to one of Neels’ favourite signs. It is always in a red triangle; is painted black on white and means ‘Road Narrows’. It is generally at this point that we meet a tourist bus or a tractor with vicious-looking agricultural attachments! However, there was also a sign forbidding anything over 10 metres long, which ruled out the tourist bus, and had a height restriction of 4.5 metres. At this point, I’m afraid we chickened out. Our greatest fear is of getting to a point beyond which we cannot go and finding there is nowhere to turn around. So we laboriously turned in a handy parking area and had just got ourselves facing back down the hill again when a GI-NORMOUS campervan came sailing around the corner from the direction we were too scared to attempt. Oh Phooey! Never mind, that will have to go on the list for next time too!

Those Gorgeous Gorges

When Carol and Steve left last week we were sure they had taken the good weather with them as they had hardly gone when it started raining. Not hard, but just off and on and annoyingly, especially as we had numerous chores to get through that would have been simpler with a sunny dry day. However, we managed.
When we finally left the house on Tuesday morning, I think we were both quite nervous of that final act of throwing the door keys back in through the letterbox and hearing them clunk on to the floor, but I think we managed to get away without leaving anything behind. We took a scenic route north east via Lunas and Lodeve to Millau, the town of the now famous viaduct. At Millau, the Tarn River is joined by the Dourbie and a little further away by the Jonte. Our campsite was at the junction of the Tarn and the Dourbie and was beautifully lush and green.
The following day we woke to a most beautiful morning. We had been told by the caravan site owner that it would be market day in old Millau which was only 15 minutes walk away. So off we went! I really should have known better. What he meant was ’15 minutes if you really step on it” which equates to a near run. Needless to say, it took us closer to half and hour, and then we took a wrong turn with added on a bit. But the market was, as usual, fun and cheap and we came back with a cooked chicken, some farm fresh vine tomatoes and a load of photographs. Cooked roast chickens are a real treat for us as, with only a two-burner hob, my cooking seldom gets very imaginative. Almost every fresh produce stall in the market was selling cherries but we looked at them and thought,’ Well, we can get those at home, and we have even been to the pick-your-own place, so perhaps we won’t bother’. They look very spectacular though – all glossy and scarlet.
Some of the Millau streets are really tiny. I have a picure of Neels sanding in oone that is about one metre wide at ground level but which gets less as the building rises. Again there were passages which went underneath the first floor level of other buildings and low arches between miniscule squares. It would be quite easy to get lost in there I should think especially at night.
That afternoon, not wanting to waste the lovely weather, we drove along the Dourbie River Gorge. Most of the road is at river level and the towering rock faces on each side can become quite overpowering. We saw some ancient troglodytic dwellings at the base of the cliffs in one place and tiny villages built right up against the rock in others. All around were weird rock formations, so we let our imaginations run wild and ‘saw’ a fairytale castle, a ruined fortress, a row of nosy meerkats and several faces. At the end of the road, for us anyway we drove up to a tiny village which was clinging to the tip and sides of an impossible rock. We found a safe place to leave the van and walked the rest, and were then amazed to discover just how many houses there were perched up there. Not what I would call a child-friendly town, I don’t think. Quite a lot of the properties hang out over space and the end of the garden really is the end of the property! There was even a restaurant, so we sat and had a Coke but the proprietor was too busy with his other customers to come and talk to us. I would have loved to have found out where their water comes from and where their drainage goes to. There was a posting box in the village centre, so presumably the postman visits sometimes. And all this several hundred feet up an impossible mountain.
