Cruising with The Cathars

Tuesday September 29th

Breakfasted, we headed off to see the Cathar's stronghold Minerve. Madame GPS led us a merry dance - obscure villages and forgotten ruins reached by D class roads were on her menu. We began rising, hopefully towards Minerve, and momentarily pulled off the road onto a vantage point where the Hercault landscape was rent by the L'Argent-Double River.

Minerve's ancient stone architectural marvels clung to the edges of the Brian Ravine, as we decided to explore alone. Kim and I made our way around the narrow stone encased rues and ramparts marvelling at the Cathars' tenacity. Satisfied with our rambling, we met for lunch adjacent to walls that had once been under siege from Simon de Monfort's caterpaults. Dragging our weary bodies up Minerve's northern approaches we made our way back to the car for an alternate trip home.

Unfortunately Madame had other ideas and we were soon clinging to narrow roads that hugged the side of ravines. The French have a great sense of humour and believe if you place a dividing line down a miniscule strip of macadam it will make it seem bigger. Perhaps we shouldn't have programmed the GPS for the trip home via Olonzac, but instead opted for the direct route to Carcassonne. Whatever.............., we experienced a fabulous day's motoring through the lands of the Cathars that we will not forget.

A refreshing drink at Olonzac was enjoyed before recommitting to the trip home. Suprisingly, hardly anyone was still referring to the great tyre hijack of 2007 - other than that bunch at Bar Sportif who had formed an encounter group. Approaching the Cite we once again encountered peak hour travel (including a yellow grape-laden trailer) prior to arriving home at Palaja.

We consumed our first course around the pool before setting off down moonlit Romangarda laneway for dinner at C.A.P. XV Bar. The bar was filling up so a football match must be imminent. Mine host was pleased to see us and performed some form of mating ritual reserved for repeat customers. Once finished we weaved our way home down the middle-aged streets lit by a harvest moon and heralded by a hooting owl. John McG lit our way with a torch, our only weapon against the possibility of attack from wild boars disrupted from their foraging. Jean had previously told me of a funeral she had attended of two hunters who had mistaken each other for porcine prey.

With that tableau laid out we retired to bed to sleep the sleep of the errant motorist.