100902 

Carcassonne; Limoux; Couiza; Chateau de Peyrepertuse; Perpignan (cv); St Cyprien.

 

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"May only the truth be spoken, may only the truth be heard", say the Cathars. I willingly admit that that's a damn good idea. Whether or not Christianity is your "bag", their form of it must be just about the best, i.e. Keep It Simple. For keeping it simple these poor folk received the most horrible battering from the perverts of the Spanish Inquisition. 

Unlike Monty Python & Co., it seems that in medieval times everybody in this area did "expect the Spanish Inquisition" and defended themselves in fabulous castles in fearsome locations. 

We wove between great big broccoli hills, ( hills covered by broadleaved trees), alongside fast flowing sparkling rivers, dried-up rivers, around rusty red rock turning to bright white limestone as we continued east. 

This area is so full of ruined castles that one might well spend a full castling holiday here, (or OD on castles). 

 

In Rennes les Bains we walked up the riverside through the little spa town and then back down the riverside into an open wooded area. We saw a hippy dude behaving in a somewhat distracted, and therefore distracting manner and noticed his model-like girlfriend going through yoga-type exercises nude beneath a water chute in the sunshine. Another hippy-ish couple were heading there too, presumably to benefit from the spa qualities of the water. 

Jo was particularly impressed by the Virginia Creeper, ( Parthenocissus Quinquefolia, dudes). 

 

In Bugarach we squeezed the van along the village streets and walked around a fabulously wobbly-looking ruin of a church. The "main" roads snaked to and fro, but gently up and down across the dry farmland, through natural woodland, modern forestry plantations and olive groves. Off to either side were great dinosaur ridges of spiky limestone.

 

 

 The Chateau de Peyrepertuse was slow to appear, but its location was truly awesome. 

At lunchtime we squeezed the van into the shade of an olive tree.  I tried to squeeze the lengthy castle's ruins into the camera. 

 

It seemed that the only approach to the chateau was on foot. 

It was mad dogs and Englishmen time, so we didn't. 

Shortly after lunch we found a skinny road, unnoticed on our map, which took us up the south side of the ridge to several busy car parks. Well, it took me on foot, while Jo waited around, chilled is definitely the wrong word, in the van in a layby part way up. 

 

 

It was fairly precipitous going, but tourists at the castle included some very ancient folk. I used a lot of video and took this still shot. I'd still like to think it's somewhere near as good as one we'd seen in the exhibition in Carcassonne, though really it's nowhere near.  

 

We looked back as we drove  away. So cunningly had it been built amongst the rocks and scrub woodland that we couldn't see the road at all. 

Turning south we saw the mountains of Catalonia gritting their teeth on the Spanish border. Now I was sure that we'd travelled a long way.

 

Perpignan. 

Rush Hour. 

Centre Ville. 

 

Hey, let's do it!

Straight in.

 

"Policeman on the zebra!". 

I stopped. 

In time. 

And whizzed away. 

No entry sign. 

Dive down an alleyway. 

Up to a road jammed solid. 

Horns sounding, not at us, but just as they should in a French traffic jam.

Fortunately in our big-ish vehicle we're very soon let out into the flow....., 

which mostly isn't flowing 

and we're navigating by the sun. 

Directional road signs have abandoned us. 

We stop.

 

C l i q u e z i c i  

Right outside this garage and next to the smartest Samba bus you have ever seen, it was probably in better condition than new. This is a totally air-cooled VW garage. (Had we broken down I guess they'd have laughed and sent, or towed us away to a modern VW agency). 

 

Inspiration abandoned us and we found ourselves on a 320 degree loop of the outskirts of Perpignan before rolling out to the Med and intense, but not quite totally tacky tourism. In St Cyprien as we drove our German-built vehicle onto the Cala Go Go campsite, (can you believe that name?), a German said, 

Guten Tag. 

I returned his greeting. 

He continued in German. I stared speechless. I'd passed this A level, (yes, it was a long time ago), but was struck dumb by a total eclipse of the art of German conversation.  

So in very passable English he told me about the recent floods around Avignon, (well, Lyon, he said). 

I'd thought at first that I didn't like this campsite, but it was really very good.

 

 

"The stooping figure of my mother, waist-deep in the grass and caught there like a piece of sheep's wool, was the last I saw of my country home as I left it to discover the world. She stood old and bent at the top of the bank, silently watching me go, one gnarled red hand raised in farewell and blessing, not questioning why I went. At the bend of the road I looked back again and saw the gold light die behind her; then I turned the corner, passed the village school, and closed that part of my life for ever". 

(You'll have to excuse me, but I was born in Stroud. There are those who knew Laurie Lee and say that he was a teller of tall stories, (a bullsh*tter in the common parlance), but what is a good storyteller, and he was a great one, but perhaps a bullsh*tter with a very good memory?).

As I walked out that late summer evening to pay my photographic homage to Catalonia's mountains and sunset, I found that the perimeter fence was too high to get the shot. I could have driven the van over to it and climbed onto its roof, but Jo was busy cooking our tea.

 

As I walked out one late summer evening        Homage to Catalonia

 

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