Not having had enough of gorges, the following day we did a long circular dive which took in the Gorge du Tarn and the Gorge de la Jonte, but this was quite a different story. In these two gorges, the road is about midway between the top of the mountains and the river below. The French don’t really seem to think Armco Barrier is a necessity and only on very sharp downhill bends do they erect a wooden railing. Otherwise a row of stones does the trick. We have a family saying about being ‘on the side with the rhino gore mark’ which means being on the side of the car perceived as being more dangerous. Well, it was my luck to have the rhino gore mark on my side for an awful lot of the day, but I wouldn’t have missed a moment of it. Not even when we came to tunnels through the rock which could only accommodate us if we drove in the very middle of the road; not even when our van with it’s more-than-two-metre width occupied the whole road; and not even when we met a bus coming in the other direction on one of those stretches which don’t have a line down the middle (because the road is too narrow to do so) With the bus driver desperately trying to avoid the rock face on his side and Neels trying desperately to avoid the bus, and me trying desperately not to look at the sheer drop below us, we finally past each other with only millimeters to spare, but in the effort we ran over one of the rocks marking the edge of the road. Neels was fed up as we dented the van (not badly) but I was just so pleased, as a wheel on the wrong side of the stone could have been us over the edge! But hey! With hindsight it was all part of the adventure. What I do know though, is that this is not supposed to be busy yet. If we are ever lucky enough to come here again, I’m going to hire a scooter!
The further into Spring/Summer we go, the more spectacular are the displays of flowers both wild and cultivated. The poppies are still making wonderful shows with great fields of them all over. There are also some mauve flowers which bloom in profusion so that one will get the impression of a mauve haze over a field. Closer to the road are numerous daisy types in yellow, pink, blue, white and purple. It is a very beautiful sight.
On the way home from the two Gorges drive, we succumbed and stopped at a roadside stall to buy some cherries. The biggest, fattest, juiciest, sweetest cherries we’ve ever had. I’m sorry guys, but they knock the South African cherries into a cocked hat! We bought a kilo, then wondered if we had been a bit over-ambitious, but apparently not as two days later they were all finished. The last few we ate with some fromage frais bought from the goat farm we stayed on, along with some really delicious cheese, which is also not going to last long.
Someone has asked me what sort of food we eat, and do we eat out a lot. Well, the short answer to the second part is ‘No’. Eating out is expensive, as it is everywhere, and an average main course will cost about 14 euros. Of course there are any number of restaurants that offer a set menu for that price too (plat du jour), but one will more than likely end up with a tissue thin steak, chips (frites) and salad as the main course. We have eaten out though. We have tried regional delicacies along the way:- mussels and frites in Honfleur, sitting next to a statue dedicated to the mussel-pickers of yesteryear; Galettes in St Malo, a type of thick pancake made with brown flour with either savoury or sweet fillings; crepes, on a farm in Brittany; cassoulet, in a number of places, either made with duck or sausage, or both; cheeses from all over and wine ditto. Our standard lunch is a fresh loaf of local bread with some local cheese, fresh tomatoes, radishes and lettuce.
We do buy some fresh meat at the supermarkets, but our fridge is not too reliable, so we generally only buy fresh to cook that same night. Otherwise we have found tinned meals to be of a high standard and very tasty. Now that it is getting hotter ( and today is a scorcher) we tend to eat a lot of salads and cheese, which I’m sure must be doing us good! It probably balances out the amount of wine we drink!!

The end of an episode

We were sad to say goodbye to Karen and Bruce last Monday, when they left to return to Spain for a few days before flying back to South Africa. We later got a call from them to say that their return train ride to Barcelona had been uneventful, which was good news to us after their rather traumatic trip from Barcelona to Lezignan.
The rest of the week was spent roaming around the area around Carcassonne, Lezignan and Narbonne, which has so much to offer that one could easily spend weeks here. We are in the heart of the Cathar country and there is evidence of it all around. The Cathars were a religious sect who broke away from Catholicism in the 12 th Century and gained great popularity in the south-east of France. Eventually the Pope decided that their popularity posed a threat to the Catholic Church and declared them to be heretics. The result was a crusade against them and the mission was to exterminate all the Cathars and their followers. Enter Simon de Montfort, one of the most energetic and colourful leaders of the crusade. It is alleged that well over a million Cathars were killed by him and his troops. While some of the crusade leaders hesitated to murder all and sundry, the spiritual leader of the crusade is reported to have instructed them ‘Kill them all, God will know his own”. It is a horrifying story, but thanks to Simon and his Merry Men, and the Cathars they were fighting, there are today wonderful castles (some in ruins) and fortified towns all around here. Being fairly rugged country, one is often quite unaware of a spectacular village perched on top of a rocky outcrop just around the corner or over the hill.
Just such a place was Minerve. Balanced on a plug of rock in a bend of the river, in a deep gorge, the village was easily defended from direct attack, but our friend Simon mounted a siege and within seven weeks had gained access to the town. His final act of terror was to burn 140 Cathars at the stake. However, a few had been smuggled out , probably at night, and took refuge in caves and other troglodytic shelters in the walls of the gorge.
Minerve, though, is just one of the more complete fortified towns and there are far too many more that we have either visited or seen in the distance to mention them all. In each instance, we were always quite amazed at the constructional prowess of these ancient people. Without the aid of front-end-loaders, diggers or high-rise cranes they managed to build whole villages in impossible locations - because they had to! I wonder if we could achieve the same results today.

The other local attraction which we found quite irresistible is the Canal du Midi. Each little village along it’s length has established a ‘port’ and it would seem that they vie with each other to be more colourful, more attractive or have more restaurants than the next. Whatever their claim, they are all enchanting, and as Ratty, I think, commented in ‘The Wind in the Willows’ (to misquote him completely), there is no greater fun than messing about in boats. Or indeed, in watching other people doing it.
The Canal is no longer used by large commercial barges, but is very busy accommodating all the tourist traffic. One can sit outside a café for an hour or more and the stream of boats, although not continuous, will trickle past in a pleasant succession providing a never-ending source of entertainment. Sometimes it is easy to tell the complete amateurs, the first timers, from those who either own their own boats or who have done this type of holiday before by the way they handle the ropes, or the way they hop on and off their craft, but mostly one just enjoys the gentle gliding parade.
Finally the lure of the Canal got too much for all of us, so we took a two-hour cruise there and back, which started at Homps, a little town which I mentioned before. At a maximum speed of 4 knots, which is about 8 kilometres an hour, we didn’t travel very far, but in that distance we managed to learn a lot about the building of the canal; we went through a lock and we went over an aqueduct. It was very sedate, very calm and very pleasant. I think I could have enjoyed a holiday like that.
To round off our visits to things watery, we took a drive along to Beziers to see if we could find the flight of eight locks. We did find it, and what fun it was. All French lock-keepers have a lunch hour from 12.30 to 1.30, and by the time we arrived at the locks, lunch was nearly over and the boats were queueing up in both directions. When the top gates opened, four smallish boats managed to get in together; when they were in the third one down, another three came in at the top; when they were in the third lock down, two big boats jostled each other in. At one stage there must have been almost ten vessels coming down the ‘stairs’ together, each lot separated by an empty lock. With each boat there would be one or two people ashore hanging on to ropes or catching them to wind around bollards, so there was plenty of action all around. And masses of people just standing around watching all that was going on. Apparently the boat lock was invented by Leonardo da Vinci. I wonder if that clever fellow ever imagined he would provide entertainment for so many people when he was figuring out how to get boats, and water, to go up hills.

On Saturday, Carol and Steve packed up their belongings and headed off to Carcassonne and their flight back to England. Once more, we were alone in the house. Not for long though, as we will be moving on early next week. Where? Well, we’re not sure. We’ll have a look at the map and then decide.

A rather busy week

On Monday we awoke full of excitement to think that Karen and Bruce would be joining us later that day. First though, we had to hang around the house waiting for DHL to deliver a document to us which they had said would happen in the morning. However their mornings are long at DHL and it was after 3pm when they finally arrived. Meanwhile, we were not entirely sure of Karen and Bruce’s arrival time as I had misread her last email, but we thought it was somewhere around 5 o’clock. We had a couple of chores to do in Narbonne (where we were due to collect them), so we hopped in the car and took off. Our chores were managed in far less time than we had thought it would take, but we went and found parking at the station anyway and tried to contact Karen. She replied that they had missed their train because it took too long to get from the airport to the station, so they were now on another train due to reach us at about 7.30! WE went for a walk around town to while away some minutes but as it was by now about 5.30, everything was closing uup for the day. Suddenly the phone rang. It was Karen. Not in any sort of panic, but just calmly telling us that they had been under the impression that the train that they were on was a through train to Narbonne, so were not concerned when it stopped at a station, most people got out and a few got in. But they were concerned when it started going back the way they had come. We told them to get off at the first stop and see if they catch another train back to what turned out to be Perpignan, and we would fetch them from there. Which is what we did, and two very relieved people were waiting for us when we got there. It was only 65 kms away and a drive that we hadn’t yet done, to a town we hadn’t yet seen, so it was fun for us. Not so much fun for them though, as they had been traveling since the previous night. Anyway it was wonderful to see them and it has been more wonderful to have them here and to show them around.
The next day, Carol and Steve flew in from England to Carcassonne where they hired a car, and then drove the rest of the way here. So then we were six in the house. Lots and lots of chatter from every room as people caught up with each other after years of being in different countries!
The following day was the quarterly market in Lezignan, so everyone was up bright and early for the experience. We had thought that the previous week’s market was big, but this one was three times the size! Apart from more clothing and more plasticky kitchen-ware stuff, there was this time a fellow making giant paella’s, there were stands selling cooked chickens; the vegetable and fruit stalls seemed endless, and all the cheese sellers wanted one to taste their cheese. We came home laden with strawberries, cheese, chicken, ready to eat shrimps, bread and a whole range of salad ingredients. Mmm! Delicious!
Along the way, we had met Andy, Liz’s friend, who then came back and had lunch with us before taking us on a guided tour of a village close by called Lagresse. I think it easily falls into the ‘prettiest village’ category. Old buildings of warm pinkish stone, with flowers in glowing colours highlighting the flowerboxes and pavements. Ancient woodwork, grey with age abd bending under the stresses of hundreds of years. Gargoyles and other stone carvings peeping out of unexpected corners.. What a treasure.
Not yet having had enough of old bastide cities, we decided that the next day we should all go to Carcassonne which is one of the few towns which is still entire. I don’t like it much as I think it very over-commercialised, but it is one of those places one really should visit. The height of the walls, at nine metres in places, is quite mind-boggling when one considers that it was built in the 1100’s and 1200’s, although there are parts which go right back to Roman times before Christ. Once more, there were just too many people there but one can get a good idea of what an old city must have looked like. We had a wonderful duck cassoulet for lunch and then decided to start home along a different route. Happily this brought us out along the Canal du Midi and at a funny little place called Homps, we stopped and had a look at all the river craft moored there. Someone off one of the boats, when asked, told us there a set of lock-gates about 500 metres up stream so we set off, to walk off the cassoulet and to find a lock so that Karen could see how they work. As it turned out, we got there just before three boats came down and crowded into the lock. It was quite a sight, with the lady holding the front boat in place by pulling on the rope with all her might to stop the inflowing water from pushing the boat backwards, while the one at the back which had had to get in almost sideways to avaiod being squashed by the gates, had to keep fendng off the walls as well as the other boats. Finally the lock filled, the gates opened and they all spilled out into the canal again. And just at that moment, another boat appeared from the opposite direction, so we watched again as it manouvered in, tied up but this time had to let rope out as the water level sank, then glided out again.
All the past few days activities had been made in the campervan, but on Friday we picked up a small hire car and set off in two cars to do a round of tiny villages in the vicinity. Oh my goodness! Talk about stress-free! There is nothing better than attempting to drive up skinny roads in a skinny car! What a pleasure. By doing this, we found that we covered so much more ground, obviously, as we didn’t have to walk it, and could explore side roads that we wouldn’t have bothered with on foot. And that was how we found Pavares and a delightful old wine cellar. It said ‘Ring the bell” on the door, so we did, and some huge gates creaked open an inch or two and someone said ‘J’arrive’ (I’m coming). Then the door of this colossal barn started to slide open until we could see rows of barrels inside and ‘Madame’ waiting to greet us. She invited us to have a look around while she fetched some clean glasses and that was when we discovered that the far end of the barn had been converted into a mini-museum of wine-growing equipment. Some of the implements were really primitive which made us realize just how long wine-making has been around. The wine she offered was delicious and we left with a box to enjoy at home.
On Saturday we had a long-standing date with cousin Nicky, so we started very early to be able to accomplish the 300 kms in time for lunch. Not a problem as our little hirecar, apart from being skinny, was also speedy and seemed to enjoy the autoroutes, flying along at 120 kms per hour. Nicky was obviously pleased to see us, and we were glad we had had the opportunity to show Bruce and Karen another area of France. The area we are in now, the Languedoc-Roussillon is very like the Western Cape with it’s almost harsh light, gravelly soil and grey-green scrubby vegetation. The Gers, on the other hand, is softer. Rolling hills of lush green pastures alternate with dense copses of darker green trees, while the ploughed lands appear almost chocolate coloured.
Our final day with Karen and Bruce was spent exploring the coast from Narbonne eastwards. We found a much more vibrant atmosphere here than we had encountered so far. Each town has a marina simply stuffed with boats of all sorts, while all around are low-rise apartment blocks painted in the warm Mediterranean colours of cream, beige, apricot, yellow and orange. One is constantly aware of the twanging of halyards against masts, the brilliant blue of the sea and the bright, harsh siunlight. The beaches are unbelievably clean and are sandy beaches not pebble, and believe it or not, there were even some people swimming! Judging by the size of some of the boats, there are a lot of people with a lot of spare money around here.
Then suddenly, the week was over and we were on our way to Narbonne again to put Karen and Bruce on the train for Barcelona. What a wonderful time we’ve had with them; we just hope they have enjoyed it as much. Soon we will be losing Steve and Carol as well, which means we will very soon be leaving this very comfortable little house and moving on again.

Our arrival at the right place in Lezignan-Corbieres was more a matter of good luck rather than good judgement! It was going to be a more difficult task than usual, and one which we could not entrust to the Tom-tom because there are two underpasses in the town which we had to avoid at all costs. The one is only 2.3 metres high and as we are 3 .1 metres the consequences of trying to go that way don’t need explaining. We had been given detailed instructions on how to get to the house, on the assumption that we would be coming from Carcassonne, but we had been zig-zagging all over the place and instead of arriving from the West, we came in from the North. So we thought we would just head for the centre of town, find a parking place and phone for help. Ah, but we had reckoned without the roads department, who just that very day had decided to resurface the main road into town, diverting all traffic to goodness knows where. Plan B swung into action. Liz, the owner of the house we were due to borrow for a while, had told us that when we came in from the direction of Carcassonne, we would pass a large supermarket and if we had any doubts about getting to her house unaided, we should just pull in there and give her a call. So we looked for a road going to Carcassonne and started off along it looking for the supermarket. When we had gone far enough to convince ourselves that we were now so far out of town that no self-respecting supermarket could possibly be around, we turned back and found ourselves heading for ‘Centre Ville’. Suddenly we saw a sign that read ‘Free Parking 130 places’ and which pointed in the direction we were going. At this point, I should perhaps say that Lezignan has some of the narrowest streets we had yet attempted and a tense silence filled the cab as we trundled through the traffic following the signs. Finally we turned into a tiny street which opened out into the promised free parking. We both heaved a sigh of relief and I pulled out the cell phone to ring Liz to ask her to come and rescue us. “Do you know where you are?” she asked, to which I could only reply that we were in the free parking for 130 cars and to get there we had come down a tiny street past the Athletic Club. There was a silence while she thought about this and then she asked what the parking area looked like. So I described the blocks of flats on one side and the very old-looking wall around two sides, at which she gave a bit of a giggle and told us to sit tight and she would come and get us. The next minute two women walked into the parking area from a different angle, who turned out to be Liz and her friend, Val, to tell us that we had made it to the correct parking place after all and that her house was just around the corner. As I said, more good luck than good judgement.
For the rest of that day and the following one, the rain alternated between pouring and drizzling but seemed disinclined to stop completely. We occupied some of the time sitting in a launderette watching our washing going round, first in the washer and then in the drier. We had declined Liz’s offer of her machine as she has no drier, and we were seriously running out of clothes.
On Wednesday, though, the sun made a half-hearted effort which was enough for the stall-holders to set up their weekly market. We couldn’t let that go past without inspection, so off we all went, agreeing to meet back at the house for an early lunch before Liz and Val left to catch their plane back to Britain. What a weird and wonderful assortment of goods on offer. Everything from hardware to clothing, from fresh fruit and vegetables to meat and fish; from spices and olives to breads and cheeses. One could spend a fortune but luckily it isn’t necessary to buy, to find out what the products taste like. The traders seem only too happy to let you taste even if there is no chance of a sale.
After Liz and Val had left, and Andy, another friend who lives locally, had gone off back to his home, the house seemed very empty but we were quite pleased to have some time in a comfortable environment, completely on our own. It also felt quite grand to have free run of this three-storey town house, with it’s four bedrooms. We retired to bed that night feeling quite the Lord and Lady of the Manor! Our peace was not to last, though. It was still pitch-dark when we were both awakened by a man’s hoarse voice shouting and a crackling sound. Neels jumped up and opened the shutters to see what was happening, noticing as he did so that it was 3.30 in the morning. I mumbled something about telling them to shut up, thinking it was the garbage collectors, then Neels said, “Quick, come and see – there’s a car on fire out here”. I needed no second invitation but was up in flash, grabbing my camera as I went. The man was still shouting although we couldn’t make out what he was saying, then a woman’s voice called that she had rung the Pompiers. By now, flames were gushing out of the little van’s windows, and a stream of flaming diesel was slowly making it’s way along the street gutter. Being a vey narrow street, the van was, of necessity, parked right up against the wall of the house, outside one window so by the time the Fire Brigade arrived, the wall was badly scorched and the window frame completely burnt away. Whether the fire had actually spread to the inside of the house, we don’t know, but the firemen certainly sprayed water in through the broken window. What a truly horrible thing to happen to anyone, to have their car burn out right in front of the house, but what a truly scary thing to see, at such close quarters.
The rest of the week has been spent getting to know our new surroundings. Simple things like finding the way to the supermarket and back without getting totally lost in both directions, take on new menace when there is a very real chance of finding oneself at the head of a string of traffic, faced with an underpass one can’t possibly pass under. It certainly adds a small thrill to an otherwise mundane task. We have also discovered that one can add a little zing to life just by standing outside an automatically opening door, for a few minutes, until a passerby pointed out that the sign above the door was Sortie (Exit) and that the Entrée was around the corner. Or by walking confidently up to a door and pulling on the handle rather than pushing it inwards, only to realize a split second later that siesta time has started and the door is in any case locked!
While we wait for Karen, Bruce, Steve and Carol to arrive on Monday evening and Tuesday morning respectively, we are earning our keep by doing a few small repairs around the house. Well, Neels is. I, of course, am far too busy keeping in touch with all of you.
On Sunday we were supposed to go to something called a Vide Grenier which roughly translates as Empty Loft, or as we would say, a car boot sale. We have decided that there is a special design of door knocker which we just can’t live without, and that this would be the place to find one, but when we awoke on Sunday morning it was once again teeming with rain. We did go out to the little town where the sale should have been held, but there was simply nothing going on, so we came ‘home’, went to the shop for an English Sunday paper and spent all day reading the paper. Boring!! Let’s hope it clears before the family arrives.

Nightmare on Rue Lakanal

Our arrival at the right place in Lezignan-Corbieres was more a matter of good luck rather than good judgement! It was going to be a more difficult task than usual, and one which we could not entrust to the Tom-tom because there are two underpasses in the town which we had to avoid at all costs. The one is only 2.3 metres high and as we are 3 .1 metres the consequences of trying to go that way don’t need explaining. We had been given detailed instructions on how to get to the house, on the assumption that we would be coming from Carcassonne, but we had been zig-zagging all over the place and instead of arriving from the West, we came in from the North. So we thought we would just head for the centre of town, find a parking place and phone for help. Ah, but we had reckoned without the roads department, who just that very day had decided to resurface the main road into town, diverting all traffic to goodness knows where. Plan B swung into action. Liz, the owner of the house we were due to borrow for a while, had told us that when we came in from the direction of Carcassonne, we would pass a large supermarket and if we had any doubts about getting to her house unaided, we should just pull in there and give her a call. So we looked for a road going to Carcassonne and started off along it looking for the supermarket. When we had gone far enough to convince ourselves that we were now so far out of town that no self-respecting supermarket could possibly be around, we turned back and found ourselves heading for ‘Centre Ville’. Suddenly we saw a sign that read ‘Free Parking 130 places’ and which pointed in the direction we were going. At this point, I should perhaps say that Lezignan has some of the narrowest streets we had yet attempted and a tense silence filled the cab as we trundled through the traffic following the signs. Finally we turned into a tiny street which opened out into the promised free parking. We both heaved a sigh of relief and I pulled out the cell phone to ring Liz to ask her to come and rescue us. “Do you know where you are?” she asked, to which I could only reply that we were in the free parking for 130 cars and to get there we had come down a tiny street past the Athletic Club. There was a silence while she thought about this and then she asked what the parking area looked like. So I described the blocks of flats on one side and the very old-looking wall around two sides, at which she gave a bit of a giggle and told us to sit tight and she would come and get us. The next minute two women walked into the parking area from a different angle, who turned out to be Liz and her friend, Val, to tell us that we had made it to the correct parking place after all and that her house was just around the corner. As I said, more good luck than good judgement.
For the rest of that day and the following one, the rain alternated between pouring and drizzling but seemed disinclined to stop completely. We occupied some of the time sitting in a launderette watching our washing going round, first in the washer and then in the drier. We had declined Liz’s offer of her machine as she has no drier, and we were seriously running out of clothes.
On Wednesday, though, the sun made a half-hearted effort which was enough for the stall-holders to set up their weekly market. We couldn’t let that go past without inspection, so off we all went, agreeing to meet back at the house for an early lunch before Liz and Val left to catch their plane back to Britain. What a weird and wonderful assortment of goods on offer. Everything from hardware to clothing, from fresh fruit and vegetables to meat and fish; from spices and olives to breads and cheeses. One could spend a fortune but luckily it isn’t necessary to buy, to find out what the products taste like. The traders seem only too happy to let you taste even if there is no chance of a sale.
After Liz and Val had left, and Andy, another friend who lives locally, had gone off back to his home, the house seemed very empty but we were quite pleased to have some time in a comfortable environment, completely on our own. It also felt quite grand to have free run of this three-storey town house, with it’s four bedrooms. We retired to bed that night feeling quite the Lord and Lady of the Manor! Our peace was not to last, though. It was still pitch-dark when we were both awakened by a man’s hoarse voice shouting and a crackling sound. Neels jumped up and opened the shutters to see what was happening, noticing as he did so that it was 3.30 in the morning. I mumbled something about telling them to shut up, thinking it was the garbage collectors, then Neels said, “Quick, come and see – there’s a car on fire out here”. I needed no second invitation but was up in flash, grabbing my camera as I went. The man was still shouting although we couldn’t make out what he was saying, then a woman’s voice called that she had rung the Pompiers. By now, flames were gushing out of the little van’s windows, and a stream of flaming diesel was slowly making it’s way along the street gutter. Being a vey narrow street, the van was, of necessity, parked right up against the wall of the house, outside one window so by the time the Fire Brigade arrived, the wall was badly scorched and the window frame completely burnt away. Whether the fire had actually spread to the inside of the house, we don’t know, but the firemen certainly sprayed water in through the broken window. What a truly horrible thing to happen to anyone, to have their car burn out right in front of the house, but what a truly scary thing to see, at such close quarters.
The rest of the week has been spent getting to know our new surroundings. Simple things like finding the way to the supermarket and back without getting totally lost in both directions, take on new menace when there is a very real chance of finding oneself at the head of a string of traffic, faced with an underpass one can’t possibly pass under. It certainly adds a small thrill to an otherwise mundane task. We have also discovered that one can add a little zing to life just by standing outside an automatically opening door, for a few minutes, until a passerby pointed out that the sign above the door was Sortie (Exit) and that the Entrée was around the corner. Or by walking confidently up to a door and pulling on the handle rather than pushing it inwards, only to realize a split second later that siesta time has started and the door is in any case locked!
While we wait for Karen, Bruce, Steve and Carol to arrive on Monday evening and Tuesday morning respectively, we are earning our keep by doing a few small repairs around the house. Well, Neels is. I, of course, am far too busy keeping in touch with all of you.
On Sunday we were supposed to go to something called a Vide Grenier which roughly translates as Empty Loft, or as we would say, a car boot sale. We have decided that there is a special design of door knocker which we just can’t live without, and that this would be the place to find one, but when we awoke on Sunday morning it was once again teeming with rain. We did go out to the little town where the sale should have been held, but there was simply nothing going on, so we came ‘home’, went to the shop for an English Sunday paper and spent all day reading the paper. Boring!! Let’s hope it clears before the family arrives.